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CLEYE HALL.
BY
E. M. SEWELL
'Thouch justice be thy pier*, consider this,
That in the course of justice none of us
iShould see salvation. 1 '— The Merchant of Venice.
NEW YORK:
D. APPLETON AND COMPANY,
1, 8, amd 5 BOND STREET.
1881.
r ft
CLEVE HALL
CHAPTER I.
IT was an old, gable-ended Farm-house, standing back froja
the road, with a smooth piece of turf in front, neatly kept,
and divided down the centre by a broad strip of pavement.
Five or six large elm trees shaded it on the left j on .he
richt, behind some broad meadows, rose a steep bank, forming
the further extremity of a rocky ravine, through which ran a
by-road from the highway, probably leading to some seques-
tered hamlet. The whole surface of the country was hilly,
almost claiming the appellation of mountainous. A long range
of steep downs stretched for a considerable distance beyond
the ravine towards the north-east ; whilst in front of the farm,
at about the distance of a mile, the horizon was bounded by a
hill, clothed with thick plantations, amongst which the sighing
of the soft evening wind was heard mingling with the heavy
swell of the ocean.
The view was very lovely seen in the mellow evening light ;
ihe meadows rich with the golden flowers of early summer, and
the fresh green on the trees and hedges, sparkling as their
trembling leaves caught the glancing rays of the sinking sun.
Yet it was solitary. No building was in sight except the
quaint, gray Farm-house, with its ivy-covered chimneys, and
broad, open porch ; and though there were sounds about the
farm, — the carter-boy's whistle, — the clatter of the milk-pails,
as the dairymaids crossed the yard, — and occasionally the
neighing of a horse, or the lowing of a cow; yet they were all
hushed, — softened by that indescribable atmosphere of quiet-
ness, which prepares the gentle evening for the deeper so-
lemnity of night.
A woman, who might have been about fifty years old — the
mistress of the farm apparently — was leaning over the Ion
857109
b CLEVE HALL.
garden-wall. She was rather peculiar in appearance; her
dress scrupulously neat, but decidedly old-fashioned ; the cut-
tun gown scanty and rather short; a checked handkerchief
folded over her shoulders, and a cap white as snow, and quilled
in perfect order, fitting close around a pale, worn face. Her
attitude told thai she was listening, and the breeze brought to
the car the distant trampling of a horse, departing however,
ipproaching. It was followed with fixed attention, till the
lasl echo had died away, and then a sigh was heaved, and
Slowly and thoughtfully the woman walked towards the house.
" Mrs. Robinson i Nurse! Granny, dear! won't you speak
to me?" said a quick, merry voice, and a child of about thir-
teen years of age, though in height and size very much younger,
threw open the heavy wicket-gate, and ran up to her. The
woman turned suddenly, a smile passed over her face, a mix-
ture 01 pleasure and respect, yet her tone had something in it
of reproach.
'• ( hit alone, Miss Rachel ! what does your papa say to that?"
"Oh! papa is gone in to see John Strong, and I ran on
before him. I shall be at home now before he is. He is
coming to see you, Granny."
" lie said he would/' was the reply.
"And you think he always keeps his word, don't you?
Give me a kiss and let me go ; I must be at home and have a
talk with Miss Campbell and Ella before papa returns; so keep
him as lung as you can." She threw her arm around her
friend's neck. "Granny, you aren't happy to-night," she
whispered.
" Happy as I can be, Miss Rachel, when there's so much
in the world to make one otherwise. But you don't know any-
thing of that, so run home and be thankful."
Rachel stood for a moment in thought. The change in her
face was y« iry marked. It was a countenance formed" for hap-
piness, brilliant with intelligence, radiant in health, and singu-
larly lovely in its outline. But the small, laughing mouth, and
the merry hazel .yes, and open forehead, shaded by curls of
bright, chestnut hair, might have been termed infantine till
thought came; — then the whole being seemed to alter, and the
gay child became in one instant the self-collected, deeply in-
quiring woman.
_ " 1 don't know anything about it, I suppose, Granny," she
said, in reply to Mrs. Kohinson's remark, "though I think I
d sometimes. Shall I ever know it as you do?"
CLEYE HALL. 7
" That's for days to corne, Miss Rachel. Who can tell ?"
"You can," said Rachel, quickly; then, correcting her-
self, she added, reverently, " I don't mean you can tell what is
to happen, but you can say whether I shall be likely to have
the same things to bear that you have."
" God forbid you should ever have to trouble for the same
things that trouble me, Miss Rachel. Things must be bad
indeed if they are not mended by that time."
"And the General won't live for ever/' said Rachel,
quickly; but a glance at her friend's face made her retract
her words. "I don't want him to die, you know, Granny;
but it is always something about him which Brakes papa, and
you, and every one unhappy ; so I can't like him, and I
couldn't be soriy if he were gone away anywhere."
" There's many a worse man than General Vivian goes for
a saint in this world, Miss Rachel/' replied Mrs. Robinson,
" as you may some day know to your cost. Poor old man !
If he makes others sad, he is sad enough himself."
" He doesn't look sad," said Rachel. " He doesn't seem as
if he felt anything."
"That's what folks say of me, sometimes, Miss Rachel;"
and a smile, which, however, gave only a wintry brightness to
the grave face, accompanied the words. Rachel once more
caressed her fondly.
"Granny, Granny, that's naughty. Papa says, if you had
a colder heart you would have a merrier face. But it's merry
enough for me. There's not a face in all the village, away from
home, that I love so well, except "
" Except whose ? Don't be afraid, Miss Rachel ; you
know I am not given to being jealous !"
" Well ! one that's more to you than I am, though I love
you dearly. So we can't be jealous when we both love the
same."
" Miss Mildred !" exclaimed Mrs. Robinson; "but I always
put her aside. I thought it might be some of the newer friends
that you had taken to."
"Miss Campbell, and Ella, and Clement," replied Rachel,
gayly. "No; I love them all, you know I must, they are so
kind : but they are not like your dear old face, Granny; they
are not parts of the very old times."
"Thirteen years ago! eh, Miss Rachel? What an age to
be sure ! But you do grow, I will say that Cor you ; you will
be a woman after all, if you live long enough."
CLEVE HALL.
..
Thank you, Granny, dear! I hope I shall. Now pleasa
gather me a whole heap of the climbing coses for .Mrs. Camp-
bell. She always likes to have flowers brought her, though
Bhe doesn't keep them long."
.. Rachel's hands were lillcil with the best roses which grew
against the house, and the best lavender from the farm garden,
under the promise, however, that she was not to give all
away, but to retain some for herself for a remembrance. Her
ringing laugh, as the injunction was given, made the old
walls echo again.
" Why, < iranny, as if I needed it ! Don't I think of you
every morning, and don't I talk to papa about you every
night? — what should I need a remembrance for? Do you
know," and her tone changed, as she placed one finger against
her heart, "it's written in here; I can feel it, though I don't
see it — your name, I mean ; and there are others, too — and I
know I shall never want keepsakes like some people, for I
can't t'nrgct; no, if I wished it, I couldn't."
A kiss was the answer, lingering and fond, like that of a
parent, and a murmur, "Heaven's blessing on you, child!"
and Rachel tossed the wicket-gate open, and ran quickly up
the road which passed through the ravine.
-•♦•-
CHAPTER II.
IT was about an hour later the same evening; lights were
glimmering in the cottages dotted by the side of the narrow
r 1, and perched, as it seemed, upon almost inaccessible
r icks, which funned the picturesque village of Encombe ; and
although, here and there, might be seen a laborer returning
from some distant work, or a woman wearily toiling up a height
after an errand to the nearest town, the cottagers were, for the
part, collecting around their own hearths, and even the
voices of the children were gradually being hushed in sleep.
At the lower end of a steep strip of garden, reached by a
flight nf steps from the road, two persons, a man and a boy,
wire, however, conversing together, as they stood looking up
the village, nearly the whole length of which v/as visible,
from the Doint they had chosen. The occupation of the man
CLEVE HALL. U
was evident at the first sight; he was a weather-beaten, hardy
fisherman — probably a smuggler — for there was an expression
of cunning in his keen, black eyes, and a sneer upon his lip,
which accorded little with the free, frank tone and manner
natural to an ordinary seafearing life. His glance, moreover,
showed the quickness of one accustomed to watch, and be
watched; and his tone, when he spoke, had in it an accent
of command. The boy also wore a sailor's hat, and his coat
was rough, and his striped, blue, linen shirt made of coarse
material. Yet even a cursory inspection would certainly have
suggested a doubt whether the two were equals in rank. The
age of the lad might have been eighteen ; his face was bronzed
by exposure to storms, and his manner betrayed a mind im-
patient of control, and caring little for the refinements of
civilized life ; but his features were totally free from the look
of cunning which was so marked in those of his companion.
His blue eye, indeed, was peculiarly clear and open in its
expression, though flashing with all the keenness of a passionate
spirit ; his forehead was thoughtful ; his mouth told of pride
and great wilfulness, and yet its haughty curl seemed occa-
sionally about to melt into a smile of sad, almost feminine
sweetness; and his voice, even when he spoke, shortly and
contemptuously, had a refined intonation, belonging to a very
different class from that of his companion. He might have
been formed for high and noble purposes, yet he lingered now
in the society of his rough comrade, apparently with no
thought but that of idly passing away time which he had
neither inclination nor energy to employ.
Full twenty minutes elapsed, and still he leaned upon the
garden-gate, sometimes speaking to the fisherman, but more
often gazing with a fixed eye before him. Occasionally, how-
ever, he stooped to pick up a stone, and tossed it down the
steep bank, and watched it as it tumbled from point to point,
till touching a sharp point of rock, it perhaps fell with a
quick impetus into the foaming brook that rushed down the
centre of the ravine.
He had just cast another stone; it did not follow its prede-
cessors; the twisted root of a tree stopped it, and it sank
quietly into its place upon the bank.
"They don't all go," murmured the boy to himself.
" What don't go '(" asked the man, with a surly smile.
"Nothing that you know of," was the reply. "Is he
coming yet V
10 < l.KVi: II AI.I-.
I.
Can't say; don't see him. Suppose, now, you were to
make the beat ose of your legs, and be off to the flagstaff to
Bee. It's doI much of a stretch."
" .Mure than I choose to take," answered the boy; and he
filing himself upon the ground. "I am not made for that at
• ." he muttered to himself.
The fisherman evinced no surprise at the refusal, but open-
ing the gate, descended the steps, and sauntered a few paces
up the road. A merry shout, a few moments afterwards,
caught the boy's ear, and he started up.
" Weil! he's come; it can't be helped." lie flung the
gate open, and at one spring bounded into the road.
The fisherman stood on the projecting point of a rock clos-
ing in the angle of the road, and beckoned to him. The boy
still paused. Once he even turned directly away, and went a
few paces in the opposite direction, and waited for an instant,
as if undecided whether to return; but another shout, of
"Ronald! Ronald!" startled him; and flinging his hat iuto
the air, he gave a wild answering cry, and ran forwards to the
rock, where his companion awaited him.
They wci'c not alone together then; a third individual had
joined them, a boy probably about tw r o years younger than
Ronald, and bearing in every look and feature the stamp of
gentle birth ami careful education. He was tall and slight ;
his face very intelligent; his voice sweet and refined; and
when he joined in the fisherman's coarse laugh, and addressed
him in terms of equality, it was evident there could be no real
congeniality.
" Why, Goff, you arc a harder master than Mr. Lester!"
he exclaimed, as the fisherman, in rather an uncivil manner,
held before him a huge old-fashioned watch, and pointed to
the hour. " "lis but five minutes."
" May be you'll learn the value of five minutes to your cosS,
one of these days, Master Clement!" replied Goff. " Ronald
has been here, waiting to see you, the last half hour."
" Ronald is ool like me," replied Clement; "he is his own
• r. See it' I won't be mine, before long, Goff, eh?"
"Them that will can always find the way," replied the
fisherman. •• Are you come to tell us you'll be here to-morrow
for the sail, Master ( llement?"
Clement looked up hastily, and his eye encountered Ro-
nald's. The boy was standing at a little distance watching
him narrowly, a strange mixture of feelings expressed in lu*
CLEVB HALL. 11
handsome face. A bitter pride, perhaps, was written there
most clearly ; yet a glance of compassion, blended it might
have been with self-reproach, fell upon Clement.
" You'll be ready, llonald, as you promised V said Clement,
appealing to him.
" I made no promise," was his reply.
" But you are going V
"Ay, going; wind and waves, and heaven and earth for-
bidding !" exclaimed Ronald, impetuously. Spurning from
him a stone against which his foot had been resting, he added,
" jMy doings are no law for yours."
Clement regarded him wonderingly, whilst a sarcastic smile
curled the fisherman's lips.
"Don't mind him, Master Clement," he said; "it's his
way. Six o'clock, to-morrow evening, at the West Point.
We'll have a short run, with a fair wind, as it's like to be, and
be back in time for the old lady's tea."
" What do you say, Ronald ? It's to be done, isn't it ?"
inquired Clement.
" Ask Golf !" and the look of pride passed away from
Ronald's face, and seating himself on a stone, he rested his
arms upon his knees. At that moment the loud barking of a
dog was heard in the distance.
" Ah ! the Captain !" exclaimed Goff. " He's as good as
bis word, at least. Come, Ronald, my lad, there's work for
you now !"
Ronald did not move, even when Goff touched him roughly
with his foot. Clement stooped down, and put his arm round
him caressingly.
" Ronald, it was your notion; why won't you go ?"
" I am going;" but Ronald's head was not raised.
" Then why shouldn't I go?"
Ronald started from his bending posture, as a large New-
foundland dog rushed upon him, and tried to place his two
fore-paws upon his shoulders. " Down, Hollo ! down !" — he
patted the dog's head, and caught it between both his hands,
looking at it as if reading a human countenance, then seizing
Clement's arm, he dragged him to the edge of the ravine, and
pointing to a broken, tangled path, rushed down it. Clement
followed. The dog waited and watched them, irresolute; bnt
the next moment he was coursing at full speed along the road
by which a man, dressed in a shaggy greatcoat, and a low-
1J CLEVB HALL.
crowned glazed hat, with a heavy stick in his hand, was seen
approaching.
•• To-morrow, :it West Point, at six," called out the fisher-
man, as the boys disappeared from sight.
"To-morrow, at Biz, yes!" was heard in Clement's clear,
refined tunes.
" To-morrow at six — no !" added another voice, deep, rich,
and full; and the fisherman hurst into an angry laugh, and
shouted after them, " that he would be made a fool by no one."
" My hopeful boy you are calling after, eh ! Master G off ?"
was the observation by which the attention of the fisherman
was drawn to the person who had now joined him.
" Hopeful, indeed, Captain. Why, he's taken to turn lately
like a weathercock. If it goes on, 1 wish you joy of anything
vou'il ever do with him." A scowl rested on the stranger's
face, which was not needed to render it unprepossessing, for it
Was rarely that a countenance could be seen on which so many
evil passions were to be traced. There was a strong likeness
to Konald ; it might have been told at once that they were
father and son; but whilst the pride of the boy's face was
softened by thought, and his reckless bearing was checked by
some eager, though it might be transient feelings of the neces-
Bity of self-command, the father's countenance showed little
but a dogged resolution, the result of habitual selfishness and
indulgence in habits which had nearly obliterated every sign
of higher education or feeling.
" lie is coming with us to-night," he remarked; not
replying directly to the fisherman's observation.
"That's as he will, Captain; as you know quite as well
as I. He is off now with the young springald, and who's to
catch him ?"
The stranger uttered a profane ejaculation, and walked to
the edge of the ravine, looked down it, and then returned
again. "He'll be back; he's not a fellow to miss the fun.
How go matters at the Point?"
" All ready, only waiting for Captain Vivian," said Goff,
with something of a contemptuous laugh.
" And Captain Vivian's son; the boy has a mind to drive
me frantic. But there is no need to wait."
"No need and no power," said Goff. "Time and tide
wait for no man ; so by your leave, Captain, we'll let the two
youngsters be off."
CLEVE HALL. 13
" You wouldn't have taken the other boy !" exclaimed
Captain Vivian, quickly.
"Not quite such a fool as that; no, — he's a mere land
sawney; nothing's to be made of him — as dainty as a
girl. What a fine fellow will be spoilt if Ilonald takes after
him !"
The frown on Captain Vivian's face became terrific; and
Goff softened his words. " No fear of that though, Captain.
See Ilonald in a gale of wind ! that's the time when he's a
man. Come, are you ready V
He received no answer. A crowd of angry feelings seemed
working in Captain Vivian's mind, and throwing his stick
backwards and forwards, he strode on silently; Goff accom-
panying him, and occasionally stealing aside to the edge of
the ravine to discover whether any glimpse could be obtained
of Ronald.
-9-
CHAPTER III.
EIGHT o'clock! Where is Clement?" The question was
asked, in a querulous tone by a lady seemingly infirm,
rather from indolence and illness than from age, as ordering the
door to be shut, and wrapping a shawl around her, she drew
near the tea table, spread in a small, neat, but poorly-furnished
drawing room. It was answered in a girlish voice, but the
accent was scarcely more amiable.
"Indeed, grandmamma, I can't say; he has been out ever
since six." The speaker was a young girl of about sixteen,
tall, graceful, and rather foreign looking; from the darkness
of her complexion, and the dreamy, yet veiy intellectual ex-
pression of her splendid dark eyes, the only feature in the face
which could lay claim to real beauty. She was stationed by
the urn, and her attention was given more to the teacups than
to the person who addressed her.
"You might as well learn, Ella, to be civil when you are
spoken to. Why can't you look at me?"
"I am pouring out the tea, grandmamma. dear, what
a slop! Louisa, do run into the pantry and bring me a
cloth."
11 CLEVE HALL. *
"Louisa not gone to bod! how is that? Louisa, why
ilin'i you go to bed V
•■ Because I am reading, grandmamma."
''But you ought to be in bed; it's a great deal ton
late. Where's your aunt '( why doesn't she make you go tu
bed?"
" Aunt Bertha went down the village, and isn't come in,"
replied Louisa, without attempting to rise from the low stool
on which she had placed herself to be out of the reach of
observation, and able at her leisure to study a volume of fairy
tales.
" Very wrong, very forgetful," was murmured, and Mrs.
Campbell sank back again in her chair without repeating the
order for Louisa to go.
Ella just glanced at her sister, and, forgetting the slop,
handed a cup of tea to her grandmamma ; and pouring out
one for herself, and helping herself to some toast, gave her
whole attention to a book, which she kept by her half hidden
by the tea-tray. The room was very silent again for some
minutes. Then Mrs. Campbell took up her cup and com-
plained that the tea was cold, and Ella said the water didn't
boil, and the bell was rung; but it was not answered.
" Very wrong of Bertha, indeed," repeated Mrs. Campbell
to herself; " and why don't they answer the bell ? but there's
only Betsey and the girl. Oh, dear !"
Ella sighed, oh dear ! too, but she took no other notice.
The door opened. Mrs. Campbell began in a fretful tone :
"It is too bad, the water doesn't boil in the least;" but she
stopped on finding that she was not addressing a servant, but
a young lady. " Bertha," and she leaned forward, and spoke
with something approaching to energy, "why don't you tell
us when you are going out? We have been waiting this
half-hour, and the tea is quite cold, and no one answers the
bell. I can't think what possesses you all. Where have you
been ?"
"I was called out to see Hannah Dobbs, ma'am, she is
worse : and then I had to go up to the rectory, and other
things besides." The last words were uttered in an under
tone, but they were in no way hasty or confused. "Louisa,
you ought to be in bed;" and Louisa in an instant jumped
up from her seat, closed her book, said quickly, " Good night,
Grandmamma; good night, Ella; good night, Aunt Bertha/'
and was gone.
CLEVE HALL. lO
Bertha walked up to the tea-table: "The water is not
cold, Ella. You must have poured out Grandmamma's tea
before she was ready for it. Just put away your book, and
attend to what you are doing." Ella's book was taken from
her and placed on a side table. No remonstrance was made,
but Ella leaned back in her chair, and allowed her aunt to
fetch Mrs. Campbell's cup, pour away the cold tea, and
replenish it with something which, if it was not strong, at
least had the merit of warmth.
" Clement is not come in, is he?" said Bertha, in a low
voice, to Ella, as she bent over the tea-table.
" No, I have not heard him."
Bertha's face became very grave, but it was a gravity
which suited her, for it softened and rendered her features
expressive. It was that which they wanted to give them the
beauty to which they ought to have laid claim from regularity.
Bertha Campbell was a striking-looking person, very tall, and
slight, and refined in figure and manner; not exactly graceful
— she was too stiff in her movements for that, — and not
exactly interesting — she was too rigid and self-controlled — too
much like an automaton for interest ; but the stamp of a lady
was upon her every action. As she moved about the room
now, putting a chair in its proper place, brightening the lamp,
handing her mother the milk and sugar, and placing a foot-
stool for her, an indescribable spirit of order and repose seemed
to follow her. The room assumed quite a different aspect
under her auspices, and yet what she did was almost too
trifling to be noticed.
Mrs. Campbell spoke again more gently and cheerfully.
"Did you see Mr. Lester at the Rectory, Bertha?"
"No, ma'am. Bachel was expecting him; she left him at
A .he farm. I gave my message to her. Can I do anything
more for you, before I take off my bonnet?"
'■No, child, nothing; but make haste down; the tea won't
be fit to drink if you don't."
Bertha glanced again round the room, told Ella she was
Bitting in a very awkward attitude, and disappeared; and she
was no sooner pone than Ella, having poured out a cup of tea
I'm- her aunt, stole quietly to the table on which her bonk had
been placed and returned to her studies.
Bertha came down again, took the tea which Ella had pre-
pared, without making any remark upon it, helped herself to
some very cold toast, and completed her repast with a piece
16 CLBVE HALL.
of dry bread; and then, placing the empty cups and plates
ii j >< >n the tray, rang the bell.
The summons w:is answered by a very young girl.
••.lane, that weak arm of yours won't do to lift this heavy
tray ; yon had better let me carry it for you."
'• ( ih. Aunt Bertha!" escaped from Ella's lips.
" Why not, Ella? what harm can it do me?" and Bertha
lifted the tray and carried it out of the room, whilst the little
servant girl wiped away the crumbs from the cloth, and placed
a few hooks on the tahle.
Bertha did not immediately return; and at the sound of a
heavy opening door, Mrs. Campbell, who had seemed inclined
to sleep, roused herself and inquired whether that was
Clement come in.
"I don't think so, Grandmamma; I fancy it must be
Aunt Bertha gone out."
"Gone out again, it can't be; go and see." Ella obeyed
reluctantly.
" It was Aunt Bertha, Grandmamma," and there was a
tone of triumph in Ella's voice. " She was standing under
the verandah; she is there now.'"
" Tell her to come in instantly ; she will catch her death
of cold." The message was given in audible, authoritative
accents, such accents as might well have roused a storm of
angry feelings in Bertha's breast; but she came back into the
room with Ella, with her quiet, gliding step, and merely said, "I
went out to sec what kind of night it was likely to be, ma'am.
Shall I read to you?" She took up a book, and, seating her-
self by her mother's arm-chair, began to read aloud. Ella
took no notice of this, but resting both her elbows on the
table, riveted her eyes upon the page befoi'e her.
Bertha was rather monotonous; her reading had
the same absence of expression as her face ; perhaps she was
not giving her full attention to the book, for she paused some-
time- in wrong places, as if listening, and looked up, — quietly
and slowly though — for she was never hurried — at the loast
sound. "There is Clement," she said, at last. No one else
Beemed to have heard anything, but that was not strange ; a
very loud clock in the hall had just struck ten, and the sound
u.i- likely to drown all others.
■• It is very wrong of him," said Mrs. Campbell, hastily.
" Fes, very wrong," repeated Bertha, thoughtfully.
CLEVE HALL. 17
" It is a beautiful moonlight evening ; I dare say lie has
been wandering on the shore/' said Ella, not raising her eyes
from her book.
Bertha went to meet him. They were heard talking
together in the little entrance hall, but the words were in-
distinct.
" Where have you been, Clement ?" asked Mrs. Campbell,
as they entered the room. The boy's eye sparkled with a
flash or irritation, but he answered gayly, —
" Been ! Grandmamma, oh ! to a hundred places — along
the cliff, down on the shore, watching the stars ; it's a wonder-
ful night. Ella, I wish you had been with me."
" Ella knows better than to wish anything of the kind,"
said Mrs. Campbell. " It is a great deal too late for you. Whom
had you with you V
" Part of the time I was alone," was Clement's evasive
reply, and Mrs. Campbell seemed satisfied; but Ella looked
up at her brother and laughed.
Bertha was very cold and stiff. She asked Clement if he
was hungry, and when he said, "yes, ravenous," told him he
must wait till after prayers, and then he might have some cold
meat, and at the same moment she rang the bell.
Bertha read prayers, — reverently and simply ; but the tone
might have suited a sermon ; and Ella fidgeted, and Clement
was once heard to yawn.
" Don't let Clement be late, Bertha," said Mrs. Campbell,
as she took a night candle in her hand, and going up to her
daughter gave her a cold kiss.
" No, ma'am, he will have his supper directly."
" And don't be late yourself, Bertha. I hear you moving
about in your room, and it disturbs me."
" No, ma'am !" Bertha opened the door for her mother.
" Good night, Grandmamma," said Ella; and Clement drew
near also, though his step was a little doubtful.
" Good night, loves. Clement, you stamp dreadfully over
my head at night."
"Do I, Grandmamma? I can't help it; it is my heavy
boots."
" You may wear slippers," said Bertha, shortly; but Mrs.
Campbell did not appear to need the apology. She kissed
him affect innately, and went up stairs, Ella following her.
Bertha and Clement stood lingering over the fire. Clement
raked up the ashes, and tried to make a blaze, and Bertha
L8 CLEVE HALL.
remarked 1 1 1 : « t it was no good; he musi make haste and eal
his Bupper, and go to bed.
" I wish supper would come," said Clement, pettishly.
•• Wlnt is thai woman, Betsey, doing ■uith herself?"
•• She has more to attend to than she ought to have," was
the reply. "She can'1 be expected to have supper ready at
all hours of the night."
"If she is so busy, why doesn't she have more help?"
asked Clement.
"Because we can't afford it, Clement." The boy kicked
away a stool which was in his way, and started up from the
chair into which he had nuns; himself.
" The answer for everything, Aunt Bertha; are we never
to lie able to afford it?"
" Time will show for us," replied Bertha; "for you, Cle-
ment, it is in your own power."
" If I were rich, you would all be rich too," he exclaimed.
■■ Mat, Aunt Bertha, who can soften stone walls? Not I."
" It is no question of softening stone walls, Clement; that
is neither your business nor mine. The work is in your own
power."
" Yes, plod, plod, night and day; work one's brain till it
hasn'l an idea left, in it, and then get a crust of bread to live
upon ; and that is the life of a gentleman !"
"The life of a good many gentlemen," replied Bertha.
■• But here is your supper, Clement; make haste aud eat it,
for we musn't really be late."
Clement sat down to the table. Some slices of cold mut-
ton were put in a plate for him, with a piece of bread. He
asked for some pickle.
"You can't have any to-night," said Bertha; "it is
locked up."
" And no salad ? nothing ?"
" It is a very good supper if you are hungry; and if you
:iie not, you don't want anything," answered Bertha.
"Who keeps the keys? Grandmamma?" and before
Bertha could stop him he was at the top of the stairs, knock-
in- loudly at .Mis. Campbell's door. He returned holding up
die keys triumphantly.
"Now,Aun1 Bertha!" but Bertha took no notice. "Which
cupboard is it, Aunt Bertha?" No answer.
He only laughed, and ran away to the kitchen. Betsey, the
c i ';. followed him as he came back, and put down on the table
CLEVE HALL. 10
a jar of pickles and the remains of a cold tart. " So, Aunt,
Bertha, I have not been foraging for nothing ; come, you will
have some with me." But he failed to extract a smile from
Bertha, who stood looking on whilst he ate his supper,
with an appetite, which, as he himself had described it, was
ravenous.
Bertha broke the silence. '-Clement, what time did
Bonald leave you '("
"Oh! about half-past nine, more or less; I had no
watch."
" And you walked on the shore all that time ?"
" Yes, there and on the cliffs. He was in one of his
moods ; I couldn't leave him."
" He ought not to have been with you," said Bert ha.
" He said that, and told me to go ; but we had made the
engagement to meet. And where was the harm ?"
" Where is at any time the harm of disobedience, Cle-
ment?"
"Now, Aunt Bertha, I don't understand you," and Clement
hastily finished his tumbler of beer, and rose and stood by the
fire. " Who tells me not to be with Bonald ?"
" I tell you, and that ought to be sufficient." Her tone
was very authoritative, and the angry flush rose in Clement's
cheek, and he bit his lip.
" You know, Clement, that there is disobedience to the
spirit of a law as well as to the letter. What matters it that
you have never been absolutely commanded by my mother not
to be with Bonald ? You are as well aware as I am that both
she and Mr. Lester disapprove of it."
" "Without a reason !" exclaimed Clement. " I will never
listen to any one who doesn't give me a reason."
" Then you will be a slave to yourself, Clement, and a
miserable man."
" As you will," he replied, carelessly. " I will run my
chance of misery, but I never will leave a noble-hearted fel-
low, like Bonald, merely because there happens to be a preju-
dice against him. And you, Aunt Bertha, to try to persuade
me not ! you, who are always lucking after him, and turning
and twisting him at your will !"
"Not at my will, Clement," replied Bertha. "He would
not be what he is if he were turned at my will," she added in
ua under-tonc.
'JO CLEVE HALL.
• He mighl not be better fur being different," exclaimed
Clement, "or it' he were, I .shouldn't like him as well."
•• No, and there is the danger, Clement; but we won't arguo
the point: Mr. Lester wishes you not to be with him; my
mother wishes it also. You have no right to require more."
" Bnt I must and I do require more," exclaimed Clement,
impatiently, yet without any real ill-humor; "and I ask of
you, Aunt Bertha, whether there isn't a prejudice against
Ronald, which would prevent Grandmamma and Mr. Lester
from liking him if he were an angel. And I will ask too,"
he continued, interrupting Bertha as she was about to reply,
'• whether the prejudice is not fostered by my grardfather, and
whether it is not because of him that every pleasure I have in
life is thwarted."
" Clement, that is speaking very disrespectfully. I can't
answer such questions. Your grandfather has strong reasons,
fearful reasons, for dreading an intimacy with Ronald."
" With a cousin ! not very near, perhaps, but still my rela-
tion, and the ouly fellow in the neighborhood who suits me!
Am I then to live the life of a hermit, Aunt Bertha ?"
" You are required to lead a studious, steady life, to prepare
yourself for the University, if you ever wish to have a place
ia your grandfather's favor."
" Then I will go without the place ; I will give it up. The
favor of a rich old general ! there will be many candidates
for it."
" And you will break my mother's heart, grieve Mr. Lester,
disappoint all our hopes, merely because you won't bring your-
self to relinquish a companionship which, after all, cannot be
congenial."
" I will stand by Ronald at all risks, Aunt Bertha; I will
never sacrifice my friendship to the will of a "
" Take care, Clement," and Bertha held up her finger warn-
ingly; "you are speaking of your grandfather."
" Yet he has never shown me kindness," exclaimed Clement ;
" he never asks me to his house, — he scarcely pays me the
common civilities of a stranger. And, Aunt Bertha, let him
be my grandfather a hundred times over, yet he is my father's
enemy."
" Your father, Clement, was his own enemy."
" And therefore every one turns against him !"
" Yes, every one, even his only son," replied Bertha. Her
tone was so sad that Clement was startled.
CLEVE HALL. 21
" I don't understand you, Aunt Bertha," he said.
" And therefore you will not act upon faith," answered
Bertha. " Oh, Clement ! it is a fatal principle to go upon ; it
will he your ruin. I have told you before, and I repeat it :
disobey and thwart your grandfather, and untold misery will
be the consequence."
" What misery ? "What consequence ? Why will you always
speak so mysteriously, Aunt Bertha ?"
"Because I am not at liberty to speak in any other way,"
said Bertha. " But, Clement, all this is but idle talking. If
I could convince you beyond the possibility of doubt, that your
intimacy with Ronald would lead you into mischief, it would
not in the most remote degree add to the duty of obedience to
the known will of all the persons whom you are most bound to
obey."
Clement was silent. Bertha took up a candlestick, and
gave it to him. He did not wish her good night, but stood
thinking.
"Aunt Bertha," and he suddenly raised his eyes from the
floor, " you knew Bonald many years ago."
"Yes, many, Clement; before you can remember."
"And you were always kind to him?"
" Yes, I hope so. I wish to be kind to every one."
" But you were specially kind to him, and you are so now ,
and you have influence over him."
" I don't know as to the influence. If I have, it is not
from any power of my own."
"You were his mother's friend," said Clement; "he told
me that to-night."
" Yes," was Bertha's cold reply ; but she sat down for an
instant, and her hand trembled as she laid her candlestick on
the table. Clement did not see or comprehend the signs of
inward feeling ; he went on :
" Ronald says you were very fond of her."
" Yes, I was. Good night, Clement ; remember if you
sit up late you will disturb Grandmamma." She took his
hand, — it was as impassive as her own, — and she let it fall
again quietly. Clement moved towards the door, but paused
to say impatiently, in answer to the injunction, again repeated,
to go to bed at once, —
" I shall go presently. I have an exercise to prepare for
Mr. Lester."
Bertha waited till she had heard him enter his room and
22 OLEVB HALL.
luck the door, and then she made a tour of inspection of the
rooms, saw that every shutter was fastened, and every bolt
drawn, ami retired to rest herself.
-«••-
CHAPTER IV.
MRS. CAMPBELL'S cottage closely adjoined the Rectory;
only a steep, reedy bank, and a little rivulet divided
them, and a rough bridge over the stream formed an easy
mode of communication. The Rectory stood high, on a smooth,
sloping lawn, a little way up the ascent of the range of the
Encombe hills, which entirely sheltered it from the north.
The library windows fronting the south-east commanded a view
over a small bay, shut in by rugged cliffs of red sandstone,
rising at the western extremity into a bold headland. Beyond,
towards the north-west, the landscape was more bounded; the
rough ground at the top of the ravine, in which the village
was hidden, and the thick plantation of what appeared to be a
gentleman's park, closing in the horizon.
Rachel Lester was sitting in the library with her father;
he was writing, she was busy with a slate and a Latin exer-
cise. Rachel was receiving rather a learned education ; an
only child, with no mother, and a very classically-inclined
father, that was natural. Mr. Lester looked very old to be
the father of such a child as Rachel. He was nearly sixty in
appearance, though not quite so much in reality. His hair
was gray, and his countenance worn. It was a very intellec-
tual, studious face, softened by the expression of extreme
benevolence ; but there was great firmness in the lines of his
mouth ; there could be no doubt that he could, when he chose,
be severe. His attention was entirely given now to his occu-
pation. He was engaged with a letter, interlined and cor-
rected, often causing him to pause and consider, and sometimes
to throw himself back in his chair, and pass his hand across
his eves, as if in painful recollection.
11 is feelings may be traced in the words which flowed from
his pen : —
" I need not say that you are continually in my thoughts,
and always with the longing to meet your wishes. I desire
CLEVE HALL. 23
heartily to find an opening, and can only entreat you to trust
vis if we seem to delay, llcmember that if we seize the wrong
moment, everything will fail. Mildred lives upon the nope
of success, but even she does not yet perceive the way to it.
My dear Vivian, you must be patient; you must pray to be so;
remembering the offence, and bearing the punishment. In
the mean time, your children are well, and doing well — in the
way, at least, to do so — though there are many faults to be
corrected. Their education is not in all ways what I like; but
there is no direct evil in it, and the defect cannot be remedied.
Here, again, we must be patient. Clement may be all that we
could wish to see him. He is generous-hearted and refined in
taste, but easily led into things which at first sight one would
be apt to fancy foreign to his nature. I think this arises from
vanity. He loves admiration, and does not much care from
whom it comes. You will not like to hear this ; but you
wished to know the truth, and the worst, and I give it you.
He has no vicious habits, but if he were born to luxury I
should feel be might become a sentimentalist. His favorite
virtues are of the heroic cast ; so are his favorite heroes.
He has great notions of self-sacrifice, but very little idea of
self-restraint.
" There is a singular likeness between him and Ella, in
character as well as in countenance. They are twins both in
mind and body, except that Clement will never be what Ella
is in point of talent. She really has wonderful powers, but
with the singular inconsistency of genius, sbe is as variable as
the winds, and as indolent as — I can form no comparison for
her indolence — there is nothing in nature like it. I should
very much like to remove Clement from her influence. It is
all-powerful with him, partly, I suppose, from the twin-feeling
which is always so strong, but chiefly from his exceeding ad-
miration of her powers of mind. He will not see her defects,
and it is very painful to be obliged to point them out.
" The little ones have great promise of good, if they are
properly managed. Louisa is quick, determined, and wilful ;
hut capable of ripening into an extremely sensible, useful
woman. Fanny is too pretty for her own advantage, or at
least she has heard too much of her beauty for simplicity; but
she is exceedingly affectionate, and very true, and the truth
gives me great hope of her.
" If the home were but different ! You will understand all
I mesn by that — }'ou ; who have known Bertha Campbell so
2 1 CLEVB HALL.
and bave reaped the benefit of her virtues, and felt the
quencea of her defects. Bui we must take her, my dear
\ ,,,, aa B he is; and be grateful that at least the children
will never have a low, or insincere example set before them.
Sho i- i, i to '"• altered; and really I, who know her in her
mosl pleasing form, often think that there is scarcely anything
in her I Bhould wish to alter. But I can sec all that you com-
plain of, ami. whit is more, all the consequences. The evil, I
Ruspect, lies a ery far back. When I am inclined to be severe,
I lyish that I could open Mrs. Campbell's eyes to the lasting
evils of that system of perpetual check which has absolutely
parol} sd Bertha's powers. To see what she has done would
be a uflicient punishment.
•■ JTon old like me to tell you that your children's home
at the I. • very cheerful and good for them, and that
their pro at the Park are brightening. Now this, you
1 cannol do quite; but I have given you something to
comfort you, only, as I said before, patience must be your
mot!
" Mildred writes to you so often, that I need not say any-
thin e about her. She is looking better than usual. I think
that the neighborhood of the children has clone much for her,
and yon know what she is in natural cheerfulness and wonder-
ful submission. But I am afraid it may be hope deferred, for
et the General has allowed no advances. I do not mean
that he entirely neglects the children; he notices them if they
meet, and the other day he sent Clement a fishing-rod, which
the boy, stupidly enough, was on the point of returning, think-
ing it rather an insult than a kindness, because some one — I
guess who — had put it into his bead, that unless his grand-
father would fully forgive and receive both you and them, it
was lowering to accept any favor from him. No one but John
Vivian would have suggested the idea, knowing what deadly
enmity it might cause. If it were not for the watch we may
keep over him, it would be one of the greatest trials of my
faith, that Buch a fellow as your cousin should be here just at
this moment. The thorn he is in our path no one can tell:
and there is his boy — a fallen angel, if one may say so with-
out profaneness — coming in contact with Clement continually,
and exciting in him, what he does in everyone, an interest
which at last becomes fascination. All actual authority over
Clement must lie with Mrs. Campbell, who is jealous of my
interference; so I cannot entirely forbid any intercourse with
CLEVE HALL. 25
Ronald, and I am not sure that I should do so if I could.
The boys must meet ; they are near neighbors and cousins,
and too strict discipline might lead the way to deceit, when
the temptation to be together occasionally is so great. One of
the most unfortunate points in the acquaintance is, that it
serves to keep up the General's suspicion. Your cousin Cap-
tain Vivian, as he is called now, owing, I suppose, to his con-
nexion with a trading vessel commonly said to be used for
smuggling purposes, is becoming daily more low in his tastes,
and finds congenial society in the place — poachers, smugglers,
&c. My heart sickens when I think of his influence for evil ;
I trace it continually. The people have a kind of traditional
respect for him : he is a Vivian, and therefore they never can
look upon him quite as a mere mortal. They see what he is,
but they regard his offences very much as we used to regard
the crimes of the heathen gods, and, in consequence, are not
ashamed to follow him.
" I feel I am giving you a great deal of pain in writing all
this, raking up in a way the ashes of the past. But, my
dear Vivian, there must be truth between us. Your cousin's
name should be buried from this moment, if it could promote
your real welfare ; but I should only deceive you and in the
end increase the bitterness of your trial, if I allowed you to
think that be is not now, as he has been ever, your evil genius.
I still hold the opinions I mentioned in my last letter as to
his past deeds, and am anxiously seeking for an opportunity
to unravel the mystery. Your sister-in-law and I discuss
plans continually, but hitherto we have failed to arrive at a
satisfactory conclusion. If we could soften the General, we
might reach the truth • but how is that to be done ?
" One thing you must remember for your comfort as
regards the children, that there are counter-influences for good.
John Vivian, himself, is to Clement merely an object of won-
dering disgust. The boy's natural refinement keeps him out
of the reach of the chief temptations which such a man could
offer. And Ronald is open to influences which may — God
grant it prove so — turn the balance in favor of all we could
most desire. He has his mother's face and in a measure her
disposition, so at least I am told by your sister-in-law, who
sees him often and talks to him a good deal. I was very much
surprised to find when Mrs. Campbell came here, that Bertha
and Roland were old acquaintances. Bertha is so reserved
that 1 can get nothing from her as to how they first knew eaoh
26 CLEVE HALL.
other, except that one day .she told me his mother had been a
friend of hers. Certainly since she has been at Encombe
there has been a marked change in him. It is strange, is it
unt '! that she should have power over a wild, untamed spirit
like his, and yet do so little in her own family. But it is her
own family — that I suppose is the secret; and when she has
to work in it, she cannot be free.
" Your father, I sometimes fancy, keeps a little aloof from
me, and I don't wonder at it. He must know the wish that
is nearest to my heart. His walking powers are not quite
what they were, but he rides a great deal and looks uncom-
monly well. Mildred, as I said, hopes, and lives upon hope,
that is her nature; and yet with such constant suffering it
really is marvellous. My little llachel is with her often, but
not quite as frequently as she used to be, for she is working
diligently under Miss Campbell's superintendence. She began
doing lessons with Ella, but soon gave that up. As to keep-
ing pace with Ella I really don't know who could do so. I
sometimes indulge a dream of finding a way to the General's
heart by Ella's means. He could not help appreciating her
wonderful talents; ami then he might become proud of her.
Mildred would know how to bring her out, but the children
are so very little with her ! She does not dare show herself
too eager for their society ; and if ever they do go to the Hall
they are kept out of the General's way as much as possible.
You may imagine how this chafes Clement's proud temper,
and he comes back to me, and raves of insult and subjection,
and talks about Ronald and a seafaring life which they might
lead together; but it will all come to nothing. He has not
enough of the spirit of endurance in him to make a sailor; and
he is too old for the navy, and would not choose to enter the
merchant service. Ronald might do for it very well ; in fact,
1 am at this moment negotiating something of the kind for
him at his own request. You W T ill understand that I have a
double motive for his good and Clement's ; the separation is
so very much to be desired.
" One word about myself, and then good-b'ye. You ask
me how I am, and what I do, and what my hopes and pleasures
are. I am very well, I never was better, and I work content-
edly in my parish, and my earthly hopes and pleasures are
centred in Rachel.
" That answer will not satisfy you I know. It tells too
Utile of my inner self. My dear Vivian, that must be a
CLEVE HALL. 27
pealed book. If I were to attempt to describe the struggles of
a heart which has yet to learn submission to the Divine Will,
I should make myself a woman in weakness. Suffice it that
I have one treasure left to render my home bright. Yet you
must not fancy I am miserable or even unhappy ; only sobered.
Mildred and I sometimes venture to compare notes upon these
subjects; but I don't think it is wise in us, except that to sec
her is the deepest lesson one could receive in humility. An
old woman said to me the other day : ' Miss Mildred seems to
be always a smiling and a praying — and sure that was what
the saints used to do.' Certainly the poor have especial reason
to think her a saint ; for, in spite of her infirmities, she
manages, principally through Mrs. Robinson, to make herself
at home with all their affairs, and is considered quite their
best domestic adviser."
The letter was concluded, sealed, and directed to " E. B.
Vivian, Esq., Kingston, Jamaica."
Then Rachel spoke : " Dear Papa, may I take your letter
to the post ? I am going out."
Mr. Lester did not at first appear to hear her. He was
gazing at the words he had just written, probably following
them in his mind on their distant mission. He answered,
however, after a short pause, " No, dear child, thank you ;"
but he spoke in an absent tone. Presently, he said, " How
old are you, Rachel ?"
" Thirteen, Papa ! I shall be fourteen, my next birth-
day."
" A very great age for such a very little woman," said Mr.
Lester, smiling ; and, as Rachel seated herself on his knee,
and put her arm round his neck, he added : " When do you
ever mean to be anything but a baby V
"Never to you, Papa; but Nurse Robinson told me last
evening that I really was gi'own."
"She sees what she wishes," replied Mr. Lester; "she
has set. her heart upon your being a fine young lady."
Rachel clapped her hands together, and her merry laugh
made Mr. Lester's grave face also relax into something more
than a smile.
"Well, Rachel, shouldn't you like to be a fine young
lady?"
"Should you like me to be one, Papa?" said Rachel
archly.
"Perhaps not; you wouldn't be so convenient to nurse.
28 CLEVE HALL.
You are such :i doll now, that you may very well pass for
ten. But, Rachel," and bis voice became very serious, " I
should like to think you were old enough to share some of my
cares."
The deep look of thought came over Rachel's face, as licr
eye rested for a moment on a picture over the mantel-piece,
the likeness of her mother, and of two sisters and a brother,
all older than herself, and all now lying side by side in the
churchyard of Encombe. She had never known the comfort
of their love, but they were the dearest treasures of her young
heart ; and, whenever tempted to thoughtlessness by her
natural gayety of heart, a glance at the picture was sufficient
to remind her that she was to live to be her father's con-
solation.
Mr. Lester's eye followed hers. "You may help me so
much, Rachel, if you will," he continued.
•• Papa," and Bhe leaned her face on his shoulder, and her
voire, was low and tremulous, "will you pray to God to teach
me how ?"
He kissed her fondly and repeatedly. "I do pray foryoii,
my child, daily and hourly, and God hears my prayers. He
has made von my chief solace hitherto, and he will make you
so -till more; I do not doubt it."
"Are you unhappy, Papa, now?"
" I can scarcely say unhappy, Rachel, but very anxious ;
not for myself," he added, hastily, seeing her look alarmed.
" Fur Clement ?" asked Rachel, doubtfully.
Mr. Lester half-smiled, whilst he hesitated to answer.
'• STes, for Clement, partly ; what made you think of him ?"
" Because you are often grave, Papa, after he has been
1 ; and because he seems to make every one anxious.
Miss Campbell is always troubling about him for one reason
or another."
" Miss Campbell never talks to you about him, does she?"
inquired Mr. Lester, quickly.
■• Not exactly, but she lets out little things ; and Ella talks
real deal, only she thinks Clement perfect."
■■ And what do you think ?"
" Oh ! I think him dreadfully naughty," exclaimed Rachel.
'• I like Ronald Vivian, though he is so rough, twenty times
as well as I do ( llement. - "
" You don't see much of either of them to be able to
judge," observed Mr. Lester.
CLEVE HALL. 29
"No; only we meet them sometimes, when we are out
walking, and Miss Campbell always speaks to Ronald, and he
attends to her, hut Clement never does."
"That is one of his great defects," said Mr. Lester; "you
and Ella should try to cure him of it."
" Ella upholds him," replied Rachel.
" Then you must try and persuade her out of it."
" Ella is not to be persuaded," replied Rachel ; " and she>
talks of Clement as if he were such a great person. I tell hei
sometimes that I think he must be a prince in disguise."
" She thinks he will inherit his grandfather's fortune, and
live at the Hall," said Mr. Lester.
"And he will, won't he, Papa?"
"We don't know, my dear; there is no good in dwelling
upon such things. Clement must learn to do his duty with-
out thinking of the consequences."
"And Ella must learn to teach him," said Rachel,
thoughtfully.
" Yes, that is the great duty for her ; and Rachel, mj
darling, you have had more advantages than she has, and )
think you may help to give her strength. This was what J
wanted especially to say to you. You have little to do with
Clement ; but you have a great deal to do with Ella, and you
must turn your opportunities to the best account."
" But, Papa, she is so clever, I can't keep up with her;
and she is older."
" Very true ; but, Rachel, it is not talent which really in-
fluences the world, but high, steady principle. You are not
very clever, but you may be very good, and if you are, you
may help to make Ella good too ; and if she is good she will
lead Clement right ; and if Clement is led right "
"What, Papa?"
Mr. Lester paused : " It would make me very happy,
Rachel." He seemed tempted to say more to her, but after
a short consideration he merely added, " You don't wish for
any other motive, do you V
" Oh, no, Papa ! only — Clement is no relation."
" He is the son of one whom I once loved, and whom T still
love as it' he were my younger brother," said Mr. Lester;
" and hi^ father is away, and there is no one else to guide him.
Is not that a sufficient reason to be anxious for him ?"
" Yes," replied Rachel, as her father stood up and began
to put aside his writing materials. The "yes" was doubtful.
30 CLEVE HALL.
•■ \iv you not satisfied, my child ?"
•■ Not quite, Papa," was Rachel's honest answer. "Ther*
is always a mystery about Clement."
\ i , < I you must be contented, my darling, to bear with
It is a very oecessary lesson to learn; but so far L
will tell you. General Vivian lias had cause to be displeased
with his son, and therefore he looks with suspicion upon
Clement; and everything which Clement docs that is careless
and wnmg increases his grandfather's doubts of his character.
Now, you can see why I, as his father's friend, am especially
anxious as to his conduct; and so I hope you will see also how
important it is for every one who has influence of any kind
over either Ella or Clement, to try and lead them in the right
way. I can't answer any more questions, Rachel; and remem-
ber you must never talk upon the subject to any one but me."
iiachel was a little awed by her father's manner. Her
countenance showed it. Yet the feeling vanished in a momenl
as he stooped to kiss her, and she said, "I am going to see
Aunt .Mildred to-day; you don't mind?"
'• No, my child; how should I? I shall be going to the
Hall myself, probably, and if you are there we will walk home
together."
• " Then I may stay a long time, if she asks me?"
" Yes ; but who is to go with you 2"
" Miss Campbell and Ella to the lodge gate, and if I don't
stay they will wait for me, but they are not going in." Rachel
could have wondered and asked the reason why, but she checked
herself.
" One more kiss, Papa." And she ran gayly out of the
room, and her joyous voice was heard as she went singing up
the stairs to prepare for her walk.
-«•►
CHAPTER V.
C\ LEV E EALL was a long, low, irregular, red-brick house,
) part of which dated as far back as the time of Henry
VII. The history of the Vivians was written in its gables,
and clustering chimneys, and turrets, and oriel windows of all"
shapes and sizes, — for by far the greater number of its pes-
CLEVE HALL. 31
sessors had thought it necessary to add to or alter it; almost
the only thing which had descended unchanged being the huge
griffin, the family crest, standing erect above the entrance
porch.
A quiet, solemn-looking place it was, resting under the
guardianship of the Encombe Hills, and shut in by plantations
on every side except towards the sea; a place to which childish
memories might cling with vivid recollections of long summer
days spent under the shade of the old oaks whilst listening to
the soft murmurs of the sea, or of winter evenings in the great
library, or rainy days in the billiard room, or long twilights
passed in recounting the tales belonging to the grim, old family
pictures. Many such places there are in England — few per-
haps more interesting than Cleve Hall in its stately, sobering
quietness.
It was in a handsome though narrow room in the oldest part
of the house that Rachel Lester was sitting on that evening as
it drew towards sunset. She had drawn a stool into the depth
of the oriel window, and was endeavoring to read by the fading
light. Twilight is not, as every one knows, a cheerful hour,
and Miss Vivian's morning-room, as the apartment was usually
called, was low, and the windows were small and deep. Yet
it was not gloomy; there were books, pictures, flowers, cabinets
of shells, a piano, and a table with a work-basket and drawing
materials, — all giving notions of constant, cheerful employ-
ment, and of the comfort and elegancies of life ; and though
the shadows were deepening, yet the rich sunset hues were
pouring in through the windows, and lighting up the lower end
of the apartment with a flood of crimson.
The sun was setting over the sea, which could be seen
through an opening in the shrubbery, with the jagged edge
of the cliff forming its boundary. It brought indications of a
zhange of weather ; the clouds were gathering angrily in the
west, some heaped together in huge masses touched at their
edges by streaks of gold, others rushing across the sky in long,
feathery flakes, becoming brilliantly red when they came within
reach of the departing rays, and melting away in hues scarcely
perceptible as they stretched themselves far into the grayish
blue vault above them.
The wind moaned ominously amongst the Cleve woods, the
leaves moved restlessly to and fro, and flights of birds were;
winging their way rapidly from the cliffs, whilst even from that
distance the foam of the white breakers might be seen as thej
82 CLEVB HALL.
1 their chafed waters upon the beach. It was clear thai
a storm was rising, and thai rapidly.
"Oh ! Aunt Mildred, can you see that boat? how it goes
ap and down, and all its sails up! How beautiful it looks!"
Rachel had put down her book, and was pointing with one
band to the window whilst, the other rested upon the arm of a
couch on which lay a lady whose age it would have been diffi-
cult to tell. Seen in the twilight she looked still young, but
her c implexion was worn and sallow, probably from the illness
of years. Her face was painfully thin, and her fingers were
very long and slender; yet the impression she gave was not
that of suffering, and scarcely of resignation, at least when
she spoke. Some persons are said to have tears in their
voices. Mildred Vivian certainly had a smile in hers. " What
boat, darling?" she said, in answer to Rachel's observation.
•• Oh ! I see it now. Please move a very little. How fast it
! the wind must be in its favor."
"Should you like to be in it, Aunt Mildred?"
"Like it? Oh! Rachel, yes; should I not? It is fifteen
years since I wa - in a boat."
"Where is it going, 1 wonder?" said Rachel. "Where*
would you go, Aunt Mildred, if you were in it?"
Mildred paused. Rachel could not see her face clearly, for
the' shadows were deepening every instant. "I should go far
away from England, dear child." The very lightest sound of
a sigh could be heard, following the words.
•• Sou should take me with you wherever you went, dear
Aunt Mildred."
"What, away from Papa?"
"Oh! no, no; but he must go with us. We could not
live away from each other, could we ?"
" I can't say that, Rachel. We did live some yearn with-
out knowing each other," replied Mildred.
"Yes; but I always wanted something."
'■ And did not know that it was a mock aunt," observed
Mildred in a tone of amusement.
" I don't like your saying mock, dear Aunt Mildred,"
exclaimed Rachel. " You are more real than a grea*- mar*'
real aunts, I am sure."
•• More real in love, dear child; that I am quite sure of."
" Uut you could do without me," said Rachel thought-
folly.
CLEVE HALL. 33
'•' I shouldn't like to do without you : I mustn't say I could
not."
"Aunt Mildred," and Rachel spoke anxiously, "I know I
couldn't do without Papa."
" Ah, Rachel ! you don't know."
"But must I try? Am I very wicked to feel that I
couldn't?"
"Not at all wicked; only, Rachel, we can do without
whatever God may please to take from us."
" But we should die," said Rachel.
" No, dear Rachel, we should only be made more fit to
die."
" And He has taken so much from you !" exclaimed
Rachel, flinging her arm round Mildred's neck. " Was it all
needed to make you fit to die V
"All, Rachel! every pang, every sorrow; there was not
one too many. And He has left such mercies ! Perhaps some
day He will add the greatest of all — the thankfulness which
one ought to have."
Rachel stood up again, nearer to the window. The boat
was fast becoming indistinct in the dull light and the far
distance.
" Can you see it still ?" said Mildred, sitting more upright.
" Just. How the wind is rising ! I shouldn't like to be
in the boat; I should be afraid."
Mildred did not reply, and Rachel, too, was silent for some
time. The last gleams of the sunset were melting away, and
the room was becoming very dark. " Mr. Lester will be here
soon," said Mildred; "or will he wait till the moon has
risen ?"
It was strange that there was no answer. Rachel's face
was pressed against the window-pane. She seemed straining
her eyes to obtain the least glimpse of the boat. A sudden
gust of wind howled through the trees, and, as it died away,
Rachel turned from the window, and kneeling by Mildred's
couch, exclaimed, as she burst into tears, "Perhaps Clement
will be out to-night." There was no exclamation of surprise
or terror. Mildred's hand was placed lovingly on the child's
head, and she said quietly, "Are you sure V
"Nut sure; I think so, — and — Aunt Mildred, it maybe
my fault."
'• Yours, my love, how ?"
:)[ CLEVE HALL.
"Because if I would have done all they wished mc to do
be would not have gone."
•• Whom do you mean by they, Rachel? You must be more
clear." .Mildred rather raised herself on her couch, and a
tone of anxiety might have been observed in the first words
she uttered j but even at the close of the sentence it was
checked.
•• Ella and Clement arc they," replied Rachel, speaking
hurriedly, and not very intelligibly. " I went there before i
came away, and Clement was talking to Ella."
" And did they tell you what they were talking about?"
" I heard a little as I went in, and then they were obliged
to tell me more. Clement did not say, though, that he was
going in the boat, only that he had an engagement; but I am
sure he was, and I saw him with Goff in the village afterwards;
and "
" Go on," said Mildred.
Rachel drew a long breath. " I could have stopped him,
Aunt Mildred, if I had chosen it. He said if I would go to
the shore with him and Ella, and read poetry — something of
Lord Byron's which he wanted Ella to hear, — then he would
stay at home. Rut Papa doesn't like me to read the book,
and so I said no; and now perhaps Clement is gone, and the
storni will come and he will be drowned. Oh ! Aunt Mildred,
was it very wrong? "Was it very wrong?" she repeated in a
trembling voice, as Mildred delayed answering.
'• No, dear Rachel; how could it be? but "
<• Hark ! there is some one," interrupted Rachel, listening.
'• Papa will be come for me, and what will he say?"
"Not that it was your fault, Rachel, whatever happens.
But we must trust."
" And he may not have gone," said Rachel, in a calmer
tone.
■• No, he may not. — That must be Mr. Lester's voice."
Rachel ran out to meet him. Mr. Lester entered hurriedly.
The storm, he said, was rising like a hurricane, and he was
anxious to be at home. lie shook hands with Mildred, and
sat down by her, and asked after General Vivian; but his
manner was reserved and abstracted. Mildred looked at him.
as if she would read it ; but she was puzzled.
"Rachel, you had better go for your bonnet," she said;
and Rachel drew near and whispered, " Will you tell Pap.;
when I am gone ?"
CLEVE HALL. 35
"Yes, dear love;- don't come back till I send for you."
Rachel ran away. " Rachel is anxious for Clement/' said
Mildred, as soon as the door was closed.
" She need not he to-night ; he is safe ; Goff did not take
him :" but Mr. Lester's tone was less calm than his words.
" Thauk God for that," said Mildred, with a sigh of gra-
titude. "It may be a fearful night."
Mr. Lester looked out into the dim twilight, and stood as
if in a reverie. Presently he said, " It is not from Clement's
obedience that he is safe. It was Ronald who interfered. Mark
Wood told me he thought he was going, and I believed he was,
till I met Ronald. These are things which make me feel that
he must have a father's hand over him soon, if possible."
" Have you any plan ; anything to propose ?" inquired
Mildred, anxiously.
"No; but I have been writing. My letter ought to have
gone to-day, only I kept it open till I had seen you. Can you
give me any hope ?"
" Dear Mr. Lester ! how can you ask ?" and Mildred's
lip quivered. " Should I keep it from you a moment if I
had?"
" Yet I could not be contented without asking," said Mr.
Lester. "He will think my letter miserably cold, for I had
no comfort to give him but words, and I was obliged to tell
him that Clement doesn't satisfy me."
" I have not yet sounded the matter," said Mildred, speak-
ing in a tone which indicated great self-restraint. " Incau-
tiousness would do immense mischief. If I take my father
at the wrong moment, he may forbid the subject ever being
mentioned again ; and I feel as if we should be more certain
of our end if we could gain admittance to his heart first in
some other way. I have thought of asking him to let Ella
stay with me."
" It is a strong measure," said Mr. Lester. " I should be
afraid Ella would not win him. He will see her faults, and
exaggerate them."
" Perhaps so." Mildred considered for a moment, and
then said, as if speaking to herself, "Is it not unaccountable;
SO good, and honorable, and kind-hearted as my dear father is
to all others, — so clear-sighted too, especially in discovering
injustice or prejudice ?"
"Not unaccountable; it is human nature. 'A brothei
offended is harder to be won than a strong city.'"
3G CLEVB HALL.
"And the Campbells to havesettled in the neighborhood I"
said Mildred; "it ■widens the breach infinitely, lie cannot
endure even their names."
"No," replied .Mr. Lester; "and the very fact of. seeing
the children I often think reminds him of the connexion."
■■ Ami Edward then must linger in a distant land, away
from his children, working without hope."
" Better that than to return and be rejected. If the expe-
riment were to fail, we should have nothing else to fall back
upon. "Wc must wait for time and softening influences.
Through God's mercy they may open a way. Oh ! if any
words could but teach those children what may depend on
their present conduct !" The explanation came from the very
bottom of his heart.
" Does Miss Campbell complain as she did !" inquired
Mildred.
"Yes, and for the most part justly."
" But she is not merciful," said Mildred.
" That is not to be expected from her education. She is
antagonistic to them always."
" She is the person to be reached," continued Mildred.
" She is reached continually in a way. I tell her her
faults, and she hears them all patiently, for she is very humble-
minded; but I see no results."
" Yet, so good as you say she is, her character must tell."
"One would think so; yet one infirmity will neutralize a
dozen virtues. How one trembles to hear people talk so lightly
as they do of what they call failings !"
Mildred sighed. " Yes," she said, after a moment's silence,
"it would be a curious and fearful history to write, — the
history of failings."
"It will be written one day," said Mr. Lester, solemnly;
" and then may God have mere}' upon its !"
A pause followed. It was interrupted by a heavy, boom-
ing sound, heard distinctly amidst the roar of the rising storm.
Mildred started up.
•■ A ship in distress !" said Mr. Lester.
Mildred sank back and covered her eyes. Mr. Lester took
up his hat.
" You will leave Rachel with me," said Mildred, quietly.
"Yes, indeed, if you will keep her. I wish she could al
ways be as safe. God bless you." He pressed her hane 1
affectionately.
CLEVE HALL. 37
''And you "will take every one with you who you think
may be useful," said Mildred ; "and remember," — her voice
changed, — " there is room at the Hall for all who may need
shelter."
" Yes, I am sure of that always. Good b'ye."
Mildred's face was perfectly colorless ; and when another
boom of the signal gun was heard, she clasped her hands to-
gether, and prayed fervently to Him at "Whose command the
winds blow and lift up the waves of the sea, and Whc stilleth
the rage thereof."
-♦^
CHAPTER VI.
PEOPLE were hurrying to the shore, making their way
thither by the nearest paths, and guided by the uncertain
light of the moon, as it escaped from behind the racking clouds
which were rushing over the heavens. Mr. Lester's road was
narrow, and tangled by brushwood and briars. It led directly
through the woods to an open heath terminated by the cliffs.
A rough road, sometimes traversed by carts, crossed the heath,
and when Mr. Lester emerged from the copse, he found the
road already reached by stragglers from the lone cottages be-
tween Encombe and the neighboring town of Cleve. Women
and children, as well as men, were amongst them. There was
a strange, fascinating horror in the thought of a scene of dan-
ger ; and some, it was to be feared, had in view a prospect of
personal advantage, to be gained at the expense of the unfor-
tunate owners of the distressed vessel. Mr. Lester mingled
amongst them at first unperceived. The greater number were
unknown to him, as not belonging to his own parish, and the
light was too indistinct to allow of his being recognised by
them.
" D'ye sec her ?" asked a rough fanner- looking man, of a
boy who had been at the edge of the cliff.
" See her? yes, as well as a body can in such a blinking
light. She's off Dark Head Point, on the rocks, I'm think-
ing ; and sore work 'twill be to get safe in."
" Many folks down on the beach ?" inquired the farmer.
"Ay, a crowd. 1 heard the Captain's voice amongst the
loudest."
JS OLBVE HALL.
" No doubt of that," was the reply. " Where's there ever
a skirl without him ?"
" Ay, where ? Ue was in Clcve this afternoon, blustering ;
;iiul I heard it said, if he went on so he'd some day be taken
up to the old General. That is a sight I'd give one of my
eyes to see. But he's a brave fellow after all, is the Captain."
" Brave, is he ? That's as folks think. Stay ! "
There was a momentary pause, as if with one consent, as a
shrill cry of horror was brought to the car in a sudden lull of
the tempest, and then, with an instantaneous impulse, a rush
was made to the beach. Mr. Lester was amongst the first to
reach it. It was a scene of darkness and confusion. The
moonbeams touched the white foam of the curling waves,
whilst they rose majestically in the form of lowering arches,
and broke against the rocks with a crashing sound, which
seemed as if it must, shake the firm cliffs to their centre. Be-
yond, the spray of the troubled sea, aud the misty clouds,
caused an obscurity every moment increasing, as the last faint
light of sunset faded in the far west. The crowds on the
shore were, for the most part, crossing and recrossing each
other, bringing contradictory reports, arguing, exclaiming,
asseverating ; but in one spot a few men had collected, and
were discussing in loud and angry tones the possibility of ren-
dering assistance to the distressed vessel, which could be seen
lying directly in a line with the angle of the steep cliff usually
known by the name of Dark Head Point.
" We must throw a rope from the cliff; no boat will live in
such a sea," said a coarse voice, which would have been known
at once as Captain Vivian's, even without the profancness that
was the constant accompaniment of his words.
" Too far," replied Goff, who was standing by his side, ex
amining the scene with a cool, practised eye, and not even
shrinking when a second cry of agonizing distress fell upon
the ear. " They must even go, if 'tis Heaven's will they
should."
Captain Vivian moved away to obtain a view from a higher
position, and at the same moment Mr. Lester drew near.
« Too i'.w, Goff? and will no one try the boat?"
Gofl' touched his hat, but his manner was surly : " Your
reverence may try. It's just tossing away your life; but you
can try."
Mr. Lester considered. It was madness, utter madness for
him at least. He locked round for another opinion.
CLEVE HALL. 39
" A quarter of an hour hence the tide will have turned/'
6aid a fisherman who was standing near.
" And a quarter of an hour hence," exclaimed Goff, " they
will be in "
Mr. Lester stopped him. " On earth, we trust, Goff.
Fifty pounds reward," he shouted loudly, "to any one who
will undertake to man the boat and be off to the ship !" but
his voice was lost in the roar of the elements, and the deep
call of another gun of distress. Once more he looked round,
hopeless and despairing. Ronald Vivian was close to him.
" Mr. Lester, one word with you." He drew him aside :
" If I never return, say to Miss Campbell that I obeyed her."
He caught hold of the boat to push it from the beach.
Mr. Lester held him back. " llonald ! this is actual frenzy !
Your father and Goff are the only persons fit to go."
" Their lives are precious," said the boy, scornfully.
" Mine !" — he seized Mr. Lester's hand, — " I am but a
stumbling-block in the path. Clement will be safe when I am
•rone." Asrain he laid hold of the boat.
O O
At that moment a shout arose from the cliff, " They are
off ! brave fellows ! they are off !" followed by a deep muttered
prayer, " God help them !" and like one body, the crowd hur-
ried to the spot from whence they could best watch the fate
of the little boat, which in desperation had at length been
committed to the waves. It was manned by three experienced
sailors, and bravely and resolutely it made its way, followed by
a breathless silence, as one moment it was borne upon the crest
of the waves, and the nest sank into the deep abyss of the
angry water as if never to rise again.
Ronald had thrown himself upon the beach, and his head
was buried in his hands. Mr. Lester spoke to him gently :
" It is best, Ronald, as it is; we must pray for them."
Ronald made no answer. " They are gone ! they are
gone {" was the cry heard amidst the tempest, and he started
to his feet. But the black speck, though scarcely discernible,
was still to be seen breasting the waves; it was neai-ing the
ship. Ronald rushed to the edge of the water, and stood
there with his arms folded moodily upon his breast. Mr.
I r followed him near, yet not so near as to be observed.
The moonlight fell upon the boy's tall firmly-built figure and
noble features. The expression of his countenance was very
painful; — cold and proud, and when he heard his father's
• voice shouting from the cliffs, recklessly desperate.
40 CLEVE HALL
"Ronald," said Mr. Lester, approaching to him, "you would
have done a brave deed, and Grod accepts the will."
" Perhaps so," was the answer; "it is all that is allowed
to me ;" and he moved away.
The boat was not to be seen; whether sunk, or passed
heymid the power of sight, none could say. The moon was
hidden by a thick cloud. The howling of the wind, the rush
of the waters, silenced every other sound; and only a light
raised in the unfortunate vessel showed that human life was
at stake. The darkness continued for several minutes, —
minutes which seemed hours. A voice from the crowd uttered
a loud, shrill call. Some said it was answered, but it might
have been only the scream of the stormy blast. " Try again I"
and a second time the sharp yell seemed to rush over the wide
waste of waters, seeking for a response. It came ; yes, it was
a human voice; a cheer, a cry of exultation, and the moon for
a moment appearing showed the little boat crowded with
people, tossed upon the crest of a mountainous wave. It will
be swamped; it must be, a huge mass of waters is about to
fall upon it ; but no, it has risen again, the awful power con-
quered by human skill : still it seems to make no progress,
and now it is lost to sight; the moon has sunk back again into
darkness. Oh! for one minute of peace on the restless ocean
to make certain the door of escape.
Ronald never moved nor spoke. His eyes were riveted, as
by a basilisk fascination, on the spot where the boat was likely
to appear. And it did appear, nearing the shore, guided by a
hand which knew well how to break the force of every wave,
and direct it amidst the rough breakers. It was all but in;
all but within safe reach of the shore. A cheer rose, loud,
prolonged ; ending — surely it was a scream of terror! A wave
had passed nver the boat, and it was upset.
Fearful, awful, was the scene that followed ; struggles for
life, — ineffectual attempts at assistance, — the engulphing of
last hopes in the foaming ocean. A man's head was reen ris-
ing above the wafers, bis hand was clasping the shaggy weeds
depending from a rock; they seemed firm, but the power of
death was in the grasp, and they were giving way; in another
moment he would be gone. Ronald flung aside his coat, and
c i i himself into the sea; few saw him, none cheered him, he
was doomed.
They had sunk both together; but they rose again, the
stranger clinging to Ronald as he struggled with the water.
CLEVE HALL. 41
A mighty wave is near, it must cover them; but no, they have
risen upon its crest; and now, as if in angry disappointment,
it has cast them from it ; — they are safe !
Mr. Lester was at some distance. Seven men had with
great difficulty been rescued, and he was giving directions for
their restoration. Another boat was being manned for the
purpose of going back again to the ship ; all was excitement
and confusion. None noticed Ronald, or thought of him.
He knelt by the side of the man whom he had saved, charing
his hands, covering him with the coat which he had himself
thrown aside, and at length with the assistance of another boy
of about his own age, though much inferior to himself in
power, carried him to the shelter of a boat-house.
The senses, which had been paralyzed as much by horror
as by the actual risk that had been run, soon returned, and by
that time other assistance was at hand, and arrangements were
made for conveying the man to the farm. Ronald's manner
wa-s indifferent and cold ; he answered the few questions put
to him shortly and uncourteously; and, when he found his
charge in safe hands, took advantage of the suggestions made
that he should look after himself, to walk away alone towards
his own home.
-«•»-
CHAPTER VII.
THE morning after the storm rose bright, clear, and compa-
ratively calm, though deep shadows from flying clouds
were still crossing the sea, and the white breakers tossed their
diminished heads with an anger not yet exhausted.
Bertha Campbell, Ella, and Clement were together on a
little hillock from which a wide view of the sea was to be ob-
tained. Dark Head Point was visible, and the wreck of the
shattered vessel, stranded amongst the rocks upon which it
had drifted during the night.
"Three lives lost!" said Ella; "how terrible!" and she
shuddered.
" And seven saved !" said Bertha; "that one ought to be
thankful for."
" Eight/' observed Clement rpuicfcly ; " Ronald saved one."
i'2 CLEVE nALL.
"Yes, I heard it,'' said Bertha. There was a glistening
in her eye, bul it was ;i strangely imperturbable manner.
"Clemenl would have done the same if he had been there,"
said Ella.
'• Yes, he might."
u Might! oh Aunt Bertha ! it is certain."
■ Be has not been tried, Ella."
• And therefore you doubt me, Aunt Bertha," said Clement
haughtily. " Thank you for your opinion of rue."
" 1 only judge from what I sec, Clement. If you are not
equal to ordinary duties, I don't know why I am to expect you
to perform extraordinary ones."
" Ronald docs not do ordinary duties that I can ever see,"
continued Clement.
" Ronald is no guide for you," replied Bertha. "At this
moment you arc neglecting your work."
" Who can be expected to work such a morning as this ?"
exclaimed Clement. "Mr. Lester himself is gone down to
the village and to the shore."
"It is his business, ('lenient; it is not yours."
" And it is his pleasure," exclaimed Clement. " He is
gone to the farm to sec Ronald's friend."
Bertha merely repeated her observation, that Mr. Lester
attended to his business, and therefore Clement ought to attend
to his, and then suggested to Ella that it was "time for the
children's lessons to begin. Ella said, "Is it?" but she did
not move from the grass upon which she was seated, leaning
against the stone that supported the flag-staff, and gazing
dreamily upon the sea.
"You will take cold, Ella," said Bertha; "it is a great
deal too damp to sit upon the grass."
" Oh no, I shan't, Aunt Bertha. The grass is quite dry."
Bertha stooped down to feel it, and showed the drops glis-
tening on her hand.
" I never take cold by sitting on the grass," said Ella; " I
never take cold at all, indeed, except when I sit in a draught "
" Every one takes cold, Ella, who sits upon wet grass."
"Every one except me," repeated Ella. "Aunt Bertha,
if you are going in, will you just tell the little ones to get their
lessons ready. I suppose one must move," she added, rising
lazily.
Bertha went into the house, and Ella turned to her brother
tnd said, " She is put out."
CLEVE HALL. 43
" Of course she is," replied Clement; " she is always put
out. And isn't it aggravating, Ella, the way in which she never
will give me credit for a single thing that is brave or noble ?
One would think I was a mere automaton."
"I don't mind her," said Ella; " she hasn't a spark of
poetry or enthusiasm in her composition. If she had been on
the shore, I venture to say she would have stayed to calculate
exactly the claims of her own life, before she would have ven-
tured to risk it for another."
"It won't do for me, that sort of thing," said Clement,
pursuing the bent of his own thoughts. " If they want me
to listen to them, they mustn't try to keep ine in leading-strings
in that fashion. Why there are many boys who have been
half over the world and are their own masters at my age."
" It will come to an end," said Ella, reseating herself on a
stone ; " all things come to an end, if one waits long enough."
" Very well for a girl," he exclaimed impetuously; "but
what is to be done with the years that go by whilst one is
waiting?"
" Make them a preparation for those which are to come,
Clement," said a grave voice.
Clement started, for it was Mr. Lester's. He was looking
very pale, very haggard, — a year might have passed over him
since the last evening. His manner too was different from its
usual quiet, almost stern rigidity ; its restlessness showed how
much he must have gone through. Ella was very fond of
him, and all her better feelings were called forth when she saw
him suffering. She begged him now to go into the house, and
let her fetch him a glass of wine. She was sure he was over-
tired, and if he didn't take care he would be ill. But he
would not go in ; " He would rather," he said, " remain with
them where they were; the fresh air would do him good;" and
he sat down by Ella at the foot of the flag-staff.
" Those tiresome lessons !" murmured Ella to her brother.
" Oh nonsense, you can't go now," was his reply, in an
under tone.
"A few minutes can't signify," added Ella, rather speaking
to herself than fo Clement. " Dear Mr. Lester, do let me go
in and bring you something out here." She spoke now with
animation and eagerness: her heart was in her words.
" Thank you, dear child, no. One can't forget last night,
Ella."
" No," replied Ella, awed by his manner.
4 i CLEVi: HALL.
" Ami Clement might have been exposed to danger, too,"
he continued.
" Goff would never take me, Sir, if there was danger/' said
Clement, a little moodily.
" lie ought not to take you at all, Clement." Mr. Lester's
voice trembled.
" Ymi are too tired to talk, Sir," said Ella, looking at him
anxiously. "Shall we leave you ?"
"Yes; and yet," — he placed his hand on her head, —
" Ella, one thought was in my mind, haunting it all last ni-lit,
— that Clement might have been where others then were. I
wonder whether either of you thought of it too."
" I believe it was wrong in me to propose going out on the
•rater, Sir," said Clement, candidly; "but when I had made
an engagement, I didn't like to break it."
"An after engagement cannot cancel a former one," said
Mr. Lester. " Our first engagement in all cases is to God."
" He was never absolutely "told not to go," said Ella.
_ Clement refused to accept the excuse : " He knew," he
said, "that it was not quite right, but it seemed such a little
thing, he couldn't really believe it signified ; certainly he should
have gone but for some blunder of Ronald's, which made them
all late." And then he muttered something about sea-faring
life, and that he must prepare if he ever intended to go to sea.
Mr. Lester was silent. Clement knew that he had said
what was very painful ; and, anxious to turn the conversation,
he asked whether Ronald's friend was recovered.
" Yes, tolerably; he has gone to Cleve : his name is Bruce;
the vessel was an American."
The answers were given shortly, and Clement was afraid to
pursue the subject.
"I had better go in to the lessons now," said Ella. She
did not know what else to say or do, and the claim of the for-
gotten duty reasserted itself.
"I am going home," said Mr. Lester; "tell your aunt I
shall not see her probably to-day ; I must be alone as much as
possible." The last words were spoken in an under tone. He
stood up to go. " Clement, are you ready for me ?"
" Yes, Sir ; that is, I shall be. I will follow you."
" I would rather you should go with me;" and Mr. Lester
paused, and his eyes wandered over the sea.
" Here is Rachel \" said Ella, as she turned towards the
Parsonage garden. Mr. Lester's face brightened in an instant.
CLEVE HALL. 45
"Ilowshe runs!" continued Ella: "I never could move
so fast."
It seemed but one bound and Rachel was at her father's
side. " Nurse Robinson is waiting for you, Papa. She says
you expected her. And, Ella dear," and Rachel produced a
folded paper, " I have copied the lines, and thank you so
much ; they are beautiful."
" May I see them V said Mr. Lester, taking them from
her hand.
" Longfellow's Excelsior," said Ella, looking over his
shoulder. " Rachel and Clement and I mean to make a
Latin translation of them."
" Papa, you admire them, don't you ?" asked Rachel,
noticing the peculiar expression of his face.
" Of course I do, my love; who could help it ?"
" And you think them very true and right in their
meaning
?»
" Yes, entirely so."
"And you like us to like them ?"
Mr. Lester paused. Ella looked up at him quickly. Her
dark, expressive eye seemed in a moment to read the meaning
of his silence, and as the color rushed to her cheeks, she said,
" Mr. Lester wishes us to follow them, not merely to like
them." She did not wait to hear his answer, but walked
slowly into the house without wishing any one gooddv'ye.
Bertha was in the little room which opened from the
drawing-room, and was used as a school-room. It had no
carpet, and its chief furniture consisted of tables, stools, and
book-cases. There was only one piano in the house, and that
was in the drawing-room. Everything in the apartment was
neat, it could not be otherwise when Bertha Campbell super-
intended, but the room had the same air of poverty as the
rest of the house ; a poverty contrasting remarkably with the
appearance of the persons who inhabited it-
Bertha was energetic and simple in all she did, and would
have dusted a room as willingly as she would have studied a
foreign language ; but no one, on looking at her, would have
supposed that she was horn to such work ; whilst Ella with
her indolent, graceful movements, and little Fanny with her
slight figure and delicate features, seemed only fitted for the
luxury of an eastern climate. Louisa, indeed, was different,
but even she moved and spoke with an air of command which
4G CLEVE HALL.
would have Deeded a dozen servants to be in attendance instead
of the tidy little girl who did duty as both housemaid and par-
lormaid.
When Ella returned from the garden, she found Bertha
engaged in hearing Louisa's lessons, and superintending
Fanny's copy. She did not appear to perceive that her aunt
had been taking her duties for her. It was so common a cir-
cumstance, as not, in Ella's eyes, to need "thank you," and
Bertha on her part made no lemark upon Ella's absence ; but
Louisa was reproved rather sharply for a blunder she had just
made, and Fanny was told that if she did not hold her pen
better she would be sent up stairs. Ella threw herself into a
low seat, and leaning back exclaimed that it was tremendously
hot, and she was dying with sleep : she wished it was the
fashion in England to take siestas.
"Ton can have one, if you like it," said Bertha, a little
satirically.
" Very well for you to say, Aunt Bertha, who can manage
your time as you like. Oh dear! these tiresome lessons!
Fanny, are you ready with your French translation V
" Not quite," said Fanny.
"Then why aren't you?"
"I hadn't time to do it last evening."
" You know you would insist upon going such a distance in
your walk, Ella," observed Bertha. ""The children came in a
great deal too late to finish what they had to do."
" I can't hear it, if it is not ready," said Ella. " What can
you do, Fanny ?"
"I can say my dates, and vocabulary, and dialogue, I
think."
" Well, come then."
" Had you not better go up stairs, and put your shawl away,
Ella ? ' said Bertha, "and then you will come down quite fresh
a^raiu
" No, thank you. It is a great deal too hot to move," and
Ella tossed her shawl into the farthest corner of the room.
Bertha put down the lesson book, took up the shawl, and sent
Louisa up stairs with it.
"Now, Fanny," said Ella.
Fanny began and repeated a tolerably correct lesson, or, at
least, such as seemed to be so; for it was one of Ella's
theories that it Was useless to make children say things exactly
as they were in the book.
CLEVB HALL. 47
"It can't have taken Fanny much time to learn that, Ella,"
observed Bertha; " she can't have read it over more than twice
ov three times."
" She knows the sense very well/' said Ella; "and that is
all one wants."
" All one wants for to-day, but not for to-morrow. The
sense is the spirit, the words are the body; how can you retain
the spirit if you give up the body V
" It is too hot to argue," said Ella. " But if spirit has to
act upon spirit, what need is there of a body?"
" Spirit alone never does act upon spirit in this world," said
Bertha.
Ella yawned, and closed her eyes. A tingling, irritable
bell was just then rung. Bertha gave Louisa her book, told
her she had made three mistakes, and hurried out of the room,
almost before Ella had time to unclose her eyes, and ask what
was the matter.
Ella certainly exerted herself more when left to herself. It
seemed as if a perverse feeling made her determined upon
showing herself more indolent in proportion as Bertha was
energetic. She drew her chair closer to the table, finished
hearing Fanny's lesson, then made her go back to her copy,
and bade Louisa bring her French History. That lesson was
pleasant enough. Ella liked being read to, and she was very
fond of history, and had a marvellous memory for dates.
" I have finished the ten pages," said Louisa, as she came
to the conclusion of a chapter.
" Never mind, go on ; you must hear about Henri Quatre."
Louisa glanced at the clock. "It is a quarter to one,
Ella, and it is my music lesson day."
Ella's sigh might have been that of a martyr.
" I shall give you your lesson in the evening, go on now."
" And shall I say the questions in the evening ?"
"We will see; go on."
Louisa was not fond of history, and cared but little for
Henri Quatre; and she was provoked at having all her time
occupied and so much added to her lesson hours. She read
very badly, and Ella was impatient, and, striking the table in
irritation, shook Fanny's hand, and made her blot an exercise
h she had begun; the copy having long since been
brought to an end, and put aside with scarcely a glance or an
observation. Fanny burst into tears. She was a very untidy
writer, and her exerci e b ioks were proverbially slovenly, and
18 CLEVE PALL.
Bertha had lately endeavored to stimulate her to carefulness
by the promise of a reward whenever six exercises should be
w ritten veithoul a blot.
" You shouldn'1 cry, Fanny," said Louisa; "you will niuko
your ryes rod, and then you won't bo fit to be seen."
"And it is so silly, too," said Ella; " crying about nothing !
what dues it signify? Take it up with your blotting paper,
and it will all be right."
She returned again to Henri Quatre, and left Fanny to
mourn in lonely sorrow over the loss of her anticipated pre-
sent - ; for Aunt Bertha had no mercy upon excuses. The
blot was there, that was enough. There would be no question
of how it came.
The clock struck one. "I should have just time for my
music lesson," said Louisa, imploringly.
" What? yes !" Ella was still dreaming over the history.
" Louisa, hasn't Aunt Bertha got the llenriade ? Just go
and fetch it, there's a good child."
" The what, Ella ?"
"The llenriade, Voltaire's Henriade; don't you know?"
Louisa walked slowly out of the room, and came back with
a message that Aunt Bertha was engaged, and couldn't attend
to anything of the kind at present. Ella did not seem quite
to hear. Louisa went to the piano, opened it, and put up her
music book.
"Louisa, it won't take you a minute; just run across the
garden up to the Rectory. Mr. Lester has the llenriade. I am
nearly sure I saw it in his study the other day. He will let
me have it."
Louisa looked excessively discomposed, and did not move.
"Go, child, go," said Ella.
" Shall I go V asked Fanny. She was very tired of lessons,
and much t'ii joyed the thought of a run across the turf.
"Yes; only you don't understand. There, give me a
piece of paper and a pencil; not that one, that is slate pencil.
Where is the one you were drawing with last night?"
"1 don't know; I left it on the table. Louisa, it was
your turn to put away the things."
" Oh, Fanny, indeed, if you remember, I took two days
together, because you had a headache."
"That was a week ago," said Fanny, fretfully; "it was
your turn I am sure."
CLEVE HALL. 49
'•'Never mind whose turn it was/' exclaimed Ella : "only
fetch me a pencil."
" I don't know where to find one/' said Fanny.
" Not know where to find a pencil ? Why there are hun-
dreds in the house. Louisa, give me one of your drawing
oeucils."
" Aunt Bertha said I was not to lend them/' said Louisa,
Ella's color rose. " I can't trouble myself about that. I
must have one."
Louisa had evidently no intention of obeying. She sat
playing wiih the leaves of the music-book, her face resolutely
directed away. Ella took up a pen, and began to write with
rt instead.
" There, Fanny/' and she tossed the note to the child,
who ran off with it. Ella was too much annoyed with Louisa
to take any notice of her ; and the practising was begun and
continued, whilst Ella sat at the table drawing mathematical
figures on a sheet of note paper.
" That is the first dinner-bell," said Louisa, and she jumped
down from her seat, and shut up the piano.
No answer.
" Fanny will be late/' she continued ; " she won't hear the
bell."
" She has plenty of time," replied Ella, coldly.
" Grandmamma will be angry," persisted Louisa.
" You had better go and get ready yourself, Louisa/' said
Ella.
" I must put the room tidy first," was the answer ; and
Louisa, with the most determined spirit of neatness and pro-
vokingness, not only moved away everything which belonged
to herself and to Fanny, but also divers little articles of pro-
perty appertaining to Ella. " Fanny will be late," she
repeated, as she hastened out of the room, leaving Ella no-
thing to distract her eye from the contemplation of the tables
and chairs, except the sheet of note paper on which she was
scribbling.
The second dinner-bell rang, and Ella was not ready, and
Fanny was still at the Rectory. Mrs. Campbell was exceed-
ingly annoyed, for punctuality was her darling virtue, and
Louisa triumphantly told the history of how and why it all
happened, and was informed by her grandmamma that she
was the oidy person in the house to be depended upon:
whilst Bertha reminded Ella that if she had come in in
3
i»0 CLEVE HALL.
proper time, the lessons would have been all finished by one
o'clock.
Fanny appeared when dinner was half over; and being
received by harsh words and severe dances, burst into another
tii nf crying, and was again warned by Mrs. Campbell, as the
most conclusive and natural argument for self-restraint, that
she would quite spoil her face, and make herself such a figure
she would not be fit to be seen.
That had been a very instructive morning to the children.
They had had lessons in unpunctuality, ingratitude, self-in-
dulgence, procrastination, absence of sympathy, impatience,
disobedience to orders, ill-nature, self-conceit, and vanity, and
all through the medium of French exercises and the life of
Henri Quatre.
-«••-
CHAPTER VIII.
ELLA had a lit of the Ilcnriade that afternoon, and could
not go out ; so she said. She wanted to compare the great
epic poems of different countries, and she had a notion of
writing an essay upon them. She had read Dante often, and
knew Milton by heart, Homer was familiar to her, and she had
a vague idea of the merits of the Lusiad, which, no doubt,
was more than half the world could boast of. Not that Ella
thought much about the world. With all her wonderful
talent, she was free from conceit, and had scarcely any wish
for admiration. When she talked of writing an essay upon
epic poets, it was solely for her own amusement. She had no
grand visions of fame and flattery; and if, now and then, a
stray word of astonishment as to her mental powers reached
her ears, it was always received with surprise. That which
was so easy to her, could not ; she supposed, be difficult to
Hi her people.
And then Ella never, or very rarely, finished anything.
She always worked from impulse, and her natural temperament
was extremly indolent. Clement could sometimes persuade
her to conclude what she had begun, but no one else. And
he was very like herself, and seldom fancied to-day what he
had delighted in yesterday. They were two very interesting,
clever, agreeable companions, when they chose to be; hut the
CLEVE HALL. 51
clouds on a windy day were not more changeable, and they
always required the stimulus of success to make them pursue
any subject. Ella's portfolio was filled with notes from his-
tory, unfinished poems, imitations of various authors, problems
from Euclid, observations on botany, hints upon geology,
copies of Hebrew and Arabic letters, interspersed with gro-
tesque caricatures, clever pencil sketches, or grand designs in
some new style of water-colors. The marvel was, that in
attempting to know so much, she should succeed in knowing
anything. A person with less natural powers would have been
utterly crushed by the mountain of mental dust accumulated
by these broken ideas; but Ella's memory was so retentive,
and her powers of perception were so keen, that, give her any
fragments of knowledge, however broken, and she could put
them together, when occasion required, so as to present a very
fair semblance of real information.
" Ella knows everything," was Mrs. Campbell's proad
remark, when some chance observation brought out from the
stores of her granddaughter's memory a forgotten or obsolete
fact.
" Ella does nothing," was Bertha's mournful observation
to Mr. Lester, when conversing upon the children's future
prospects,
There are different powers of mind required for knowing
and doing. People often cultivate the former whilst they
neglect the latter. They do not see that we may know with-
out doing, but we can scarcely continue long in doing without
knowing.
But to give Ella all the excuse possible, she had had xery
little teaching or training in either the one or the other.
After an infancy passed in the enervating climate of the West
Indies, she had been sent to England and placed under the
care of persons who did not understand her, and who, if they
had understood her, would not have known how to guide her.
Mrs. Campbell was, in her younger days, the most rigid of
disciplinarians. She had tutored, and checked, and warned,
and fretted her own daughters, until one in despair rushed
into a hasty and unfortunate marriage, and the other became
a pattern of obedience :md self-denial, but with all her warm,
natural impulses chilled, her powers of enjoyment deadened,
and her notions of goodness, cither moral or religious, absorbed
in the one stern idea of duty, duty both for herself and others,
but without mercy and without love.
52 CLEVE HALL.
And Ella had no natural love of duty. Perhaps it may bt
said that we none of us have. Yet, surely, this is not so.
There is an innate taste for duty, which goes with the love of
order and regularity, and the spirit of perseverance. Some
persons like to continue any habits they have commenced;
they like to keep to rules; they are very particular about
punctuality and neatness; all these things are the germs of
duty. When softened by unselfishness and warm feelings,
they will form a very superior character. But Ella's mind and
Ella's theories — and she very early began to form theories —
were all based upon two principles, inclination and affection.
If they happened to correspond with duty, it was so much the
better; if they did not — she really could not do what she felt
no interest in doing, she could not work for people who were
indifferent to her.
Mrs. Campbell, with the singular weakness which makes
the most rigid of parents spoil their grandchildren, had early
given way to this argument. Ella did so much when work
was her choice, that she was allowed to do little or nothing
when it was not; whilst Bertha, following the severe reason-
ing in which she had herself been trained, looked with nearly
equal regret upon Ella's doings or not doings, because she said
that work performed merely from choice, was as little valuable
in a moral point of view as idleness.
Ella's had been a trying, fretting, uncongenial life, and she
thought herself a martyr. She was by nature intensely proud,
and the moment any accusation was brought against herself,
she tried that ready weapon of self-defence, retaliation. If
Bertha complained of Ella's being indolent and unpractical,
Ella complained of Bertha's being cold and harsh. If the
one forgot from indolence, the other forgot from over occupa-
tion. If the one was unpunctual because she would not make
an effort to be the reverse, the other was so because she Avas
at every one's call for some act of self-denying kindness, and
therefore could not reckon her time her own.
There is nothing so blinding as this spirit of retaliation,
this pride which makes us always take the offensive when
called to stand upon the defensive. It was the greatest pos-
sible effort for Ella to confess herself in the wrong. If she
ever did, it was not at the moment of accusation, when ac-
knowledgment would have been gracious and humble; but on
some after occasion, when other circumstances had softened
CLEVE HALL. 53
her feelings, and made it a matter of certainty that the affaii
would be passed over lightly.
And so Ella Vivian knew nothing of herself, and very little
of others, and lived in a world of self-indulgence and self-reli-
ance, all the more dangerous, because her talents made it easy
to her to be agreeable, and her freedom from many of the more
open and grave faults of her age made it almost impossible to
convince her that she was not as good or even better than
others.
Mrs. Campbell had been at Encombe three months : before
that time they had lived at a small country town in the north.
No exact reason was given for the change, except that the
country was beautiful, and the sea air invigorating, and the
village in the neighborhood of Cleve Hall. To be near their
grandfather seemed to Ella cpiite a sufficient cause for the
migration, and she had conjured up many visions of grandeur
and enjoyment both for herself and Clement, which were all,
however, dispersed on their arrival. Cleve Hall was less open
to them than any other house in the village. General Vivian
was less known to them than any other person. Even Aunt
Mildred, the gentle, cheerful, loving Aunt Mildred, whose
smile was fascination, and her voice like the echo of the softest
music, was as a person tabooed. They rarely saw her; when
they did, their visits were short and unsatisfactory. She evi-
dently wished to keep them with her, but she never did. She
wished to make them at home with her, but the mysteiy
which enveloped everything at Cleve mutually repelled them.
They spoke of their father, and the subject was diverted.
They expressed a desire to see something in a distant part of
the house, and an excuse was at hand. They asked to run in
the garden, and the timepiece was consulted to know whether
it would be the hour for Grandpapa to be there also. And if,
by any chance, they met the General, the first impulse of
everj- grown-up person who accompanied them seemed to be
to avoid him.
Of course Ella asked the meaning of all this. At sixteen,
with a most determined will, and a keen curiosity, who would
not have done so? And very unsatisfactory were the answers
which she received. Mrs. Campbell generally began at once
tn remark upon General Vivian's unbending character; whilst
Bertha, dreading to give confidence where she felt none, used
g( aerally to stop her by the observation, " You will know all
nbout it. my dear, in time."
• r 'l CLEVB HALL.
But Ella fell that she did not know all about it, and thai
she was no! likely to do so. I Ier father ought to lie the heir
of Cleve; and Clement was his only son. She had heard of
some disagreement with her grandfather, and she knew that
her father had lived for many years in the West Indies in
sequence ; but it seemed very hard that the punishment
should also fall upon the children. Bertha told her that her
father was a poor man, and certainly from some cause or other,
Ella saw they were all poor. But Genera] Vivian had houses,
and lands, and carriages, and servants, and all the luxuries of
life at command. A very small sacrifice on his part would
have made them comparatively affluent. Why wa-j it not
asked for ? Ella chafed under her privations. She felt there
must be injustice somewhere, and she could not resign her-
self to it, and when tormented by her own ill-regulated mind,
she shared her anger with her twin brother Clement.
And Clement was a willing recipient of all her complaints.
Proud and self-indulgent, like Ella, he could not endure to
remain in a position which he believed beneath him. But for
the influence of his cousin, Ronald Vivian, he might, like her,
have spent his time in day-dreams of grandeur; but Ronald
was fiery and impetuous, and full of the spirit of adventure ;
and Clement, feeling the power of his strong will, and admir-
ing the noble points of his character, followed him whenever
and wherever he was able, and fancied that in partaking his
pursuits be was escaping from boyhood to manhood, and there-
fore at liberty to be his own master.
Such was the state of affairs at Encombe Lodge ; most
unfortunate for all, most especially trying to Bertha Campbell.
Ella was only sixteen, whilst Bertha was two-and-thirty.
Respect, therefore, was due from the one to the other, if it
were only from difference of age. Yet Bertha had great
difficulty in exacting it; partly owing to the fact that when
the children first came to live with them, Mrs. Campbell took
the sole charge upon herself, and spoilt them by over indul-
gence, whilst she was always blaming Bertha; and partly
owing to Bertha's own defect of manner and Ella's superiority
of intellect, which made her at sixteen almost a woman. Now'-,
whenever there was a difference between them, Mrs. Campbell
was appealed to, and invariably took Ella's part; and thus the
breach was widened. The ill feeling extended itself to Cle-
ment, who always approved Ella's decisions, and never could
bear Aunt Bertha's cold way of reminding him of what he
CLEVE HALL. 55
h.;cl to do. It was better with the little ones. Louisa liked
Aunt Bertha because she was always the same. She suffered
so much from Ella's moods, that it was a perfect luxury to turn
to some one who was certain to give her a patient hearing, and
never found fault unless there was really a cause. She did
not love her. Aunt Bertha was not attractive to children;
she was so slow and methodical, and so little understood how
to enter into their amusements; but Louisa respected and
obeyed her, and made Fanny do the same. It would have
been a great comfort to the children if they had been allowed
always to do their lessons with Bertha ; but it was one of
Ella's few dreams of usefulness, consequent upon rather a
long fit of illness, that she would educate her younger sisters ;
and in the days of convalescence she wrote two chapters of a
work on education, and formed a plan for a new grammar,
which was to make German as easy to learn as French or
Italian ; and when pronounced to be quite well, how could she
think herself otherwise than competent to undertake any
educational task, however important !
Ella had imbibed too many high principles not to have great
notions of goodness, and she was too clever not to put them
into some tangible form ; but she never liked trying virtues
upon herself; she preferred rather seeing how they suited
others. Her theories for Louisa and Fanny were perfectly
admirable ; she talked of nothing but education for a whole
month, especially to her grandmamma, who was entirely con-
vinced by her, and believed that she was fully as competent to
the work as Bertha, if not more so. The plan had been tried
now for three months, — ever since they came to Encombe.
Bertha resigned herself to it, for the simple reason that there
was nothing else to be done; and when she found that Ella's
want of steadiness and perseverance was a stumbling-block in
the way of the children's improvement, she quietly undertook
all that was left undone, and so, without intending it, increased
Ella's self-deception.
Certainly, if there was a martyr in the family, it was Bertha.
The trials which she had endured in her comparatively short
life might have crushed a less brave and enduring spirit to the
dust. Little, indeed, did Ella think, when she laughed at, and
■<], and disobeyed her quiet, cold-mannered, impassive aunt,
chat thought for her, care for her interests, anxiety for her
future prospects, had robbed Bertha's cheek of its bloom, and
caused the dark lines of anxiety to shade her forehead. Per-
50 CLEVE HALL.
haps it might have been better for her if she had known it;
better if the veil which was cast over the history of her family
had been thrown aside, aud she had seen herself the helpless,
poverty-stricken child of a disinherited man, indebted for every
comfort which she enjoyed to the self-denying exertions of one
whose daily life was rendered miserable by her thoughtless
Hgence.
-•••-
CHAPTER IX.
•' i UNT BERTHA, we may put on our old things, and go
J\_ to the shore, mayn't we ?" Louisa's voice was heard
from the top of the stairs. She had been trying to persuade
Fanny that it would be better to wear an old bonnet; and
Fanny was not inclined to agree, because she looked much
prettier in a new one.
" Yes, to the shore; I shall be ready in five minutes;" and
Louisa retired triumphant. Louisa was in time herself, and
contrived that Fanny should be the- same; a circumstance to
which she did not fail to draw Bertha's attention, and received
as an answer, that punctuality was a good thing, but humility
was a better. They set off across the garden to the Rectory,
as they were to call for Rachel on their way.
" I dare say Clement will be on the shore," said Fanny;
" he said he shordd go there after he had done with Mr.
Lester."
Bertha looked grave.
" Is there any reason why Clement should not go?" asked
the quick-eyed Louisa.
" None, if he does what he ought to do," was the cautious
reply.
" Old Mrs. Clarke, the sexton's mother, says he gets about
amongst all kinds of people," said Fanny, " when he goes to
the shore."
" When did old Mrs. Clarke talk to you upon such sub-
jects?" inquired Bertha.
" Oh ! the other day," replied Louisa, "when we went to
fcee her with Ella. She says," she added, drawing up her
head, " that it is not fit for the heir of such a place as Cleve
CLEVE HALL. 57
Hall to be spending his time amongst smugglers and low
people."
"It is not fit for any one who wishes to be a gentleman,"
said Bertha, rather sternly; "but remember, children, you are
not to talk to Mrs. Clarke or to any one in that way."
" We can't help it," said Fanny ; " she talks to us."
Bertha's conscience a little reproached her. Perhaps, after
all, she was wrong in not giving Ella more confidence. She
might learn to be discreet if she were trusted. But Bertha
had never received confidence, and it was not easy to learn to
p;ive it. She walked on very silently and thoughtfully ; and
the children, finding she did not enter into what they said, ran
along the path together.
They came in front of the Rectory, and passed the library
window. Louisa, of course, looked in ; her curiosity was in-
satiable. " Aunt Bertha," — and she drew near her aunt, —
" there was a stranger with Mr. Lester, I am sure."
"Perhaps so, my dear;" and Bertha only moved on the
faster.
" But who could it be ?" continued Louisa.
" It must be one of the shipwrecked people," said Fanny ;
" perhaps it was the captain of the vessel."
"He looked rather like a sailor," observed Louisa; "do
you think it was the captain, Aunt Bertha ?"
" My love, how can I tell ? and what does it signify ?"
" But if it was the captain, I should like to hear all he nas
to say, and how it all happened," said Fanny; " I dare say he
would tell us ; and we might make a story out of it. Do you
know, Aunt Bertha, we began making out a story yesterday,
only Ella said it was nonsense."
"I'll tell you who it was," said Louisa, with the air of one
who has deeply consid ?red a subject; "it's that Mr. Bruce
whom Ronald saved."
" What do you know about Mr. Bruce?" inquired Bertha.
"Oh! the dairy-woman from the farm told Betsey about
him, and she told inc. He is not very well, and perhaps he
may stay at the farm, and perhaps he may be at the Inn at
Cleve."
"Then it is not likely he should be here," said Bertha.
'• He may be going to Cleve by-and-by," said Louisa; " I
am sure it is Mr. Bruce." She nodded her head with an air
A hich admitted do open dissent from her opinion.
58 CLEVE HALL.
"Well; wc need not trouble ourselves about it; we are
not likely tosee him/' said Bertha; "and here is Rachel."
"And Mrs. Robinson with her/' whispered Fanny; whilst
Louisa pronounced decidedly, "I don't like Mrs. Robinson."
Rachel ran up to them. Mrs. Robinson came slowly be-
hind. She was a very different person under different circum-
stances and to different people. Now she was not so much
reserved as very stiff. She made a respectful curtsey to Ber-
tha, and would have passed on, but Rachel would not let her
go. " Granny, dear, you must wait, and tell Miss Campbell
and the others all about it; they will like to hear so much.
Wouldn't you like to hear all about the shipwrecked people
who were taken in at the farm?" she added, addressing
Bertha.
" We won't trouble Mrs. Robinson if she is in a hurry,"
replied Bertha, civilly, but rather formally : "you must tell
us yourself, Rachel."
"But I can't. Granny tells stories so much better than I
do, and I can't remember it all. There were five Americans,
and a Frenchman, and a German, weren't there? And they
slept — where did they sleep ? Oh ! Granny, you must tell all
about it."
" Not now, Miss Rachel ; another time, my dear."
" But tell her just about Ronald. Miss Campbell likes to
hear about him always."
"The young gentleman was off to the ship by daylight,"
said Mrs. Robinson, speaking very slowly, " helping to get the
goods on shore ; for there are some left on board, though the
ship is likely, they say, to go to pieces. But that's like him,
Ma'am, as you know."
"And Mr. Bruce wanted to see him and thank him,"
added Rachel; "but Ronald is so strange he won't go near
him."
" And it's Mr. Brace who is in the library with your Papa,
Rachel; isn't it?" inquired Louisa.
Mrs. Robinson answered for her, rather quickly, " Yes,
Miss Louisa, it is Mr. Bruce. He is going into Cleve this
afternoon, to look about him. I think, Ma'am, if you are
thinking of the shore you had best make haste, if you will
excuse my saying so ; the tide will be on the turn soon." She
moved away.
"There now," and Louisa clapped her hands ; "didn't 1
CLEVE HALL. 59
say it was Mr. Brace? I am always right. What is he like,
llachel V
" Oh ! I don't know. I only saw him for a moment. He
came into the room with Papa, and said how d'ye do ; but of
course I didn't stare at him."
" I shoidd have stared, though," whispered Louisa. I
thinks he looks very like a sailor."
" I wish I could have asked him how he felt when he
believed he was going to be drowned," said Rachel, very
thoughtfully. " Papa told me once, that some people, when
they have been nearly drowned, have had all their lives come
back to them, — all they have done."
She stopped suddenly, as if trying to realize the idea.
Bertha lingered also.
"Do you think it is so ? Do you think it is possible ?" said
Rachel.
"Quite possible, dear Rachel."
" But do you think it is so ?"
" Yes, if people say it."
" And do they look like other people, and come back and
live amongst them, as they did before ?"
" They look like others, — one may bope they don't live
quite like them."
" Then, Miss Campbell," and Rachel clung closely to
Bertha's side, and her voice was full of awe, " I wish that
God would let me be nearly drowned."
Bertha half started.
" It isn't wicked, is it ?" continued Rachel, anxiously, as
she watched the expression of Bertha's countenance. " But
1 would bear anything, yes, anything in all the world, to be
very, wonderfully good. Wouldn't you V In her enthusiasm
she caught Bertha's hand, and held it as they walked on
together.
" Yes indeed, Rachel ;" and Bertha's cold, calm eyes
sparkled with a lightning flash of animation.
"Wonderfully good," continued Rachel; "not a little
good, but, oh !" and she drew a long breath, "so very, very, —
beyond all thought. Will God make us so, if we wish it?"
Bertha hesitated. " We may hope He will, if we can bear
the means."
There was a pause; and then Bertha heard, almost in a
whisper, the words, " I would try."
Rachel seemed considering something deeply ; and after a
GO CLEVB HALL.
few seconds, resuming her natural tone, said: "Is there any
harm iu thinking about it a great deal, and liking it, in a
way?"
" What do you mean, Rachel ?"
"I can't exactly explain j hut don't you know how Ella
likes to read about knights, and tournaments, and persons
being brave and generous, — what one reads in Fruissart, and
those books ?"
"Yes; well:" and Bertha turned to her with an air of
mingled wonder and interest.
" Then, when Ella reads about such things, and gets into
a way about them, I never feel as she does ; but I do feel it
when I read about martyrs, and people who have been so
good ; and it makes my heart beat fast, and my head seems
almost dizzy, as if I could do anything to be like them. Is
it wrong ?"
"Of course not, clear Rachel; you can't help it."
" Rut do you ever feel it ?"
The answer was low and doubtful : "I hope I do."
" I don't think all people do," continued Rachel; "and it
puzzles me, and sometimes I think that, perhaps, it is being
proud and presumptuous to long to be first in anything."
" We can only be first by being last in those things," said
Bertha.
" No ; and perhaps I am not willing to be last : and yet it
seems "she hesitated, and added: "Aunt Mildred says
she should not wish for the glory, if she might only have the
love."
Bertha's eyes glistened.
" Aunt Mildred would be so glad if she could have you to
talk to as I have," continued Rachel, eagerly.
"Aunt Mildred doesn't know anything about me," replied
Bertha ; whilst her manner became in a moment constrained.
"I talk to her about you," said Rachel, "and she very
often says she should like to see you. Will you go with me to
the Hall, some day ?"
"Aunt Mildred is very kind, and talks about things which
interest you, Rachel," replied Rertha; "but I don't believe
she would really like to see me."
" Not if she says it?" exclaimed Rachel. "Oh, Miss
Campbell ! then she would say what was not true."
" She would like to see me for your sake," replied Bertha,
CLEVE HALL. 61
in the same tone of cold reserve ; " she would not wish it for
her own."
The conversation dropped. When Bertha assumed this
peciiliar manner she was impenetrahle.
llachel was chilled, yet she was very fond of Bertha Camp-
hell ; she had an intuitive appreciation of her excellence, — a
conviction that upon the points nearest her own heart she
might obtain sympathy from her. Might! for it was never
certain. Bertha was unable to bring out her own feelings;
perhaps even she was uncertain that she had them, and often
she expressed wonder when Rachel expected sympathy. Yet
Bachel's simple, true devotion, and her open-hearted warmth
of affection, often touched a chord in Bertha's heart which
seemed to unlock a new source of untold pleasure. Love in
religion was very new to her. She had been educated with a
dread of expressing strong feeling of any kind ; and had
kuown fatal results from the indulgence of what she had been
taught to call enthusiasm; and so she always suspected that
evil must lurk under it.
Yet she could not warn Rachel, still less in any way reprove
her. Even when unable to comprehend her, she could see
that Rachel possessed something which was wanting in herself,
and which would make her life much happier. Perhaps the
charm was all the greater because it seemed beyond her reach.
She felt as though Rachel belonged to a different race, and as
if by being with her a vent was opened for the latent poetry
of feeling which, unknown to herself, was unquestionably a
part of her own character.
The} 7 reached the shore : the wind had gone down rapidly
since the morning, and now the sea was as calm as if the
wrathful tempest had never passed ovar it. The hulk of the
dismantled vessel, however, bore witness to its fatal work, and
the shore was covered with persons groping about in the hope
of picking up something that might be worth carrying away.
Bertha bad forgotten this possibility, and when she saw the
numbers assembled her first impulse was to go back. Louisa
strongly opposed the idea, and Fanny nearly cried with disap-
pointment.
"You know, Aunt Bertha," said Louisa, "that if we go
back we shall have had no walk at all to speak of, and Grand-
mamma wishes "
"I am the best judge of Grandmamma's wishes, Louisa:
62 CLEVE HALL.
there are too many people here, a great deal. I can't possiblj
let you go amongsl them."
Rachel gazed wistfully on fclie vessel. "The tide is so fai
out that we could have gone quite close to it," she said.
" How unfortunate I"
" And it will be all to pieces in a day or two," observed
Louisa. " Goff says there isn't a chance for it."
"Goff, my dear Louisa! how do you know anything of
what he thinks V
" Oh ! because a man came to the back door when Fanny
and I were in Jhe garden this morning, and we heard hiui
talking to Betsey, and telling what the people in the village
said."
"Always listening," was Bertha's comment: to which
Louisa replied, with a blush, that she could not help hearing
what was said quite close to her ; adding, however, directly
afterwards, " That is, I think I might have got out of the way
if 1 had wished it."
" I should like Ronald to be here to tell us where the rock
was that Mr. Bruce was clinging to," said Rachel, as they
stood upon the summit of the cliff and looked down.
Bertha had appeared uninterested before, but she woke up
at the observation. " It was the farthest of those great rocks
you see out towards the point," she said.
" Oh ! the Lion, and the Bear, and the Fox, we always call
them," exclamed Fanny. " It must have been the Lion, for
that has the most sea-weed growing upon it."
" Yes, the Lion's Mane, as Ella calls it," observed Louisa.
" She said one day she meant to write some verses about it. I
dare say she will, now there has been such an adventure."
" And Ronald will be the hero !" exclaimed Fanny, clap-
ping her hands. " Won't it be fun, Rachel V
Rachel did not answer directly.
" Shouldn't you like Ella to write something about it ?"
again inquired Fanny.
" I don't quite know; I don't think I should like Ronald
to be written about, at least not in that way."
" Rachel, how absurd !" exclaimed Louisa. "Why not ?"
Bertha listened attentively to the reply.
" I can't exactly say; it is something I feel, but Miss Camp-
bell will know ;" and Rachel turned to Bertha, feeling at once
that she was speaking to some one who would understand with-
CLEVE HALL. G3
Dufc words. " If Ella could write just what Ronald felt, I
shouldn't care," she continued. "But then how could she V
" She might imagine it," said Louisa.
" But if it were imagination, it wouldn't be true."
" And it must be some one different from Ella to under-
stand Ronald truly," said Bertha, in a low voice.
" Thank you, thank you; that was just what I meant, only
I couldn't explain."
Louisa and Fanny moved away, not caring for the explana-
tion. Rachel held Bertha's hand, and drew her nearer to the
edge of the cliff. Her eyes were riveted on the rock, and a
long time elapsed before she spoke. At last, without any pre-
face, she said, " Miss Campbell, is Ronald good V
Silence was her answer; and when she looked round, a tear
was rolling down Bertha's cheek. Rachel asked no more
questions, but followed Louisa and Fanny; and Bertha was
left alone.
The children seated themselves on a bench placed on the
top of the cliff. Louisa and Fanny were sufficiently amused
by watching what was going on below; and even Rachel,
though she occasionally glanced at the spot where Bertha was
standing, soon entered into their interest, and laughed more
merrily than either.
" A beautiful evening, young ladies," said a voice behind
them. Rachel started, and involuntarily stood up to move
away, when she saw Captain Vivian.
" Come down to see the fun, I suppose V he continued.
" Yes, thank you, I think, — Louisa, had we not better go
to your Aunt 1"
" Oh ! never mind me ; don't let me interrupt you. How
d'ye do, Miss Campbell V and Captain Vivian held out his
hand to Bertha, who at that moment came up. Bertha greeted
him formally, and a sign to the children told them they were
to go on ; and with an instinctive terror of Captain Vivian,
they ran till they were quite beyond the reach of his voice.
"It's a long time since we met to talk, Miss Campbell.
I've been away a good deal till lately. But you are looking as
if the sea air agreed with you."
He evidently meant to be courteous; and though Bertha
was so pale as to belie the compliment which had been paid
her, she showed no wish to shun the interview.
"I scarcely expected to find you at Enoombe, when we
same here, Captain Vivian," she said.
G4 CLEVE HALL.
"You thought I should keep farther from the General's
quarters. Well, perhaps it mighl be just as well if I did; but
there's something in the sight of old ocean after all which
tempts a mail, when he's been used to it; and the Grange was
empty, and so Ronald and I have e'en taken up our quarters
there/'
" Ronald is as fond of the sea as yourself," remarked
Bertha.
" Perhaps he may he, hut he's a strange fellow is Ronald ;
one never knows what he will be at."
"His taste for the sea was a taste from infancy," said
Bertha. " I remember "
He interrupted her quickly: "Yes, yes. You are right;
he always had a taste for it; but he's too old."
" For the naval service ? yes," replied Bertha, timidly.
" For any service, unless I choose it;" and in an instant
an angry flush overspread Captain Vivian's face, whilst he
muttered to himself, "Am I never to be left alone ?"
Bertha stood her ground. " We have not met for so long,
Captain Vivian," she said, "that you must forgive me if I
touch upon unwelcome subjects."
" I don't know what long acquaintance it requires to learn
that interference must always be unwelcome," he replied.
" But you are one of Mr. Lester's apt scholars, Miss Bertha."
" My interference, if you call it such," replied Bertha,
" dates long before my acquaintance with Mr. Lester."
" Then it is the old story," he exclaimed. " I should have
thought that years might have taught you wisdom."
"1 trust they have in some measure," replied Bertha;
"but they have not taught me that there is either wisdom or
goodness in looking with indifference upon the child of "
He interrupted her, and his manner changed into patroniz-
ing indifference.
" We won't quarrel, Miss Bertha ; we have had enough of
that in our day. Since we are neighbors, we may as well be
friendly when we meet."
"Quite as well," said Bertha; "if we are to meet at all."
He seemed a little piqued, and answered hastily, " Oh !
then you had thought of cutting me, had you? The way of
the world ; off with old friends, and on with new."
" I could not have supposed that you would look upon me
as a friend," replied Bertha. "It was scarcely the light in
which I was regarded in former times."
CLEVE HALL. 6
r
Hg bit his lip. "I didn't mean., — of course, I never sup-
posed you would bear malice."
"I have nothing to bear malice for, Captain Vivian," re-
plied Bertha ; " I was not the person to suffer." And there
was a stress upon the pronoun which made the coarse, rough
man, whom she addressed, shrink as with the touch of some
sudden pain.
" I don't know why you are so fond of going back to those
old times," he said. " Why can't we meet, and forget them V
" Because," replied Bertha, boldly, " they are the only
grounds upon which our acquaintance can possibly rest. You
must be fully aware, Captain Vivian, that if we were now, for
the first time, living in the same village, we could never be
anything to each other but strangers."
" Too proud !" he exclaimed, in a tone which yet had very
little pride in it. " Aiming at the Hall, I suppose ?"
" Aiming at nothing, I hope," replied Bertha, as she fixed
her eyes upon him, till his sank beneath their gaze ; " but the
man who has brought exile, and disgrace, and poverty into a
family, can little expect to be received as a friend."
His face became deadly pale : twice he tried to speak, and
twice the words seemed kept back by some violent inward
agitation.
" I know more than I once did, you see," continued Bertha.
"Ay! from that meddling, false-hearted " he was
going to add a string of violent epithets to Mr. Lester's name,
but Bertha prevented him. Her cold, quiet, womanly dignity
seemed to have a strange power over him.
" Mr. Lester is my friend," she said. " If he can be men-
tioned in terms of respect, well; if not, this is the first and
last time, Captain Vivian, that I will hear his name from your
lips."
" And what has he been telling you, then '("
The question was put anxiously, and with a certain tone of
deference.
" It must be only painful, and quite unnecessary, for me
to repeat what you already know so well," replied Bertha.
" It is sufficient, that after having assisted to ruin the pros-
pects of the father, you yet have it in your power to show
repentance by your conduct to the son. Edward Vivian's fate
Would have been very different from what it is but for your
influence. Clement may be restored to all that his father has
lost, if only you will not stand in his way."
6G CLEVE II ALL.
"I stand in his way!" and the laugh which accompanied
the words made Bertha shrink. "Why, one would think 1
was the "1,1 ( reneral's ally, likely to corneover him with smooth
words. How can I stand in the buy's way?"
"Ton arc the General's enemy," replied Bertha.
" And if I am, what's that to any one but myself?"
"It may he very much to Clement, it' his grandfather
thinks that he is your friend," replied Bertha.
''Tut, tut!" he exclaimed, impatiently ; "this is all idle
talking, Miss Bertha. The boy's a fine fellow enough, and
likes free air and sea breezes; and Ronald has taken to him —
and whore's the harm?"
^ " Merely," replied Bertha, coldly, " that Ronald's friend-
ship is a sin in General Vivian's eyes."
" But if it is no sin in reality, since you will harp upon the
old question of conscience ?"
" It must be sin to Clement," replied Bertha, "when it is
against the wishes of all his friends."
" What is that to me ? let his friends take care of him."
" His friends have very little power, as I suspect you know
full well by this time, Captain Vivian," replied Bertha. " My
nmt her is too infirm, and has indulged him too much for years.
Mr. Lester is most kind, but he has only authority over his
lessons. Clement is left, most unhappily, to himself; and his
whole success in life depends upon the favor of his grandfather.
Is it a very hard thing to ask that you should notdnterfere to
mar his prospects ?"
" I have told you before," he exclaimed, " that there is no
interference on my part. It is Ronald's doing, if there is any-
thing of the kind; but I don't see it : they are together every
now and then."
" And not alone," continued Bertha ; " Ronald's compa-
nions become Clement's also — Goff, for instance."
" Pshaw ! if you are as squeamish as that, you must needs
shut your boy up in a glass case. But I'll say one thing to
you, Miss Bertha; you have shown me a bit of your mind,
you mast needs let me show you a bit of mine. Fair play's
a jewel. Don't you interfere with my game, if you want me
not to interfere with yours. Remember my boy is not to be
preached over into a milksop, and his head filled with fancies
of merchant service, and all that nonsense. Ronald will be
what. I choose to make him ; and I give you warning, that if
CLEVE HALL. 67
there's any attempt to turn him another way, I'll be your
match."
Bertha changed color, but the determined lines of her
mouth became more marked, as she said, " Captain Vivian, you
may threaten, but you will not frighten me ; the promise which
I made to Marian on her death-bed will be kept, God helping
me, before all others."
A storm of fearful passion was visible in Captain Vivian's
dark countenance, but Bertha regarded him with perfect calm-
ness; and as again her searching gaze rested on him, the ex-
clamation which was about to escape his lips was checked, and
muttering between his teeth, " Do your will, and take the con-
sequences/' he turned from her without another word.
-c<~
CHAPTER X.
THREE days had passed since the storm. The weather
had become very warm ; it would have been oppressive
but for the soft air, just sufficient to stir the foliage of the trees
before the windows of Mildred Vivian's apartment. The
flower-beds, disordered by the rush of the tempest, were again
restored to their usual appearance of trim neatness ; the lawn
was newly mown, and Mildred, lying on her sofa by the open
window, appeared to be thoroughly enjoying the luxurious
repose of the morning.
Yes, thoroughly enjoying it; no one could have doubted
that, notwithstanding the thin, drawn look of her features,
their habitual expression of bodily pain. She was reading, or
perhaps, more strictly speaking, intending to read ; for although
a book lay open before her, her eyes wandered chiefly amongst
the flowers, or pursued the course of the buzzing insects and
fluttering birds, following them as they rose in the air, and
resting with an expression of longing thankfulness xipou the
depth of the blue heavens. Such extreme quietness as there
was in that secluded garden at Cleve Hall might have been
very trying to many, even on a brilliant summer's day; but it
was part of Mildred's home, associated with all that she had
ever loved; and where others would have dwelt mournfully on
68 CLEVE HALL.
past joys, she had taught herself to be happy, and to seize on
present blessings.
A little door, leading into the more public part of the
grounds, opened, and a tall, gray-haired man, who had certainly
reached, and probably passed, the age of seventy, entered the
garden. He walked proudly, and with tolerable firmness, and
the Stick which he carried was no support to him; his head
was raised, his chin slightly elevated — perhaps that added to
the self-possessed, self-dependent look, which was the first
impression conveyed by his handsome features. For he was
strikingly handsome — the forehead high, the nose just suffi-
ciently aquiline for dignity, the dark blue eyes quick and
piercing, the mouth — the real character was inscribed there ;
but we will leave it for words to tell.
He sat down by Mildred's sofa, slowly — he had been suf-
fering from rheumatism — and he bit his lips as if in pain ; but
Mildred did not ask him how he was, but waited for him to
break the silence.
" I have been round the park, Mildred; the storm has done
a good deal of mischief."
" Has it indeed, Sir ? I thought there were no trees blown
down."
" Who told you that?" he asked quickly.
" I forget, sir, who; but I understood it."
"Then they deceived you, Mildred; purposely, perhaps,"
he added in an under-tone. " The Great Black Oak, of live
hundred years' standing, is down, child. But what does it
matter?" He tried to laugh. "It only follows the family
fortunes."
" I hoped it was to be the type of their remaining firm,"
said Mildred, assuming a lighter tone ; " but it is best not to
think about such things."
"Do you never think about them, then?" he continued,
regarding her with an expression of tenderness, which was av
variance with the accent of his voice.
" Sometimes I do, dear Sir; but I don't think it is wise."
" No, child ; no, it is not at all wise : but I thought I would
tell you myself, lest you should fret."
" It was very kind," replied Mildred, in an absent tone;
then breaking suddenly into another subject, she asked, "Did
you go beyond the park, Sir ?"
"No; I meant to go; but my back was stiff, so I turned
back j— Prince was troublesome, too."
CLEVE nALL. 69
"Prince has not exercise enough, Sir; I wish you would
let Groves take him out regularly."
" And throw him down ; that won't do, Mildred. No, if
Prince grows too strong for his master, he must seek another."
" I hope not, Sir; you wouldn't hear to part with him."
" Would I not V A smile of resolution almost forbidding
crossed his face; "then, Mildred, you know nothing about
me."
" I don't mean that you would not do anything, or part with
anything, that you considered right, Sir," began Mildred.
He caught up her words — " Considered right, that is what
you always say ; is right — it ought to be."
Mildred was silent.
" Is right," he continued, speaking his own tkougifcs rather
than addressing her; "I set off in life with that motto, and I
have followed it. Who can have done so more ? who can have
sacrificed more ? — eh ! Mildred ?"
"Certainly, Sir; no one can doubt your principle," replied
Mildred, keeping her eyes upon the work which she had taken
up since her father entered.
" Only it is a principle you don't agree with. What
woman ever did V
" Women's feelings carry them away, so it is said," replied
Mildred with a smile. " But, my dear father, why should we
go over the old ground ?"
" Well ! as you say, why should we ?" and he sighed deeply.
Mildred laid her thin, white ha-nd upon the scanty gray
hairs which covered his head, and as she fondly smoothed
them, said, "If I could make you listen to my principle in-
stead of to your own, I should ask such a great favor." lie
would not turn to look at her, but he suffered her to kiss his
forehead ; and she added, in a tone so low that it was almost
a whisper, " Would it vex you very much if Ella were to
come and see me V
Very striking it was, the change which passed over his
face. Its expression had been gentle and sad the moment
before, gentle notwithstanding the unyielding determination
which was described by the lines of his mouth, and which
broke forth in the tones of his voice; but even as Mildred
spoke, it was gone, conquered, as it would have seemed, by
some sudden mental suffering which he could not control, yet
against which he struggled with all the intensity of an un-
liable will.
70 CLEVE BALL.
Mildred must have known the effect her words would have,
yet she seemed neither to watch nor wait, nor bo anxious for
his reply. She took up her work, and tried to thread her
needle, but her hand was unsteady; the cotton rolled upon
the floor, and she bent over the side of the sofa to pick it up.
lie saw her movement, and stooped too, but it was an effort;
and as he raised himself again, he said bitterly,
" Your father is an old man, Mildred. Wait but a little
while, and you may do as you wish without asking."
" It will be too late to have any wish then, Sir," said Mil-
dred quietly.
He leaned back in the arm-chair, resting his hand upon
the stick which he laid across it. His tone was still con-
strained as he said, "How long have you had this new
fancy ?"
" It is a very old one, dear Sir," replied Mildred : " I can
never see the children by going to them."
"And their grandmother knew that; crafty old woman
that she is I"
"But the children, Sir," said Mildred, humbly; "must
they suffer 1"
" I'll tell you what, Mildred" — General Vivian rose from
his chair with an energy which for the moment conquered the
infirmities of age — "there is no more cunning, designing old
fox in England than that woman; hut I'll outwit her."
" We don't like her, certainly, Sir, either of us," said Mil-
dred ; " but then so much the more reason, perhaps, for tak-
ing the children from her : don't you think so ?"
" And so give her cause to triumph over us ! What made
her bring them here but the determination to thrust them
upon me? No, Mildred, let them alone — Campbells and
Vivians — Campbells and Vivians," he repeated, muttering the
words ; "it can't be; it wasn't meant to be."
"But the children are Vivians, dear Sir," said Mildred.'
She was afraid then, for she looked up at him stealthily.
" Yes," he said, pondering upon the words ; and Mildred heard
him add, as he turned away from her, "and so are others."
" Clement is very young," observed Mildred, replying to
his thoughts, rather than his words.
"And therefore the more sure a victim," he exclaimed,
impetuously; the volcano, which had been working secretly,
bursting forth. "Am I blind, Mildred ? Can I not see the
boy's course as plainly as if it were written in letters of fire
CLEVE HALL. Tl
before me ? Aud is all to be sacrificed ; all for which I have
striven in life — the inheritance of my ancestors; the good of
my people; the honorable name, to attain which I have prac-
tised the self-denial of years? But let it go," he continued,
moodily; "since even you, Mildred, cannot value it." He
moved to the window, and stood there,, listening, it might have
seemed, to the note of the wood-pigeon, and the plashing of
the fountain in the garden.
Mildred's hands were clasped together, possibly in suffer-
ing, but more probably in prayer. Hers was not a face to
betray much internal agitation — perhaps she had been too
much accustomed to these scenes to be startled or deeply
pained by them — but something of the hopeful expression
passed from her face as, after the lapse of a few seconds, she
said, very slowly, " I can see the risk, dear Sir; but I can see
the duty of the children also."
" I will do my duty by them," he replied, quickly. " I
will help the boy. Let him go to college : I will support him
there. Let him show that there is yet something left in the
Vivian blood which I need not blush to own, and I may even
do more. And the girls shall not want, Campbells though
they are — Campbells in every look and motion — they shall
have aid too, as and when I see fit. But it shall not be ex-
torted from me, Mildred : it shall be at my own time. They
shall see that nothing has been gained, rather that everything
has been lost, by thrusting them upon me."
" It was a great mistake of Mrs. Campbell, almost wrong
indeed," said Mildred; " but we only give her a just cause
for complaint, so at least it seems to me, by neglecting our own
share of duty to the children."
" I don't acknowledge the duty," he replied, sternly.
Mildred hesitated. " Then, dear Sir, if not from duty to
them, at least from kindness to me. It would be such a
great" — satisfaction she was going to say, but the word was
changed into " pleasure." She looked at him pleadingly, but
iii- head was turned away; he did not or would not hear.
" There is too much draught for you here," he said,
abruptly; "they must move your sofa back." He put his
band out to touch the bell. Mildred stopped him : "Only one
moment, dear Sir; indeed it won't hurt me."
He looked impatient, and his eye wandered to the door,
which was open. A light breeze rushed through the room,
and partially blew aside a given silk curtain which hung at the
2 CLEVE HALL.
lower end. The edge of the curtain was caught by the point
of an old oak chair, ami the picture which it covered was dis-
played to view. It represented three figures: one was Mil-
dred, kneeling against a, garden sent, her arm thrown around
the Deck of a young girl, who was seated with a hunk in her
lap, which both seemed to be studying. They were very
unlike — Mildred's face so thoughtful even in its youthful hap-
piness; her sister's — for it was evident they were sisters, — so
brilliant, intelligent, inquisitive, joyous, and with something
in it of her father's commanding spirit, to which Mildred, as
she clung to her, seemed only too willing to submit. Behind
them stood a boy, apparently some years older, tall, erect,
noble-looking; with an open forehead, the slightly aquiline
nose, and piercing eye which marked him for the son of
General Vivian ; but also with the full lip and self-indulgent
yielding outline of the small mouth, which showed that in
some points, and those perhaps the most essential for success
and honor in life, the father and the child could never be
one.
It was scarcely a glance which General Vivian cast at the
picture ; but it made Mildred's cheek almost livid, whilst she
watched him, as he walked to the end of the room, and deli-
berately replaced the curtain and removed the oak chair, so
that the same thing might not happen a second time, and then
returned to seat himself once more by her side, his counte-
nance perhaps a shade more stern than it was before. Mildred
did not wait for an observation from him. She spoke hur-
riedly, apparently saying what she scarcely intended or wished
to say.
"Ella should be very little in your way, dear Sir."
A pause, and silence — this time not wilful : the old man's
eyes were bent upon the ground, his thoughts perhaps wan-
dering back into far distant years. He did not catch her
words. A do"'s bark was heard.
" It must be Clement," said Mildred, in a timid voice.
General Vivian started.
" Do as you will, child ;" and he stood up to leave her,
just as Clement, rushing through the garden, entered by the
window.
"Clement, don't you see your grandfather?" Mildred
spoke reprovingly, for the boy's first impulse was to rush up to
her sofa; and a smile of displeasure curled General Vivian's
lips as he observed the hasty self- recollect ion, mingled with
CLEVE HALL. 78
fear, which made the blood rise in Clement's cheek, -whilst,
shyly approaching, he muttered an apology. The excuse was
received coldly, and Clement's color deepened, and he looked
at tbe window, wishing evidently to make his escape.
"Reverence to elders is not one of the lessons taught in
modern education," said General Vivian, addressing Mildred,
" so we must not, I suppose, expect too much."
Mildred smiled. " Clement is not generally so forgetful,
my dear father ; but you did not think of finding any one
here except me, Clement, did you ?"
" I thought Mr. Lester might be here," replied Clement, a
little sulkily ; " and I was going to ask him to order me some
fishing-flies in Cleve."
" He is going over there, is he ?" asked Mildred in a tone
of interest.
" Yes, so he said, to see Mr. Bruce."
" Is that the gentleman who was saved in the storm ?"
" Yes, the man whom Ronald saved," said Clement.
There was a quick flash in General Vivian's eye, and he sat
down. Mildred went on : —
" And so you want some fishing-flies, do you, Clement ?"
" Yes, like some that Goff got for Ronald : he means to
show me how to use them."
"Who! Goff?" inquired Mildred, quickly.
" Oh ! no, not he ; Ronald. There used to be famous sport
it the last place he was at, so he's quite up in it. Goff laughs
it that sober kind of work, and says there's no fun like that of
catching fish at night, with lights on a river, which is never
done here."
" That is poacher's work very often," said Mildred.
" I don't know where the right is of preserving fish for
one man more than another," replied Clement. "Goff
says "
Mildred interrupted him, "Why, Clement, one would
think that Goff was your tutor."
Clement laughed. " Well, he is a kind of tutor in some
things; he and Captain Vivian are such knowing fellows; up
to so many things."
"They arc up to teaching you slang," said Mildred. "I
wish they may do nothing worse. What does Mr. Lester say
to their instruction V
•• ( Mi ! he hasn't much to do with it so long as I am in foi
Lours.
74 CLEVE HALL.
Mildred looked at her father, who was leaning hack in tho
arm chair, with his eye fixed upon the carpet.
" Hardman, the gamekeeper, fishes too," she said, timidly,
addressing General Vivian; " he might be a better master than
Ronald. Don't you think so, Sir?"
" Clement chooses his own friends," was the reply.
"Not quite, I think," replied Mildred; "he would not
wish to have any friends whom you might disapprove."
"I don't want to make friends," said Clement ; "I only
want some one to go fishing with, and put me in the way
of it."
" And if Hardman could teach you as well as Ronald, you
would be as well contented to have him," observed Mildred.
Clement looked annoyed, and muttered something about
Hardman being a bore.
"Of course," observed General Vivian, coldly, "it is
Ronald's society which is the point. I have told you so before,"
he added, speaking to Mildred.
"Grandpapa doesn't wish you to make friends with
Ronald," said Mildred.
" I have no one else to be friends with," replied Clement
quickly. He did not intend to be impertinent, but he was
irritated, and his tone was certainly wanting in respect.
Mildred looked very pained. " Oh, Clement !" and Clement
in a moment recovered himself.
"I beg your pardon, Sir, I didn't mean any harm; only
it's dull o-oiuir out alone, and not much better with Hardman."
"And so you choose Mr. Ronald Vivian for a companion.
I warn you once for all, my boy" — and General Vivian leaned
forward, and fixed his eager eye upon his grandson with an
expression of authority beneath which Clement actually
quailed: "There are two roads before you, — one leads to
Heaven, the other — I leave you to guess where ; — if you want
to travel that way, follow Ronald Vivian."
"It's not true," exclaimed Clement, impetuously; but ho
was stopped by Mildred.
"Clement, Clement, remember he is your grandfather;
remember. Dear Sir ! he doesn't mean it."
"Don't be afraid, Mildred, I understand him quite. He
has had my warning, let him attend to it."
General Vivian left the room ; Clement knelt on one knee
by Mildred's sofa.
"Aunt Mildred, why does he speak so? Why does he
CLEVE HALL. TO
hurt me so ? What makes him say such cruel things of
Ronald?"
Mildred put her hand hefore his mouth : " Clement, you
are talking of your grandfather."
He drew hack and stood up proudly : " If he were twenty
times my gi-andfather, what he says of Ronald is false."
Mildred did not speak ; a pink spot, the flush of mental
agitation, burned upon her cheeks.
Clement's tone softened; "Aunt Mildred, you know that
it is false."
" No, Clement" — Mildred's voice was low, and her breath
came with difficulty; "it is true, — for you wilfully to follow
Ronald Vivian would lead you to destruction, for it would be
disobedience."
"But when grandpopa is unjust, unfair — when he doesn't
know Ronald — when he doesn't even speak to him ! Why
Mr. Lester allows that there is the spirit of a hero in Ronald,
if it could but be brought out."
" But you cannot be the person to do it, Clement," said
Mildred, gently.
" I don't see that ; I am more of a gentleman. I can toll
him a good many things which he never knew of, and he often
asks my opinion ;" a gleam of self-gratulation passed over
Clement's" face as he spoke.
Mildred laid her hand upon his : " Dear Clement, at your
age, you have enough to do to keep yourself straight; it is
better not to think of others."
" But Ronald is not what they say," exclaimed Clement,
shrinking from the implied censure ; " if he were "
" That is nothing to the point ; at your age there is only
one course open to you — to, obey:" and as Clement's expres-
sive mouth showed how his spirit rebelled against the word,
Mildred added, " I know it seems very hard to do so without
comprehending why."
" Yes, it is very hard, Aunt Mildred ; and no one will talk
l jO me about things plainly, and I hate mysteries. W'on't you
Cell me what it all means V
.Mildred hesitated for a moment, and then said: "I think
you must know it all. Captain Vivian and your father wen;
friends once; but it would have been better for them if they
had not briii. Captain Vivian led your father to do things
which your grandfather disapproved, and he was very angry,
and, "
70 CLEVE HALL.
<i Disinherited him," said Clement.
"Yes." The word was uttered very abruptly, and Mildred
continued: "Your grandfather is afraid now that Ronald
may have the same influence over you."
" And so he is unjust to him !" exclaimed ('lenient.
MUdrcd smiled, and pointed to a seat. " Clement, may I
give you a lecture?"
Clement sat down half moodily.
" That was just as your father used to look in the old
days," she continued, with a mixture of sadness and playful-
ness. " I used to lecture him sometimes, Clement, though he
was much older than I was."
There was something indescribably winning in her tone,
and Clement's face relaxed. " I hate lectures, Aunt Mildred,"
he said, " and I have such a number."
" From Mr. Lester ?"
"Oh, I don't mind his; but Aunt Bertha is at me from
morning till night, and I can't stand it. It makes me say
sharp things when I don't wish it."
" And then she is vexed, and lectures a little more ?" asked
Mildred.
" Yes, and then I reply, and then she won't speak, and so
we are at daggers drawn. Oh, Aunt Mildred, I wish I had
men to deal with. I can't abide women."
Mildred laughed.
"I can't bear them in that way, — that lecturing way/'
continued Clement; " they do say such a great deal."
" And the young gentlemen do so many things to deserve
the great deal," replied Mildred. " But I can really under-
stand, Clement, that it is trying to be kept under a woman's
control; only — you see I am not going to acquit you quite — I
think it is the old question of obedience, anyhow."
" I could obey as well as any one, if they would only bo
rational," observed Clement.
" That is to say, rational according to your notions," replied
Mildred. "I don't exactly see how you would be obeying
any one but yourself then."
Clement colored a little, and said quickly, " Well, but
that's what every one must do; you wouldn't have one a slave,
without any judgment of one's own."
" Sixteen is rather young to have a judgment," said Mildred,
quietly. " But," she added, observing that Clement looked
CLEVE HALL. 77
blank, " at any rate, having a judgment, and acting upon it,
are different things."
"That is slavery completely/' exclaimed Clement; " to
give up when one knows people are wrong."
" What would the world be like, if it were not done ?" in-
quired Mildred. " How would there be any law or order !"
"Perhaps in public matters it may be necessary/' said
Clement.
" What is good in public matters, must be good in pri-
vate," continued Mildred. " If what is ordered is not con-
trary to the law of God, we are bound to submit to lawful
authority."
" And so I am to be kept under grandmamma's thumb all
my life !" exclaimed Clement, impatiently.
" I don't see why we are to trouble about all your life,"
replied Mildred. " It is easy enough, I think, to see what
your duty is for the present."
11 And what is it?" he asked, rather sulkily.
" Come when you are called ; do as you are bid ;
Shut the door after you, and you'll never be chid,"
said Mildred, lightly.
"And be a baby in leading-strings !" exclaimed Clement.
" And be what God wishes and intends you to be," said
Mildred, very gravely; "that is the real point. If God puts
persons in authority over us, He expects us to obey them."
" But, according to that, no one would be at liberty to go
against the wishes of parents, and such kind of people," said
Clement ; " not if they were ever so old."
" There may be different claims for grown-up people," re-
plied Mildred ; " and they are competent to judge about them.
No law of a parent can take the place of God's law, in the
Bible, or even of the laws of your country."
" Then if people abuse Ronald, and say false things of him,
and tell me to cut him, I may refuse to do it," exclaimed Cle-
ment ; " because they are untrue and unjust, and are going
against the Bible."
Mildred smiled rather sadly. "Oh! Clement, what a
quibble!"
"It's no quibble; it is truth;" he replied, triumphantly,
looking up with a most self-satisfied air.
"I can't argue with you, Clement, in that mood," said
Mildred ; and she took up her work.
78 CLEVE HALL.
"What mood, Aunt Mildred?"
" A mood in which you are trusting to yourself, and think-
Lag how clever you are."
The color rushed to his face, angrily, and he muttered,
" But you can't refute what I said."
" You are not required to cut Ronald, only not to be much
with him," said Mildred. "If you were, there is no moral
law against it."
" Charity, I should have thought," observed Clement
quickly.
"Charity against the fifth commandment," replied Mil-
dred ; and changing her manner she added, more lightly, " but
you are only arguing for the sake of argument, — you agree
with mc, I know, really."
Clement's anger was as quickly gone really, as Mildred's
vexation was apparently; he laughed in reply to her words,
and owned that he did dearly love an argument.
Mildred shook her head. "We shall never agree, there,
Clement ; I can't endure arguing."
"Then you are just exactly unlike Aunt Bertha. She
would argue from morning till night."
" And you try to provoke her into it?"
" There's no occasion to provoke her; she comes into it of
her own accord, and Ella stands by and listens."
" And takes your part ?"
"Of course, she is bound to do that. In fact, Aunt Mil-
dred, it is the only thing to be done at the Lodge, to make
any fun. It is awfully dull work there sometimes."
Clement yawned audibly.
" You should find your way to the Hall oftencr," said Mil-
dred; "only I am afraid it would not be much better than
' awfully dull' here, unless you were to take it into your head
to read to me."
His face brightened. " Read to you ? Should you like it?
I read to Ella a great deal, when we can get alone, but when
Aunt Bertha is there I don't, because she lectures so about
the books."
" Byron and Moore, I suppose ?" said Mildred.
"How do you know that?" he exclaimed.
" Merely because they are just what all boys of your age.
like. But, Clement, Aunt Bertha is quite right about Ella."
" Tei-haps so," he answered, carelessly; "but Aunt Ber-
CLEVE HALL. 79
tlia preaches up Hallaia's Middle Ages, and that I vow I
won't read.''
" You might fiud something between, perhaps," said Mil-
dred, laughing. " Walter Scott, for instance."
" Oh ! Ella knows Walter Scott by heart, and Byron, too,
for that matter. In fact, she knows everything, it's my be-
lief. I never saw such a girl. I can't say what she has not
learnt by heart ; all Childe Harold, and the Corsair, and the
Giaour, and Darkness "
" She should come and say them to me," said Mildred.
" She would be afraid; she would think you thought them
wicked."
"Perhaps I don't think them very good," said Mildred;
" but still I should like to hear her say them."
" That is another thing just precisely different from Aunt
Bertha," said Clement. " She purses up her mouth just so"
• — and he made an absurd face — " if Ella only quotes a few
lines."
" I shall purse up my mouth," said Mildred, " if Ella won't
make me a few promises about her reading. You know, Cle-
ment, you wouldn't bear to see her grow up anything but a
nice, refined person, and she won't be refined, if she is not
particular about her reading; that is really what makes Aunt
Bertha afraid, and what I should be afraid of, too."
" Ella is so clever," said Clement. " Clever people don't
want to be preached to like dunces."
" Perhaps I think they want to be preached to more ; but,
any how, Clement, you wouldn't like Ella not to be quite a
lady."
" Oh, no, of course not; but she can't help herself; she is
born one."
" Yes, she would look like a lady always ; but she need not
be so in mind. And one especial mode in which people grow
to be unladylike and unrefined is by reading everything which
happens to come before them. Young men, and boys, even,
may do a good deal for their sisters in that way, by keeping
things from them; there is a little sermon for you, Clement."
" Ella never attends to me," said Clement ; " she looks
flown upon me. She is quite beyond me in Latin and Greek,
too, for that matter."
" I don't think Latin and Greek have much to do with
persons looking down upon one," said Mildred; "Ella doesn't
look down upon Rachel Lester."
80 CLEVE HALL.
"A. u:t Mildred! how can you tell that?"
" Merely from little things she lias said. Tt is inconsist*
ency which makes people look down upon one."
" And I am very inconsistent," said Clement, lie sighed ;
yet at the very moment he was glancing at Mildred, to see if
she would not contradict his words. " You think me so,
Aunt Mildred?" he continued.
She looked up playfully. "I don't see that I am called
upon to answer. I have only known you a short time."
" I am not so changcahlc as Ella," said Clement ; "she i3
never alike for two hours together."
" You are twins," replied Mildred.
" I always keep to the same likings," continued Clement ; —
" in hooks, that is ; and I have heen trying to fish every day
for a fortnight ; and I have dinned into Mr. Lester's ears ever
since we came here that I hate College, and want to go to sea,
and a heap more things besides. I am sure I don't change
half as much as Ella. Now, do I, Aunt Mildred?"
"I can't say."
" But am 1 inconsistent ? Do you think I am ?"
" You told me just now that you were, very," said Mildred,
quietly.
lie blushed a little, and laughed awkwardly. " "Well, yes ;
but do you think me so ?"
There was a little satire in Mildred's tone, as she said,
" Do you really wish to know ?"
The hesitation in his manner was scarcely perceptible, yet
he did hesitate, and the " Yes," when it passed his lips, was
by no means hearty.
" We will wait till another day," said Mildred.
He was piqued. " I would rather hear now, if you please ;
I don't at all care about knowing what any one thinks of me."
" Because you have such a good opinion of yourself," re-
plied Mildred, in a tone between jest and earnest.
" I don't know that, Aunt Mildred. I don't quite see why
you should say it. Mr. Lester never told me I had a good
opinion of myself."
His tone was pettish, and Mildred became grave.
" We will talk about the inconsistency and conceit another
tune, dear Clement. By-and-by, perhaps, you will find ont
more of yourself than I can tell you; only just now I am
vdraid I must send you away, because I am a little tired; but
CLEVE HALL. 81
you must come again soon and brine Ella, and tell me -filial
success you have had in your fishing."
Still he stood thinking, rather moodily.
" Aunt Mildred, what must I do to give you a cood opinion
of me ?"
" I have a good opinion of you, my dear boy, in many
ways."
" Yes, but in all ways. How can I make you respect me ?"
" A question requiring a long answer, Clement ; but one
thing I should respect you for at once, if you would put aside
your own will, and follow your Grandpapa's, about Ronald."
" Oh, that ! but respect has nothing to do with that."
" More, perhaps, than you think."
" But I can't be kept under, like a baby in long clothes."
"Good b'ye, dear Clement, you must go;" and Mildred
held out her hand to him.
He saw she looked pained. " Well, Aunt Mildred, per-
haps, to oblige you, I might."
" Thank you, dear boy, give me a kiss before you go."
The bright expression was gone from her face, but that was
unnoticed by him ; his thoughts were given to his fishing-rod.
" You would find Hardman, the keeper, at home, if } r ou
were to call for him now, I suspect," said Mildred.
"Yes, thank you; good b'ye!" and he rushed across the
garden, as hastily as he had entered it.
Alas! for Mildred. "Was it not the same character again
which she had in by-gone years so anxiously watched ? — the
spirit of self-conceit, self-justification, rebellion against the
least shadow of censure, the weak pride which could not obey ?
And all with so fair an exterior ! The look, and tone, and
manner of a gentleman ; the refined taste, the appreciation of
excellence, the poetical heroism of day-dreams!
She unfastened a hair bracelet, and looked at a miniature
in the clasp, covered by a gold lid, and tears dimmed her eyes,
and fell down her cheeks as she murmured, "Father, teach mi
Imw to aid him !"
82 CLEVE HALL.
CHAPTER XI.
CLEMENT pursued his way to the keeper's lodge, hum-
ming snatches of songs, as he hurried on swinging a stick
in his hand, and knocking down nettles and brambles. He
was not disconcerted by anything which Mildred had said;
perhaps, it would have been well for him if he had been.
Vanity, mingled with self-conceit and self-will, was his
strongest characteristic ; and now, even when putting aside
his own wishes, he soothed himself with the thought that he
was yielding rather as a condescension than on a principle of
obedience. His grandfather was old and fidgety; and Mildred
was a woman, and had a woman's weakness; and so, if they
really did fuss about his going out fishing with llonald, it
might be as well to give in. And Clement went on whistling
merrily, and looking forward as was his wont to pleasure in
one way, if he could not have it in another. There was no
strength of resolution, no inwar/1 principle in this ; it was
simply giving in for the moment, because he did not like to be
openly rebellious.
Hardman was not at home ; he was gone to Cleve, so his
wife said : and to Cleve Clement determined to follow him, —
or if not able to go quite so far, as he was to return for an
evening lesson with Mr. Lester at a certain hour, he would go
part of the way. His mind was bent upon this new fancy of
fishing, and he could not bear any obstacle or delay, and fancied
he was doing something to attain his object when he was walk-
ing in the same direction as Hardman.
" Good day to you, Master Clement!" called out a rough
voice from behind a hedge, as Clement strolled on leisurely
through the fields.
" Good day to you, old fellow ! What are you doing up
here ?"
"What are you doing, Master Clement? is the question."
And Guff, slowly unfastening a gate which separated them,
joined Clement on the other side of the hedge.
" I thought you were never off your post out there," said
Clement, pointing in the direction of the headland near which
the shipwreck had happened.
" That's according to circumstances, young gentleman. J
CLEVE HALL. 83
may have my business inland as well as other folks. I say,
you can tell where your master's gone, can't you V
" I have not got a master that I know of," said Clement,
haughtily.
" You needn't flush up like that, young gentleman. Master
or no master, he keeps you pretty strict."
" He keeps me as I choose to be kept ;" said Clement.
" He hasn't a grain of power over me."
" Well ! did I ever know such a milksop, then ?" And
Goff laughed contemptuously.
Clement's eyes flashed with anger, but Goff only laughed
the more. " Why, what a pity to throw away such a spirit !
The boy's got something in him, after all. I say, my young
sir, what made you fail me the other night in that fashion ?
I've had it on my mind ever since to call you to account."
" What other night ? I don't know what you are talking
about," replied Clement, hastily. " You failed me, if that's
what you mean, the night of the storm ; and a good thing,
too, as it turned out."
" Good or not, that's nothing to do with the matter. If a
youngster makes a promise to me I expect it's to be kept; and
if it isn't, why I know how to trust him another time."
" You told me to be down at the boat-house by six," said
Clement, his tone rising with irritation, "and I was there strict
to a moment ; and there were you, off."
"And you only too glad to find" me so," exclaimed Goff.
" What a white face we should have seen if you'd been near-
ing the point, as Ronald and I were, when the squall came on.
That young fellow is desperate in a storm : he'd have had us
stand out and brave it, if I hadn't been fixed against it. And
well enough I was ! We shouldn't have been left with two
shreds together ten minutes after we got back."
" It's time enough to talk of white faces when you have
seen them," exclaimed Clement, proudly. " But that is not
what I was thinking of, You were off, you say, yourself; so
where's the fault to find with me?"
"That 'twas your message which sent me off," said Goff,
coolly.
''■ Mine ! — my message ?"
" Whose else could it be ? Ronald brought it."
" Ronald ? It was false — it was a lie !" and Clement's face
became crimson, whilst, pacing up and down the rough road
before the gate, he went on muttering to himself, " False fel
81 CLEVE HALL.
low! A lie! Won't I make him eat his words? False
fellow l"
" Not so false, neither, Master Clement. He only said what
he knew was true ; that 'twas likely to be a rough evening, and
so we'd best be off without you."
" And lie said that I said it?" exclaimed Clement, stopping
suddenly.
" Well ! there's no need to take it so much to heart," re-
plied Guff, evading a direct answer. " 'Tis but to show that
you've got more pluck in you than he gives you credit for;
and that's soon done. There's more to be done in that way,
in this part of the world, than idle fulks wot of."
His familiar wink accompanying the words was very repul-
sive to Clement's fastidiousness ; and as Goff drew nearer, and
even touched him on the shoulder, patronisingly, he drew back.
" Oh ! if that's your line, keep to it," said Goff; and he
took up the small telescope, his constant companion, which he
had laid upon the ground during his conversation with Clement.
" Of course, I'm not going to thrust fun on them that haven't
spirit for it. There's enough work for me without that; and
for llouald, too."
The mention of Honald's name asrain touched Clement's
angry feeling.
" I'll trouble you not to speak of that youngster again," he
exclaimed haughtily. " I have an account to settle with him ;
and I mean to see to it."
Goff eyed him with a glance of sarcastic superiority. " I
wish you joy of getting your match ! Why, Ronald — Ronald
Vivian ! — he'd make three such as you, my boy !"
" If he could make fifty such, he should answer for his
words !" exclaimed Clement, in a tone which showed that his
vanity was stung to the quick. " So mean ! — so cowardly ! —
to make it appear that I was afraid ! — that I wouldn't risk what
he did !" And again he began to pace up and down the road.
Goff' made no comment upon his words, but resting his glass
upon the gatepost, looked long and attentively in the direction
where the headland, suddenly terminating, gave a long line
of the sea to view. A little vessel was making its way rapidly
from the shore, the wind being favorable.
" She's a jolly little craft," muttered Goff to himself; " how
she does cut along !"
The observation attracted Clement ; but he tried not to
show it.
CLEVE HALL. 85
Guff continued: — "A jolly little craft, if there ever was
one ! If it had been her, now, the other night, and Ronald
in her — instead of that old hulk, with the Frenchman at the
helm — she'd have ridden out the gale like a queen !"
" Ronald couldn't manage a vessel/' exclaimed Clement,
quickly.
" Couldn't he, now ? Why just you try — that's all !"
"I wouldn't trust myself with him," said Clement.
" Why no, to he sure; you wouldn't trust yourself in any-
thing but a Lord Mayor's barge, in a river three feet deep !"
" I'd trust myself in anything that Ronald trusts himself
in," exclaimed Clement, not seeing his own inconsistency.
" Let it be a cockle-shell, or a man-of-war."
" Or a neat little trimmer, like her yonder ?" said Goff.
" That, or anything," replied Clement.
" Take you at your word, then," said Goff, quickly. " Will
you go, now, for a lark, some day, and try her 1"
Clement hesitated; he felt that he should be wrong in
agreeing to the proposal; but his vanity — his mortified vanity
— how could he resist it ?
"Good b'ye! and joy be with you, for a land-lubber!' -
exclaimed Goff. " You'll never learn to manage a craft !"
Clement caught at the word. " Manage ? — Yes, I would
go directly, if I might be taught to manage it. It would help
me, if I go to sea," he continued, in an under tone, to his
conscience.
" Folks can't manage all at once ; they must learn their
trade first," was Goff's discouraging reply. " So good b'ye to
ye!" He walked away a few paces, but very slowly; and
then he turned round, and looked again at Clement, and
nodded.
Clement was intensely irritated. "I say ; old fellow ! I'll
be with you, some night, down at the Point, when you don't
expect me ; and see if I don't find out as much of your affairs
as Ronald knows. lie manage a vessel, indeed !" and Clement
laughed loudly and contemptuously.
" You'll please to wait to be asked before you give your
company were you aren't, needed, Master ('lenient," said Guff,
stopping, and looking at him surlily. "Meddle with what
n't concern you, and I'd as soon cudgel your head as I
would — this thistle," and he knocked off the top of one which
stood in his way.
Clement's laugh was neither as loud nor as contemptuous
b'O CLEVE HALL.
as before. Jle muttered something about finding Ronald, and
making him answer for his words; and, looking at his watch,
turned sharply round, and walked hack to Encombe.
-•►
CHAPTER XII.
MR. LESTER was not returned when Clement reached
home ; that was an excuse for idleness, though there was
sufficient work prepared for him to attend to by himself. Ella
persuaded him that there were difficulties not to be mastered
alone, and accordingly he lounged away his time in an arm-
chair, threatening Ronald, and making the excuse that his
walk had tired him. So the whole afternoon was wasted; for,
as it happened, Mr. Lester did not come back from Cleve till
very late. Pie had been detained, he sent word, by business ;
and Louisa contrived to discover, before the evening was over,
that he had been seen in Cleve walking with Mr. Bruce, and
had afterwards returned with him to the Farm. This latter
piece of information she extracted from Rachel, wbo appeared
at the Lodge in the evening with some flowers for Mrs. Camp-
bell, which had been sent her by Mrs. Robinson. Why Mr.
Bruce should have gone to the Farm Rachel did not profess to
know, but Louisa settled the question without any difficulty.
Cleve was an odious place, and the Farm was very quiet and
comfortable, and much nearer the shore ; and Louisa had some
indistinct idea that Mr. Bruce was detained at Encombe by
some secret business connected with the wreck. "What — she
had not fully decided; having failed, as yet, in determining
to her own satisfaction, whether he was partly the owner of
the vessel, and so interested in its fate merely as a matter of
business, or some hero of romance, whose story by-and-by was
to astonish them all. The former idea suited the report
brought by Rachel, who had just left him at the Parsonage,
where ho was to drink tea. " There was nothing in him very
wonderful to look at," she said : "he was as yellow as a bit of
parchment; and somebody had said he had come to England
for his health. He spoke like a gentleman, — that was one
thing; but he seemed to dislike talking, and she had not once
seen him smile;" an observation which drew from Ella the
CLEVE HALL. 87
remark that, for that reason, he would be so much the better
fitted to live with Mrs. Robinson, who was known to have
cried so much the day she was born, that she had never got
over it.
This information of Rachel's was but the beginning of
speculation and curiosity for Louisa; though there was in
reality but little to give rise to either. Mr. Bruce certainly
settled himself at the Farm, but he was a quiet individual,
very much out of health, and suffering especially from the cold
and shock he had endured the night of the wreck. Moreover,
he was always upon the point of departure for London ; so that
he could not be looked upon as a resident subject for gossip,
and no one probably but Louisa would have thought it worth
while to make any remarks upon his comings and goings. She,
however, always knew when he drank tea at the Rectory, and
when Mr. Lester went to visit him at the Farm; and she
learnt from Rachel a good many details as to the furniture of
his apartment, and the curious things he had " put about the
room," as she expressed it, in order to make it look comfort-
able, — strange, foreign, Indian-looking things, — boxes, and
figures, and a few books, — not a great many, for Rachel doubted
if he were fond of reading.
" Once, however, Louisa came home herself in great triumph,
having seen Mr. Bruce at the door of the Farm garden, and
even spoken to him, — that is, as she acknowledged afterwards,
he only said, "How d'ye do?" and she said, "Very well, I
thank you;" but then he looked at her very earnestly, and that
was particularly flattering from a person whom no one knew
anything about.
Had Louisa been in Rachel's place, Mr. Brace's affairs
would have had no chance of remaining private, for Rachel
was at the Farm constantly. Perhaps Mrs. Robinson urged
her coming to cheer her lonely guest, — perhaps Mr. Bruce
himself liked the society of the simple, earnest-minded, affec-
tionate child. Rachel seldom told who asked her; and in
reply to the questions as to how she amused herself when there,
replied", that she read, and talked, and looked at curiosities; a
very natural and rational answer, but not particularly inform-
ing fco Louisa's inijuisitivcnoss. A few attempts were made
to induce Aunt Bertha to intrude upon Mrs. Robinson's pri-
vacy, but there was an antipathy felt, though not expressed,
which kc]it Bertha and Mrs. llohinson apart. Mrs. Robinson
evidently did not "take kindly" to the Lodge. Even though
88 cleve hall.
the children wore Rachel's friends, she could not bring her
self to ask them to come within the irate; at least, when
Bertha was with them. If she met them alone it was different ;
yet even then there was a restraint : it was as if she always
had a double feeling about them, and was inclined to give them
a kiss ou one cheek, and a slap on the other; and Bertha's
chilling manner never helped to surmount the difficulty.
Since Mr. Bruce had been at the Farm the coolness was
still more evident. Mrs. Itobinson could not well be rude,
but she was as nearly so as it was in her nature to be, and
almost told them sometimes that she had rather they would
walk in any other direction. She said so one evening espe-
cially, when Rachel, Fanny, and Louisa, were walking toge-
ther, and Louisa was rather eager to be allowed to see the
garden. Bertha was some little way behind; if she had
been near, Louisa would scarcely have ventured to insist as
she did upon being allowed to come in just for five minutes.
"It's too late, Miss Louisa; another time, if you please,"
was Mrs. Robinson's discouraging reply to the proposal.
" But we won't be five minutes ; no, not three," persisted
Louisa; "we will just run round once, and then be back; we
shall have done it before Aunt Bertha comes up."
" May be, your aunt wouldn't like it, Miss Louisa," replied
Mrs. Robinson, decidedly.
"May be she would," retorted Louisa, perversely, and
rather rudely.
Mrs. Robinson froze into a statue. " Young ladies should
learn to behave themselves, and not take liberties," she
answered. "Good evening, Miss Rachel, my dear. It's my
advice to you all to get home."
She walked away without any softening word ; but Rachel
followed her. "Granny, dear, you shouldn't mind Louisa;
it's her nature."
" So much the worse, my dear ; it's hard to put off nature.
But I'm not troubling about that."
"Well, what are you troubling yourself about; it's
always something. Isn't Mr. Brace's room large enough for
him ?''
Mrs. Robinson smiled. "Why you know, Miss Rachel,
he's got the old back room looking out upon the elms, and it
would hold a regiment."
" Then he is fidgety about his tea and bread and butter."
"He doesn't take tea; he always drinks coffee." Mrs
CLEVE HALL. SO
Robinson's face relaxed a little more, as it always did when
she was talking to Rachel.
" Then it's something I am not to know, so I won't tease
you. Granny; only I wish you would tell me."
They were standing by a low door which opened into the
garden. Mrs. Robinson pushed it open.
" He's in there, you may go and speak a word to him if
you will."
Rachel seemed doubtful. "Louisa won't like it; and Miss
Campbell too; — no, perhaps I had better not;" yet she
evidently wished to go.
" He has been teaching the parrot to say your name," said
Mrs. Robinson.
That was a very great temptation, and Rachel ran back to
her companions. Bertha had joined them now, and was hur-
rying them away. She did not like them, she said, to be
staring over the wall in that way ; it looked so curious.
" Mrs. Robinson wants me to go in one minute. Mr. Bruce
has a parrot for me ; might I go, do you think V
" Oh yes, to be sure," exclaimed Louisa ; " and we will
walk up and down the road till you come out."
"Louisa, you forget yourself. Does Mr. Bruce want to
see you, Rachel ?" inquired Bertha.
• "I don't know that he wants to see me exactly; but he
has a parrot for me."
"Mr. Lester will be coming by-and-by, ma'am," observed
Mrs. Robinson, drawing near the gate. " Miss Rachel may
go back with him, if you please to leave her."
Bertha's sense of duty was touched : Rachel was under her
especial charge. " I don't know," she replied, " I can't say
that I have permission to leave her."
"I see Mr. Bruce very often, Papa lets me," whispered
Rachel, pleadingly.
Bertha still hesitated ; her back was to the garden gate ;
she could not see Louisa's glance at Fanny, and the finger
which was pointed in that direction.
" I see him, don't you?" whispered Fanny.
Louisa moved a few steps aside. " Yes, close to the door;
I do believe he's coming."
Mr. Bruce appeared in the doorway. Mrs. Robinson saw
his shadow, she could not have seen himself.
"Never mind, Miss Rachel, then, to-night," she said.
•' Q-ood evening, ma'am," and she dropped a respectful
HO CLEVE HALL.
curtsey to Bertha, which yet plainly said, " the sooner you gc
the better."
Rachel acquiesced, but with an air of disappointment whicli
brightened into sunshine as she glanced at the garden door-
way; and, hastily appealing to Bertha for permission, she
threw open the wicket gate of the entrance: court, and rushing
up to her new friend exclaimed, "I mustn't stay, but I may
just thank you; it was so kind. I am so very much ohliged
about the parrot."
" And I am very glad you ai*c glad, my child." Only the
tone reached the place where the rest were standing; the
words were unintelligible.
" You don't look at all well, ma'am," said Mrs. Robinson
to Bertha; "hadn't you better come in and rest."
Bertha was very pale; her eye had a wandering, almost
vacant, look. " Thank you, no. I had better go home.
Rachel ! I wish she would come." She moved, apparently
intending to enter within the wicket, but Mrs. Robinson placed
herself so as to prevent her. " I will call her, ma'am;" and
Bertha drew back.
" Mr. Bruce has taken Rachel to see the parrot," said
Fanny. " I wish he would let me go too."
"I can see him, and I can see Rachel, too," said Louisa,
stretching her neck, "just round the walk; there they are*
Now I think they are going in-doors. Mr. Bruce's room
opens into the garden; that is — it doesn't open exactly, it is
up-stairs, — the large room. Aunt Bertha, you have been in
Mr. Bruce's room, haven't you ?"
Bertha did not hear ; she was resting against the low wall,
not seemingly impatient, only very worn and wearied. They
were kept but a few moments ; Rachel came running back,
Mrs. Robinson slowly following, with the parrot in his cage.
" Miss Rachel would have you see it, ma'am," she said,
apologetically, to Bertha.
" It will talk, it will say my name !" exclaimed Rachel, in
delight. " Pretty Poll ! do speak, Polly !"
Of course the parrot did not speak : what bird ever did
when it was told to do so?
" He will if Mr. Bruce tells him," said Rachel. She
glanced wistfully at the doorway.
" Miss Campbell wants to go home. You mustn't keer
her any more to-night with the bird," observed Mrs. Robin
son, hurriedly.
CLEVE HALL. 91
The parrot uttered a loud scream, aud a short sharp word ;
it was not Rachel, though Fanny persisted it was.
" He said it quite plainly just now," said Rachel, in a
vexed tone; "but never mind. There, Granny dear, take it
away; never mind. I didn't mean to be troublesome and
keep you, dear Miss Campbell," she added in her most win-
ning manner.
" I should like to hear it speak again/' said Bertha, and
she withdrew her hand, which Rachel had taken hold of. She
had no intention of beino; ungracious, but she was not think-
O CD /
iu<r of Rachel at the moment.
o
Rachel thought she was angry, and went up to Mrs. Robin-
son, who was standing apart. "I am so sorry, Granny; I
know it was naughty of me."
" Never mind, my darling ; it -is her way." But even Mrs.
Robinson was a little quick in her manner, and poor Rachel's
sensitive feelings were touched, and tears stood in her eyes.
She did not go near the parrot.
" It said, ' How d'ye do,' Aunt Bertha, that was all," ex-
claimed Louisa, impatiently. " Parrots always say, ' How
d'ye do.' "
"And a good deal besides, sometimes, Louisa," replied
Bertha, gravely and stiffly.
Fanny tapped the cage, — the scream followed again, and
the word, which Louisa now asserted to be a name — Flora, she
thought it was like — at which Fanny laughed heartily, declar-
ing, with vehemence, that it was much more like Charlie, or
hungry, or fetch me. Bertha said nothing ; and as Louisa's
proposition of summoning Mr. Bruce to be the interpreter was
unseconded, the bird was consigned to Mrs. Robinson's care,
and the little party moved homewards.
-<#^
CHAPTER XIII.
THEY were at home early; Bertha had insisted upon it;
she had business in the village she said; and so, when
the children had set themselves to their evening lessons and
Kil.i was reading to her grandmamma, Bertha stole quietly out
at the back gate, and walked leisurely down the lane. Sho
02 CLEVE HALL.
.still looked pale, but it was not so much from the wear of
bodily as of mental fatigue. That indeed was the expression
of her features generally; probably from the consciousness of
having the comfort of others depending upon her, and having
so many causes for anxiety; but this evening there was not
only gravity in her face, but doubt and perplexity.
She walked with her eyes bent on the ground, thinking,
and then occasionally looked up as though expecting to see
something which might startle her, but the village was very
quiet J the men were still at their work in the fields, the
women preparing for their return, and the children, just let
out of school, were busy in the play-ground, and only inter-
rupted the quietness of the hour by distant shouts of laughter.
Bertha pursued her way by the lane which led from the
Parsonage to the village, and after passing a few of the prin-
cipal cottages, ascended a steep path, terminating in a long
flight of steps, which was the short way from the village to
the church. Encombe church was at some little distance from
the vHlage ; it stood by itself, on the summit of a square hill,
which on three sides rose abruptly from the plain, and on the
other leaned as it were against the range of lofty downs encir-
cling the village. The ground must once have formed part of
an open heath, for gorse, and heather, and fern still covered it
in luxuriance, and the wild downs rose immediately above it,
and rough laud, only in part enclosed, stretched away to the
east and west. It was a marvel what the little church should
do there alone, looking over the wooded plain to the blue hori-
zon of the ocean. Except at the times of service, it seemed
to have no lesson to preach to the poor, nor any word of warn-
ing to offer to the rich ; for the busy stir of life had deserted
it, and the white grave-stones told their tales to the happy
birds and the glad insects, but had no daily and hourly voice
for the reckless or the thoughtless of mankind.
Yet it was very solemn to worship there : hopeful with the
hope of Heaven in the brilliant summer mornings, when dew
drops, sparkling with living light, hung upon the grass, and
sunshine, flickering and quivering, lay in broad masses of
burnished silver upon the sea; and calming as with the repose
of the last, long sleep, in the still evenings, when the rush of
the waves came like a requiem for the dead, moaning over the
sandy beach ; and awful, subduing, crushing to all human
vanity and folly, when the harsh roar of the wintry elements
thundered around the strong old walls and told of that Ah
CLEVE HALL. 93
mighty Power which shall one day "break in pieces the
foundations of the earth," and summon the world to judgment.
Bertha reached the summit of the hill, and then paused to
rest. A stone bench in the porch was her seat, and for a few
moments she remained gazing, apparently without interest,
upon the lovely view, set as in a picture frame, in the rough
Norman archway. But a shadow, the long shadow of a human
figure, fell upon the graves, and she rose up suddenly, and
stepped forth into the open air. Bonald Vivian was there to
meet her.
" I hoped you would be punctual," she said, and her voice
was slightly tremulous.
" It was hard work to be so," said the boy, abruptly. But
he held out his hand as he spoke, and grasped Bertha's with
a heartiness which seemed as if it must at once break down
her chilling shyness. " My father was off with Goff early,
and I am to meet him two hours hence," he continued; "if
it was not for that, I couldn't have come. But you have been
walking, you must be tired." He brushed away the sand and
dust which had collected on the bench, and took off a light
upper coat, and laid it for Bertha to sit upon.
"Thank you, Bonald; I am glad you came/' but Bertha's
manner was so nervous as to be almost-cold.
He waited, however, for her to begin the conversation,
standing at a little distance, and leaning against the archway
in an attitude of attention and deference. He looked upon
her evidently as a superior being.
" You did what I wished the other night," began Bertha,
" in keeping Clement from going with Goff, and I wanted to
thank you."
" I did what I could; but I got into disgrace : never mind
that, though."
"Disgrace with your father?"
" No, not with him ; he knew nothing about it ; but GofF
abused Clement, and Clement abuses me. Yet I said nothing
but the truth. It was Golf's misrepresentation : I couldn't
tell a falsehood."
" Clement does not think you did."
Bonald laughed shortly. "He says he does; and he
threatens a good deal; but that won't matter. I shan't
notice it."
"No, indeed, I trust not,"* exclaimed Bertha; "it would
be worse than anything if you were to quarrel."
9-t CLEVE HALL.
" He would keep aloof from me in that case," said Ronald,
rather proudly; "and so you would be satisfied."
"The old feeling, Ronald," observed Bertha, quietly, hut
very gravely.
u It would be what you wish, and what Mr. Lester wishes,"
replied Ronald.
" Perhaps so; but we would have you keep apart, from the
knowledge that it is best, — not because you are too proud to
be with him."
" I know I am not fit company for him," he replied,
moodily; "nor for any one," was added in an under tone.
" We will not talk of that, Ronald ; my wishes and Mr.
Lester's have nothing to do with the question of fitness."
" But you have said as much," ho continued.
" I said it when I thought it, — but opinions change ; you
have set him a noble example lately."
The boy bit his lip, — and turned away abruptly.
" When Clement shall risk his life to save that of another,
it will be time enough \to consider whether you are a fit com-
panion," continued Bertha. " Mr. Lester thanks you, Ronald ;
so do I."
" There was no danger ; we could both swim," he said,
gruffly, and still without looking at her.
" Perhaps so," was Bertha's only answer. She understood
him thoroughly, and changed the subject.
" And you will still keep your promise, Ronald ?"
" As long as it is required ; but Mr. Lester says, I may be
gone shortly."
" Two months, it may be, or three, — and we have to gain
your father's consent."
" Yet he will never ask mine for anything, — he will force
me, drag me with him at his will, down, down, down," and
Ronald's voice sank till it was lost in a whisper of awe.
" Not against your own will," dear Ronald, replied Bertha,
her tone changing from its usual chilling monotony into the
tender interest of an elder sister. "No one, not even the
Spirit of Evil himself, can harm us against our will."
"It is easy for those to talk," he replied, " who are never
tempted."
"I am not tempted, as you are, it is true. Yei I am in a
different way, and when I fall, Ronald, it is my own will
Which makes mo do so."
CLEVE HALL. \)i>
"You!" he exclaimed, impetuously. "Miss Campbell,
vv.i can never will to do wrong."
"Perhaps not often, — I hope not; but I may not will
strongly to do right, and the end is the same."
Ronald was thoughtful; he repeated the word "strongly"
to himself.
" Yes," continued Bertha, answering what she believed to
be in his mind. " A weak will must, unless strengthened,
end like a sinful will. But you have not naturally a weak
will, Ronald. You have great faults, but they are strong
faults, — and the same strength which has hitherto, so fre-
quently, carried you away into sin, may, through God's Mercy,
lead you far on the road to goodness."
He looked up suddenly, and the gleaming of the sinking
sun flashed across his face, and brightened into intensity the
glance of his eye. But it was for a moment only, and again
his eyes were cast down, and the cloud gathered upon his brow.
" And you may have much to keep you upright, a noble
object for which to live," continued Bertha.
" When I am pointed at as the son of a drunkard, the com-
rade of smugglers !" he muttered, scornfully.
"Rather," replied Bertha, "when you shall be known as
the child of one who lived the life of a saint upon earth, and
left to you the task to retrieve the name she bore from dis-
honor. Ronald, have you forgotten your mother V
He made no reply — but throwing himself upon the rough
bench, hid his face against the worn stones of the porch ; and
a sound, as of a sob, escaped him, but it was stifled, and Ber-
tha, without noticing it, continued : —
"It is the anniversary of your mother's death, Ronald;
at years ago, on this night, she died."
A shudder passed over his frame, as he murmured, " And
left me to rain."
" And left you a work which, in her woman's weakness,
she could probably never have performed. She did not then
know its full extent, — but now, if it be permitted to the dead
to watch what passes upon earth, she would surely long that
you may be able to accomplish it. Ronald, your father did
a grievous injury; you may retrieve it."
"It would take the labor of twenty lives to retrieve his
injuries," said Ronald, in the moody tone which was natural
to him whenever his father was- mentioned.
Bertha w. j I for a moment; she seemed pained,
96 CLEVE HALL.
disheartened. " And you do not wish to know what you may
have it in your power to do," she asked, somewhat reproach-
fully.
Jle rose up, and there was an accent of haughtiness in his
reply. "I do know it; to keep away from Clement, that his
grandfather may not think him disgraced by having me for a
companion."
" Something more than that, Ronald," said Bertha, sadly.
" Would you listen if I were to tell it you ?"
The intonation of her voice strangely touched him. Per-
haps it bore him back to other and innocent days, when,
seated by his little bed, in the home where his best and hap-
piest hours had been spent, Bertha Campbell had soothed hi in
to sleep with the soft monotony of her voice, whilst repeating
the hymns which suited his tender age. He placed himself
opposite to her; but his head was still turned aside. It might
have been thought that he was watching the course of a vessel
dimly seen in the far horizon, — but that it passed on, and still
his eye remained fixed upon the same point, where the golden
clouds were gathering into fantastic masses around the sinking
sun.
There was a silence of some seconds. Much that was to
be told would be painful both to relate and to hear, and past
events seemed crowded together inextricably in Bertha's mind.
" I must go back," she said, at length, " to my early days, —
the days when I first lived at Encombe. Perhaps you do not
know that it is my native place, the home of my family for
many generations. We lived in the old farm ; it was a Manor
House then; but we were poor, my father was extravagant,
and we could not keep it up in anything like a fitting style.
General Vivian was our nearest neighbor, but we were not
friends : family feuds, dating almost a century back, had been
handed down to us, and General Vivian was not a person to
let them sleep; neither, perhaps, was my father. General
Vivian was a careful, cautious, strict man ; he had but one
grand object in life, — to redeem the family property, which
his father's extravagance had well nigh wasted : he devoted
all his energies, — and he has great energies, marvellous ones, —
to this purpose. It would be wrong to judge, but it seems
that he made it his idol, and, because it was a noble object,
could not see that there might be danger in it. But let that
be as it may, General Vivian saved his inheritance, — my father
forfeited his. You may imagine from this how unlike they
CLEVE HALL. 97
were, and how little they could understand each other. So.
too, Mrs. Vivian and my mother, the Miss Vivians and my
sister and E, had no mutual interests; and distaste became dis-
like, and we grew up — I don't know how — it was very wrong
— but the feeling became at last utter aversion in all, except
" Bertha's voice trembled, and the concluding words
of the sentence were inaudible.
She went on nervously, — " My sister Flora was very pretty
and attractive. She was older than myself, and every one was
accustomed to defer to her ; perhaps that made her wilful ;
my father especially would not check her in anything. Gene-
ral Vivian, as you must know, had one son, a very engaging
person, generous and open-hearted, but utterly thoughtless.
Notwithstanding the family differences, we met him occasionally
in walks and rides ; he was in fact almost the only gentleman we
ever saw, and perhaps it was natural enough that he and Flora
should become attached to each other. But there was nothing
understood or acknowledged, except between themselves : the
General would have been fearfully angry if the notion had been
suggested to him; his wife, the only person who might have
influenced him, was just dead; and my father and mother
were too much occupied with the pecuniary difficulties, which
were daily increasing, to take heed to any lesser matter. I
saw what was going on, but I was too young to interfere. Flora
was full of hope, and her affections were very strong, whilst
Mr. Vivian never allowed his thoughts to dwell upon anything
but the gratification of the moment; and, at length, totally
putting aside the possibility of his father's disapprobation, he
persuaded Flora to engage herself to him without asking the
consent of her own parents or of his. They kept the fact
entirely to themselves, and all that I saw was that they took
every opportunity of being together, and that when separated
Flora's spirits entirely sank. This made me very anxious, and
I was secretly glad, for her sake, when at length it was deter-
mined that she should leave the Manor House for a time, and
go abroad, in the hope of enabling my father to retrieve his
affairs. We left Encombe. I thought I was only going for a
time ; I fancied that the Manor House was still to be my home.
It was a great mercy that I was not able to see the future.
Yet I had some presentiment of evil; I could scarcely help it ;
Flora was so dreadfully miserable at the thought of the long
absence. Mr. Vivian saw her the last evening, and I believe
the promise between them was renewed; Flora was then, in a
5
08 CLEVE HALL.
degree, comforted, and we set out on our journey in tolerablu
spirits. Our first rest, for any length of time, was at a German
watering-place, small, but just growing into fashion, and filled,
most unhappily, not only with hotels and boarding-houses, but
gambling-houses. My father's early habits bad accustomed
him to think lightly of gambling, and it soon became his chief
amusement. He would never play high, and so managed to
go on without bringing himself into any great difficulties; but
our home became the resort of his associates at the gaming-
table, and, amongst others, of — Captain Vivian."
Ronald started.
" Yes," continued Bertha, " it was there, Ronald, that my
first acquaintance with your father may be said to have begun.
He was not then what he is now;" — her voice sank as slu> said
this, and Ronald turned away his face ; he could not bear its
change to be seen. " He was young, handsome, agreeable,
" she hesitated, and repeated, " in a certain way he was
agreeable ; he had seen a great deal of the world, and was
very clever ; he could tell amusing anecdotes ; gentlemen espe-
cially liked him; they did not care for things which distressed
Flora and me. Dear Ronald ! you must forgive me if I speak
too freely."
" Say what you will," he replied, with a bitter laugh, "you
cannot tell what I can."
" And yet in some way, Ronald, I may be a better, a more
charitable judge. I have never suffered as you have; at least
in daily life. In other ways ; — but you must let me go on
regularly. I had seen Captain Vivian before, but never to
know him; in fact, I was too much of a child to be brought
in contact with him. He claimed acquaintance with us as
having a connexion with our old home; his father and Gene-
ral Vivian were first cousins. I did not know then that all
social intercourse between the two branches of the family had
ceased for some years."
" For thirty years the General has been too proud to
acknowledge us," exclaimed Ronald indignantly.
" Think of him gently and justly, Ronald, if you can. He
may have feared the acquaintance for his son. If he did,
events have proved that he had cause to do so."
" My father might not have been what he is, if his relations
had not cast him off," replied Ronald.
"Perhaps not; one cannot say ;" and Bertha's thoughts
reverted to Clement, and her anxiety lest he should in like man-
CLEVE IIALL. 90
ner be discarded. " At that time, when we met in Gcrmai.y, I
fear his habits were too deeply rooted to be altered. We saw
a greaf, deal of him. Like every one else, he admired Flora,
and, to my dismay, I perceived that my father was inclined to
encourage him. Captain Vivian had the reputation then of
being rich, and probably my father thought that, considering
the state of our family affairs, it would be a desirable marriage.
At all events, he threw them constantly together, and when,
on one occasion, I expressed my dislike to the society which
the acquaintance involved, I was reproved, and told that I
should bring myself into mischief if I interfered with matters
which did not concern me. Things went on in this way for
some time. Flora said very little. I was sure she disliked
Captain Vivian, but she had not courage openly to thwart my
father's wishes. When alone she was very miserable ; when
in company she exerted herself so as to be the life of the party.
No one really knew anything about her feelings. I was too
young to have her confidence, and she was afraid of my mother.
Your father was very fond of her ; and when I saw that, I
pitied him, for I felt that his affection could never be returned.
But I did not know then with how fixed and stern a resolution
he can pursue an object when once his will is given to it. He
was resolved to marry Flora, and if, instead of common cold-
ness, he had met with open detestation, I believe it would not
have made him sweiwe a hair's breadth from his determination.
It was just at this time, after the separation of a year, that
Mr. Vivian arrived in Germany, on his way to Italy, for a
summer tour. What communication had been kept up between
him and Flora in that interval I do not know. Some there
certainly must have been, for he was the last person in the
world to bear silence and suspense. I suspect he came pre-
pared for the state of affairs which I have described, and
determined to put an end to it. But it was by no means an
easy task. My father's feeling against General Vivian was as
inveterate as the General's against him, and Mr. Vivian could
with difficulty gain admittance to the house. When there, lie
could in no way compete with his cousin. There were strong
prejudices against him, and although he was the heir of Clove,
the property was entirely at the General's disposal; and lie
could not offer anything like the fortune at that time possessed
by Captain Vivian. Yet I imagine that even from the first
moment of their meeting, your father felt that Flora's choice
made. .She was, indeed, too much afraid of her parents
100 CLEVB HALL.
openly to express her preference; but even when sne strove to
conceal it, it showed itself in innumerable every-day trifles.
A man of less resolute purpose might have drawn hack, but
Captain Vivian persisted in his attentions, and — " Bertha
hesitated, and her words came with difficulty.
Ronald spoke impatiently, — " Go on, I can bear all/'
" I don't wish to give you pain unnecessarily," she replied.
'• No pain is like concealment, Miss Campbell."
" And perhaps, in some ways, what I have said may be an
excuse for Captain Vivian," continued Bertha. " He had
great provocation, — some, at least; but it was hard to take
advantage of a character so open and trusting as that of Edward
Vivian. Your father gambled, Ronald j he made Edward do
the same ; he led him on step by step, till his debts became
very heavy. I don't like to think it was clone purposely, but
it appeared like it. Certainly he made use of Mr. Vivian's
weakness. They were friends all this time outwardly. I think
M r. Vivian was sorry for the disappointment of your father's
affections ; and having no fear of him as a rival, he gave him
his confidence, and consulted him in his difficulties. Imme-
diately afterwards, by some means, no one knew how, tidings
of Mr. Vivian's gambling debts reached the General. He
was fearfully angry. I saw some of the letters which passed ;
Mr. Vivian showed them to Flora. He was full of repentance ;
but habit and evil companionship were too strong for him, and
after a short interval he returned to his former practices.
Everything was made known to the General through some
secret channel, and when still more indignant reproaches and
threats of disinheritance reached Mr. Vivian, they were in the
same way communicated to my father. Poor Edward found
himself without friends, without support; it was very much
his own doing ; he was sadly, sadly weak, but all turned against
him : — even the persons who had first led him into evil, — who
were still encouraging him in it; — for I know that at this very
time it was Captain Vivian who enticed him again and again
to the gaming-table, and laughed at him 'when he would have
drawn back."
A suppressed groan escaped from Ronald. Bertha went
on rapidly: —
"Perhaps you can piess the end of all this. Mr. Vivian
did not venture to propose openly for my sister, knowing the
feeling that was excited against him, and fearing that if
lie said anything, my lather would forbid him the house
CLEVE HALL. 101
Flora, too, "was very unhappy, from various causes. She had
to bear with great absence of sympathy in her own family, and
constant fits of temper. All her affectionate feelings were
crushed and repelled ; and at length, in a moment of despera-
tion, she was persuaded to marry Edward Vivian, without the
knowledge or consent of her parents. It was a fatal step,
Ronald, and most bitterly punished. I need not repeat- all
that took place in consequence ; it would not be important to
you, and it is only miserable for me. My father, in his anger,
refused to hold any communication with them, and would not
advance them a penny. They were exiled from our house,
and left to depend upon such resources as might be obtained
from General Vivian. What his feelings would be, it remained
to be shown. Mr. Vivian wrote himself,' acknowledging his
offence, entreating to be forgiven, but he received no answer :
he wrote again, and still there was delav. At length, after
the lapse of several weeks, the stern decision came, in a few
short, cutting sentences from the General, without even a soft-
ening word from Edward's sisters, and only one heart-broken,
reproachful line from his old nurse, Mrs. Robinson; — he was
disinherited."
"But my father?" exclaimed Ronald; u hc had nothing
to do with it?"
u He left Germany instantly," replied Bertha, "when the
fact of my sister's marriage was known. He travelled night
and day ; and it was by him that the intelligence was made
known to General Vivian. Goff, who had been in Edward's
service, but had been dismissed for dishonesty, and had
afterwards been engaged by Captain Vivian, accompanied
him, and was called to be a witness to the truth of some of
his statements. All this I first knew a few weeks since, in
conversation with Mr. Lester. At the time everything was a
mystery, and there was no one to clear it up. My own family
were too proud and too angry to make any effort for reconci-
liation ; and Edward Vivian had no friend in whom he could
confide, except Mr. Lester, who had formerly been his tutor,
but who, unfortunately, was at that time travelling in the
East. No one was surprised at the General's conduct; it was
only in keeping with the severity, and what he called strict
justice, which had marked him through life. But what did
in a measure astonish both Edward and our own family, when
the letters were sent to us, was the style of the accusations
b'oughl forward. The General spoke of deadly ingratitude,
102 CLEVB HALL.
dishonor, disgrace in the eyes of the world, and a false use
lit' that to which I'M ward had no claim, except at his lather's
pleasure. Some one particular offence seemed alluded to, but
whit wc could in no way discover. Certainly Edward had
acted very wrongly, and had shown himself most lamentably
weak; but there had been nothing in the least approaching
to baseness. Even as regarded his unhappy gambling debts,
they were doubtless large for his income, but not large for
the General's fortune ; and Edward could not be said to be a
practised gambler; he had been led into the sin by the insti-
gation of others; but he had no real taste for it, and always
refused when he could meet with any one to support him ; — a
weak will was his stumbling block. But the General admitted
no extenuation. He seemed to me, then, to have a false and
most exaggerated view of the circumstances of the case, and
wrote with a bitterness which was absolutely unchristian.
Mr. Lester has talked to me, Ronald; he has told me some
things which took place then; I fear there was great wrong
done by misrepresentation, if not by anything worse."
" And by my father?" murmured Ronald.
" Mr. Lester says so. It is certain that all General Vivian's
information came through him; and — oh! Ronald, forgive
me for saying it — but I know that a large sum of money, very
much larger than the amount of the gambling debts, was paid
at that time to your father by General Vivian, under the
belief that he was for the last time satisfying the claims of
his son's creditors. When Mr. Lester told me what the
amount was, expressing himself shocked at Edward's reckless-
ness, I knew at once tbat there must have been some wrong
dealing in the matter. The debts were not a fourth part of
the sum, and the money never reached Edward, or at least
only a very small portion did. So, again, Mr. Lester believed
that Edward had behaved undutifully; — that he refused to
offer an apology, or make the least submission to his father ; — ■
all utterly false. He wrote again and again, and received no
answer, except that which I have mentioned; till latterly,
since Mr. Lester came to Encombe, Miss Vivian has been
allowed to write to him. Ronald, your father was Edward
Vivian's deadly enemy. Can you forgive me for suspecting
him?"
The poor boy writhed as if under a serpent's sting. Be>--
fcha laid her hand affectionately on his shoulder, but he pushed
it aside roughly, and, in a hoarse voice, muttered "go on."
CLEVE HALL. 103
"It is such pain, Ronald, to give you pain," said Bertha.
He did not answer; his forehead was pressed against the
wall with a force which must have been almost torture.
Bertha seemed doubtful whether she might venture to pro-
ceed, but, after a moment's consideration, slightly changing
the subject, she continued : — " You may wonder wby, if there
was a misunderstanding of the truth, so many years should
have passed, and no explanation be offered; but at the time
neither Mr. Vivian nor Flora had any one to help or advise
them. They were left to poverty, and what would have been
utter ruin, but for the interposition of an ordinary acquaint-
ance, who became by accident acquainted with their case, and
interested himself to obtain for Edward a situation in the
West Indies. They sailed without a parting word of kindness
from us; indeed we did not know of their intentions till they
were gone. My sister and I never met again ; she lies in a
foreign grave ;" — Bertha's voice faltered, and Ronald stealthily
and shyly laid his rough hand upon hers, but without speaking.
" We had some comfort before that sorrow came," continued
Bertha. " Years had softened the feelings of my father and
mother, and when a change of climate became necessary for
the children, they consented to take the charge of them.
Clement and Ella came to us first ; then the little ones. There
were two others, who died. But much of that you know, for
your father and mother settled in our village about that time.
Your father I hoped had recovered his disappointment. We
met as friends ; for I did not then understand all the evil he
had occasioned; and his habits of life were not such as to
cause an entire separation between the families. Your mother,
too, had been my friend in infancy, and clung to me more and
more closely as care and sorrow gathered around her. They
were trying days, Ronald, but they brought their blessing
with them, — at least to me. It was my joy to comfort her,
and I learnt, for her sake, to bear with much which I could
not have borne from any man except your father. My
father died about that time, and my mother left me much to
myself, so that I was able to be with Marian a great deal;
and though your father openly showed his dislike to me, he
never actually forbade our intimacy. This went on for about
eight years, till your mother died, and your father left the
village. Family circumstances have not changed much with
as since. My sister's death was a great trial, but we could
scarcely grieve for her; her lot was a very hard one. Thej
1 0-1 CLEVE HALL.
were miserably poor, and I am afraid — marriage beginning
wrongly can never end well — I fear she was nut happy. Ed-
ward Vivian has always been restless; longing to return to
England; yet feeling that the little prospect he has of pro-
viding for his children would be gone if he were to do so.
And they have grown up without knowing him; I don't think
even Ella and Clement can recollect him; and so there is the
want of a father's authority. It is all very sad. But it might
be altered; — I' think so, at least. Ronald," — and Bertha
spoke hurriedly yet earnestly, — " you might do much."
lie stood up proudly; the marks of a stern self-control
were visible, in the slight frown upon his forehead, and the
compression of his lips, which scarcely parted as he said coldly,
" What duty does Miss Campbell recruire of a son against his
lather ?"
" Not against your father ! God forbid !" exclaimed Bertha.
" But oh ! Ronald ! if injustice has been done "
"It shall be undone," he replied, firmly, "at any
sacrifice."
Bertha continued : — " My words must seem harsh, Ronald ;
vet I would serve your father rather than injure him. The
time indeed is so long past that it might be very difficult to
prove what we suspect; but if the attempt were made, it must,
be followed up, and that publicly — in a court of justice. It
might be madness iu us, but it would be eternal disgrace for
him. Mr. Lester and I have talked over the matter repeatedly.
For the General's sake, we dread to bring forward a case
which we could not prove. It would recall past griefs, and
probably cause some fatal catastrophe. Yet we cannot let the
matter rest ; for not to speak is Edward Vivian's ruin. One
idea we have had has been that he should himself return to
England to sift the matter; but there are many objections to
this. His presence might irritate the general, and I should
dread a meeting between him and Captain Vivian; whilst
even to enter upon the subject with the General, in order to
obtain information, seems next to impossible, though we have
thought of it. The past is a scaled book: not even to his
own daughters would he relate the particulars of all that
transpired in that one unhappy interview with your father;
although something there was which weighed so heavily upon
him that it did the work of years upon his frame. Ronald,
your father's own words can alone throw light upon the
mystery."
CLEVE HALL. 10[)
Bertha paused, but Ronald stood silent as though, sonic
secret power had paralyzed him.
" I do not see the way to obtain them/' she added ; " yet
the time may come, conscience may one day waken; and,
Ronald, if you should be near him in that hour, I con-
jure you, by all that you hold most sacred, remember your
promise."
He sank upon the bench, and sobbed like a child.
Bertha drew near and spoke anxiously: — "It is not
against your father that I would for worlds wish you to act ;
but you may lead him, urge him, to acknowledge if he has in
any way done Edward Vivian wrong by false words. His
own confession would never be turned against him, except so
far as it mioht restore Edward to General Vivian's favor.
And you may stand in the way between your father and
Clement. He hates Clement. He is the child of the woman
who rejected him. Save the poor boy from his temptations,
and God may in mercy bless your work, and withdraw the
curse which must now rest upon the man who labored for
another's ruin."
A convulsive shudder passed over Ronald's frame, and
then he became motionless.
" Ronald," said Bertha, as she bent over him, " it is all
but your mother's voice which bids you take courage and be
comforted."
The words were powerless. She heard him murmur to
himself, — " The curse ; the curse." And again he groaned
in anguish.
'•To be redeemed by you, as it would have been by her,"
jontinued Bertha.
"She was an angel," he exclaimed, starting up, with
a vehemence which might have caused a less firm heart than
Bertha's to tremble at the storm of feelinsr she was awaken-
: '• and I"
•• You may be one, Ronald, — even more"-
!!i- bitter laugh rang sharply, hopelessly, on the ear.
"Go," he exclaimed; "talk to others, preach, labor;
are hundreds to listen; your Avords are wasted on me, —
• !"
"An outcast? so ycung, so misled! oh, Ronald! never,
never !"
"You know not to whom you speak," he continued, his
roice assuming a tone of fierce sarcasm, more terrible than the
100 CLEVE HALL.
outburst of passion. " Have you lived the life which I have
lived? seen what I have Been? known what 1 have known?
GrO ! Let me be what I am doomed to be."
"Ronald, I do not know, God forbid that I ever should
Know, the secrets of such scenes as you have been accustomed
to; but this I know, that were they the blackest and deadliest
which the human heart could conceive, there must be hope
and the certain prospect of escape, whilst the feeling of hor-
nr at them remains."
He covered his face with his hands.
" It is from God," continued Bertha soothingly, " from
His Spirit; it is the call to repentance, — the answer to your
mother's prayers."
" And to my father's deeds, in which I have joined," he
said, in a tone like the underswell of the sea. Then, uncover-
ing his face, he gazed upon her, calmly and steadily, and
added : — " Miss Campbell, you need not fear. Whatever may
be my own course, justice shall one day be done." He stood,
intending to leave her. Bertha detained him.
" Ronald, you must not and shall not go. I have a claim
that you should listen to me, for I was your mother's friend,
her only one. It was to me she made her last request, — that,
as God should grant me the power, I would watch over her
boy. In her name I require you now to hearken to me."
He sat down, not sullenly, but as if in a stupor.
" I know your purpose," continued Bertha,, her tone
becoming severs in its deep earnestness ; " you will from this
night bend all the energies of your mind to discover and
counteract the evil which your father has caused ; most
earnestly, most entirely, I thank and trust you. But there
are two ways open before you : — in the one you may accomplish
your work and be yourself saved; and in the other you may
perform it and be lost. And Ronald, intensely though I long
for the reconciliation and restoration of Edward Vivian and
his family, — though it is the one object for which it seems
now that I have to live, — I would rather see them struggle on
in poverty and sorrow for years, and suffer myself with them,
than I would know that any word of mine, or any efforts for
them, had led you even one step on the way which must tend
to destruction, llonald, you may labor in proud despair, ov
in humble hope. If you are proud, you are lost."
"Proud !" he repeated, bitterly and doubtfullv.
CLEVE HALL. 107
" Yes, little though you may think it, pride is your snare.
You will •work for others; you will not work for yourself."
" I may save others, I cannot save myself," he replied, in
a softened tone.
" You cannot save others except by saving yourself. You
wish to aid Clement : you can have no right influence, you
can give nothing but an inconsistent example, unless your
actions are grounded upon right motives ; the most deceitful
of all motives is pride, and its end is despair."
" Then I have reached the end," he said, sternly.
" No, Ronald, impossible. Let the past be what it may,
even in old age it is retrievable, — how much more so in
youth !"
"I have known no youth," he replied; "the sins of my
childhood have been the sins of a man, and my punishment
must be the punishment of a man."
"And your strength will be the strength of a man," an-
swered Bertha ; " the firm resolution, the unshaken will "
" Which is pride," he said, quickly.
" Pride, when we rest upon it as our own ; faith, when we
seek it from God. Ronald, do you ever pray ?"
He answered abruptly, and yet not angrily, — " In storms,
on the ocean, in the face of death, yes, I have prayed then."
" But in quietness and solitude ? In your own chamber ?
calmly, thoughtfully, regularly?"
He smiled as in scorn at the question.
" Your mother prayed, Ronald; will not you?"
" She prayed because she was fit to pray."
" And you will pray because you would become fit, —
because there are dangers surrounding you, only to be con-
quered by self-restraint, watchfulness, earnestness, purity,
faith ; and you are reckless, proud, full of sinful memories,
bowed down by a burden of past offences. You will pray
because you long for pardon, for the knowledge that the love
of a Heavenly Father will be with you, to guard you from
the influence of an earthly one. You will pray, because with-
out prayer life must be misery, and death despair. Oh,
Ronald ! will you not do as your mother did?"
lla made no reply; he even moved away, and Bertha was
left for a few moments alone. She knelt in the old church
porch, and a prayer rose up to Heaven in the stillness of that
rammer evening^a prayer for one amongst the lost sheep,
the erring and the straying, who had left undone those things
108 CLBVE HALL.
which fchoy ought to have dene, and had done (hose things
which fchey ought not to have done, and in whom there was
no health; and even as it was uttered, Ronald stood at a dis-
tance, too self-distrustful to own hia feelings, too shy to express
them in action, yet praying also with uncovered head and
closed eyes, humbly and earnestly, for grace that might enable
him hereafter to live a godly, righteous, and sober life, to the
glory of God's holy Name.
They stood together again in the entrance of the porch.
Twilight was gathering around, though the light y<it glowed
brilliantly in the far west.
Ronald broke the silence : — " Miss Campbell, you must
piay for me, and your prayens will be heard."
" All earnest prayers are heard, Ronald ; especially those
of the sorrowful and penitent. But you will act too 1"
" I don't know how; it is all chaos."
" But the first steps are plain : no sinful words, restraint
over your temper, a refusal to join in intemperance "
" Yes, plain ;" — he seemed pondering the word doubtfully.
" And practicable. What ought to be can be, — only pray."
She smiled, and held out her hand, and he raised it respect-
fully to his lips.
He did not see the tear which glistened in her eye, as she
left him under the old church porch, the faint gleams of the
setting sun gilding his tall figure.
-«♦»--
CHAPTER XIV.
" A NOTE for you, Ella;" and Rachel Lester ran into the
J\_ school-room at the Lodixe, holding a little twisted paper
between her fingers. " But I beg pardon ; I forgot, I mustn't
interrupt. How busy you all are this morning I"
" Ella has been strict all the week," said Fanny, looking
up from her writing; "and it's dreadful work, Rachel."
11 Oh, no, Fanny," exclaimed Rachel; and she went round
and stood behind the child's chair, and offered to mend her
pen. "I know you don't like lessons half as well when 1hey
arc not regular; I am sure I don't."
CLEVE HALL. 100
" But it won't last," said Louisa, with a knowing nod, which
almost upset the gravity of Rachel's face.
" I don't know why you are to say that, Louisa," said Elk;
''you know we are always regular when there are no interrup-
tions."
" Somehow interruptions come every day," persisted Louisa.
" I have brought them to-day, I am afraid," said Rachel.
" This note is from your Aunt Mildred, I think, Ella."
Ella read her note with an air of importance, and stood
gazing upon it afterwards, as if there was some weighty matter
to be determined.
Louisa held up her exercise book, and said, — " Just look
it over, please, Rachel. Ella won't now, she's busy;" and
Rachel went to the other side of the table.
" I will attend to the exercise, thank you, Rachel," said
Ella, looking round quickly. She was very jealous of her own
authority, probably because she felt that it rested on an inse-
cure foundation.
Rachel sat down, and began to read ; and Louisa and Fanny
glanced at each other, and made a sign intended to show that
a storm was impending.
" I must go to grandmamma," said Ella, in a tone of digni-
6ed self-consciousness. She moved to the door with her visual
languid pace.
" When am I to see you again, Ella?" asked Rachel.
" And what are we to do about our lessons ? we have just
finished our exercises," inquired Fanny, fretfully.
" My dear, I can't attend to you ;" and Ella walked out of
the room, without answering Rachel's question.
Rachel could not help feeling annoyed. She had some
special messages to give from her papa, and she was not to go
back without having them answered; and this delay would be
very inconvenient, for she had several things to prepare for
Bertha, who gave her German lessons three times a week.
The children were provoked, too. They liked regularity,
even when they complained of it; and although they seized
upon the excuse to go on with some new story books, they were
by no means comfortable.
Ella went to her grandmamma's room. Bertha was there,
and she drew back.
"Come in, Ella; what do you want V How chilling the
tune of voice was ! How utterly unlike the sympathizing ten-
derness which had touched Ronald's better feelings!
1 ! CLEVE HALL.
" I want to speak to grandmamma," said Ella.
" Do you, my darling? Oh, then, Bertha, these things
can wait;" and Mrs. Campbell pointed to a pile of account
books.
" Betsey is going to Clove, and she ought to pay the books,"
replied Bertha.
" Not to-day ; she must Wait. There will be another oppor-
tunity, I dare say, to-morrow."
" Couldn't you leave what you have to say, Ella, till the
children's lessons are finished V asked Bertha.
"It won't take two minutes," said Ella. "Grandmamma,
I have had a note from Aunt Mildred."
" We know all about that, Ella," observed Bertha; "grand-
mamma heard from your aunt yesterday herself."
"Then, grandmamma, when am I to go?"
" There is no hurry about settling the time now, Ella. The
accounts must be finished first."
"But I must know, because of getting my things ready;
and Aunt Mildred begs me to write and tell her."
" We will talk about it, Ella, my dear; we will see about
it," said Mrs. Campbell, nervously.
" But by-and-by will do just as well," remarked Bertha.
" It is not a matter of consequence whether you go one day or
another, Ella."
"If I don't go this week the fine weather may be gone ;
and Aunt Mildred wouldn't like me to be there when it is w T et,"
said Ella.
" But an hour can't make any difference," continued
Bertha ; " and Betsey must go to Cleve this morning."
" Mr. Lester's cook will be going to-morrow, Louisa says,"
replied Ella; "she would pay the books."
Bertha's temper was irritated to the utmost extent of for-
bearance. She gathered the account books together, without
trusting herself with another word.
" You can tell Betsey to wait, and come back to me your-
self, presently, Bertha," said Mrs. Campbell, making a com-
promise with her conscience, as Bertha was going away.
The door closed, not quite gently, and Ella sat down by
her grandmamma, and muttered, " Aunt Bertha is so dreadfully
soon put out."
Perhaps it was not quite wise in Bertha to do as she did. —
go to the school-room — it might have been better for Ella's
misdeeds to bear their own fruit, — but regularity was her
CLEVE HALL. Ill
mania, and she felt that the children were becoming irregular
Rachel ran up to her as she entered the room : " Dear Miss
Campbell ! I' wanted to see you so much ; I have a message
from papa."
Bertha had felt lonely and dispirited just before, but that
oright face, and the musical voice, and loving accent, had an
influence which she could not withstand. Yet she was cold
still ; she would have appeared so at least to those who did not
comprehend her. " Wait one moment, dear Rachel. Children,
what are you about ?"
" Reading till Ella comes back," said Louisa.
" Put away your books, and tell me what you have to do."
" I have an hour's music to practise," said Fanny, mourn-
fully.
" Well, then, set about it at once. And Louisa?"
" Oh ! a great many things," said Louisa, carelessly.
" French dictation, and geography, and lessons for to-morrow,
and reading history, and sums. I shan't have done till I
don't know what o'clock."
" Then begin something directly. Where is your slate ?
Show me what sum you are doing."
"Ella was explaining to me about decimal fractions, last
time," said Louisa.
" Decimal fractions ! nonsense ! where did you leave off
with me ? The rule of three; — rthere, take that sum, No. 19,
and work it while I am here. Not a word to be spoken, re-
member. Now, Rachel;" and Bertha . opened the window,
and stepped out upon the little lawn, followed by Rachel.
" I won't keep you a minute, at least not many, dear Miss
Campbell," began Rachel.
" Never mind, I have time to spare ; Ella won't be back
again for the next half-hour;" and Bertha sighed.
" I wish I could help you, and I wish — " Rachel hesitated
— " I wish Ella didn't trouble you."
" We won't talk about her," said Bertha, shortly.
Rachel was thrown back, and ventured upon no more ex-
pressiona of sympathy. "Papa says, dear Miss Campbell,
that he wants you to come up and see him this evening; he
wanted to know if perhaps you would come and drink tea
with me; but be mayn't be at home till late himself, lie has
several poor people to see, and he may be kept."
" Yes, I will come, certainly." Quite different Bertha's
(ice hi v< then; there was even a tone of excitement in it.
112 CLEVE HALL.
Rachel's quick ear caught the change.
" Dear Miss Campbell, may 1 say one thing more to you 7
Perhaps it is not exactly the right time, but if you could spare
me a few moments."
"As many as you like."
" And you won't be offended ?"
" I don't think I could be offended at anything you woull
say, Rachel."
" Because you are so kind, and make allowances for me ;
but 1 am half afraid of this." Her color went and came
very quickly, and she stopped for some seconds, and at last
said. — " Oh, Miss Campbell, I do so wish every one was com-
fortable."
" A universal wish, at least, Rachel."
" Oh, no \" exclaimed Rachel ; "it can't be; at least — I
don't mean to be rude — but if every one wished it, every one
would be."
"Not quite," replied Bertha; "God sends afflictions."
" But those would not make one uncomfortable, would they ?
but unhappy. And, do you know, I think it is much worse to
be uncomfortable than unhappy."
Bertha could not help laughing. "Well, perhaps it maj
be, — though it is not the general view of the ease. But you.
have nothing to make you uncomfortable, Rachel 1"
" Not at home, and I never used to haye anywhere."
" Till we came here," said Bertha.
Rachel hesitated a little. " I suppose, where there are so
many people, things must be more uncomfortable; but I am
very sorry about it, and I should like so — it came into my
head that perhaps you could tell me something to do to help
make them less so. You know I am going to be confirmed in
October."
•" Are you ? I didn't know it; but what has that to do with
your being confirmed ?"
" Nothing exactly; only thinking about that put the othei
into my head. Papa says it is a great starting point in life,
and that L am to think over all my duties, and see how I can
perform them better than I have done. And he told me to
think about what 1 did and said with my companions, and to
consider whether I could make things better in any way. That
was what reminded me of being uncomfortable, — for I don't
think Ella is comfortable, and I don't think I am when I am
with her."
CLEVE HALL. 113
'•'Ella is a very difficult person to live with," said Bertha.
"She is never two days alike," continued Rachel. "That
puzzles me; because when I think I know how to get on with
her, she turns round and is quite different."
" She is a genius," said Bertha, rather bitterly, " and so
she has been spoilt."
Rachel was thoughtful. " I used to think," she said, "that
it would be very delightful to be exceedingly clever, but I
don't think I do now."
" Cleverness is all very well," said Bertha ; " but it is good
for nothing if people can't govern themselves."
" But clever people always do so much in the world," said
Rachel.
" I am not so sure of that, Rachel. The hard work of the
world is done by straightforward goodness, not by talent. Ella
will never do anything."
" You always say that/' said Rachel; "and it makes me
unhappy."
" I say it, because I think it," replied Bertha. " Louisa is
twice as useful as Ella now."
" And you don't know any way in which I could help Ella
to be more useful?" asked Rachel, the colour rushing to her
temples, as she added, — " It sounds conceited, but papa told
me I was to try."
" You will be cleverer than I am, if you can find out," re-
plied Bertha.
" Aunt Mildred says," continued Rachel, " that if we want
to lead people any particular way, we must begin by going two
steps with them, and then we may be able to persuade them
to go one step with us."
Bertha shook her head ; it sounded like a dangerous max-
im ; at any rate she was not accustomed to it.
" I don't mean two wrong steps, of course," pursued Ra-
chel, reading the doubtful expression of Bertha's countenance ;
"and Aunt Mildred, when she said it, told me I was not to
trouble my head about it now, because I have enough to do to
lead myself; but that it might be useful to remember when I
grew up. I could not help thinking about it, though, a little,
when papa talked to me about being useful, and setting a
good example; and at last I made up my mind that I would
ask yon if you could tell me anything in which I went against
Ella. I am very nearly sure I do sometimes, without mean-
ing it."
114 CLEVE HALL.
"Sin- goes against herself," replied Bertha. "There is
nothing to I"' done with persons who d> that."
" Ami you don't think it is my fault?"
" No, dear Rachel, what could make you think it was?"
"Because, do you know, Miss Campbell, I can't help look-
ing up tu Ellaj and so, when things go wrung, I can't help
fancying the fault must be mine."
•■ As to cleverness," said Bertha, " every one must look up
to her."
" And she has such grand notions," continued Rachel.
" I think sometimes she would have been such a great person
if she had been a man ; and that perhaps the misfortune is
her being a woman. Would she have been better as a man,
do you think ?"
" Really, dear Rachel, I never troubled myself to think.
1 believe we arc all best as God has made us."
" But such a great mind seems shut up in a woman's body,"
said Rachel, laughing.
7 . i
"It is nut a great mind, Rachel. Great minds do great
things."
" Ella begins a great many," said Rachel.
" But she docs not finish them. A thing is not done till
it is finished." A smile crossed Bertha's face as she said this,
and she added : — " That is a truism, at least it sounds like
uiic; but I am sure half the world forget it. And then peo-
ple go shares with others in their duties, and so deceive- them
selves. Ella goes shares with you, Rachel."
" How ? 1 dou't understand ?"
" She has grand notions of what is right, and, when the
fit is upon her, she forms beautiful plans of duty, and begins
them ; but she grows tired of them, and leaves you or the
children to finish them. Then she has a vague idea that be-
cause they are done by some one, it is the same as if they
were done by her. All this is terrible self-deception. It will
be her ruin if it is allowed to go on."
" And I can't do anything, then ?" said Rachel, sadly.
"I suppose we all do something when we attend to our
own duties," replied Bertha. "Ella would be much worse if
it were uot for you."
"But, about going two steps with her?" said Rachel,
thoughtfully. " Can't you tell me what Aunt Mildred means
by that?"
"I don't understand how we are to go two steps with any
CLEVE HALL. 115
one who is going the wrong way," said Bertha, rather shortly.
" I think, Rachel, you had better leave Ella to herself."
Rachel's was a very warm heart, and there was an innate
truthfulness in her character, which was her bond of sym-
pathy with Bertha. It kept her now from being utterly
repelled ; but it was very trying to" give confidence, and seek
it, and find nothing in return. She walked on, silent and dis-
appointed. Bertha's heart smote her ; and something whis-
pered to her that she did not care to talk about Ella, or try to
improve her, and that she ought to do so.
" Don't go, Rachel dear," she said, as Rachel turned into
the path to the rectory. " Have you nothing more to say ?"
" Nothing, thank you. But you will come and drink tea
this evening?"
" Yes, and shall Ella come too ?" It was a great effort
for Bertha to propose this. She did not wish it at all, but it
was an amends to -her conscience. A few moments before
Rachel would have said that it would be pleasanter to have a
quiet hour alone with Miss Campbell, but she did not feel
that now. She only thought herself very stupid in having
mentioned Ella's name.
"Yes, if you please," she replied; "you know we drink
tea at half-past six, so you will be back in time to read to Mrs.
Campbell. Papa has altered the hour, because of having to
go across the hills, nearly every day, to see poor little Barney
Wood. Do you know, Miss Campbell," — and Rachel became
animated in the consciousness that she was going to say some-
thing agreeable, — "Ronald Vivian has been so kind to Bar-
ney ; he has cut him out a little ship, and he goes to read to
him sometimes. Isn't it good of him?"
Bertha kissed Rachel ; — that was her answer; and Rachel
ran away, feeling that she had in some unknown way made
her peace.
CHAPTER XV.
r^ LL A deceived herself; but so also did Bertha Campbell.
1 J Was that possible ? — so strict as Bertha was in her self-
examination, so very rigid buth in the theory and the practice
111-! CLE YE HALL.
of duty, and above all so very true both by nature and long
habit.
'• The hear! is deceitful above all things."
This is, of course; peculiarly true of the affections, espe-
cially when the feeling nursed is the one gentle point in a
character otherwise unyielding. But the expression must
include also the whole bent and disposition of the mind. The
one object which we love, or for the success of which we
labor, be it ever so pure, ever so disinterested, — human
friendship, — a work of benevolence, — the carrying out of
some noble principle, — that is our temptation. If we do not
watch, and strive, and continually balance it by other claims,
it will one day be the cause of our fall.
This seems to be the secret of much of that inconsistency
which is a stumbling-block to the young in the characters of
those whom they are taught to reverence. Good men devote
themselves to the support of a theory, or to the advancement
of some definite object, and, unconsciously to themselves, it
too often takes the place of God. The range of their sympa-
thies, and consequently of the virtues they practise, is nar-
rowed, and others see with surprise, and often consternation,
that whilst professing the very highest principles, and devoting
themselves to the very noblest purposes, they can yet utterly
overlook the simplest and most obvious duties.
Thus it was, at least in a degree, with Bertha Campbell.
Naturally warm-hearted, yet painfully reserved, she had early
in life been brought in contact with a person who had excited
her keenest interest, and, by giving confidence, had in time
been able to exact it. This was the beginning of her affection
for Ronald Vivian's mother. Reserved people are grateful to
those who teach them unreserve. Bertha was grateful to Mrs.
Vivian. Gratitude, deepened by compassion, became love, —
that romantic feeling which is so continually the day-dream of
a young girl's life, and which may not be the less dangerous
because the world sees in it nothing to condemn.
And so Bertha's dormant sympathies flowed into this one
channel which she had dug for herself, and found no veut in
those which had been formed for her by God. Mrs. Campbell
had doubtless much cause to blame herself for this, but Ber-
tha could not be said to be innocent. Because sho liked to
be with Mrs. Vivian, and knew that her society was apprecia-
ted, and her presence felt as a comfort by one .otherwise lonely
ind desolate, she made excuses to her conscience for the neglect
CLE', T E HALL. 117
of little Lome duties, find attributed her mother's reproaches
to harshness of temper aud want of sympathy with her plea-
sures. Mrs. Campbell was in consequence estranged from her,
and bestowed her affections upon the children. Bertha was
hurt at this. She was not exactly jealous; it was not in her
disposition; but her pride was wounded, and Ella's talents
causing her to be brought forward far beyond her years, they
were continually jarring. So the coldness spread. Bertha
knew her faults, aud kept a strict watch over them ; but she
knew them by their effects, not their cause. She was always
doctoring herself for symptoms, whilst she had never reached
the root of the disease. And now, unknown to herself, under
the guise of the most sacred of all feelings, — a desire to save
from ruin the child of the friend whom she had dearly loved, —
tie same seed of evil was again being nurtured in her heart.
To Ronald she could give sympathy, tenderness, and the most
untiring interest ; he was, in another form, the romance of
her early life ; to Ella and Clement she could offer nothing
but rales of duty and cold advice. Was this selfishness ?
By the strictest inquiry as to her faults, Bertha could not
have discovered it. The friends who knew her most intimately,
and watched her most narrowly, could not have accused her
of it.
Only in one way could she have perceived it : by examining
whether the scales of duty were equally balanced ; — whether
in throwing the weight of her energy into one, she had not,
from a secret bias, lightened the other.
And this kind of self-examination Bertha had not learnt
to practise. She inquired rather into the quality than the
extent of her duties, and as long as those which she had set
herself were attended to thoroughly and honestly, she saw no
in id to ask whether there might not be others neglected.
Yet Rachel's conversation left an unpleasant impression on
her mind; it touched her conscience, though she was not quite
aware of the fact, and, in consequence, made her feel more.
Irritated with Ella than before. And, certainly, there was
much to complain of that morning: Ella stayed nearly half an
hour with her grandmamma, persuading her that it was quite
necessary she should go to the Hall the next day; and when,
at length, sin: had obtained the desired consent, ran up stairs
to consult Betsey about a box for packing her things, taking
up tlii' servant's time, so that the bed-rooms were not finished
till twelve o'clock. The children's lessons might have been
118 CLEVE II ALL.
scattered to the winds, but for Bertha. As it was, they went
on most energetically and satisfactorily j but it was ;it the
expense of poor Bertha's time, and, in a certain way, of her
health, for Bhe was obliged in consequence to give up a walk
before dinner, which had been specially recommended her, in
order to write the letters which ought properly to have becu
finished whilst Ella was with the children.
Very little trouble and labor this would have been to
Bertha, if Ella had been at all cousiderate or grateful ; but
she was so in the habit of letting her duties fall quietly upon
Bertha's shoulders, that she really was not aware at last who
was hearing the burden, and therefore scarcely ever thought
of saying, " Thank you." What was still more provoking, it
never seemed to cross her mind that it was her duty to pro-
vide, in some way, for the children's instruction during her
absence. She was one of those easy-tempered persons, who
never seem to imagine that they give trouble, because they
have never been in the habit of taking it. " Things will go
on somehow," was a very favorite saying of hers; the some-
how, meaning anyhow, so long as her own plans w r ere not
interfered with.
It is a grievous pity that we do not all learn to call our
faults by their right names. Ella acknowledged herself to be
indolent, — that she did not object to; it was rather a refined
fault. She would have been deeply mortified if it had been
suggested to her that she was selfish, for she was always
dreaming of heroism, and heroines are never selfish.
And on that day particularly, Ella was a heroine in her
own eyes, for she was indulging a long-cherished romance.
She thought it was about her Aunt Mildred, but it was really,
as is the case with most persons wdio give themselves to ro-
mance, about herself. Ella believed herself to be, as she
expressed it, " bewitched with Aunt Mildred." They had
not met above five or six times; but Mildred's sweet face,
• her quiet grace, and earnest thoughtfulness, were most attract-
ive to Ella's excitable imagination. And then the solemn
grandeur of the old Hall, the seclusion of Mildred's room,
opening into the private garden, her grandfather's dignity-;
the deference of the servants, and, above all, the mystery
which had so long been connected with the home of her
father's childhood; — it was not wonderful that these things
should work upon Ella with an influence amounting to fasci-
nation. It had been her dream for the last two mouths that
CLEVE HALL. 119
she should go and stay at Cleve, and a very innocent dream it
seemed ; but, unfortunately, though Aunt Mildred appeared
in the foreground in Ella's imaginary pictures, she herself
was always peeping over her shoulder : and if the dream had
been examined when carried on to its termination, it would
have been found that, at last, Ella was to reign triumphant
at Cleve, her grandfather's idol, Aunt Mildred's pet, — safe
from grandmamma's nervous anxieties and Aunt Bertha's lec-
tures, — the centre of interest to the whole family.
With what an instinctive stateliness of manner did Ella
leave the house that afternoon, arm-in-arm with Clement, to
ramble over the hills ! Bertha had taken the children ; Mrs.
Campbell was inclined to be left alone, probably to sleep.
Clement was yawning, and complaining of dulness; and what
better could be devised under such trying circumstances than
a lon<r walk ? Ella was not fond of mounting the hills : she
liked much better to go to the sea-shore, and read poetry; but
she had been taking a mental stimulant, and for once said
" Yes," when Clement proposed that they should try and
reach the Beacon, a pile of stones raised as a kind of land-
mark, on the top of the highest hill, which rose a little to the
north-west of Encombe.
They set off vigorously over the rough stones of a long
lane; mounted a high gate, made their way across a field of
stubble, and emerged upon the fine turf of the hills. Clement
stopped to take breath and rest, for the ascent, even as far as
they had gone, was tiring. Ella dragged him on : " For
shame! false-hearted! to want rest just at the beginning;
how will you hold out to the end V
" As well as you do, I will answer for that. The hare and
the tortoise, remember."
" 1 always admired the hare the most, though I respected
the tortoise," exclaimed Ella-, hastening on; and then stop-
ping for a moment, quite breathless, and laughing at Clement's
plodding steps: "You see, Clement," she said, as he drew
inn-, " the good of doing things at a start is, that you gain
tiine by it, to find a little amusement with your neighbors.
The world would lie a very dull world if every one went
through it only minding his own concerns, as you do now."
"There is something in that," said Clement, throwing him-
self upon the grass; "but what are you to do, Ella, whim
there is no amusement to find?"
"Oh, make it. 1 should always make it," rei. lied Ella.
120 CLEVE HALL.
"If it was nol in life, I would get it from books; and if it
was nut in be had in books, 1 would invent it."
'• Very well for you, who have brains; but for a poor fel-
low who has none I"
'• Nonsense, Clement ! I won't have you say that. Now for
another start!" And almost before the words were spoken,
Ella had made a rush, and was several yards in advance.
Clement followed at a distance. A call from Ella hastened
his steps.
" Mr. Lester and Rachel going towards the foot of the Bea-
con ; shall we catch up with them '(" ^he did not wait for an
answer, but hurried forward.
Clement stood still for an instant, and perceiving a short
tut up a steep bank, which Ella could scarcely have ascended,
was a Lout to hasten after her, when, happening to look round,
he perceived Ronald Vivian coming up the lull, with the firm
tread and athletic gait of a mountaineer; not hurrying like
Ella, not leisurely and indolently moving on with unsteady
pace like himself, but at every stride; making a marked pro-
gress, which promised in a few seconds to bring them to the
same level.
The two boys caught sight of each other at the same mo-
ment. Clement stopped.
They were only half friends, for Clement had not forgiven
Ronald for his interference on the night of the storm, and was
all the more irritable because he had found that there was
really no ground for offence. Ronald had indeed urged Golf to
go without him, but he had never pretended to give a message
which he had not received. The attraction which drew them
together was like that of the rattlesnake ; and it was with an
assumption of superiority that Clement exclaimed, "Holloa!
what errand are you upon now, Ronald?"
" Nothing of consequence,"- was the reply, shouted forth in
Ronald's loudest tones; and, without pausing, he went on in
an opposite direction from that which Clement was taking.
Ilis indifference piqued Clement, and he called again, " I
say, Ronald, stop, can't you? "What on earth does he go on
at that pace for '(" he muttered to himself, as Ronald, either
naturally or wilfully deaf, strode forward.
Another loud, shrill call, so loud that Ronald cordd not but
licai', and stop in answer to it; and Clement, irritated and
proud, walked up to him leisurely, taking rather a delight in
;rving one or two impatient gestures.
CLEVE HALL. 121
A scowl was on Ronald's face. His temper was by nature
very quickly aroused, and had been, till lately, at times, quite
ungovernable.
" I'll tell you wliat, young sir," be began, as Clement came
up to him, " you must learn that I have something else to do
than to stand kicking my heels together for you. Why don't
you make haste V
" Why didn't you stop ?" inquired Clement.
" Why should I ? We have nothing to say to each other."
" We shall have a great deal, if you can't be civil, Master
Ronald," said Clement. "But there is no need to fret your-
self. I only want a plain answer to a plain question. Where
are you going ?"
" Where you are not required to follow," replied Ronald.
" Your course is up the hills, I take it."
" And yours along them. I am not so igncrant, you see,
as you may fancy."
Ronald's color rose; but some inward thought checked
his anger. " I was impatient just now," he said, " and I am
sorry." He held out his hand.
The words came out so naturally, that Clement scarcely un-
derstood that an apology had been offered. Yet he took the
hand extended to him, saying, " You needn't be so close ; I
don't want to tell upon you."
" There is nothing to be told," replied Ronald; " but our
ways don't go together."
" Why not ? Ella and I are only taking an afternoon's
walk. Why shouldn't we go with you V
" Because I shall be better without you," said Ronald,
bluntly ; " the road is a rough one."
" Oh, nonsense for that ! Ella doesn't care for rough roads ;
and as for me," and Clement laughed satirically, "as if I
couldn't do what you do !"
" That may be. But, Clement, you are not coming with
me," and tossing his stick into the air, Ronald strode onward.
"I am not, eh?" exclaimed Clement; "we'll see that,
young gentlemen !" He flung down a few wild-flowers which
he had been carrying for Ella, and pressed forward, keeping
Ronald in Bight, yd oot attempting to join him.
He had forgotten Ella; he generally did forget everything
but the impulse of the moment; and he had an impression
th.it Ella was going along the foot of the hills in a direction
parallel with his own, and would be sure to join Mr. Lester.
G
122 GLEVE HALL.
He did not exactly say it to himself, but it was a kind of
vague conviction, enough to satisfy him; so he went on.
The path was winding, occasionally almost dangerous, for
it was nothing more than a sheep-track, and the hills were in
Mime parts very nearly precipitous. But Clement had a firm
tread, and a steady eye; he kept Ronald in view, except when
at intervals a projecting point hid him for a moment from
sight, and felt something of the eagerness of a chase, as from
time to time he ascended a high mound or a steep bank, to
obtain a more general view of the course he was taking.
Then he did once or twice look for Ella, and at first he saw
her hurrying on after two figures, whom he supposed to be
Mr. Lester and Rachel, and afterwards he observed her stop
to rest, and shouted after her to show her where he was, but
he did not wait to listen whether she answered him. When
he looked the third time, she was not in sight, but, of course,
lie supposed, she had heard him, and, seeing him at a distance,
had joined Mr. Lester.
-«•»-
CHAPTER XVI.
THE direction which Ronald took, and which Clement fol-
lowed, led at length iuto another of those deep gorges with
which the Encombe Hills abounded, formed, in all probability,
by the constant fretting of some mountain stream, wearing
away the rocks.
Greystone Gorge, as it was called, was much narrower than
the ravine in which the village of Encombe had been built.
The stream, to which it must have owed its origin, had long
been dried up, and it was now, for the most part, quite barren
and stony, except where some few patches of rank gi - ass had
sprung up among the rocks. At the upper extremity, how-
ever, a solitary ash-tree, the relic probably of the woods which
had formerly clothed the hills, had taken root, and, with the
cliff behind, formed a shelter for a good-sized cottage, a small
cow-shed, and a pig-stye. Under the shade of the tree, a
party of children were at play, collected around a little hand
carriage, in which a sickly boy, of about five years of age, was
lying; but Ronald's figure was no sooner seen descending the
CLEVE HALL. 123
height, than a scream of mingled fear and delight burst forth,
and in a moment they were scattered in all directions, hiding
themselves in the house, or behind the cow-shod, and one of
the more adventurous climbing up the face of the almost per-
pendicular cliff.
Ronald called to them with a rough but good-natured re-
proof: "Why, you silly imps! what are you after? Here,
Johnnie, — Martha ; here, I say. One would think I was the
Black Rider."" They came up to him, and he unslung a basket
which he had been carrying on a pole over his shoulder, and,
placing it on the ground, told them to take it between them
into the cottage.
"I thought 'tweren't no one but you, Master Ronald," ex-
claimed Johnnie, seizing the basket by one handle, and nearly
upsetting it; "but Martha declared as how there was two of
you, and then I said you always come alone, so it couldn't be
you."
"What has Martha been doing to see double?" exclaimed
Ronald. " I shan't trust her if she does that."
" There was another, and that's he," exclaimed Martha ;
and, pointing to the top of the rocks, she added : " He's a
skulking down, but I can see him."
" He shall skulk to some purpose," exclaimed Ronald,
springing up the rocks again with the agility of a wild goat,
and in his eagerness not hearing the cries of the sickly boy
under the ash-tree, who called after him in a voice of agony,
" that he would break his neck, and then he shouldn't see him
any more." From point to point he swung himself with a
rapidity which it was pain to follow ; his feet seeming scarcely
to touch the rock, his eye giving quick glances around.
" He's got him ; there they be !" exclaimed Johnnie ; and
drawing his little sister towards him, he showed her where, on
an overhanging platform, Ronald and Clement stood confront-
ing each other.
" Spy !" burst from Ronald's lips.
Clement laughed. " I was not to come, wasn't I ? I
have shown you now that I will come, when and where I
choose."
" Not without my consent," replied Ronald, coolly; "you
will go back/'
"Not at your order, Master Ronald; or we will try which
i> the strongest."
" Ay, try I" and Ronald shrugged his shoulders con-
121 CLEVE HALL,
temptuously. " I should be sorry, young sir, to have to pitch
you over the rocks." He folded his arms, and nodding bis
lic.ul as he looked up at the cliffs, added : " If you take my
advice, you'll be off."
'• I take no advice, except from my superiors," exclaimed
Clemeut.
Ronald's eyes flashed, he lifted up his hand, and touched
Clement's shoulder.
His grasp was shaken off indignantly, ahd Clement
clenched his fist, and drew nearer to the edge of the rock.
" llonald ! Ronald !" screamed a voice from below. The
sick boy was raising himself in his little carriage, and stretch-
ing out his hands.
Ronald's hand, which had been raised to ward off the
anticipated blow, fell by his side. " As you will," he said,
quite calmly; "we are fools to quarrel;" and he turned sud-
denly round, and sprang down the cliffs. The next moment
he was at the side of the child's carriage.
" Barney, what made you call? What frightens you ?"
"I don't know. You'd have tumbled over," said the child,
" kihI I wanted you."
" I was coming to you; you mustn't be impatient."
" He looked as if he would have thrown you down," con-
tinued the boy.
" Perhaps he would, but I should have picked myself up."
" But you couldn't; God wouldn't have let you; you'd
have been killed ;" and tears of nervous fright chased them-
selves down the little fellow's cheeks.
" No matter perhaps for that, if I had been," muttered
Ronald.
Barney caught the words. " It must matter," he said.
"Father says it don't, but the clergyman says it does; he
taught me a hymn about it. I can say it;" and without wait-
ing for permission, he began, and went through the first verse
till just at the end of the last line, when he stopped, and,
looking up at Ronald, said with a keenly intelligent smile,
'• lie's a listening; he's no business to listen."
Clement was close at band.
" Go on," said Ronald ; and the second verse of the hymn
was begun and finished, and then Barney stretched out his
wasted hands to Ronald, and said, "Won't you carry me ?"
And Ronald lifted him in his strong arms, and bore him a lew-
paces up the rock to a stone seat, and, resting the child in hia
CLEVE HALL. 125
lap, he Lade him look down the gorge, and see if any one was
coming up.
" Father's coming, I think ; no, 'tisn't he, 'tis the black
cow. Father won't be home yet. Shan't you have time to
Bta y ? "
" I don't know; if I can't, I will come again. But you
must wait here a minute, whilst I go and talk with the young
gentleman. You'll be comfortable if I put my coat down for
y° a "
He took off his coat, and folding it together, stretched it
over the stone, and laid the child upon it. " There, Barney,
just for two minutes. You can look at me all the time ; you
won't care, will you?"
Barney's face betokened teai\s; but Ronald stopped them.
" You told me yesterday you meant to try and be good, and
not cry any more."
" I wouldn't if you didn't go away."
"But if I do you mustn't; that's what would be right;
and when I come back we will open the basket."
" Have you brought them?" exclaimed the child, his eyes
sparkling, and the color rising to his pale checks.
" Yes, two flags, beautiful flags, for the little ship, and some
tiny men, and a cake besides, and a picture-book. You shall
see them presently, but you must let me go now;" and he gently
loosened the tight hold with which Barney grasped his sleeve,
and, nodding to him, hurried down the bank.
Clement had not moved from the ash-tree ; he was stand-
ing there, moodily, watching Ronald and the child. When
Ronald drew near he glanced around, as though he would fain
have made his escape.
Ronald went up to him at once. " You have seen all there
is to see ; now, Clement, will you go ?"
"I don't see why you should make such secrets about
nothing," replied Clement, taking up the offensive. "Why
couldn't you tell me at once you were coming to see the child ?
I shouldn't have troubled myself then."
" Because I didn't choose to answer impertinent questions;"
and, seeing Clement's color rise, Ronald added, " I am not
going to be angry, Clement, but once for all I tell you that
now you must go."
" \ don't see that," was Clement's reply.
"Then you must learn to see it. Mr. Lester and Miss
Campbell would wish it; you know that as well as I do."
126 CLEVE HALL
"lam nut goirig to submit to a woman/' exclaimed Clement,
"and Mr. Lester has no authority."
•• Perhaps not. It makes no difference to me."
"And you will he a-turn-coai after all," exclaimed Clement,
" tied to a woman's apron-string ! Well, then [" and his lips
curled into a super; "perhaps you are right; we had better
part."
Ronald's hand grasped the knotted head of the stick which
he held in his hand, till every muscle seemed strained to
Buffering.
"And when I thought we were to he friends!" pursued
Clement, his tone softening. " You told me we should be."
" Yes, when I thought there was no obstacle."
" Obstacle ! When persons choose to be friends, what is to
prevent it V
" It can't be," was Ronald's reply.
" But it can. and shall be, if 1 wish it. We are not always
to be kept under lock and key ; the world will one day be free
to us."
Ronald laid his rough hand upon Clement's arm : " Good-
b'ye, old fellow! It won't do." The faltering of his voice
belied the indifference of his words. " You'll thank me for
it, some day," he added.
" Thank you for making me know bow to trust in a friend,"
exclaimed Clement, the scornful accent again marking his
words.
" Our paths lie apart," continued Ronald. " You don't
see it now, Clement, but you will."
"And time enough then to change," replied Clement.
" Too late then," replied Ronald. He moved a few steps
aside, perhaps not to betray bis inward feelings, and mounting
upon a pile of stones, looked down the gorge. In another
minute he returned to Clement, and his voice was altered from
stern earnestness to eagerness which bordered upon excitement :
" I can't have you stay. There is a short way up the cliff, by
tfie brushwood. Come, we must go — both." He sprang for-
ward, and Clement, almost frightened by his wild manner
followed him.
They reached the top of the gorge, and paused.
" There is my father," said Ronald, coldly.
A man was seen coming up the gorge.
" I must go to him ;" yet he lingered.
" Ronald," said Clement, "you are so strange
!'»
CLEVE HALL. 127
" Am I? Yes, I know I am. Oh Clement!" and he sank
apon the ground, and buried his face in his hands.
" Ronald, you won't let me help you, or I would."
" Help me by leaving me. Go, go — it is sin to be together.
Sin/' he repeated in an under tone, and then a faint, mockiug
laugh followed the words : " why should I care for sin 1"
"We must all care/' said Clement, timidly.
" Ay ! all — while there is time — while there is hope." He
started up suddenly, and grasped Clement's arm : " There is
time and hope for you : keep from me, or there will be none — ■
none."
A child's cry fell faintly but clearly on the ear.
Ronald leaned back against the rock, and his lip quivered :
" Clement, I have been passionate, wicked : forgive me." He
hurried down the cliff, Clement not daring to follow him.
<»t
CHAPTER XVII.
RONALD stood again by the side of the sick boy, and spoke
soothingly, and caressed him as before ; but the child
noticed the change.
"You went away and left me," he said, fretfully; "you
told me you wouldn't, and you did."
"I couldn't help it, Barney; I didn't mean to go. Shall
I carry you in-doors now? and we will unpack the basket."
His heart was not in his words, for his eye was at every instant
glancing down the ravine.
" I don't want to see the basket; I want you to stay, and
you are going away."
" By-and-by, not yet. You will like to see the new flags."
" Yes, out here ; if you'd sit down and take me up. It's
so hard !" and the poor child twisted himself uneasily on his
stony couch.
"In-doors, on the cushion," said Ronald, "it might be
better than my knee. Won't you go and try V
" No, I don't like the cushion ; I want to be taken up
Oh, it hurts !" and the poor little fellow tried to move so as to
ase liis back, and finding it useless, began to cry.
Ronald put his arm round him and gently raised him!
128 CLEVE HALL.
"Now, Barney; there's a good boy, don't cry. You must
leaxo tn be a man. You won't be ; if yon cry. Now, isn't
that better?"
" But you won't take me; if you'd let me Bit up. I don't
Want to go in-doors ; I want to sit up."
"Oh, Barney, Barney ! you've been spoilt; yon have had
your own way till you arc naughty."
The fretful, wizen face was calmed directly. "I don't
want to be naughty. Mr. Lester says I shan't go to Heaven
if I am."
Ronald lifted him up fondly, and set him on his knee; but
Barney was not satisfied.
" No, I'll go in, and I'll see the flags. That's not spoilt,
is it ?" he added, gazing wistfully into Ronald's face.
Ronald only replied by kissing the little thin check; and
lifting the child in his arms, held him with the firmness of a
man, whilst his touch was gentle as a woman's, and carried
him towards the cottage
The building hid from them the length of the ravine, but
a sudden angle in the path brought them in front of it.
Barney's head was resting upon Ronald's ami, and he feebly
t mi icd it, for his ear had caught another footstep : " It's Captain
John; ain't it Captain John ? He won't becoming to take
me : you won't let him ?" and he clung closely and tremblingly
to In maid.
« Foolish child ! what's there to be afraid of?" but Ronald's
own voice was not as indifferent as his words.
" He said he'd carry me off one day," whispered Barney;
"and grandfather said, if he were father, he'd give me up."
" Because you were good for nothing, I suppose," said
Ronald, good-naturedly. "But, never mind; he won't want
to do it now; and grandfather's not with him."
" Are you sure ? But Captain John will want to have me."
" He wants me, if he wants any one," said Ronald, gravely.
" Tell him he mustn't; I can't bear you to go."
Ronald smiled grimly. " There's no must for him/' he
muttered to himself.
" I thought everyone must sometimes," persisted the child.
" Sometimes, perhaps." Ronald hurried forward so as to
reach the door of the cottage before his father, who was walk-
ing leisurely up the gorge, could see and stop him.
The little room which he entered was neater than the exter-
nal appearance of the house would have indicated. Fishing
CLEVE HALL. 129
tackle, indeed, hung on the whitewashed walls, and the flu.ir
was only of stone sanded over, and the ceiling was formed of
rafters blackened by smoke from the large open hearth, in
which wood was the accustomed fuel ; but there was an evident
attempt at something even of refinement in the arrangement
of a few cottage prints, and the flowers placed in the window-
seat ) and Barney's little couch was covered with a bright
chintz, whilst a curtain of the same material had been put up
to shut out the draught from the window. Evidently a woman's
baud had been at work ; but there was no woman to be seen,
and Ronald himself laid his little charge gently on the couch,
and placed the pillows comfortably for him, and said, " Now,
Barney, that will do, won't it? and I will take out the flags
and the picture-book, and you can show them to Martha and
Johnnie."
" There's Captain John coming, and be wants you," said
the child, in a changed voice. His gaze, as he caught hold of
Ronald, was anxious, almost terrified.
Captain Vivian stood in the doorway : " Absent without
leave, Ronald ! You'll please to answer for yourself."
There was a momentary pause, as it seemed of self-distrust,
for Ronald's words came slowly: "No need for that, Father;
you see where I have been without asking."
" Fooling away your time ; but we must teach you better
than that. I say, child, where's your father ?"
" Gone out with grandfather," replied the boy, quietly and
timidly. " Grandfather came and fetched him."
" Uniph ! How long ago ?"
" A good bit, I think it was ;" and the child looked up at
Ronald for protection from the rough voice.
"And you, sir !" Captain Vivian turned to Ronald — " Let
me hear what you are after here."
" Keeping my word," replied Ronald. " I promised to come
and see the child, and I came."
" Promises ! Perchance, since you are in the humor for
them, I may remind you of others. Where's the boy Clement
Vivian ?"
'• He is not in my charge," replied Ronald.
" And he has not been here? You have not seen him V
" He has been here, and I have seen him," replied Ronald;
"but he is gone."
" And you let him go. You dared to disobey my orders."
Captain Vivian's voice was fiercely threatening.
ICO CLEVE HALL.
"You gave me none," was the reply.
"A quibble! I pointed him out upon the hill, and told
you that to meet him and keep him would be doing good
Bervice."
"You said it," replied Ronald; "hut I judged that he
would not be profited by the meeting."
A torrent of fearful words burst from the lips of the en-
raged father.
" Don't be afraid, Barney — don't cry;" and Ronald stooped
down and stroked the child's head, and pressed his little hand,
which was trembling with nervousness. " Father," he con-
tinued, hurriedly, "I have not disobeyed you in the letter —
in the spirit I have and will. Nay, hear me to the end," as
Captain Vivian would have interrupted him; " I will, because
I must. It shall never be said that by my aid Clement Vivian
has become what I am."
" Foolish boy !" Captain Vivian's tone changed into a
soft sneer, more painful even than his violence. " Who says
that Clement Vivian is to become what you are? and if he
were, what need to be ashamed of being like a brave boy, who
can lord it over the boldest at his pleasure."
" But cannot lord it over himself," murmured Ronald ; and
then in a louder tone he continued, " Father, I will speak to
you plainly. Whilst Clement was my friend only, like any
other friend, and you encouraged our being together for that
purpose only, it was well : when you urge me to seek his
society for a different reason, you enter upon a course where
I will not follow you."
" Well learnt from the lips of Miss Campbell and Mr. Les-
ter, — perfectly learnt; but it shan't last. Listen, Ronald, my
boy; it's time we should begin to understand each other.
Obedience ! — that's the word. Mr. Lester himself can't
preach it better than I can. What's more," and Captain
Vivian struck his stick upon the ground, "he can't enforce it
better. Talk to me of shame and sorrow, and all they call
religion ! There'll be more shame and more sorrow for you
in one hour of your father's anger than in all the threats they
hold out from yonder pulpit at Encombe."
"I am ready to endure it," was the calm reply.
"Then try it; take your own will, and "
Ronald's countenance changed to an expression of agony:
"Stop! lather, in mercy; require of me what you will, do
with me as you will, only do not ask me to lead Clement to
ruin."
CLEVE HALL. 131
"Him? and why not him? Why is he to be cared foi
aiore than others ? I warn yon, boy, that he is a serpent in
your path, and one day you will wish that you had crushed
him."
Instead of replying, Ronald moved again towards the door.
" Ay, go," exclaimed Captain Vivian, whilst at the same
time he stretched out his arm to stop him ; " wander where
you will ; seek your own friends, you will soon have need of
them; for remember, Ronald," and his voice became sullenly
fierce, " refuse to do my bidding, and your father's doors will
be closed against you for ever."
As he spoke, Ronald pushed aside his arm, hurried from
the cottage, and mounted the gorge by the same path which
he had ascended with Clement.
He hurried on wildly over rocks and bushes, clambering
up heights which, in calmer moments, even he might have
thought inaccessible. The self-control he had exerted had
strained his mind almost to frenzy, and even his better feel-
ings seemed urging him on to despair. His father ! was such
a man worthy of the name of parent ? could he claim his
obedience? Was it really the act of a merciful Providence
which could subject him to si*ch a fiend-like power ? and if it
were not a hurricane of thoughts rushed over his mind.
Why should he struggle ?— evil was powerful, not good. Evil
had been present to him from his childhood, it was his portion,
his doom ; and scenes of riot and guilt rose up before him,
with their horrible excitement; and it seemed as if a strong
hand were forcing him back, to forget his misery in reckless-
ness ; and yield himself, body and soul, to the tempter whom
he had been striving to resist.
Weak Ronald was at the very moment of victory — for he
did not know that he had conquered. So fierce had been the
Struggle of that inward self-restraint to a spirit long unaccus-
tomed to the slightest check, that it seemed as if the effort
had only succeeded in breaking up the strong powers of his
mind, and rendering it a chaos of bewildering wretchedness.
He sat himself down upon the grass, and hid his face between
Lis knees, feeling, though unconsciously, that the clearness
of the unclouded sky, and the brilliancy of the glorious sun,
added tenfold to his sense of misery; and faintly from afar
came the tinkling of the sheep-bell, and the lowing of the
entile in the valley, mingling with the chirping of the grass*
and the whirring of the insects floating in the air,
132 CLEVE HALL.
but all hushed to Ronald's ear, which caught nothing but the
1 mine of the ocean, murmuring in its ceaseless tones :
■ The nicked arc like the troubled sea when it cannot rest,
whose waters cast up mire and dirt. There is no peace, saith
my (.rod, to the wicked."
So he sat for minutes, and thought them hours ; and so he
might have Bat even till night, conscious of nothing but the
sense of hopeless weakness and desolation, when a gentle hand
touched him, and a childish but most musical voice said in a
low and frightened tone, " Ronald, is it you? Are you ill ?"
It was Rachel Lester. He started up, and his haggard
face confirmed the suspicion she had expressed.
" I thought it was you, but I was afraid. You are ill; 1
will run and fetch papa : he is just coming."
u No, no ;" Ronald stopped her, as she would have hastened
away; "not Mr. Lester; I can't see him; and I am not ill,
not at all, only tired ; I must go."
Rachel looked doubtful: "You are very pale, Ronald;
papa would rather see you, I am sure."
" He can do me no good — good b'ye."
She looked wistfully in his face, and tears gathered in her
eyes : " Ronald, you are so very unhappy; I wish I could do
anything for you."
Most touching and earnest was the tone; and Ronald paused
as he was about to leave her, and said : " Thank you, Rachel;
that is more than many would say."
"Papa would do a great deal for you," she replied, "if
you would tell him what is the matter. May I say it to him ?"
' " Say what ?— that I am ill ?" _
" Yes, if you are ill ; but if it is only that things vex you,
he would like to help you if you would let him."
" And if he could," said Ronald, bitterly.
"But he can help every one; at least, he can't, but God
can through him."
" Mr. Lester can do a great deal, I know that, Rachel," said
Ronald, his moody tone changing into the gentle accent in
which he had spoken to the child at the cottage; "but there
maybe some things beyond his cure. Don't fret, though,"
he added, seeing that Rachel's face expressed her commisera-
tion for feelings which yet she was unable to understand;
" my troubles won't come in your way."
"They will, though," said Rachel; "I can't bear to see
you so, Ronald."
CLEVE HALL. li
O £1
•J -J
Ronald's smile passed over his face, as a gleam of sad sun-
shine at the close of a day of storms.
"God made us all to be happy," continued Rachel ; " so
papa says."
" He made you to he happy, Rachel," exclaimed Ronald,
earnestly.
" And you too, Ronald."
He shook his head.
" But we must he happy if we make others happy," con-
tinued Rachel.
" Perhaps so, if rce do."
"But you do. You make little Barney happy." She
paused, expecting his assent; but he did not give it, and she
went on. " He was crying for you the other day when papa
and I went to see him."
" He cries for a great many •hings/' said Ronald, with
some impatience of tone.
" Please don't say so 5 he loves you very much, and he would
not at all know what to do without you."
" He will be taken soon," replied Ronald, mournfully, yet
not despondingly.
" And then he will be like an angel, and God will give you
home one else to take care of. Oh ! Ronald, can any one be
unhappy who can work for God?"
Silence followed for a few seconds, whilst Ronald gazed
intently upon the expanse of the sea, with its high horizon
blending with the sky; then a sigh escaped him as if some
load had passed from his heart. He turned round_ abruptly:
" Good-b'ye, Rachel; you are good, if no one else is."
" Good-b'ye, Ronald ; we are going to see Barney."
Ronald walked a few steps slowly away, and then returned
to say: "Barney wants another little cushion for his head,
Rachel, if you could let him have it."
" Yes, I will be sure and remember."
He walked on again, his step blither and firmer; and again
he came hack : "I left him in a hurry just now, and could not
show him the picture-book I brought. Perhaps you will for
me, — and will you say I will try and see him again to-
morrow?"
"Thank \nu; ho will he so glad. Are you going up the
hills?"
"I don't know, perhaps so;" but the tone, sad a?»d indif-
ferent though it was, had lost its accent of despair. Sonic-
lo4 CLEVE HALL.
thing had changed the current of Ronald's moody thoughts,
and led him out of himself. Perhaps he was treasuring in
his heart the words, comforting and hopeful as the sweet little
\)\i-v which had just been gazing upon him — " Can anyone bo
unhappy who can work for God?"
Rachel watched him as he walked away, with that sense.
of interest and surprise, mingled with awe, which children
always feel when brought in contact with the suffering of per-
sons older than themselves; and at length waking up sud-
denly to the consciousness that she was alone upon the hills,
and that her father ought by this time to have joined her, she
was about to run back to the place where she had left him,
when a faint yet sharp cry of distress broke upon the stillness,
followed by another, and another; and the next instant Ronald
repassed her, though at some little distance, making his way
in the direction of the rugged cliff of rock and shingle, which
formed the highest point of the Beacon.
-«•»-
CHAPTER XVIII.
11 \ RE you going far, Sir, this afternoon ?" Mrs. Robinson
XA_ stopped Mr. Bruce, as his hand was upon the fasten-
ing of the little gate in the court yard.
"To the church; I may go farther, but I have not much
heart to go anywhere."
Perhaps it was illness which made Mr. Bruce speak so
desponclingly. He did appear very much out of health ; his
complexion had the yellow parchment look common to persons
who have lived long in a hot climate.
" You haven't been into the church yet, Sir."
" Not yet. Mr. Lester forbids the week days, and sent
me lasl Sunday to Cleve."
" Yes, Sir, yes ; I remember. Perhaps it might be as
well if I went, too, for the keys. Jacob Clarke is an odd
man."
"There is no reason. I have met Jacob at the Par-
sonage."
He's very blind," said Mrs. Robinson, in a meditativv
tone; "and deaf, too, sometimes."
CLEVE HALL. 135
"I shall do very well; don't trouble yourself. I shall go
to tbe Parsonage to drink tea."
His manner was that of a man whose mind is quite pre-
occupied ; and it might have appeared unkind to persons who
only knew him slightly. But Mrs. Robinson did not take it
to heart much, certainly not as much as Mr. Bruce himself,
when a momentary self-recollection reminded him of his tone,
which had been sharper than his words. He looked back at
her, and nodded: "Good-b'ye, Granny!" — he must have
learnt to call her that from Rachel Lester — don't expect me
till you see me ; but don't worry about me."
The sober, melancholy-visaged woman shook her head :
" Thoughtless — always the same ! But 'tis to be expected !"
and with a resigned air she repaired to the farm-kitchen, to
superintend some arrangements for her guest's comfort.
Half an hour afterwards she was at the gate again, for she
had heard it open, and thought he must be returned. It had
been opened, but by G-off, the fisherman, not by Mr. Bruce.
He came up to her with a swaggering air.
" Your friend at home, eh ?"
" Not at home," was the short answer.
"Gone up the hills, I suppose?"
" Perhaps so."
"But you can't say for certain, if your life depended
on it 1"
" Mr. Bruce doesn't trouble himself to tell me for certain
where he's eriinsr."
" And you don't trouble yourself to ask, of course ! And
you don't know, either, I suppose, how long he means to be
staying in these parts?"
'•lie doesn't tell me."
"Nor where he comes from, nor where he's going to ! nor
nothing about him ! Before Pd trust such a man ! "
"You aren't asked to trust him," was the quiet reply.
"He'd find it mighty different if I was ! I suppose, now,
lm gives a load of trouble ?"
'• As much and as little as most people."
"A sort of chap who's made to melt in your fingers, I
should say I" continued Goff.
" He's a gentleman who does not trouble himself about
other people, at all events !" said Mrs. Robinson indignantly.
" Ay ! a gentleman ! I should have said, now, he was that;
though 'tisu't all gentlefolks that's to be trusted. But he's
136 OLEVB HALL.
true blood, is he? I learnt to know the difference, in the old
days, when yon and I lived up at the Hall together."
"I don't remember when yon and I ever lived at any place
together, Mr. Goff," said Mrs. Robinson, haughtily. " L recol-
lect when you were a farm-youth upon the estate; and per-
haps it might have been as well for you if you had kept to
your calling."
" That's as folks think. Every one to his liking. Your
friend, now, I should say, would never have had a sea fancy,
like mine?"
" I never asked him."
" Oh ! but you can find out fast enough, from what a man
talks of and goes after. Why, there's the Captain! you
couldn't be with him five minutes, before you'd know he was
a sailor."
"If all sailors are like Captain Vivian," replied Mrs.
Robinson, " the fewer the better I"
" Then your friend's not a sailor. I thought as much as
that the night of the wreck. He'd never have let himself
be capsized, if he'd had an ounce of old ocean in him. He's
from foreign parts, though?"
" The vessel came from America, as you know."
" Yes, sure I do know. Who should better? for I've had
more to do with her than most folks. But I should say it
might have touched at other places — Jamaica, nowj I'm
downright certain somebody said it had touched at Jamaica."
"Perhaps it might. Have you anything more to say,
particular, Mr. Goff? I must go in-doors."
"Only that I've got a nephew living in Jamaica; and I
should just like to know whether this gentleman knows any-
thing about him."
"Not likely, I should think."
"I don't know. 'Tisn't such a large place. I've had a
good many thoughts about my nephew lately. Possibly you'd
do a good deed, and ask about him ?"
"I can't trouble Mr. Bruce about anybody's nephew," ex-
claimed Mrs. Robinson. " He has enough to do to take care
of himself."
"Umph! — and his children, I suppose. You wouldn't
have him not take a care for them?"
" Not if he has any. But I can't stand here any longer.
[f you want to see Mr. Bruce, you'll please to leave a message."
" No, I can't say I wished particularly to see him ; only I
CLEVE HALL. 137
thought that, being, as I supposed, fresh from Jamaica, be
might be able to give rue a word or two about my nephew.
Or perchance, wben he writes, he'd make an inquiry for me.
When will he be in ?"
" I can't say."
" Somewhere before eight, I suppose ?"
" I don't know; he is likely to be out all the evening."
" Ay ! gone up to Parson Lester's ; I could have guessed so
much."
" I didn't say he was gone there."
" Only if he's to be out all the evening, he's not likely to
be gone anywhere else. There's a way, you see, of putting
two and two together. But never mind, I'm not going to
trouble him nor you neither ; so good afternoon to you."
He went out at the wicket-gate. Mrs. Robinson's coun-
tenance was wonderfully imperturbable ; but certainly, after
that interview, a shade of restless anxiety might have been
traced in it.
And Mr. Bruce pursued his way to the cottage of Jacob
Clarke, the sexton. It stood alone, at the end of the lane
leading to the church hill ; and some might have thought it a
desolate home for the sickly man who inhabited it; but Jacob
would not have exchanged it for the most spacious dwelling-
house in the village. It was a palace to him, for it was in full
view of the church; and in the church, since its restoration
by General Vivian and Mr. Lester, all the pride of the sexton's
heart seemed to have concentrated itself.
He was working in his garden when Mr. Bruce came up;
but the moment he saw him, the spade was laid aside, and he
was feeling in his pocket for the heavy keys, which were his
inseparable companions.
" You'll be for going up, I suppose, Sir," he said, almost
before Mr. Bruce came within hearing.
" I was thinking of it, Jacob; but I won't trouble you, if
you'll just let me take the keys. You are busy I see. How
arc your eyes this afternoon?"
■• Baddish ; this left one, special. They say I shan't get
any better till I get worse, and then I can have something
dune to them ; but I rub on with hoping."
" Happy for you that you can. Just let me have the keys,
and I will bring them back quite safely. You can trust me."
"I trust your voice more than your look," replied Jacob,
Trith a grim smile. "I've learnt a good deal to know people
i;!S CLKV1 HALL.
of late by their voices ; and there's a sound in yours that some-
how comes home to me natural."
Mr. Bruce Btretched out his hand for the keys.
Jacob hesitated. "I'm thinking, — I'll tell ye what, I'll
e'en go up with ye ; the digging will do well enough to-morrow,
and i should just like to know what you'll say to the did place.
"lis a beautiful One outside now, ain't it?"
•• Yes. very beautiful. The old walls, I see?"
"Ay! sure; we should all have broke our hearts if the
old walls had been down. It's the windows that's new chiefly
— outside, that is; inside you'll see it's wonderful."
" And all done by Mr. Lester?" i
" No, no ; Mr. Lester helped, as a good man would ; but
'twas the General, chief. He'd been thinking of it, they say,
for a long time, and 'twas the first thing that seemed to cheer
him up after all his troubles."
They were ascending the steps together as Jacob said this.
Mr. Bruce stopped.
" You're out of breath, Sir."
" No, scarcely ; but I am not very strong. How long ago
did you say it was since the restoration of the church?"
" Some twelve years now, Sir, since it was finished; but it
took a long time about. I declare now I was sorry, in a way,
when it came to an end; and so, I suspect, was the General :
he was up here most every day, watching how it went on."
" He began it after his troubles : he has had a good many,
1 suppose?"
"You may say that; a hard life, poor old gentleman!
And now between seventy and eighty, and no one near him
but Miss Mildred; and all the old feuds as bitter as ever !
Somehow it's strange when a man's travelling to his grave.
But there ! it's the way of the world."
" There have been family disputes, then ?"
"Not so much disputes; but the General's uppish, — bent
on his own ways. It's been the fashion of the Vivians from
father to son."
" And the General is very determined?"
" Firm as an old oak. He'd break, but he'd never bend.
I can't help thinking sometimes, on looking back, that 'twould
have been better for him if he could. But now, Sir, just take
your seat here, and look round. You won't get a finer sight
than that all over the country." Jacob pointed to a wooden
bench placed at the top of the steps for the accommodation of
CLEVE HALL. 139
the old people. " You'll not be sorry to rest, I dare say, after
this pull up the steps; and you'll get a notion of the country
which may help you. There's not a bit of the village, as you
see, to be seen ; only the hills. But on the right, there are
the woods — the Cleve woods. That is the beginning of
General Vivian's property."
" How far does it extend?" inquired Mr. Bruce.
" Extend ! Why, he's got the whole of Encombe, not a
cottage in the place but belongs to him. Only one farm — The
Grange they call it — which is not his ; and sorrow's the day
that Captain John ever went to live in it."
" Captain Vivian, I suppose you mean. I have heard some
of the poor people speak of him as Captain John."
" They call him that, I can't say exactly why. He's not
a regular captain, though he's had a good deal to do with the
sea, they say, of late years. He likes sailor fashions, and so
he goes by the name ; but he's not fit to be a Vivian." Jacob
lowered his voice, as if communicating this fact confidentially.
Mr. Bruce turned away his head — the sexton's face seemed
peering into his. Jacob continued, in the same under tone :
" The long and the short of the matter is, he's a disgrace to
the family, and the ruin and the curse of every one that joins
with him. And he's been so for years, and his fathers before
him ; and no wonder the General can't abide him, when he's
been working against him and his set from a boy."
" From a boy? I thought the great quarrel had been of
late years, about — about — General Vivian's son."
"Oh! you've heard of all that, have you?" said Jacob,
with some disappointment in his tone. " Sure enough, there
was a great quarrel about Master Edward ; but 'twasn't that
was the beginning, as who should know better than I."
" Because you lived in the family, I suppose," said Mr
Bruce, rising from his seat.
"You'd best rest a minute or two longer, Sir; your voice
is quite shaky now; and there's no hurry. What were you
Baying? Oh! about my having lived in the family. Well!
I did live there, or, at least, my father did, which was much
the same thing. He was the butler, and I worked in the gar-
den, and about in different ways, making myself useful; and
so of course I came to know a good deal of the goings on ;
and sad enough they were at times."
" But General Vivian always lived a very steady life," said
Mr. Bruce, quietly.
1 10 clkvi: HALL.
"Oh ! steady as old Time, for that; too steady perhaps; at
least, somehow i( didn't seem to turn out, well, lint, you see,
his father, and his grandfather before him, had been just act-
ing different ; — spending here, and throwing away there, till
at last, when the General came into his property, I've been
told, there wasn't fifty acres of it strictly his own, 'twas all
so tampered with debts; and Captain John's friends having
a pretty large share of the claims. Theirs was the younger
branch of the family; and they lived in the neighborhood,
and were always quarrelling, and bringing lawsuits, and these
and the extravagance had just ruined the property.
" Well ! the General, as I said, was a firm man, not a bit
like those that had gone before him. Where he got his cha-
racter nobody could think; but 'tis said that his mother was
something of the same kind. If she was, she hadn't power
to keep her husband from ruin or next to it. Perhaps she
may have tried most with the children ; for certain it is, that
when the General came into his property — and that was when
he was very young, only twenty-five, after his elder brother's
death — he set his mind to one thought, and only one, how to
get matters straight. My father was in his service then, and
for old love's sake — for he'd known him from a boy — helped
him right and left. But 'twas hard work; and there isn't
many that would have borne to live as they did in those days
— the General still keeping to be a soldier, and scrimping and
pinching j and no servants scarce at the Hall; no company
when he was at home ; no carriages — scarce, indeed, butter to
your bread. But it answered : what, indeed, wouldn't answer
which the General set his mind to ? First one thing was paid
off, and then another; and the rumor got abroad that Cleve
Hall was looking up in the world again ; and sure enough,
'twas true. No thanks, though, to any of the other Vivians,
who did all they could to stop matters, and nearly sent the
General frantic; for with all his close ways for himself, he
wasn't a bit so with others; and when claims were made, if
there was but a shadow of honesty in them, he was ever for
paying. them; being honorable, he called it. As my father
used to say, he was always riding his virtues to death; and
'tis my belief, the other Vivians would have been much more
honorable if they hadn't known that what they set up for they
were sure to have."
"And they were living in Encombe then?" inquired Mr
Bruce.
CLEVE HALL. 141
" Near it, Sir. I hope I ain't tiring you. I thought you
Beamed to have a care to know about them. They had a house
the other side of Cleve, and a good bit of property in the
neighborhood. The General would have given anything they
asked for the land, but they never would part with it. 'Twas
their pleasure to be close to him to spile him. I don't think,
though, he took it much to heart then ; he didn't see the trou-
ble it was like to bring upon him.
" But he married at last, — 'twas after a good many years.
His lady was very young, and wonderfully pretty ; not a bit
like what you'd have thought he'd choose. I don't mean as
to being pretty, but as to lightheartedness, and not thinking.
As for him, he'd never been young ; care had come upon him
so early, and his stiff ways and set notions weren't to be bro-
ken. And so when they came to live at the Hall — that was
directly he married — for 'twas one of his notions never to
marry till he could bring his wife to her settled home — things
were not so very much changed from what they had been be-
fore ; I mean as to servants and housekeeping. I know even
in my own father 'twas to be seen. He'd been so taught to
be particular, that he couldn't for the life of him abide a pen-
ny's being spent where there wasn't strict occasion. And very
good, of course, it was, only now and then it struck me that
he didn't see where there was occasion. The lady, as I said,
was different. She liked to have things handsome about her,
and to see her friends, and to be gay ; and the General was
desperately fond of her, and indulged her in her fancies as
much as 'twas in his nature. But 'twasn't done with a hearty
goodwill ; and specially it used to fret him, so I've heard, to
see Master Edward turning after his mother's fashions rather
than after his own. Are you in a hurry, Sir?" for Mr. Bruce
moved impatiently.
"No, no; go on. Master Edward, you say, turned after
his mother V
''Yes, sir, in a way; but I don't think he ever had hei
thought — for Mrs. Vivian, with all her merry ways, had a
cue for every one about her. But perhaps it wasn't to be ex-
pected of Master Edward. He was young, and an only son,
and the property was all to be his ; and so he looked upon it
as his own too early, it's my belief. Any how, from time to
time there was black looks at the Hall, and 'twas well seen
things weren't going on smoothly. Captain .John was at the
bottom of a eood deal then, as he ha. been since, lie was
142 CLEVE HALL.
much about Master Edward's age, and spite of nil the General
could say, they made friends together. Not so strange that,
as you may think," continued Jacob, observing that Mr. Bruce
i a ,■ a start, as he supposed, of surprise. "I remember Cap-
tain John myself in those days; and there was a good deal
that a man might like, particularly a young man, not very
knowing of the world, like Master Edward. He was very
freespoken and hearty; and that took with Master Edward
all the more because his father thwarted him, and his life up
at the Hall was too get up and stiff for a young man's mind."
" Mr. Vivian had sisters, though/' observed Mr. Bruce,
with something of reproach in his tone.
" Well ! he had, and a prettier, nicer pair of young ladies
there wasn't to be found in all the country round. But, you
know, sir, we see it every day; women can't make up all to
men, any more than men can make up all to women. There's
a need of their own kind ; and so, when Master Edward came
from school and from college, he must needs take to Captain
John, just because he hadn't any one else to go to. And this
made the General desperate. His mother and the young ladies,
I believe, tried a good deal to stop it. I know my father said,
that many's the time he has come into the room and heard them
hogging Master Edward, for dear life, just to keep away from
what the General didn't approve. But he was strange, Mas-
ter Edward was ; — somehow strong and not strong — strong for
his own will, and not strong for anything else; and so he'd
promise for a time, and then, when Captain John came in his
way, it was all the same as before. And you see, sir," and
Jacob lowered his tone as if knowing that he was approaching
a dangerous topic, " he was afraid of his father; so, in tact,
they all were. It was at the bottom of a deal of mischief. If
a thing was wrong, 'twas always to be kept from the General,
because he'd no mercy."
" But I thought the General was gentle to women," said
Mr. Bruce; "you said he was so to his wife."
" Gentle in his own way, but 'twas a lion's gentleness.
Cross him in his fancies once, and you'd never do it a second
time. Not that he went off in a passion — 'twas all cold and
stony ; but knocking at his heart, when be was offended, was
like knocking at a wall, lie was wonderfully proud though
of his daughters, specially of Miss Edith, the eldest. Folks
said that 'twas because she was so like her mother. And cer-
tain she was very like her ; not quite so pretty perhaps, and
CLEVE HALL. 143
yet with a face that did one's heart good to look upon ; and
always a pleasant smile, and a merry word — and such a laugh !
Ah, sir, the Hall's a different place now from what it was when
she was livimr ! She lies now "
O
Mr. Bruce rose suddenly. " We will go into the church ;
give me the keys." He held out his hand for them, but with-
out staying to receive them, hurried along the little paved path
leading to the porch.
Jacob followed him with a wonderino: traze. " Poor o;en-
tleman ! then what they say of him is true, and he's daft,
sure !" With a slow step, he plodded along the strip of worn
pavement, murmuring as he went, " He'd have heard to the
end, for certain, if he wasn't daft."
But Mr. Bruce was standing composedly in the porch now ;
and conscious probably of his own impatience, he addressed
the sexton with something of an apology for his abrupt-
ness: " I was feeling the cold : it is cold iu the wind. Let
me have the keys, and, thank you, I won't keep you."
" By your leave, sir" — Jacob's self-love was a little wound-
ed, for he had been wasting his words — " the keys are my
chief charge, as you may say, and I'd best look after them; so
I'll just open the door and wait, for it seems you'll not be
wanting to have much told you."
His tone of annoyance was evident, and Mr. Brace's man-
ner softened into consideration.
" You shall tell me more, Jacob, only not now — not now,"
he repeated to himself, and he took the man's hand and wrung
it heartily. "Thank you ; you loved them all; yes, I know
you did."
"Daft!" was again Jacob's comment to himself; but he
changed his intention, and instead of resting himself in the
porch, followed Mr. Bruce into the church.
It was of moderate size, and consisted of two aisles. The
east end of the south aisle was a kind of chapel for the Vivian
family, divided from the chancel by an oak screen, but open
to the rest of the church. Three large, exquisitely-worked
monuments, of the date of the fourteenth century, the carving
of which had been cleaned, and in part colored and gilded ac-
cording to the original design, filled up the centre. The
deeply-cut letters engraven upon fchem, told that the recum-
b( m figures, a sekly lifting up their hands to heaven, were
the effigies of William and Everard Vivian, and of Walter and
144 CLEVE HALL.
Eleanor his wife, the first of the name who wore the pos-
sessora of the manor of Cleve.
The stranger did not pause to examine tiny part of the
church in detail. He stayed not to mark the beauty of the
decorated chancel-screen, nor to marvel at the exceeding rich-
ness of the stone reredos, nor the gorgeousness of the east
window. He passed without notice the long flickering lines
of fairy light streaming across the marble tombs; but his eye
wandered over the walls, and the pavement, marked with
quaint figures of the honored of olden time, and more modern
yet already half-defaced inscriptions, till it rested upon a small
plate, let into the floor of the Vivian chapel, and inscribed
with the name of Edith Vivian.
"Yes, that's where she lies, Sir."
It was a ghastly face which met the sexton's gaze, but he
could not see its change; and the voice which answered him
was unaltered, save perhaps that the tone was lowered, to suit
the sacredness of the building.
" I see — I know it is the Vivian chapel."
" The place where they all rest, Sir, from father to son,
from generation to generation. But there'll be none to follow
now."
The stranger gazed upon that small brass plate with a fixed-
ness which seemed fascination. " Seventeen years ago," he
murmured to himself.
"Just seventeen, come Michaelmas — the year after the
troubles : they broke her heart."
The words were heard, for a tremulous shudder passed over
(he stranger's frame; and seizing Jacob's arm, and holding it
by a grasp which it was impossible to resist, he led him again
into the porch. There, standing before him, quietly, yet with
a sternness, the result of strong self-control rather than of
anger, he repeated : " They broke her heart, did you say 1"
" Why, yes, yes, Sir," Jacob looked around him in alarm.
" You were telling me about it before, — let me hear."
The tone was too decided to be disobeyed; yet Jacob's
voice shook as he began, and his words were uttered unequally,
whilst stealthily he raised his dim eyes to catch, if possible,
the impression which he was making upon the moody, sullen,
withered-looking man, whose excitable feelings he had evi-
dently, but unexpectedly, from some unknown cause, aroused.
" They said it was caused by the troubles," he began,
"and I never heard there was reason to doubt it. Sure
CLEVE HALL. 14.">
enough, before they came, she was blitlie as a bird ; and the
day she heard of them, she fell sick, — aud the same day twelve-
mouth they laid her iu her grave. Would you wish to hear
more, Sir."
There was ueither assent nor dissent. It seemed that the
stranger could not trust himself with words.
Jacob went on : " You know about Master Edward, Sir :
perhaps there's no need to go over the story; and who can
tell the rights of it ?"
" Ay ! who ?" exclaimed the stranger, impetuously.
" It's my belief there's more to be known about that matter
than people think for," continued the sexton, more heartily,
feeling encouraged by even a word of sympathy ; " my father
always said so, and he was like to know the truth, seeing he
lived so long in the family ; but the General was never one to
be dealt with like other folks. You know, Sir, Master Ed-
ward went abroad."
" I have heard so."
" That was after he left college, and after his mother's
death. Poor lady ! if she had lived, no doubt things would
have been different. As it was, he only got into mischief
when he was at home ; and the General, 'twas said, thought
that a new country might give him new notions. To say the
truth of him, he had not got any that were what you may
say bad, only quite different from his father's : the General
being set upon keeping up dignity, as he called it, and getting
back more and more of the estate, and setting off his family
upon a new footing; and Master Edward not thinking a whit
about it, but only mindful to take things easy himself, and let
every one else do the same. I've heard tell too, that one of
the causes why the General was so bent upon getting his son
out of the country just then, was because of the young lady,
one of the Campbells, — they lived at the Manor Farm ; —
you'll know Mrs. Campbell of the Lodge now, Sir? She's
the mother."
" Yes, yes;" the cpiick tone was not impatience, but agony.
"The truth of that, Sir, is what I can't vouch for. If
there was anything going on, they managed to keep it won-
derfully close ; but the General might have found it out; and
if he did, he was sure to make the most of it, I'll warrant
you. He hated the Campbells like mad. They had always
hided with the other Vivians; and there was some old family
difference from I can'i tell how many years back; and of late
7
140 CLEVIS HALL.
the Campbells had '-one down in the world, and there hud
been some bad marriages, which had brought them still lower.
Old Mrs. Campbell— she that's f^t the Lodge now — was the
daughter of some man quite nothing compared with the Ge-
neral, and SO there were relations and connexions whom he
didn't choose to have anything to do with; in fact, I've heard
my father say that it was quite a cat-and-dog life the two
families lived; and you may well think, Sir, how troubled the
General would be when he thought his only sun was likely to
mix himself up with them. Any how, Master Edward went
abroad. And glad enough he was to go, 'tis my belief, except
for the thought of parting with his sisters, 'specially Miss
Edith. She was, iu a way, his favorite. I saw them as they
stood together before the door, just as the carriage was coming
up to take Master Edward away. She was like an angel, so
loving and pretty, and putting her arm round his neck, and
kissing him, and telling him "that 'twouldu't be home till he
came back; and he smiling, and trying to comfort her, and
saying how he was going to enjoy himself; and then looking
up at°Miss Mildred, who was lying on her sofa by the window
— for 'twas just then she began to get ill — and nodding to
her, and promising to bring her all kinds of tine tilings from
abroad. Ay! they were mainly set upon one another, those
two sisters and Master Edward."
" And the General ?"
" He looked on upon them, stern-like, with his arms crossed
in his fashion, saying the young ladies were silly, and would
make any one a fool, with their care ; yet pleased too, for he
patted Miss Edith on the cheek, and called her Sunbeam,
which was the name some of the villagers gave her ; and then
he shook Master Edward's hand heartily, and said, _' God bless
you, my boy ;' and it's my belief there was a tear iu his eye.
If there was, it's the first tear that ever mortal saw there.
Miss Edith had the last word. Master Edward put his head
out of the carriage-window and said — the words stayed in
my mind for days after, — 'Edith, darling! keep up; you'll
soon learn to live without me.' 'Twas a man's mistake, sir.
She tried to live without him, and she died."
The sexton paused, for his voice had grown tremulous and
husky; and Mr. Bruce, too, passed his hand oyer his eyes,
and sat down, his hands firmly clenching the stick on which
he rested.
Jacob continued:— "Soon after Master Edward's departure,
CLEVE HALL. 147
the Campbells went, and then Encombe and Cleve were quiet
enough, with no gentry about, but the General and the two
young ladies. Tbat is the time I can remember best myself.
I had work in the garden ; and my father having, as I told
you, been butler for so many years, I was pretty often in the
house, and got a tolerable glimmering of how things went on."
" And Edith ?" — the words escaped hurriedly, and were
immediately corrected, — "Miss Vivian? was she well, then,
and happy V
"She took on sadly at first," replied the sexton; "but
'twasn't a heart to live upon trouble ; and when news came
that Master Edward was well and happy, and likely to return
before long, she cheered up mainly, and for the first part of
that year she was the life of the house. 'Twould have been
rather a dull one but for her. Miss Mildred was very cheer-
ful, but quief-like: and the General never seemed so proud
of her as he was of Miss Edith. He would go to her when
there was business to be done, for she was more clear-headed,
and ready to do everything for everybody, and a kind word for
all; but she wasn't blithe, like Miss Edith, who was always
singing and dancing about the house. And then Miss Mil-
dred was sickly; and somehow the General was one who didn't
take to sickly folks ; he didn't understand them, and was
always thinking they could get up and do just the same as
others. The two young ladies, though, were marvellous fond
of each other ; 'twas quite a sight to see them together, they
were so one-like ; and so, upon the whole, it was a very happy
borne."
"Till the storm came." — It was a voice like the rising of
a storm which spoke. Jacob stopped for an instant, startled
by it.
"Ay, sir, as you say, till the storm came; and that was
tfoon enough. Master Edward had been away some months
when it began to brew ; how, I don't quite know, but when
the letters came of a morning, I used to hear my father say,
he'd rather face a cannon-ball than carry them up to the Gene-
ral ; he was so put out by the news he had. Some rumor
was afloat that .Muster Edward had been spending a deal of
money; and that seemed likely enough, seeing that 'twas
always his way; but no one knew for certain. At last, one
morning, I'd been in the garden, weeding the flower-beds, and
then I was sent into the park to give some help about a fence
that was to be moved; and as I was hard at work, not think-
148 CLEVB HALL.
iii»- of anything, one of the boys working with me looker! up,
and says he, 'Jacob, who's that coming across here V ; Twaa
a tall, Bwaggering-looking fellow, walking quite as if he was
somebody, and was to bo obeyed; and behind, a short, bluff
man, a kind of servant. The first I knew directly, for I'd
seen Captain Vivian often enough, and had a full remembrance
of him, ami his doings. The other I've learnt to know better
since; you may have seen him yourself, sir, whilst you've been
here, — a rough-looking fellow, a fisherman he is now, or a
smuggler, as most people say; he's always out upon the
Point."
" Goff ! yes, I know him well, very well;" and there was a
marked emphasis upon the words.
" He had work about the place out of doors, as a boy;
and then he was taken into the house, and made a servant for
Master Edward, and he had carried him abroad; but it seems
somehow they hadn't suited, and he had been turned over to
the Captain. So it was they were together that day. I learnt,
all that, though, afterwards."
" Yes, W cll ! But that day?"
" Ay, that day, sir; you needn't think I'm likely to for-
get it. I saw the Captain and the other fellow go straight up
to the house, and, said I to myself, there's mischief coming
with that man, as sure as summer comes with swallows. I
didn't exactly think what kind of mischief, for I hadn't heard
much about where he'd been lately; else my thoughts would
surely have turned to Master Edward. But something led me
to go into the house, and wait to hear what was going on. I
followed them up to the door, and the Captain, he gave a tre-
mendous pull at the bell, and such a peal there was sounding
through the house ! And when the door was opened, it w T as a
kind of king's voice that said he must see General Vivian
directly. My father happened to be in the library at the time,
where the young ladies were sitting. It was close to the front
steps, and you could hear quite plainly what any one said.
He told me afterwards that Miss Mildred turned very pale
when she heard the Captain's voice, and said she, ' Edith,
you go to my father, and tell him who's here/ She couldn't
p;o herself, and she wouldn't trust anybody else with the mes-
sage, knowing bow the General would hate it. Miss Edith
went up to her chair and kissed her, and said, 'Never mind,
Mildred, we'll hope on,' or some words of that kind; but she
CLEVE HALL. 119
was east down herself, seemingly, for she walked quite slowly
out of the room.
" Captain John was shown into the little drawing-room, and
a good long time he was kept waiting; and my father heard
him storming away because of it with Golf; — for he would
make him go with him ; he wouldn't have him sent into the
servant's hall, as was the custom. At last the General rang
his study-bell, and my father answered it, as he always did.
Miss Edith was behind the General's chair, smoothing his hair
and fondling him; and, to look at them, I dare say you might
have called them brother and sister, instead of father and
child; for he was a wonderfully fine-looking man in those
days, was the General, and bore his years bravely. ' Captain
Vivian's waiting to see me, Clarke, I hear/ said the General;
' he may come up. Edith, you must go.' His voice was as
firm as mine is now, and you wouldn't have known that he
thought or cared for the man a straw ; only that he had a trick
of crossing his legs and moving his left foot up and down when
he was sorely pressed, and the less he said the faster his foot
went; 'twas his way of venting his passion. The foot went
like a see-saw that morning; and Miss Edith said to my father,
when she left the room, ' Clarke, don't you let the General be
tired out.' That was as much as to say, you be on your watch
for what's going on; for my father was a trusty and knowing
man, and many a time when the young ladies had been troubled
with persons coming to worry the General, they had got him
to go in and interrupt them. So my father showed Captain
Vivian into the study, and he saw the General stand up and
bow, which was all the greeting he gave; and any one but
Captain John might have been cowed by his manner. But
not a bit he ; before my father was out of the room he began,
saying that he had come from a long distance, and he thought
it hard he should be kept waiting, and all in such a rough way
that the General was put askew almost before a word had been
spoken.
" My father went back to his work. Not a word did he
tell me or any one, then ; such a cautious man he was about
everything which concerned the General's interest. But I
was mainly curious; and, as I could get nothing out of him,
1 made friends with the housekeeper, as was my custom some-
times, and got a permission from her that 1 might come into
the house and dine. I was standing in the servants' hall,
ing ab ut a little, and doing just what few things there
150 CLEVB HALT,.
was to be done, when my father came in, and says he to the
footman, " Here's a stranger c e to dine with you, Charles:"
and wiih thai he brought iii Goff. 'Twasn't a pleasant hear-
ing, exactly, for in former days no one had ever taken much
t'> the man ; hut lie had come from foreign parts, and he'd
Been Master Edward lately; and so there was a good deal to
say and to hear, and we all got round him and began asking
him questions. I've often thought since how queer he was
on that day, — not a bit like what he's turned out since, — no
blustering and storming, but a sort of creep-mouse look, winch
somehow turned quite against me; and every now and then
stopping to hear if there was a bell, or a sound. But he wasn't
likely to hear that with the clatter which was going on in the
hall, and after awhile he seemed to give up listening, and
began to talk very fast, telling heaps of odd stories, and hint-
ing things now and then about Master Edward which nearly
made my hair stand on end. Yet he never spoke out; and
when my father taxed him once with what lie had been saying,
and asked him to explain, he caught himself up quite short,
and looked for all the world as if he knew he was telling what
wasn't true. Certainly, I fancied him less than ever, 'specially
when I saw what a friend he was to the ale flagon. Why he
drank it as if 'twas water!
" There was dinner in the housekeeper's room for my father,
but not a bit did he seem to trouble himself to eat. I had ;i
notion that he couldn't make up his mind to let Goff out of
parted/ said Goff; and with that he gave a kind of inside
chuckle, and laid down his knife just as he was cutting a hit
of cheese, and set himself again to listen. Sure enough at
that moment there was a bell, a quick-ringing one from the
General's room. I chanced to be looking at the man at the
moment. I lis face — you wouldn't scarce believe it, for he's all
over hard and brown now, as if he was made of mahogany —
but he hadn't seen such rough times in those days, and, as 1
sat opposite to him, I noticed that it turned of a sudden,
not white, but a sort of grayish color, just for all the world as
if he was going off into a fit. 'Twas only for a moment,
though. He seized hold of the ale jug, and such a drink as
he took ! — it seemed all to go at a gulp ; and then down went
the cup on the table, and he stood up, and it crossed my min I
CLEVE HALL. 151
that he'd had enough to make him unsteady. But not a whit
that ! It had only brought back the right color to his cheek ;
.and says he, quickly, ' That's for me.' My father caught him
up with, 'How do you know it's for you?' He was taken
aback, and his eyes quite flashed out, but he only laughed and
said, 'Oh ! he supposed it was, and he must be ready;' and,
strange enough, when my father went up stairs he brought
down word that Goff was to go up directly. I didn't dare ask if
anything was the matter, so many being about ; but I was cer-
tain that something was wrong, for my father had a look on
liim which I'd seen often enough to understand. But dinner
went on, and was finished, and every one went to his work ;
and I was to have gone to mine, only my father had something
for me to do in his pantry. It wasn't so far from the hall but
that I could hear people go in and out, and up and down stairs;
and, after a while — two hours I am sure it was froui the time
I first saw the Captain come — he and Goff took their departure,
— not blustering and noisy, as they had come, but stealing out
and walking off to the village, without a word of good b'ye
to any one.
" There was no sound in the house for near half an hour
afterwards. The young ladies had had their lunch ; and where
they were, or what they were doing, I couldn't say, only I
missed Miss Edith's voice, for she used to go singing about like
a bird. It came over me, I remember, as something awful
that, with so many near, there shouldn't be one to be heard;
but before long a heavy door slammed to, and then came the
General's step along the open gallery over the hall. He was
going the way to the young ladies' sitting-room.
" My father called me then, and I stood talking with him
in the hall, about some errand he wished me to do for him in
Clove. It might have been three minutes, or not so much, we
were there. I was just asking him where I should find the
man he wanted to see; and I remember he bade me attend,
and laid his hand on my shoulder, in his kind way, when a
scream — sharp and piteous, scarce like a human scream — rang
through the old house. 'Twas Miss Edith's voice ; and my
father and I glanced at each other in horror, and rushed up
stairs."
"She was dead !" escaped from Mr. Bruce's lips; and he
covered his face with his hands, and sank, shuddering, upon
the bench.
'•No, sir. She had had her death-stroke; but she wap
152 CLEVE HALL.
doI to die then. She was lying on the floor insensible, Miss
Mildred kneeling by her; quiet — you wouldn't have known
there was aught strange, save that her face seemed all of a
sudden changed into stone. And the General was there too;
standing up before them, stem as on a battle-field, but his
eves fixed with a horrible stare straight before him. They
did not let me stay more than a moment. Mrs. Robinson was
railed, and I was sent off to Cleve for a doctor. I came back-
in less than an hour. The General had shut himself up in
his room ; Miss Mildred was with her sister. No one could
tell anything that had happened for certain ; only that Captain
John and (loft' had gone off from Encombe like a shot, and
somehow — the news was about, that Master Edward and Miss
Campbell were married."
" And that was all '(" exclaimed Mr. Bruce, standing up,
and grasping the sexton's arm.
" Had enough 'twould have been, sir, if it had been all,"
replied the sexton hastily; " but worse there must have been,
far worse than that. 'Tisn't for me to say, when no one knows
for sure ; but a part of the truth was abroad quick enough.
Master Edward had done something very dreadful, and Was
disinherited. What his sins were, it had been left for Captain
Vivian and that fellow Goff to tell."
A groan was the only reply.
" My story will soon enough be ended now, sir," continued
the sexton. " The beginning of troubles was the end of the
family history. They laid Miss Edith on her bed, and for
weeks she never rose up from it. And day after day the word
came that she was growing weaker and weaker, and that her
brain was wandering; and doctors came from London, and
nurses; and they talked, and ordered, and watched, and at
last they got her round in a way; and she came down stairs,
and moved about, and went into the garden. But it was her
ghost only, not herself. She could never be kept still, but
was always dragging herself up and down the shrubbery walk
by the great mad, listening for a carriage, if it might draw
up ; or, when she was in-doors, standing before a picture of
Master Edward, that's now in Miss Mildred's room, or pacing
the gallery over the hall. But she never mentioned his name ;
no, not even to Miss Mildred. And at last, all of a sudden,
the cloud came over her again, and she gave way, as it were,
in a moment; and once more they took her to her bed, and
never moved her from it till they carried her to her grave."
CLE YE HALL. 153
The sGxtou paused, to dash away a tear. " There was peace
for her/' he added, in a tone of deep reverence. " She had
lived an angel's life, and she was ready for death. The sorrow
was for hiin that had killed her."
He was silent for a moment, and then continued : —
" 'Tis a heavy word to say of a father against his child
and he loving her as he did. But 'twas the General's way;
there was no mercy. He'd have given his son to be shot, if
it had come in the way of duty, and been the first to pull the
trigger; and so, when he thought himself called on to give
him up, he cast him off in a moment, and fancied that others
could do the same. But they who said the General was a hard
man, spoke of things they didn't undei*stand. The day that
Captain John brought the ill news, the General was hale and
strong as the strongest man of his age in England. When he
came out of his room three days afterwards, to go to church,
his hair was silvery gray, and he had the look and gait of a
man of seventy. There, sir, I've done now; and I've tired
you, no doubt ; and my digging will be waiting for me. Will
it please you to go into the church again ?."
No answer came. The question was repeated, and Mr.
Bruce spoke as in a dream.
" The church, did you say ? But the mystery — has it never
been cleared up ?"
" The mystery, sir ? Oh! Master Edward's; yes, I under-
stand. Cleared up I can't say it has been, for no one can say
for certain what passed between the General and Captain
Vivian ; but, of course, the marriage and the notion of Master
Edward's gambling was at the bottom of it ; and cause enough
1'ir hi- being disinherited, according to the Genei'al's principles.
He who'd been all his life striving to redeem the property,
and making it the one thing he worked for — it was natural
enough, perhaps, that he should take fright at the notion of
its falling into hands which would scatter it. But what he
really thought and felt, it isn't for such as I to guess at; and
indeed I don't fancy there's any one that can tell, except may
be, Mr. Lester. He came to live at Encombe just afterwards ;
and he'd been Master Edward's tutor, and often staying at the
Hall, and had worked hard, I've hoard, to make the General
and lii- sun understand each other. I believe the General did
open his mind to hiin at first, but when Mr. Lester didn't quite
agi-ee, he closed up again, and lived lor all the world as if shut
np in a shell. That is to say, on thai subject he's shut up
1.', 1- CLEVE HALL.
nut on others. He gave himself much more to the poor people
aboul that time, and set to work at the church, and grew more
thoughtful for Miss Mildred, and took to pelting and making
much of her. Somehow, it seems to me, when I'm thinking
iver it all awhiles, that he's been fur years like a man who
knows he's very wrong in one way, but won't for the life of
1 1 i in give up, and so tries to keep his conscience clear by being
good in all others. Mayn't it be so, sir'/"
The sexton looked up at his companion inquiringly.
His answer was a half-crown, thrust into his hand; and,
without a word, Mr. Bruce turned away, and in a few seconds
was seen striding up the pathway to the hills, with the speed
of a maniac.
-«♦►
CHAPTER XIX.
ELL.V had left Clement behind, without a thought. Mr.
Lester and Rachel she imagined were before her, and her
inclination was to hasten after them. They were, however,
at a considerable distance j^and she went on, with her usual
impetuosity, when interested, gaining ground upon them, but
heeding little the direction she was taking, and without con-
sidering how she was to return. Once she heard Clement's
call, and answered it ; but her voice was weak, and the sound
did not reach him. So she must have proceeded half walking,
and half running, for more than a mile; but she was drawing
nearer and nearer her object, and her efforts would soon end.
The two figures sat down for a moment to rest, and a most
uncomfortable misgiving crossed Ella's mind. The man was
taller than Mr. Lester, he looked unlike a gentleman, now
that she could see him more distinctly, and the girl was dressed
differently from Rachel. Ella could not recognise them at
all ; they were not even Encombe people : probably they be-
longed to Cleve, and were going thither by the short way,
over the hills. That was fpiite out of the direction of the
Beacon, and Clement would miss her. She looked round for
him, and called. There was no answer; but the man who
was sitting down heard her, and approached.
Ella was not frightened, but perplexed. The hills were
very lonely, the paths in some parts confusing. One thing,
GLEVE HALL. 155
however, was clear, — at least she thought it so, — that Clement
would follow her in the direction of the Beacon ; and when
the stranger came up, Ella answered his question as to what
she wanted, by begging to be told the nearest road to it.
" A good way off from the Beacon it is," replied the man ;
"a mile at the least. You aren't thinking of going up there
by yourself, Miss ?"
'* I was going; I want to meet my brother," was Ella's
reply.
" Oh, your brother ! that's different. Well, you must keep
along under the hollow now, till you get to the pile of stones
yonder, and then take the path to the right, and that will
bring you into Crossdell ; and from thence you may scramble
up till you get to the foot of the Beacon. But, dear me !" —
and he looked at Ella's slight figure with a kind of patronizing
compassion ; " you'll never get up, anyhow ; and if you do,
you'll never find your way down again; or you'll get upon the
Croome ; and there'll be a business !"
"The Croome!" repeated Ella; "that is where the cliff
falls away so, isn't it ?"
" Yes, the steep side of the Beacon, away to the east,"
was the answer. " Folks that don't know much about it are
apt to set foot upon the Croome, taking it all for firm ground ;
and then, ten to one, if they don't go down and down, till
they'd give half they're worth to stop. However, I dare say
your brother knows all about that, and he won't take you the
dangerous side."
A little fear there was in Ella's mind, but with it a good
deal of excitement. Yet she could not at once decide whe-
ther to advance or go back. She asked how far it was from
the point she had now reached to Encombe : about a mile and
a half. That really seemed nothing ; and to have had a tire-
some walk all by herself, for nothing — it would be too absurd '
And then she should certainly miss Clement, and he would
find his way to the Beacon, and she should be outdone. In
Ella's chivalrous moments, when she was mistress over her
natural indolence, there was nothing she disliked more than
being beaten in anything, even in a walk; and moreover she
had an innate love of adventure, nearly allied to her poetical
tastes, all of which urged her to the side of boldness. With-
out acknowledging to her new acquaintance the fact of having
lost Clement, lest he should dissuade her from her intention,
.'!.'■ thanked him, wished him good-b'ye, and proceeded on her
156 CLEVB Jl ALL.
upward way, with a springing step and an eager spirit, and
had reached the other extremity of the hollow, tefore he had
disappeared along the downward path which led to the town
of Cleve.
Her hear! did sink a little when she looked up and saw the
height still above her, the summit of the Beacon being even
then not visible. ]iut it required only an effort; she was
strong, and there was quite sufficient time, and Clement might
miss her if she turned back ; and Ella, who would have lounged
for hours in an easy chair, dreaming over poctiy, and thinking
the smallest exertion too great, now, once roused, was willing
to risk any amount of fatigue, or even danger, rather than
Tail in her purpose.
She began the ascent ; at first an easy one, for the sheep-
track was her guide, and offered a sure footing; but after
some distance it ceased, and she was obliged to make her way
as she could over the slippery turf. The Beacon point was
before her, however, then, and this gave her confidence and
energy. Yet she did not trust herself to look round, lest she
should turn giddy; for the hill was becoming more and more
precipitous, and from not knowing the right direction to take,
Ella had chosen the steepest site that was accessible. At last,
however, having readied a little hollow, where she could find
a firm footing, she turned, and sat down to rest. The view
beneath her ^yas most lovely, commanding the slope of the
hills, and the Encombe ravine, with the Cleve woods, and the
town of Cleve in the distance; and beyond a wide expanse
of the sea, changing at every instant, now glittering with
islands of light, now dark with deep purple shadows, as the
sun escaped from, or was hidden beneath, the heavy clouds
which were crossing the sky. Perfectly enjoyable it would
have been, if only she had been sitting on the summit of the
Beacon, with (.'lenient by her side. As it was, the exquisite
beauty, added to the comfort of rest, induced her to linger
minute after minute; and it was not till a sensation of cold
and dampness stole over her, that she thought of proceeding.
A slight mist rested on the summit; that was provoking,
il would prevent her seeing the view to perfection. But it
might pass away; at any rate, she felt it would be wise to
hasten, lest it should increase. Once more she was ascending,
rather more cautiously ; for she was no longer stepping upon
turf, but upon loose shingles and rough stones, which hurt
her feet. It crossed her mind whether she should pro back,
CLEVE HA^L. 157
for the mist was thickening very rapidly. But to be so near
the top, and not to reach it! It was out of the question; it
would be ignoble ; and, after all, what harm could happen to
her ? She had but to step carefully ; and once at tbe top,
her descent would be rapid- and easy, and she should soon
escape from the mist, which was always thicker on the hills
than in the valleys. Enterprising, Ella was, certainly; hers
might have been the spirit of a crusader, could it always have
felt the same stimulus. A steep, high bank, almost a cliff,
was before her ; the damp, heavy mist was gathering around
her ; she was weary and breathless ; sharp flints had torn her
boots, and one had wounded her foot so as to make it painful
for her to walk ; but she would not yield. One more great
effort : scrambling, slipping back, clinging to a stone which
gave way, seizing upon the stem of a juniper-bush, and finding
a footing for a moment, and then grasping the edge of the
bank, and dragging herself up almost in despair, and Ella
had achieved her object, and stood upon the narrow platform
of the highest hill, and touched the pile of stones which
funned the Beacon.
She was very triumphant — very excited. The toil was a
hundred-fold repaid by success ; so she felt, for the first minute.
The second, a chill came over her, mental as well as physical ;
but the latter was predominant. A cold blast was sweeping
over the hills ; and sadly and ominously it moaned through the
hollows below her. View there was none ; the mist covered the
country like a garment, and, gathering around Ella, crept, as
it seemed, into her frame, numbing her fingers, and bringing
that indescribable sense of blind dreariness which makes one
fancy, for the moment, that warmth and light have disappeared
from the earth for ever.
Of course there was but one thought in Ella's mind —
ut as quick as possible. She again called Clement,
;'; nigh with little expectation of being heard; and, receiving
no answer, set herself to her task. The cliff was her first
difficulty; she could not trust it in going down, as she had in
ascending, so she felt her way cautiously along the edge of the
platform, till she reached a less precipitous bank, and, sliding
down without difficulty, found herself standing on what seemed
a beaten trade. This must, of course, she thought, be the
right path, which she had missed through ignorance; and she
went on boldly and cheerfully, congratulating herself on her
success. Vet it was rather bewildering, to be wandering on
168 CLEVE HALL.
in tl.i.- way, without being able to Bee mure than a few yards
before her; and once, it crossed Ella's mind, that the traen
was leading her rather away from the direction she had takek
in ascending. Very far away, however, it could not be, for she
was quite sure that she was going towards Encombej and
every now and then she stopped and called Clement, again
hoping that he might be near, and join her.
The path which Ella had entered upon was broad at first,
sloping along the side of the hill ; then it grew narrower and
steeper, and occasionally it ceased altogether for a few paces;
hut a path there certainly was, so that she did not feel any
misgivings. At length, however, it became very perplexing;
there seemed to be two tracks, one to the right, broad, but
exceedingly precipitous, almost indeed perpendicular, leading,
as she supposed, towards Cleve ; the other very narrow, but
more easy, carried round the hill, and therefore -leading away
<Vi mi Encombe. Either seemed an evil, and Ella paused to
consider, and for the first time felt sufficiently uncomfortable
heartily to repent her expedition. To descend by any means
was still the only thing to be done, for there was no time to be
lost. It was mowing late, and the mist was thickening into
rain. And after a moment's consideration she chose the
narrow path, as loading, she believed, more directly to Encombe.
It was tolerably level, and therefore easy at first ; and Ella
congratulated herself upon this, and went on hopefully, yet
not very quickly. It was not quite as firm as that which she
had left ; the soil was loosed and the stones rolled away under
her feet. This did not signify, as long as the slope was
gradual ; but it became steeper, — the path was scarcely to be
called one. Ella was obliged to throw herself, in a mauner,
iii mi one projection to another: yet it was still descent, and
descent was her object. She was forced to move on ; the stones
gave way as she touched them ; and there were no large ones
to grasp. It became not walking, or jumping from point to
point, but one perpetual slide, slide; above, below, around her
— all was sliding; and when she tried to stop, the very effort
to sustain herself gave an impetus to the stones on which she
re-ted; and down they went, rolling on and on, and making
all they touched roll with them, till the rush was as the crash
of pebbles on a beach ; and al length — was it the splash of
water which reached Ella's ear?
The black tarn was beneath her. She was clinging to the
side of the Croome.
CLE YE HALL. 159
The cry which echoed through the hills reached the ears
of 3Ir. Bruce as he wandered beneath the Beacon, and was
heard by Bachel Lester as she stood at the head of Greystone
Gorge, and startled Ronald in his lonely wretchedness ; — it
was the cry of extremity of peril. To go back was impossible ;
the very effort to grasp the cliff would but precipitate Ella into
the lake. To go forward was equally impossible ; the end might
approach more slowly, but it would not be the less certain.
To stand motionless upon the spot where for the moment she
had found her footing, was the only safety ; and this security
was but the verge of despair ; for even the sound of Ella's
voice, as in her agony she called Clement, Clement, seemed to
precipitate the rush of the restless, shivering cliff, and increase
the perpetual quick plash, the knell of the dark waters, as they
closed over the stones which sank into their depth.
Years were gathered into those moments, — the years of
Ella's life; the tale of her wilfulness, her folly, her pride, her
indolence — not passing before her in detail, but all concentrated
into one feeling of despair.
Again, one last effort ! But Ella's voice was feeble with
horror, and it was but the wailing wind which took up the
lingering notes, and prolonged the ineffectual cry. Yet a
change came. A gleam of sunshine was struggling amidst the
vapor that floated over the tarn. A few moments more, and
the mist rolled away ; whilst heavy wreaths gathered together
upon the summit of the hill, leaving clear below a narrow sheet
i if water, unruffled save by the falling stones, dark with almost
unfathomable depth, and coldly throwing back the lines of
light which crossed its bosom, as if too conscious of the dread
secrets which it hid to permit them to penetrate its surface.
It was but a little distance across from the spot where Ella
stood. She could see a small hovel on the opposite bank,
sometimes used for shelter by shepherds, and distinguish the
rocks scattered along the margin of the tarn, and the sheep
grazing upon the scanty foliage. She could even look beyond,
and trace the path which would lead her to the village; and
very far away she fancied that she could perceive the tower
of Encombe church, though it was very indistinct. Life,
safety, happiness, were within her sight, almost within her
grasp; but so also were the crumbling rocks, and the waters
iA' the dark tarn, and the valley of the shadow of death.
There was a sound on the lake; not the falling of stones;
it v.-. dier, softer, more even plasb. It was behind her,
it',i) CLEVE II ALL.
and she dared not look round j the pressure of her foot mighl
be death. She called again, and a voice sounded from below,
and a little boat with a man in it glided into sight. Ella
stretched oui one hand; her impulse was to throw herself into
the water. A hasty gesture warned her to pause.
" Be still : if you value your life, neither move nor speak.
There is a rope in the boat; I will throw it to you/' shouted
Mr. Bruce from helow ; and the boat glided away again out
of sight, and she was left to loneliness, and the ceaseless plash
of the falling stones.
Minutes passed away; her strength was failing; the posi-
tion in which she stood was becoming unbearable; and there
were no signs of the promised help. She could not have been
left; it was madness to think so; yet Ella's mind was in that
state in which reason has lost its power ; and the dreams of a
maniac arc not more wild than the suggestions and misgiyings
which flashed across her, checked only by the strong instinct
of self-preservation.
But a voice came at last from above, a man's voice. "Are
you there?" was shouted; and Ella's answering scream was
sharper than the cry of a dying animal. A pause followe'd ;
two persons seemed to be holding a consultation. Ella could
hear their murmurs. The delay was agony; in another mi-
nute her power of endurance would be gone. They called
again, for they could not see her, and could only be directed
by the voice to the spot which she had reached. Then she
heard, in louder tones, a debate which seemed almost angry in
its eagerness: "Throw the rope." "No; it will not reach
her, and she will go down/' "If we could but see her!"
Another shout and another answer. " Fasten the rope round
me first." Jt was Mr. Bruce who spoke. The suggestion
seemed to be approved, for there was a momentary silence.
Then came the noise of the stones disturbed from their resting-
place, and rushing faster, faster, falling behind and around
Ella. But Mr. Bruce was drawing near; she could see him;
he was moving very cautiously, and, as it appeared, with some
instinct or foreknowledge, which taught him where to placo
his foot on the firmest spot. The rope also held by his com-
panion secured him; but even with that aid he dared not ap-
proach very close. The movement of the stones might loosen
those on which Ella was standing. "Now, catch it." He
flung the end of the rope towards her. She moved, --caught
CLEVE HALL. "161
it for an instant, — lost it again, — felt herself sliding, — once
more caught it, and clung to it, and was dragged upwards.
" Fasten it round your waist," shouted Ronald from above.
Impossible ! Ella's strength was giving way. The rope
was large; she could not twist it. She felt her hold lessen-
ing, yet despair was life. One instant more, and she was
within reach of Mr. Bruce's arm, supported by him with one
hand, whilst he threw the rope around her with the other;
and at that moment she fainted away.
It must have been almost a superhuman strength which
upheld her; but Ronald Vivian stood above, with his giant
power, his indomitable resolution; and another — weak indeed,
comparatively, in body, but urged by the overwhelming im-
pulse of a father's love — was straining every nerve for her
preservation ; and when at length she was laid on the firm
ground, Edward Vivian bent over his daughter, and forgetting
every necessity for concealment, exclaimed, " My Ella, my
precious child ! Thank God she is safe !"
-••»-
CHAPTER XX.
THAT night Mr. Vivian sat in a large, low, old-fashioned
room at the Manor Farm, his chair drawn in front of the
fire, wdiich Mrs. Robinson had insisted upon lighting when
he returned, cold, damp, and far from well, after an expedi-
tion over the hills, which had been longer, he said, than he
had intended. With him sat Mr. Lester, his grave counte-
nance wearing a look of discpuieting thought, as, leaning his
elbow upon the table, he gazed fixedly before him. Tea was
just over; it had been but a scanty meal; though Mrs. Ro-
binson, in her hospitality and affection, had provided largely
for the weary wanderer, and urged upon Mr. Lester the duty
of making him take care of himself. Mr. Vivian was not to
be persuaded ; his cup of tea had been swallowed hastily, and
Bcarcely anything else on the table was touched: a question
was [lending, whicli was fond sufficient for the mind, and, for
the moment, for the body also — What is to be done next ?
1&2 CLEVE HALL.
"I can trust Ronald implicitly," was Mr. Lester's obser-
vation.
" Yet you were vexed when I told you I. had betrayed my-
self."
» Vexed tur yniir own want of caution. Are you never to
learn prudence, Vivian ?"
" When my child had just been saved from death !" he ex-
claimed. "Lester, you will one day drive me to hate you."
" A man who puts himself in a position where self-restraint
is necessary, ought first to be certain that he can practise it,"
replied Mr. Lester. "Lnt it is useless to waste time in lec-
tures which will not be listened to."
" Spare me at least till you have had experience," was the
answer. "Live for eighteen years in a foreign land, sepa-
rated from your children, hound to work which you hate, your
constitution worn by a horrible climate, and then talk to me
of prudence, if you can."
" Most true, my dear Vivian ; none can feel it more strongly
than myself. But a few months' more delay; — and the claims
of the children, your sister's influence, my own inquiries as to
the past, might have opened a door for your return, honorably
and openly."
"Never, never; in that opinion at least we cannot be
agreed ; and remember that my knowledge of my father is
more intimate than yours."
" I am not saying there would be hope if you took him by
surprise. All I contend for is, that, with patience and pru-
dence, we might at least have worked upon him."
Mr. Vivian shook his head doubtfully, and his tone was
irritable, as he said: — "It is no good to discuss what might
have been. I am here; — I am known to be here. Now for
the next step."
" To leave the neighborhood befoi-e your secret has spread
further, would be my advice," replied Mr. Lester.
" And live the same life that I have been living for so
many years, — lonely, hopeless, and with the aggravation of be-
ng within reach of my children, and yet unable to approach
them."
" So it must be till we have discovered the full extent of
your cousin's villany."
" Pshaw ! Forgive me, Lester ; you rest upon that point
as if it would at once change the whole tone of my father's
mind. Let John Vivian be what he may, let him have injured
CLEVE nALL. 103
Mid calumniated mc as he may, I tell you there are sins enough
at my own door, for which I alone am answerable, which, in
my reasonable moments, must, I feel, shut up every avenue to
reconciliation."
Mr. Lester looked very pained.
"I know what you would say," continued Mr. Vivian.
" Why, if I had no hope, should I have returned to England'/
That is the question of a man reasoning upon feelings which he is
too fortunate to understand. Say, I had no hope, — it is true ;
yet can you not imagine it possible to act without it, when the
object is restoration to a father's affection ? Let him do with
my inheritance as he will ; if he will see and bless me, 1
shall die happy." Mi'. Vivian's voice faltered, but he reco-
vered himself, and added : " Besides, if I have no hope for
myself, I have for my children."
" And so had I," replied Mr. Lester.
" Yes; and your hope was fed by every day events, by in-
tercourse with Mildred ; and it was not the hope of one whose
all lay trembling in the balance; whilst mine — Lester, death
would have been preferable to the life I was leading ; and if
the step I have taken should bring me to it, I could scarcely
repent that I had yielded."
" Who is to say that it will not bring you to it V replied Mr.
Lester, earnestly. " You have to deal with a desperate man."
"We have been pitted against each other before this,"
was the reply. " Let him do his worst ; I don't fear him."
" There would be comparatively little cause to fear, if every
thing were open," replied Mr. Lester. " If you had appeared
at Eucombe in your own character, John Vivian would have
been powerless, for all eyes would have been upon him. Now.
on the contrary, no one notices either him or you, and he can
carry on his machinations unperceived."
" You speak as if it was my own choice which brought me
to Encombe," replied Mr. Vivian. " But for the wreck, i
should never have ventured to visit the place without your
sanction."
" We will waive the point of your returning to England at
all," replied Mr. Lester; "it is only a vexatious one. But
jrlien you were here, you must acknowledge that you insisted
apon remaining. You disbelieved me when I said that it was
impossible to keep your secret."
" Yet you declare I am *:\l'c, and that Ronald Vivian is to
be trusted."
Hil CLEVB HALL.
"As surely ;is T am to bo trusted myself; but you forget,
my dear Vivian, the possibility of exciting suspicion in your
cousin or bis wretched ally, (<off."
'• I (nil to Mis. Robinson fur that; she knows everything
that Lines mi, ami lias ears and eves in all parts of the village.
Ami as to being known, remember that even she did not re-
cognise me. Eighteen years in a West Indian climate, with
two attacks of yellow fever to boot — there can be no safer dis-
guise than such a change ; even if I had not been most care-
ful as to concealment in other ways."
" Still, look at the possibility ; it must always be wise to
fear the worst."
" "Well, then ; my hopeful cousin knows me, and publishes
the news, and what is to follow ?"
" That is the point; he will not publish it."
"But, for the sake of argument, suppose he does? My
father will hear of it; and how will he take it V
"So as to ruin every prospect, both for you and for the
children/' exclaimed Mr. Lester. "Eighteen years have
done their work upon him, as they must upon all, in sharpen-
ing and hardening the edges of character. The principle upon
which he first acted was what he believed to be a right one;
but he carried it out without check or balance from other prin-
ciples, and now it has become prejudice. If at this moment
you were to appear before him, he would turn from you us
from a stranger."
Mr. Vivian shuddered, and his voice sounded faint and
hollow, as he said : " My father ! is it possible ?"
" Quite possible. There is nothing in this world so stern
as a petrified affection."
" Yet you would have given me hope if I had remained in
Jamaica?"
" Yes, hope in your father's justice ; he is still open to
that, and if we weaken him upon one point, we weaken him
upon all. If we could place before him the proofs of your
cousin's treachery, for treacherous I have not the smallest
doubt he was ; if we could show him that you were not guilty
to the extent which he believes, bis strong sense of honor
would be touched, and he would feel himself bound to redeem
the injury be has done you. But there has, as yet, been no
time for this. The letter which you wrote in answer to my
first communication of our suspicions, has only just reached
us ; and we must deal with your father cautiously, even for
CLEVE HALL. 165
the sake of his age. Once, however, as I said, touch his sense
of justice, and I should have hope. Mildred and I would
place your character in its true light. We would make him
feel how nobly you have borne your exile ; how devotedly you
have labored for j r our children."
Mr. Vivian interrupted him impatiently : — " I tell you,
Lester, as I have told you before, you are mistaken. The
amount of my offence is not the cpiestion. When I lost five
pounds at the gaming-table, I sinned in my father's eyes as
if I had lost five thousand. When I married without his
consent, I grieved him as if I had chosen my wife from the
very dregs of the people."
" True, in a certain sense; but there is one thing which you
forget. When a man sins against the virtue which he holds
most dear, his repentance is keen in proportion to the estima-
tion with which he regards it. Justice has been your father's
idol. If we can show him that he has been unjust, I can
scarcely doubt that, in his eagerness to atone for the wrong-
he has done, he may be induced to overlook what, under other
circumstances, he would have considered unpardonable."
Mr. Vivian considered for a few moments — then he said :
— " Perhaps you are right. I have known him so influenced
in former days. But how to obtain the proofs of injustice V
" There, of course, lies the difficulty. The lapse of time
is one very great obstacle. If I had known, years ago, what
I know now, I should have had every hope of bringing the
matter to a speedy conclusion ; but, as you are aware, it was
not till I became acquainted with your sister-in-law, and learnt
from her the particulars of what took place at the time of your
marriage, that I had any idea of the falsity of your cousin's
statements. Unquestionably he swindled your father out of a
large sum on that occasion. General Vivian once told me that,
he paid him more than five thousand pounds, on a solemn con-
dition that he was never to be applied to for a similar sacrifice
again. That was the result of his feelings of honor, added to
his hasty pride. If he had but condescended to make inquiry
of y<m, instead of receiving John Vivian's statements, he
would have known that the utmost extent of your debts was
not "
" One thousand ; — a much larger sum, I confess, than I
had any right to risk ; or, as you will say, and as I say now,
I had no right to risk a penny. But on what pretence John
166 CLEVE HALL.
Vivian could have extracted five thousand from my father, i*
utterly beyond my comprehension."
"Then, as to the letters," continued Mr. Lester, "none
reached Cleve, though you say you wrote constantly, lie
must have Stopped them for his own foul purposes. There is
no want of charity, I trust, in thinking so."
" Whatever may have been my offence against him, he has
had his revenge/' said Mr. Vivian; and a heavy sigh escaped
him.
" No, Vivian, ho has not had his revenge, whilst a chance
remains of seeing either you or your boy restored to the inhe-
ritance you have lost. The injury he has already done has
quickened and goaded his revenge, because it has placed him-
self in danger. The man is twice your enemy whose hatred
has led him to degradation."
" Twice my enemy, indeed \" repeated Mr. Vivian; " first
to myself; but, oh ! Lester, far more terribly, it may be, to
my boy."
Mr. Lester's face showed some painful thought; perhaps
it crossed his mind that the sins of parents are punished in
the faults of their children. But he shook off the feeling,
whatever it was, and answered, " Our trust for Clement must
be in a Higher Power than our own."
" And you don't think it would influence him for good to
know that I was at hand."
" It might do so, if the secret could be made known with-
out risk. But we come back always to the same point ; not
so much what we are to do, as when. It is the gordian knot
of many difficulties in life besides ours."
" Then cut it !" exclaimed Mr. Vivian, impetuously.
"That is the principle upon which you have acted through
life, my dear Vivian ; and what has been the result ?"
The look of self-reproaching anguish which followed the
question, almost made Mr. Lester repent that he had put it.
Yet it had done its work.
" Yes, you arc right; impatience has been my ruin !" and
Edward Vivian's head was bowed upon his hands, as if even,
to his truest friend, he dared not show the extent of his re-
morse.
Mr. Lester spoke more gently. "There is no ruin, Vivian,
while there is hope; and no one but yourself need destroy
your hope. You have made, I fear, a false step ; but it is not
irretrievable. Leave this nlace; hide yourself in London,
CLEVE HALL. 167
and suffer your sister, Bertha Campbell, and myself, to work
out our own plans. ' You may safely trust us to use our utmost
efforts ; and from time to time you will hear of our proceed-
ings, whilst you will have the comfort of feeling yourself within
reach of your children. Content yourself with this life for
awhile. You say that you can remain in England for a year.
We will not look forward beyond; before it is over, I trust —
nay, more, I sincerely believe — that we shall once more see
you restored to Cleve."
" And go from Eucombe without seeing Mildred ?" ex-
claimed Mr. Vivian.
" It may be necessary. I will not, at this moment, abso-
lutely say that it is. But if John Vivian's suspicions are
aroused, you have not a day to lose : either he will quit the
place himself, and so we shall lose all chance of substantiating
our charges against him ; or you will laugh at my fears ;
but a desperate man will do desperate deeds."
Mr. Vivian considered for a few seconds : "I cannot see
the necessity. Let me be brave, Lester ; let me go at once
to my father : severe, prejudiced though he is, I am still his
son. Let me say to him that John Vivian deceived him : you
yourself own that there would be hope then in his justice."
" But the proofs of the deceit, where are they ?"
" My own word !" exclaimed Mr. Vivian, haughtily.
" The word of one man against another," was Mr. Lester's
quiet reply.
"John Vivian's word against mine ! — Lester, you dare not
say that my father would take it."
" I sa}' that he would pride himself upon weighing both
equally in the balance ; and the stronger was the leaning
towards you, the more hope there would be for your enemy.
Yet I own it may come to this — it may be our last and only
resource; and if it were; so, I would run the risk, and trust
to God for the issue. But before I attempted it, I would use
every effort to put the matter in so clear a light that the
strongest prejudice — even General Vivian's — must own itself
<-'>nquered. Remember, you will come before your father, not
as the son whom he has always loved, but as the spendthrift
gambler — I am using harsh words, but I know full well your
father's feeling — who wounded him in the tenderest point.
and brought sorrow, and what he considers disgrace, upon his
lloU-'v"'
A silence of some moments followed. The words had
1G8 ( i.i;vi; hall.
indeed been severe, and Mr. Vivian's proud spirit could little
brook them.
Mr. Lester spoke again: "My dear Vivian, if I do not
know the exaggeration of your father's mind, and if 1 wen:
n.it certain that years of true repentance had followed upon
the offences of youth, I could uot speak as I do; but it is the
very consciousness of the prejudice against which you have to
struggle which makes me fearful lest you should begin the
combat at a disadvantage. If you were what your father
thinks you, I could not raise a finger to help you. Being what
I know you are, I would sacrifice fortune aud happiness, and
even life, for your sake."
" Yes, I know it, my truest, kindest friend. I was wrong;"
and Mr. Vivian stretched out oue hand in reconciliation, while
the other vainly strove to bide the tears which gathered in his
eyes.
"But," continued Mr. Lester, more lightly, "I must not
have to deal with wilfulness and impatience. So far, Vivian,
you are unaltered : endurance is the lesson which you have
yet to learn."
" Eighteen years ! — latterly years of utter loneliness. It
was not possible to endure longer."
" All things which God gives us to endure are possible,"
replied Mr. Lester; "that is, of course, if we look at them
in the right way."
"And to bear the same life still," continued Mr. Vivian,
" with no fixed hope or limit. Can it be necessary V
' I think it so; but the decision must be left to yourself."
" And if it should be right ! if it should be necessary ! Oh,
Lester, my heart grows sick with the prospect."
" My principle of endurance might sound too stern fur
you," said Mr. Lester. "You would rather hear me speak
of hope."
" 1 would hear you speak of that which would be your own
comfort."
" My comfort would be in punishment," replied Mr. Les-
ter, " w T ith love and hope to soften it, yet still unmistakeably
and undeniably punishment. I have found it so myself," he
continued, earnestly. " There are sufferings which come upon
us immediately from the hand of God, without, as far as we
can discover, any fault of our own. Such, we may believe,
are trials of our faith, sent in mercy, to give us the opportu-
nity of victory. But there are others, the eonserpiences of our
CLEVE HALL. 1G9
ni ik, and which we cannot fail to trace directly to that source.
These we too often look upon as the natural effects of our own
folly, and so weary ourselves with fruitless regrets, vain long-
ings to undo the past ; till at length we grow despairing, and
the feelings of God's love, which can alone uphold us in our
suffering, is lost in the consciousness of our own wretchedness.
From your letters, Vivian, I am sure you understand that state
of mind too well."
" Understand it, yes; it was the spirit of my existence for
years."
" So once for a time was it mine, and I thought it was re-
pentance, and dreaded to discourage it; but repentance is
love, and in this feeling there is no love."
" Not when we think of the love which has borne with us
through all our wanderings ?"
" That thought will not come when we are writhing under
the consequences of our transgressions. We are then think-
ing only of ourselves. In such a state of mind there is but
one thing which I find will calm me — to accept the suffering,
whatever it may be, as coming at once from God as a punish-
ment, or perhaps, more truly speaking, a correction ; not to try
to escape from it, nor even to allow myself to wish that I had
not incurred it, but humbly and thankfully to submit to it.
There is a sense of dignity and energy in this willing accept-
ance of our lot, which I believe to %e absolutely essential to
save us from the loss of self-respect, that must otherwise ac-
company sufferings resulting from past sin. Our will becomes
one with God's will, and love must follow necessarily. My
dear Vivian, am I wrong in speaking to you as I have often
written ?"
"Right, and most kind; but I must think of what you
say another time. If I follow your advice, I shall have full
] i-nre."
" I trust not for long. Miss Campbell has already enlisted
a champion in your cause."
Mr. Vivian heaved a deep sigh : " Poor Bertha, I longed
to sec and talk to her also. There are some things in which
Bhe alone can sympathize. Yet she was little more than a
child when we parted."
" She is a woman now, and a noble one ; with faults indeed
— who is without them ? — but with a spirit of devoted un-
selfishness, which fits her for any work that maybe given her.
[f it had not been for this afternoon's adventure, I was going
8
170 CLBVE HALL.
to suggest, what perhaps would have startled yoa, that you
should meet her at the Rectory, and make yourself known to
her."
" Before I see Mildred : is that fair?"
- We musl take circumstances as they conic before us.
Yon could not possibly go to the Hall without the greatest risk,
and Mildred cannot come to you. Besides, I have an idea
that M iss Campbell already suspects the truth. It is one thing
which has made me especially uneasy."
" How ? I have most carefully avoided her."
" llachel gave me the hint, though unintentionally. Your
present to her excited Miss Campbell's interest and curiosity
strangely."
"My poor bird ! It belonged to the child of a friend in
Jamaica, who was named after my dear wife. I thought no
one but myself would recognise the name in its uncouth notes."
" Bertha did ; and she has asked many questions about you
which Rachel repeated to me. We should do wisely to trust
her."
Mr. Vivian's countenance changed : " You wdl think me
a coward, Lester. One moment I long for the meeting — the
next I dread it. The remembrances which the expression of
her face, the sound of her voice, will recall, are so intensely
painful, I should but make a fool of myself."
" Nevertheless it is ilue to her, when she is working for
you in every way, with all her heart."
a And my precious Mildred to be left," continued Mr.
Vivian, musingly.
" We will not say that absolutely. I desire almost more
than you do to put Mildred in possession of the truth; but it
would be agony to know you were here, and not to see you.
And indeed, Vivian, you must not remain even for another
day, if you wish to make your secret safe."
" My own folly again !" exclaimed Mr. Vivian. " Yet how,
at such a moment, could I remember the boy was near ?"
" That is your least danger. Honorable as he is, he would
die rather than betray you. But Mrs. Robinson tells me that
Groff has been here asking curious and impertinent questions.
If his suspicions are in the most remote degree excited, it
would be madness to delay your departure."
" To-morrow, then, — must it be ?"
" To-morrow I would advise; but I would not go too
suddenly or secretly. Come to me early at the Rectory. Let
CLEVE HALL. Ill
Mrs. Robinson give out publicly that you have business in
London for a few days. In the middle of the day you can set
off, and all will seem to follow in the natural course. It will
be supposed you are to return, and we may hope to escape
observation."
Mr. Vivian was thoughtful. " That boy Ronald," he said,
" to have saved my own life, and the life of my child, and yet
to be my deadly foe !"
" Ronald is no one's foe," replied Mr. Lester. " He has
that in him which would make him every one's friend, could
the cheek once be securely placed upon his ungoverned feel-
ings. Throw yourself upon his honor, and you are safe."
"I was afraid to do so at the time. The words escaped
me at a moment when he was not, I hoped, near enough to
catch them. Nothing in his manner showed that he had done
so ; and when my presence of mind returned, I felt it might
be better to leave them without comment."
Mr. Lester looked a little anxious.
" You don't thoroughly trust him," continued Mr. Vivian.
" I could do so entirely if I cared less. He already knows,
I believe, something of the position of affairs, so far as his
father is concerned. Miss Campbell is his friend — she was
his mother's friend — and she has great influence with him.
Last evening she had a long interview with him, and to-night
she was to tell me what had passed. It might be wise to
return with me to the Rectory. We shall find her there
probably ; and we could see our way more clearly, if we knew
exactly how far Ronald would go with us or against us."
Mr. Vivian hesitated.
" Have you any other plan ?"
"A mad one ! To go to Mildred, and then throw myself
upon my father's mercy. The impulse is almost uncon-
trollable."
" So have been all your impulses through life. A false
step at this moment, and farewell to hope for ever."
Mr. Vivian paced the room in extreme agitation.
"Your hat! Vivian. You will come?" That firm yet
gentle voice had controlled him before, in his most excited
moments, and now he obeyed it as by an instinct. They went
down stairs together. Mrs. Robinson met them.
" Only to the Rectory," said Mr. Lester, smiling as he saw
her disturbed lace.
172 CLEVE HALL.
'• And you won't return home lntc by yourself. Oh !
MasteT Edward, you will be careful. Sir, you won't let him."
Mr. Vivian took her hand affectionately: "Dear Granny,
you mustn't be afraid for me. These are not days for robbery
and murder in the highways."
"But that fellow Goff, Master Edward, — I beg your
pardon, — Mr. Bruce," and she drew back respectfully, as one
of the farm servants crossed the passage.
" Don't fear, I won't keep you up late ;" and Mr. Vivian
nodded a kindly good-b'yc. But Mr. Lester lingered behind.
"I have hope," he whispered. " He will consent to go
for the present; and for the future we must trast all to God."
" Thank you, Sir. Yes, we must all do that, indeed," and
Mrs. Robinson dropped a formal yet reverent curtsey, and
retired.
-«•»■
CHAPTER XXI.
IT was about nine o'clock, and Bertha and Rachel were toge-
ther in Mr. Lester's study. Bertha was only just come,
and she still wore the shawl which she had thrown over her
shoulders as she crossed the garden : she looked fagged but
excited.
" And you are quite sure Ella will be pretty well to-mor-
row ?" said Rachel.
" Yes, I hope, — I think so. But, oh ! Rachel, such a
fearful situation ! If Mr. Bruce had not tried to cross the
tarn in the tiny boat, when he heard her scream, he would
never have discovered her as quickly as he did."
Bertha sank down trembling in the arm chair.
Rachel drew a footstool towards her, and sat down at her
feet. " I was afraid to ask to see her," she said.
"She was better alone," replied Bertha; "Mr. Hargrave
told me that perfect quietness was indispensable. I think the
fainting was good for her in some ways. I dread what it will
be when she can recall it all more distinctly. Yet one ought
to be so thankful !" and Bertha heaved a sigh, which ended
in a shudder.
" I don't think Ella can forget it," said Rachel, thought,
fully.
CLEVE HALL. 173
"It is not meant she should; but she is very slow in
learning her lessons."
Rachel's face expressed a little wonder.
" Everything that happens gives us some lesson, if we
choose," said Bertha; "but you don't understand that yet,
Rachel."
" Don't I ? dear Miss Campbell. Isn't it like what papa
says, ' That crosses cease to be crosses when we take them up
instead of looking at them.' "
" Yes, something like it; but, Rachel, it is so odd, 1 can't
think - to-night." Bertha put her hand to her head, and rising
walked up and down the room, and then sat down again.
•' Would you fetch me a little sal volatile, Rachel?" and Ra-
chel, rather frightened, left the room. Bertha leant her head
back in the chair. That swimming, faint, weak feeling which
made her so ashamed of herself must surely be hysterical,
and she must struggle against it. She seized a book, — the
page was all in motion before her. She saw no letters, — only
a phantom scene of a steep cliff, and rolling, shivering pebbles ;
and Ella sliding — sliding, — and the dark gulf below. She
was upon the verge of giving way, when Rachel held out to
her the glass of sal volatile. Bertha drank it off: "Thank
yon, dear: now I am better. Oh, that horrible cliff!" and
she shook a<rain from head to foot.
Rachel held her hand, " Dear Miss Campbell ! she is safe."
" Yes, I know it; it might not have been : we must thank
God. Rachel deal', would you mind 1 think, if you
would read to me, I could tiy and listen."
" The Bible ?" said Rachel, timidly.
"Yes — St. John; the seventeenth chapter, if you don't
mind."
Rachel brought a Bible ; but she felt shy. She had never
had to comfort or help any one older than herself before, at
least in that way. And Bertha was so above her — so shut up
from her ! She turned over the leaves slowly.
Bertha's eyes were shut : she looked quite ill. Rachel
felt as if she could not begin. If it had been little Barney
Wood who had asked her, she would have had no hesitation.
Her voice was quite low from nervousness when she spoke
the first sentence ; but as she went on, her own feelings were
carried away by the words, and the rich, musical tones grew
deeply earnest, and, acting with a soothing charm upon Ber
174 CLEVE HALL.
tin's overworked temperament, gradually lulled her into
tranquillity.
Rachel's hand was resting on Bertha's lap: Bertha str iked
ii fondly as the chapter was ended, and the book closed.
"Thank you, dear Ilachel, you have done me good : you
do me good always."
"Because you are so kind, you say that, dear Miss Camp-
bell. It is very easy to read."
" Yes, only I could not bear some people's reading. Oh !
Rachel, I wonder who made you what you are ?"
" God made me," said Rachel, quietly.
Bertha smiled. " God makes us, and we unmake our-
selves," she said. "But you have had a safe childhood,
Rachel."
"I know persons think so," said Rachel, thoughtfully.
"And don't your"
" I can't tell; if I was good, I dare say I should feel it so.
But sometimes — is it very wrong, Miss Campbell? — I think
it is like Paradise with the serpent in it."
" Yes, the safest home on earth must be that," said Bertha.
"But, Rachel, you must be thankful still that yours is not
what other homes are." She spoke with an earnestness which
showed that the difference had lately been peculiarly brought
before her.
"I try to be thankful," replied Rachel; "but you know"
— and she smiled shyly — " wdicn the serpent comes I am not ;
and that makes me unhappy — very unhappy sometimes."
" Ah, Rachel ! so you fancy; but you can't really know
what unhappiness, or, at least, sorrow, means."
" I did know it once" — Rachel's color went and came
quickly — "when dear mamma died, and my little sister: I
thought then I was never to be happy again."
" Only papa taught you how," said Bertha, kindly.
" Yes, he teaches me always ; and he lets me tell him my
difficulties. Do you know, Miss Campbell'' — and she moved
her stool so as to look up in Bertha's face — " I have some
great ones."
Bertha's hand rested affectionately upon Rachel's head, as
she replied : " Yes, dear child, great ones to you, no doubt."
" Such wonderful, puzzing questions come into my head,"
continued Rachel; "and it seems as if I could do nothing
till they were settled. But I must not stop for them, must
[ ? Papa tells me," she added, her voice pinking, " that they
CLEVE HALL. 17£
are the serpent's questions, and if I stay to answer them, thoy
will keep me back ; and what I want is to go on and on, never
to grow tired, or to fall back; because " she hid her face
in Bertha's lap. " Oh ! Miss Campbell, Papa says, those who
strive the most, will stand near, and have a bright; bright
crown ; and I could not bear to be far off."
Bertha's eyes were full of tears; she could but kiss Rachel
and say : " Ah ! Rachel, if it were possible to make Ella think
as you do !"
" Ella will be sure to try more after to-day," said Rachel.
Bertha was very grave : "I hope so. She ought to remem-
ber the warning. But she has had many. One moment more,
and it would have been all over." The shudderina; feelino;
seemed about to return.
" Don't talk about it, dear Miss Campbell," said Rachel,
anxiously. " It makes you ill again."
" I try not, but I feel as if I must. It haunts me so; and
when I close my eyes, it all comes before me again."
''It was very dreadful," said Rachel, "when papa came
and told me of it; and it must have been much worse for
you"
" I longed so very much for your papa," continued Bertha.
" I thought at first, when I saw Ronald and Mr. Bruce at a
distance with Ella, that Mr. Bruce was Mr. Lester, and my
heart sank terribly when I found he was not."
" Papa says Mr. Bruce did more for her than even Ronald,"
observed Rachel : " did Ella thank him very much ?"
" He would not stay to be thanked," replied Bertha. " You
know they brought her home in Farmer Corbin's little chaise,
and Mrs. Corbin came with her. She was so dizzy she scarcely
knew what was going on ; and when they came to the shrub-
bery-gate, Mr. Bruce said, that now she would be in such
good hands he would leave her. He has gone before Ella
ci mid know it, and without even waiting to see me. Very
Btrange !" Bertha fell into a revery.
Rachel also was thoughtful, and once she seemed about to
make an observation, but she checked herself. There was a
silence of some moments. Whsn they spoke again, the sub-
ject was changed.
" How little papa and I thought what was going to happen
when we set off for our walk this afternoon !" said Rachel.
" I was so happy. It was such a delicious afternoon ; and we
went above the hollow, instead of under it, which is just what
170 CLE YE HALL.
I like. And then 1 had to look forward to coming back and
drinking tea with Ella and you. And now it is all so differ-
ent! It seems as if I never could trust to anything again."
Bertha smiled: " You will, though, Rachel; in a day or
two, — a week at the utmost, — you will feel just as you did
before, or, at least, very nearly so."
" Hut that will be wicked," said Rachel.
" Not exactly. We are so formed by God that we can't
help it; and the world would stand still if it were not so."
" I^don't understand that; it does seem wrong."
" Just think," replied Bertha, " what the state of the
world would be if we did not believe that things were to be
to-morrow as they are to-day. No one woidd form plans, or
make engagements, or provide in any way for the future; all
business would be at an end, and universal confusion would
follow. It always seems to me one of the most astonishing
things in human nature that, with our great experience of
change, we yet should have such untiring faith in continu-
ance. Sometimes," — Bertha paused, and glanced at Rachel,
doubting whether she might venture to carry out her own
thought ; then, as the eager, inquiring eye was bent upon her
with evident interest, she added — " sometimes I think that
it must be a relic of the higher nature in which we were first
created, and in which there would have been, we may believe,
no sudden change, but only a gradual transition from one state
of existence to another. If one may say it without irreve-
rence, it seems like all our deep instincts — such as the craving
for perfection, and the inextinguishable love of life — to belong
properly to Him, who, as the Bible says, ' is the same yester-
day, to-day, and to-morrow.' But, Rachel, I don't know why
I should talk in that way to you."
" I like it," said Rachel, quickly — " it is the way papa
talks — and it makes me feel as I do sometimes when I am left
all alone, and I stand still and think how wonderful it is to
live."
" Yes," replied Bertha, " so wonderful that if we believe
in our own existence, there is nothing else which need sur-
prise us."
Rachel put her hand to her forehead. "It makes ono
dizzy," she said; "and do you know, Miss Campbell, all the
thoughts and the feelings come upon me, now and then, in
such a strange way, just as if they were the only things worth
CLEVE HALL. . 177
aaring for, and as if I could do nothing but sit in the middle
of the world and think."
" The feeling must be good and useful occasionally," said
Bertha : " but ; dear Rachel, you must not let yourself become
a dreamer."
"No." — Rachel's face grew sad. "Papa says it is my
temptation, and that I shall never conquer it, except by learn-
ing to live out of myself, — living, as he calls it, in the life of
others."
" Being unselfish. I am sure I think you are that ;" and
Bertha bent down and kissed the lovely little face, which was
gazing up at her with its marvellous expression of inward
thought.
Rachel blushed deeply, whilst a watery mist for the moment
dimmed the brightness of her deep blue eyes : " Dear Miss
Campbell, I like you to say that ; but I ought not to like it,
because I am not unselfish ; but I do long to be so, more than
I can tell. Something which papa said has helped me, though,
when I have been inclined to despair because the dreamy fits
have come upon me, and I have felt as if I must give way to
them."
"Papa has helped you, then, as he has me," observed
Bertha; " he has given me a number of useful hints."
" He seems to understand so well," replied Rachel. "One
day, when I was talking about persons' natural dispositions,
and how strange it was they were so different, he said to me,
that if we look into our own characters, we shall find that God
has given us all some quality to counterbalance our natural
faults. A passionate person generally has energy, and an
indolent person kind-heartedness, and a selfish person perse-
verance. There is always something, which, if we use it
properly, will be a great assistance to us. Of course he meant
with God's help. And then he said to me, that my disposi-
tion led me to dream away my time, and to think of puzzling
questions, instead of being really good ; and that if I gave
way to it too much I should grow up to be selfish; but he
said that I had something in me which would counteract it,
if I tried very hard, and prayed very earnestly; he called it
benevolence." Rachel stopped, and a smile passed over her
face as she added — " That seems a grown-up virtue. I never
can fancy a benevolent child ; it seems so very droll."
Bertha smiled too, as she exclaimed, " Go on ; tell me
wh:it else papa said."
178 • CLBVE HALL.
"He explained what he meant afterwards,' continued
Rachel. " He Baid that when people arc benevolent they dis-
like to sec others suffer, and can't bear to give pain. It is
not any cood in them exactly, they can't help it. And, Miss
( Jamphell" — Rachel's color rose, and she rather hesitated—" I
think perhaps he may be right; for it does make me so exceed-
ingly uncomfortable to see other persons so. He told me then
that I was to act upon the feeling whenever I possibly could,
and that it would help me to keep myself what he called prac-
tical. And so I have tried to do it; but sometimes it is very
difficult ; only I think it is easier than it was. You know it
is a good thing to be told what one ought to encourage most
in oneself."
" And did not papa tell you that benevolent people are very
often in danger of becoming weak ?" said Bertha, following
out her own ideas, without considering what effect they might
have upon her little companion.
Rachel looked distressed. " He did not tell me so ; but is
it true ? must I be weak ?"
" I don't say you must, but I know that a great many per-
sons who set up for being benevolent are very weak."
" Perhaps they are nothing else except benevolent," ob-
served Rachel, after a moment's thought. "Papa declares
that virtues, when they stand alone, become vices."
" Yes." Bertha considered a little. " That may be."
" It was rather difficult to understand it all, that day he
talked," continued Rachel ; " but I think he said, that per-
fection — God's perfection" — and her voice changed into awe
— " is because all His great attributes (that is what I ought
to say, isn't it?) are equal, — equally balanced, papa called it;
that 'lie is not more just than lie is merciful, and not more
merciful than He is just; and therefore we ought to try to be
the same : and when we pride ourselves upon any one virtue
above others we may be quite sure we are likely to go wrong.
It made me rather unhappy to hear him say so, because he
spoke as if the very best people must be so imperfect."
" Yes, indeed, they are," said Bertha.
"I suppose they must be. But, dear Miss Campbell, it
does not seem so to me."
" You are so young, Rachel. But certainly you must take
care not to pride yourself upon benevolence."
"Else I shall become weak; but you know there is my
love of standing still and thinking to check it. Oh! Miss
CLEVE HALL. 179
Campbell, doesn't it seem very hard sometimes, to think that
we must go on always in that way, first at one thing and then
at the other?"
" Trying to make the scale equal," said Bertha.
" Yes. Do you know, papa says that when we have learnt
to keep our faults under, our next work is to keep our virtues
even. And he told me that he had known some good persons
do such wrong things because they did not attend to this.
One very generous person would give away sums of money,
and never cared in the least for his own comfort; but he did
not check himself properly, and at last he had nothing left to
pay his debts, and so was dreadfully unjust : and another very
just, particular person, was so careful not to owe anything,
and so determined to provide for everything which might be
a claim upon him, that at last he would not give away at all.
That was the difference, papa told me, also, between large and
narrow minds. I didn't know what was meant by them be-
fore. He said that if persons try to keep their virtues evenly
balanced, they have large minds ; but if they allow one to
weigh down the rest, then they have narrow minds."
A large subject, and one which opened a wide field of
thought to Bertha Campbell. Bachel was unable to read her
friend's countenance; she even doubted whether she had
listened j she could not feel that she was inter ested. Reserve
was creeping over them. But the hall bell rang, and Mr.
Lester and Edward Vivian entered the room.
Rachel's greeting hid Bertha's start of surprise. She ran
up to Mr. Vivian with the simple affection natural to her, and
exclaimed : " Oh ! is it you, Sir? and are you hurt?"
" Not hurt, my child ; how should I be ? I was in no dan-
ger ; but — " and be turned to Bertha, and his manner became
very stiff and awkward — "I hope Ella — Miss Vivian" — he
did not seem to know what inquiry to make, and sat down in
the nearest chair, turning bis head away from Bertha.
" llachel, my love, your bed is waiting for you," said Mr.
Lester.
Bachel knew quite well what that meant. Business was
going on which she was not to hear. But curiosity had been
checked in her from infancy; and the instinct of refined feel-
ings made her at once ready to go without asking, as she might
bave done at another time, to be allowed to learn more of tb.€
iident.
"Good night, dear Miss Campbell."
1SH CLEVE HALL.
Bertha's kiss was ley, so also was the touch of her fingers j
it did Dot appear that she was quite conscious of Rachel's
presence.
"Good night, little one," said Mr. Vivian. lie laid his
hands upon her shoulders, and gazed at her iutently.
" I am so glad you were not hurt," whispered Rachel ;
and she went up to her father, always under all circumstances
the claimant of her last words and thoughts.
" God bless you, my precious child !"
" Good night, darling papa ! You will come and see me
the last thing;" and Rachel ran away, happy in the con-
sciousness that even if she should be asleep, a fond kiss and
an earnest prayer were in store for her again before the night
should pass.
The door closed. Mr. Lester placed h'mself between Bertha
and Mr. Vivian. There was a painful, awkward silence.
Then Mr. Lester asked a few questions about Ella. Bertha
answered in a tone of nervous confusion. After a few moments
she said that she must go.
" Not just yet." Mr. Lester touched the arm of the chair
to prevent her from rising. " Mrs. Campbell will spare you a
little longer. There is, — we have " lie broke off suddenly,
and glanced appealingly at Mr. Vivian.
Bertha turned very pale ; her eyes moved uneasily from one
to the other. Mr. Lester seemed about to speak again ; his
lips even framed the words ; yet he hesitated.
Bertha broke the spell; and, gently pushing aside Mr.
Lester's hand, rose, and approaching Mr. Vivian, said, in a
firm, calm voice, " Edward, you cannot deceive me." The
struggle was over, and she sat down and burst into tears.
" Leave her to me, Lester." Mr. Vivian knelt on one
knee by Bertha's chair, and holding her hand in his, said,
" Bertha, you are not grieved to see me? My Flora's sister;
the adopted mother of my children ! you don't think it wrong
in me to be here V
Bertha's voice was choked, but she returned the kindly
pressure of his hand. He went on : — " You must not say I
have deceived you, Bertha. I have deceived no one. I acted
upon an impulse : the opportunity offered, — I was unable to
resist it. 1 will be true ; I did not try to do so ; I was so
wretched. Lester did not know it; no one knew it. I meant
to have gone to London. I could have hid myself there ; but
it was accident — Providence — which brought me here; and I
CLEVE HALL. lM
am going ; — don't be frightened at what may seem my reck-
lessness; I am not reckless now, I have learnt prudence; and
I am going; — but I could not leave you in ignorance."
"Going, again!" repeated Bertha, in a tone of bewilder-
ment, whilst her eyes were still fixed upon him, as if she
scarcely believed in the reality of his appearance.
" He is going, because it is best and wisest that he should,
for a time at least," observed Mr. Lester. " But, dear Miss
Campbell, you must hear him tell his own tale. I will leave
you, unless you think it might be better to delay what must
be said until to-morrow."
" If you would tell me what it all means," said Bertha, her
manner recovering itself and returning to something of its
former composed self-restraint. " Edward, have you really
done wisely ?" Her tone was a little severe.
He answered quickly, — " Not wisely in Lester's eyes, nor
perhaps in yours ; but wisely in my own. Bertba, you were a
child when we parted, yet I should have thought that events
had taught you to feel for me."
Her lip quivered. " Our love lies buried in the same
grave. Your children are as my children ; your interests as
my interests."
" Then your feelings must be my feelings," he exclaimed
with impetuosity ; " and from you at least I shall meet with
sympathy. Ten mournful years of solitude, Bertha, may and
must be my excuse."
" Yes ; but if all is marred in consequence ?"
" It shall not be. I put myself into your hands. I trust
you as — " his voice faltered — " as my Flora's sister deserves
to be trusted. You and Lester shall decide for me. To-
morrow I leave this place ; I will hide myself in London, and
appear again only when I am summoned. Let me but have
the blessing of feeling that I am within reach of my children ;
that I may, though at a distance, watch over my boy. Oh,
Bertha ! is he also to bring care upon us?"
Bertha hesitated.
" Tell me truly. I would know the worst. Are my
children to bear the curse of their father's sins?"
" It is early to judge," replied Bertha. " Clement requires
a father's authority."
"And he cannot have it; he might have had it if big
father had not been the fool — the madman — he was. To b<?
L82 CLEVE HALL.
deceived, entrapped, by that man !" lie paced the roonp
angrily.
•• Von could not hare been prepared for treachery," replied
Bertha.
" 1 ought never to have given him power over me," wan
the reply. " Yes ; I can trace it all now ; I have gone over
the steps again and again. It has been the occupation of my
leisure for years," he added, with a bitter smile. " When
first I went abroad, Bertha, I was innocent, innocent as the
child who has just left us — at least of every gi'ave offence;
my heart, my thoughts, were all given to one object, — an
earthly object, — and God took it from me;" and his voice
trembled: "but I shrank from gambling; I abhorred low
company; my impulses were noble. I might have been — oh,
weakness ! weakness ! surely it is .nore fatal than sin."
" The weakness which is conquered may become doubly
strength," observed Mr. Lester, gently.
" Yes, when it is ; but is it ever conquered ? I feel it
still in myself. I struggle with it; but too often I yield. I
tremble to think that it may be so with my boy."
"Vivian, you must deal with yourself justly," replied Mr.
Lester. " You have labored and suffered patiently; you have
risen from ruin which might have been the death of every
better feeling. Eighteen years of probation have made you,
if not a good and wise man, in your own eyes, at least one
whom the world may respect, and friends love, and whom —
from my heart I believe it — God will approve. It is vain
therefore to look back upon the past with self-reproach, which
is unavailing. Rather, rouse your spirit for the future ; hope,
and if you cannot hope, trust. The God who has not deserted
you will not forsake your children."
" But to have brought evil upon them ! to have injured
them ! Oh, Lester ! the long, lingering train of sorrow which
the fiery comet of sin drags after it !"
"Even so, for us all," replied Mr. Lester. " Yet there can
be no cause for despair, especially as regards Clement."
" But is there the power in him to improve? that is what
I doubt, and dread."
" Power lies with God, not with us," replied Mr. Lester.
" Clement has great faults," began Bertha.
" But he has very noble qualities," interrupted Mr, Lester.
Bertha looked annoyed. " It is quite true," she said,
'that Clement has many points which would, in themselves,
CLEVE HALL. 183
form a fine character; but he has one great foible, — I think
his father was always free from it, — he is vain."
31 r. Vivian showed by his face that he shrank from the
suggestion. " Vanity !" he muttered, " in a man ! — it must
lower him !"
"It must, and does lower every one; does it not?" in-
quired Bertha.
" But Clement has sense and conscientiousness," observed
Mr. Lester. " He is a gentleman, too, with the refined feel-
ings of a gentleman, and a keen sense of tbe ridiculous. All
these things will be, humanly speaking, aids."
" And I suppose we may believe," continued Bertha, " that
his position, as comparatively poor and unknown, may have
been better for him than if he had been brought up as the heir
of Cleve. He at least has not been petted and spoiled by the
flattery of servants."
" Thank you ; you are very good, very kind. And Ella,
too, is she vain ?" The question was asked with some bit-
terness.
<• Not exactly. Not at all, I think; at least " Bertha
looked at Mr. Lester for assistance.
" We will talk over the children's faults to-morrow," he
said. " Miss Campbell will come to us in the morning."
Bertha rose ; she seemed conscious that something of un-
comfortable restraint had crept over them;and remarked that
it was growing late, and they had talked of nothing definite.
" Because there is little to be said as yet," replied Mr. Les-
ter. '• Vivian leaves us to-morrow for London. That, at least,
you will consider a safe step."
" Safe, if it is always so to act against inclination, as mo-
ralists contend," observed Mi\ Vivian, with an attempt at ease.
" Lester has fears for me, Bertha, which I can't share."
" Miss Campbell will understand them, I am sure," ob-
Berved Mr. Lester. " She has as little faith in John Vivian
as I have."
" Less," replied Bertha ; " for I have known him longer
and better ; but, Edward, you won't content yourself with re-
maining in London."
" He will content himself with doing whatever we think
for him, at the present/' said Mr. Lester. " In the mean
time, .Miss Campbell, we must trust to you to find out, as soon
as possible, whether Ronald suspects our secret; and if he
does, to caution him as to keeping it."
18-4 CLEVE HALL.
" Ronald ! impossible !"
" Scarcely impossible, wnen a man betrays his own coun-
sel. Perhaps it was not to be expected that Vivian should
be master of himself at the moment be saved Ella."
Bertha looked at her brother-in-law for explanation.
" It is very true," he said; " I was thrown off my guard,
and forgot the young fellow was near. Whether he heard or
not, I can't say. He looked unconscious ; but I would not
trust him."
" Not trust Ronald !" exclaimed Bertha, quickly. " Noble,
true-hearted, unselfish, he would sacrifice his life before he
would betray you."
Mr. Vivian glanced at her in astonishment. Her manner
was singularly unlike what it had been when she spoke of his
own children.
Mr. Lester read what was passing in his mind. "Miss
Campbell has reason to trust Ronald," he said; "she has
known him from infancy."
" Oh I" But the explanation did not seem thoroughly
satisfactory; and Mr. Vivian's manner was cold as he added,
— " Bertha must forgive me for distrusting the son of my
greatest enemy."
" I know that every one must distrust him," said Bertha.
"Everyone but myself," observed Mr. Lester. "I had
used almost the same words as yourself, when speaking of him
to Vivian, a short time since. All that we have to fear is, that
he may incautiously reveal -the truth before he knows that it
may do mischief. That is, always supposing he heard Vivian's
exclamation. You, perhaps, will find that out more easily than
any one."
" We are safe either way," replied Bertha, still with the
same cold reserve of manner. " Ronald knows enough of his
father's proceedings to be on his guard. If you have nothing
else to fear, Edward, I congratulate you."
Mr. A ivian's countenance was moody, and he made no
reply. '
Bertha gathered her shawl around her. " My mother will
be surprised at my being out so late. What time shall I see
you, to-morrow, Edward ?"
Mr. Lester answered, — " He will be here to breakfast. My
study will be at his service, and at yours, all the morning. In
the afternoon I will myself drive him into Cleve, and see him
fairly on his journey. Starting so late, he will not reach Lon-
OLEVE HALL. 185
dan till the nest day; but that will be better than any very
rapid movement, -which might excite observation."
" Thank you. Then to-morrow, Edward" — she offered
him her hand, and he took it mechanically, but turned to Mr.
Lester : —
"Must I be denied the sight of my children? May I not
eay one word to Clement ?"
" You can answer your own question, my dear Vivian. Do
you think it safe ?"
" Clement could not possibly be trusted to keep your coiui
Bel," observed Bertha.
Mr. Vivian dropped her hand coldly, but something seemed
to reproach him for it, and he spoke kindly : " Good-night,
Bertha, and a father's blessing for your care of his children."
Bertha was touched and softened. " Good-night, Edward.
If I don't think your children perfect, it is not from any want
of love for them."
She hurried from the room. Mr. Lester folllowed her.
"I must walk with you across the garden, Miss Campbell;"
and he offered his arm, which she took silently. Mr. Lester
felt that she trembled. " This has been a most trying, excit-
ing day," he said. " I would, if I could, have spared you the
discovery of to-night; but I doubted what to-morrow might
bring, and feared that Vivian might be obliged to go without
seeing you."
" It was no discovery," replied Bertha. " I was certain
before, — that is, nearly. Oh ! Mr. Lester, it seems such a
dream !"
" Yes." lie seemed considering what to add.
"He is not altered," continued Beiiha; then, in a lower
tone, she added : " I had hoped he might be."
" He is altered, I trust," observed Mr. Lester. " He looks
at things very differently from what he did."
" He cannot bear truth," said Bertha.
" Not under some forms."
" Not under any form, I fear/' continued Bertha ; " at leasi
when it is unpleasant. In that, Clement is so like him."
They had reached the gate between the two gardens ; Ber-
tha was going to cross the little bridge, but Mr. Lester stopped
her. " May I give you one warning?"
"As many as you will; I am always grateful for them
from you."
[86 CLEVE HALL.
"It can iiever be right to say what we don't think; but is
it always necessary to say what we do?"
•• Sou mean about the children?"
« Yea, I fear you have pained him, and he is already suf-
fering greatly."
"I am very sorry; I meant no harm. But he must know
it in time."
" In time, yes; but not at this time; or at least not with-
nut some softening words."
The change in Bertha's voice showed her vexation. " I
am always doing wrong," she said ; " how can I help it ?"
" Perhaps, if you had put yourself in his place, you might
have understood."
Silence followed till they reached the door of the Lodge.
Then as Bertha rang the "bell, and wished Mr. Lester good-
night, she said : " You may be right, but I cannot speak in a
way which I don't feel."
*•-■
CHAPTER XXII.
\ rB. LESTER returned to find his study empty. Mr. Vi-
\L vian was gone. That impulsive, irritable nature which
hai led him into so much evil in earlier years, was, as Bertha
had said, in some measure, unchanged. Still, if thwarted, he
was, for a season, moody; if forced to listen to unpleasing
truths, he was disheartened. The child was father of the
man, and the faults which had grown up unchecked till he was
four-and-twenty, would yet too often be his tyrant at two-and-
forty. He wandered forth now, desolate and dispirited to a
degree greater than even his situation might occasion. He
had gone to the Parsonage, excited, sanguine, longing and
hoping for sympathy; but he had been disappointed. He felt
as if he had been repelled, and by one to whom he ought to
have been especially clear. The sister of her for whose sake
he had sacrificed home, fortune, all that could render life pre-
cious. If Bertha had educated his children to be what she
was herself, there could be but little union between them ; and
ac might now be wearing away his life in a distant land with
CLEVE HALL. 1S7
as much prospect of happiness as he could hope for in a resto-
ration to his own country.
Very unreasonable, perhaps, such thoughts might seem at
such a time ; but whatever may be the romance, or poetry, or
even danger of our position, we are still, except at the very
moment of excitement, subject to the every day impressions,
which, for the most part, make up our existence.
The prejudiced, unbalanced tone of Bertha's mind, which
stopped the current of her natural sympathies, had thrown
her brother-in-law from her at the very moment when it was
most necessary that he should be drawn towards her.
And Edward Vivian could not be what Mr. Lester was —
impartial. He knew little of Bertha's character, except from
letters ; and those had been generally kind, but formal. He
did not doubt her right principle, but he did her spirit of self-
devotion ; and with the impatience natural to him, which
made him chafe against every impediment to his wishes, he
fancied that he was about to place himself in the power of one
who looked coldly upon his interests, cared little for his chil-
dren, and would allow him to linger week after week in exile,
whilst waiting for the opportunities which a hearty determina-
tion would at once have found.
It was a grievous injustice to Bertha, whose chief thought
was to see him restored to his inheritance, and her one object
that his children should be educated to be an honor and com-
fort to him. But the thought and the object were the results
of duty rather than affection, and with this Mr. Vivian's sus-
ceptible feelings could not be satisfied.
He lingered on his way, for motion was soothing to his
chafed spirit; and a thousand busy thoughts were passing
through his brain. Why should he have returned to England ?
Why strive for that which, ever as he drew near, receded from
his grasp ? The hope of restoration, how bright and dazzling
had it seemed when viewed across the distance of the tar
ocean ! Now, in his native village, within sight of his father's
Hall, wi'liin reach of his sister's voice, and the influence of
bis friend's counsel, it was dwindling, fading, till nothing
Beemed left but solitude, comfortless and dreary; with cold-
ness where he had expected warmth, prudence where he had
looked for energy.
It might have been an unreasonable, an unthankful feeling,
that rose up in the heart of the weary exile, for, alas ! sorrow
tends to exaggerate our faults, as well as to strengthen our
188 CLEVE HALT,.
virtues; but it was Bertha's work — Bertha, the unselfish, the
pure-minded, the devoted — her work, because she had never
yet learnt to heal the wounds of truth by the oil of sympathy.
It was a beautiful starlight evening, and the moon, though
not full, gleamed clear in the cloudless heavens, and brought
oui every near object distinctly. The path through the village
Was the nearest to the Farm, and Mr. Vivian pursued it with-
out thought, or rather with that engrossing thought which
Minds us to the external world, lie did not see the figure of
a man standing below the porch of the first cottage which he
passed; neither did he hear the footsteps which slowly and
cautiously followed his. He went on, with his usual rapid,
irregular pace, every now and then pausing, as some fresh idea
struck him, and occasionally raising his arm high in the air,
following out in action the feelings either of hope or despair
which were at the moment paramount in his breast. The
figure which followed him kept at a certain distance, stopped
when he stopped, advanced when he advanced, still keeping in
the shade, or, when obliged to emerge into the light, hurrying
on, and then delaying, evidently with the wish not to approach
to i near.
The upper and open part of the village was passed, and
they entered the ravine. The shadows there were deeper, the
light glanced through the foliage of the trees more stealthily.
Occasionally the barking of a dog broke the stillness, but, for
the most part, all was silent save the quick dashing murmur
of the brook, tossing its way, over rocks and pebbles, to the
ocean.
Mr. Vivian quickened his pace; he seemed to feel the
chilliness of the evening air, and presently he stopped to button
his coat more closely round him. He was opposite to a cottage,
standing high upon the bank, the only one in which a light
still gleamed below. The door was open, and a man was
standing on the threshold, his form clearly defined by the
brightness of the light behind him. As Mr. Vivian passed,
a sharp, shrill, and very peculiar whistle was heard. It must
have been an instinct, certainly it was not fear, which induced
Mr. Vivian to quicken his step, keeping close against the
garden-wall, so that he might not be perceived. The figure
behind also crept back further into the shade. Mr. Vivian
was out of sight ; the whistle was heard again, and answered,
and (luff, the fisherman, stealing out of his cottage, met Ronald
CLEVE HALL. ISO
Vivian at the foot of the rough flight of steps which gave
admittance to the garden from the road.
" I saw you, youngster. Why didn't you answer ? I thought
you had given me the slip!" was the insolent greeting; tc
which Ronald replied hy striding over the little stile, and lead-
ing the way up to the cottage door, where he placed himself
so as to intercept the view of the road.
Goff followed impatiently. " Twenty steps, where one
would do I" he muttered to himself, and then added aloud,
" You've no need to go so far to learn your duty."
" My father bade me come to hear the result of your in-
quiry," said Ronald haughtily. " He spoke mysteries, so do
you, but I am used to them. Only let me hear what you would
say quickly."
'• The Captain's been out all day, I suppose ?"
"Yes, at Cleve. He has only just returned. If the in-
quiry was not satisfactory, I was to say that he expected you
to-night at the Grange."
" High and mighty ! but he'll learn differently some day.
You passed no one on the road, eh, Ronald ?"
" I came by the back lane till I was in the village, and
there I saw a pedlar man at the door of a public-house. Is
that part of your mystery ?"
" The parson went home an hour since," said Goff, care-
lessly, " and the man at the Farm, Bruce they call him, with
him. He'd be back about this time. I've a notion he's friends
with the Preventives; so we'd best not meet him."
" Perhaps so; what message am I to take to my father ?"
Instead of answering, Goff went again down the flight of
steps, and looked up and down the road. "I thought I heard
a tramp ; and it's time to be on our watch for those Preventive
fellows."
" My father is gone to the Point, and he bade me follow
him ; what message am I to take him ?" repeated Ronald.
" Tell him I've an inkling I was right as to the cargo, but
the craft was too far off to be searched. I may know more
before to-morrow. Your father is at the Point, you say ?"
" He expects his vessel in," replied Ronald.
" I doubt whether they'll try the landing to-night; the tide
doesn't serve."
" He will be back at the Grange soon, then," said Ronald ;
" and is he to see you thei*e ?"
"Umph! that's as maybe. Say I've business at home,
l'.'O CLBVE HALL.
both for him and for me. If he doesn't hear to-night, he will
in the morning. And now, my young scamp, yon may depart."
lie went down some of the steps, beckoning to Ronald to
follow. But one bound, as it seemed, had brought Bonald to
the stile. He vaulted across it, halloed a hasty " Goqd-night"
to Goff, and ran with his full speed, taking short cuts and by-
paths, in the direction which 31 r. Vivian had pursued, whilst
Goff seated himself on the garden-wall, and occupied himself
with a pipe.
The end of the ravine was reached ; Mr. Vivian was about
to emerge from it into the open space in front of the Farm.
The night was so calm, the effect of his walk so soothing, that
he was doubtful whether to stop or proceed further, and his
step lingered as he gazed upon the old building, standing gray
and ghost-like in the moonshine, and revolved in his mind the
changes and sorrows associated with it.
" If Mr. Vivian is wise, he will rest when others rest,"
was uttered in a Low, deep voice, by some one at his side. He
started, scarcely conscious at the first moment that he had
been addressed by his true name; yet his hand grasped his
stick with the quick perception of possible danger, and he
turned sharply round with an indignant ejaculation.
" Those who betray their own secrets have no right to be
angry when they are reminded of it," continued Ronald.
" Ronald Vivian ! Speak plainly, young fellow. Let me
hear your object."
" That you should know I know you," said Ronald, boldly.
"We meet then upon equal ground."
" John Vivian's son can never stand upon equal ground
with me," was the reply. " You have aided me in danger,
and I thank you for it, heartily. Name your recompense;
you shall have it. For my secret — do with it as you will ; I
am indifferent to it." Yet as he spoke, Mr. Vivian's eye
glanced quickly round, fearing, apparently, that the boy's
approach was to be followed by that of others, whom he might
have more cause to dread.
" Thanks ! Recompense ! Mr. Vivian, let me tell you "
and Ronald drew nearer, and his voice was harsh and hesi-
tating. But suddenly it changed, as he muttered, " Fool that
I am ! to think he would understand !"
" Say to your father, if he has sent you," he"-an Mr
\ nian
Ronald interrupted him. " I do not come from my father
CLEVE HALL. 191
I have that to say which may be for your good ; but first, we
must understand each other. Your thanks, I do not desire
them ; your reward, I would not accept it, if it were the
wealth of the Indies you could offer me. Now, then, will
you hear me V
" Yes, say what you will, but shortly."
" And not here," said Ronald. He threw back the wickct-
srate, entered the Farm Court, and tried the door into the gar-
den, which was bolted.
Mr. Vivian touched his arm. " If we are to speak upon
private matters, there is no place so secure as my own apart-
ment."
" I am used to the free air," replied Ronald. " I can
speak better in it." He drew back the bolt. " Now, then,
we are safe," and carefully refastening the door again, on the
iuside, he turned into the broad turf walk which divided the
garden into two equal parts.
" Your father has doubtless learnt that I am here," said
Mr. Vivian.
" I came on my own account ; my father " Ronald
paused, and then went on impetuously. " You don't trust
me. I am used to that. God help me to bear it. Mr. Vivian,
you are my father's enemy."
" Rather, your father is mine," was the answer, uttered
more gently.
" An enemy makes an enemy. You hate him ; justly,
perhaps; yes, justly it must be. You think, too, that you
have cause to hate me also."
" Hate you, Ronald ! I owe my own life to you, and to-
day you have aided in saving my child."
" The new favor will not wipe out the old grudge," replied
Ronald. " Young though I am, I have seen too much of the
world to believe that. Safety, both for yourself and your
daughter, would have been more precious if purchased by any
other means. Nay, let me speak," he added, seeing that Mr.
Vivian was about to interrupt him. "I have nothing to say
upon that subject. It is gone — forgotten. It is of yourself,
Mr. Vivian, that I would have you think. You are my fa-
ther's enemy, and your secret is in my hands. Upon what
terms think you it is to be kept?"
"Upstart! insolent!" exclaimed Mr. Vivian. "Do you
think 1 fear your father ?"
" You have cause to do so," was Ronald's calm ro.ply.
192 CLEVE HALL.
"Cause! Yes, cause indeed 1" And the tone was bitter
in its remorse. "I do fear him, but not as you think; not
for the injury he may have done me in former years, not for
the evil he may yet bring upon me in this world. I fear him
as L fear the spirit of evil; the demon that tempts man to his
eternal destruction. There is no bargain to be made with
such fear."
A look of agony passed over Ronald's face at the last words.
He pressed his hands tightly together, and when he spoke, his
tone was hollow, in the effort to repress his feelings : " Yet
the question is unanswered. Upon what terms is the secret
to be kept ?"
" Upon no terms, Sir; let the whole world know it, and.
come what may, I will abide it."
" That may be a hasty word long to be repented," replied
Ronald.
"Never to be repented. There must be war; ay, for
ever, between John Vivian and myself ; between his children
and my children. Young fellow, you have your answer."
" I have not my answer," replied Ronald. " Mr. Vivian,
you think you are speaking to a boy, and you are right. A
boy I am in years, but they have been years in which a man's
experience has been condensed. You cannot and shall not
turn from me in this way. You shall listen as to a man, your
equal, and you shall grant me my demands as to one who
holds your fate in his hands, and will never be tempted to
swerve from his resolve either by threat of punishment or
hope of reward. Once more, upon what terms shall your
secret be kept ?"
He folded his arms, and leant his back against a tree, and
die pale gleaming of the moon showed a face, anxious, hag-
gard, yet immovable. Mr. Vivian was touched by its expres-
sion, whilst his spirit revolted from the pi'oud words which he
had just heard. " You are a strange fellow, Ronald," he said
more lightly. "Do you think that a man who has reached
my age, and has the happiness of so many depending upon
him, would have placed himself in a situation which a hasty
word of his own, and the wilfulness of a boy like yourself,
might render really perilous ? You delude yourself. It has
hecn my will for purposes of my own to remain for a time
concealed ; but the truth must, before long, come forth. Your
betrayal of it, or that of your father, can have but little effect
ipon my fortunes."
CLEVE HALL. 193
" Trust to that hope if you will," replied Ronald : " believe
that the man whom you injured in the point nearest to his
heart will suffer his revenge to die ; trust that he will allow
you to return, and rake up the ashes of past deeds, and search
out the offences which, it may be, are hidden amongst them ;
but, remember, it is at your own peril, against the warning of
one who knows that life and death are at this moment trem-
bling in the balance of your decision."
Mr. Vivian started. " Ha ? Are you come to threaten me ?
T might have known the spirit of John Vivian hidden under
the form of his son." And he laughed scornfully.
" I bear with your injustice — with your suspicions, Mr.
Vivian. God knows, I feel too truly how they have been de-
served. Doubt me if you will, yet still listen to me. One
word from me, and the thought which is now but a slumbering
ember, will be kindled into a flame, and the most hidden re-
cesses of English ground will not insure your safety."
" You want money, young man; you shall have it, so far
as my poverty will admit ; but not to purchase secrecy and
.safety. There is a God above, and He will protect me."
" Money !" Ronald's deep voice sounded as the burst of
thunder on the clear air. But the check followed in a mo-
ment, and the tones of a child could not have been more gentle
than his as he added : " M \ Vivian, I want not money, but
pardon." He covered his face with his hands, and a bitter
groan burst from him. Then resuming his former attitude,
and speaking almost coldly, he continued : " But for my aid
you might have perished in the storm, your child might have
been dashed from the heights of the Croome. But for my
secrecy now, danger, near and pressing, little though you may
believe it, must haunt your steps. Is it too much to ask for-
giveness in return fur life?"
" Forgiveness, Ronald ! you speak riddles ; you have never
offended me."
" My father has. He has injured you. His injuries may,
they must, some day come to light : yes, and by my instru-
mentality;" and again he hid his face and shuddered. " Mr.
Vivian, when that day shall come, will you not remember that
Ronald was your friend in the hour of peril? — that for your
Bake ho risked the hastening of that fearful account which we
are told wo an; all to give before God?"
"Remember!" Mr. Vivian grasped his hand. "Ronald,
80 surely will I remember your good deeds, as I pray that God
!)
191 OLEVE HALL.
in His mercy may forget my evil ones. But even yet I can-
not sco your purpose."
" It may be a sad history, yet I will beg you to listen to
it," replied Ronald. "Mr. Vivian, I have not now for the
first time learnt that I was the son of a man whom the world
terms reprobate. I discovered it in my childhood, when I
said my prayers at my mother's knee, stealthily, because my
father would interrupt them ; I saw it in my mother's tears,
when he left her to join in riot and intemperance. I heard
it from her own lips as she lay on her deathbed, and charged
me never to follow his evil courses, and yet, if possible, never
to forsake him. It was the one burning thought which made
me what I have been, — reckless and desperate. I was too
young then to profit by counsel ; perhaps even if I had been
older, I should have been too weak, and I did follow my father
into scenes and society which I have since learnt to shrink
from with horror. There I might have been at this moment ;
— God oidy knows why I am not there : but through it all,
even in my worst moments, the warnings of one friend have
recalled me to better things, reminding me of days of inno-
cence, carrying me back to my mother's deathbed. If the
past can ever be redeemed, it will be through the teaching of
my mother's only friend, Miss Campbell. I owe everything
to her, and I will repay the debt, ;ost what it may."
" And Miss Campbell, then, has told you our family his-
tory ?"
" In part. She has put the possibility of benefiting you
within my reach, at the expense of my father's honor, and
perhaps safety." He spoke with an accent of bitterness, and
Mr. Vivian said, hastily, " Bertha Campbell has been incon-
siderate ; she never could expect such a sacrifice."
" Miss Campbell did not know what she exacted," replied
Ronald. " I did not know what I promised, until I thought
over my promise ; but if I had known, I could not have drawn
back. Gratitude and honor must make me labor to discover
the truth ; justice would require me to make it known. I do
not, for a moment, blame Miss Campbell; neither do I repent
for myself. I ask only that the good deed which I may be
enabled to do for you, may not be turned into the agony of re-
morse, by bringing destruction upon my father."
" It never could be," exclaimed Mr. Vivian. " I would
rather die myself, and see my children beggars, than I would
urge you to act against your father."
CLEVE HALL. 195
" When I was told tlie history, the deed was done," replied
Ronald, mournfully. " I needed no urging then. I can never
rest till restitution has heen made."
" Leave it, leave it," replied Mr. Vivian, hastily ; " forget
that you have been asked. A son to turn against his father !
— impossible !"
" And a family to be sacrificed, when one word might re-
store to them a lost inheritance ! — equally impossible !" replied
Ronald.
" Bertha Campbell has unintentionally deceived you, Ro-
nald," said Mr. Vivian. " She has an idea that something
which your father said or did was the cause of my exile ; but
she is mistaken. The offences were my own ; they may have
been exaggerated ; my father's anger may have been increased
by misrepresentation ; but the main facts must have been true,
and for them I only am answerable. Are you not satisfied by
my assurance?" he added, as Ronald continued silent.
Still there was a pause. Mr. Vivian repeated the question.
Ronald seized his hand. " Mr. Vivian, you are a man of
honor ; ask me no more questions. Only, if you value the
life which through my means was restored to you, promise me
here, as in the presence of God, that whatever may hereafter
be discovered and revealed by me, shall only so far be used as
I shall permit, and never be made known by you to any other
person, except by my permission."
" I promise; solemnly, faithfully."
Ronald shook his hand eagerly. " Honor for life ! Mr.
Vivian, there is now no obligation ; I thank you from my
heart." His tone was quite changed, it was almost hopeful.
Mr. Vivian turned to go into the house. " If you are
satisfied, we must part now," he said.
" I am satisfied about myself, not about you. Mr. Vivian,
this place is not safe for you I"
" I am going to leave it."
" When ? Another day's delay may be of infinite import-
ance."
" I 2:0 to-morrow to-
" Do not tell me where. Let me know nothing of you that
I can avoid. Whatever must be known, Miss Campbell will
tell me."
" I do not see the need of so much mystery," exclaimed
Mr. Vivian, rather haughtily. " I fear no man."
•' Yet there may not be, therefore, the less cause for fear.
196 CLEVE HALL.
You wmild be safe from my father; you are not safe from tha
fellow. Coif."
" Rascal ! — he is too contemptible to dread."
" Mr. Lester will give you his opinion upon that point,"
replied Ronald. " I cannot expect you to take mine. But
you arc going, and that is all I ask."
They walked a few paces together, without speaking; hut
when they reached the garden-door, Mr. Vivian grasped
Ronald's hand, and said, in a voice hoarse with suppressed
feeling, " Ronald, you are a noble fellow. Let my own boy
be but like you, and I shall be contented."
He was detained.
" Never ! never [ Oh God ! save him from it ! Innocence !
Mr. Vivian, the riches of the universe would I give for inno-
cence !"
-*-
CHAPTER XXIII.
A BRIGHT fire was blazing on the hearth in Mildred Vi-
vian's apartment, an old-fashioned Christmas fire, though
it was only the beginning of December, — logs of wood kindling
and inspiriting the coals ; and Mildred's sofa was drawn near
it, and her little work-table was placed by her side; and, re-
clining in a low and very luxurious chair on the other side,
Ella was reading to her aloud. They looked very comfortable,
all the more so because snow was falling, and the sky heavy
with gray masses of clouds, which threatened to prevent any-
thing like going out all day.
" Grandpapa has not been in this morning," said Ella, as
she laid down the first volume of the book, and looked round
the room for the second.
" He is busy with the bailiff, I think," said Mildred.
" There are parish matters and magistrate's business to attend
to. He never leads an idle life."
" No," replied Ella; " it is strange, Aunt Mildred, isn't it,
what people find to interest them in life ?"
" Parish matters and magistrate's business being very un-
interesting to you, I suppose," said Mildred, laughing.
" They are so low," replied Ella.
CLEVE HALL. 197
" I don't know what the world would do without thorn,
though," said Mildred. " And I really don't see why they
are to be called low."
"Oh, because they don't serve any purpose; they don't
exalt one's mind. You know, Aunt Mildred, parish matters
are always about gruel and blankets ; and magistrate's matters
about poaching."
" All very necessary, Ella."
" Oh yes, necessary, but I hate necessities; now don't
you r
" I can't say exactly that I do. I am afraid such a good-
for-nothing person as I am in the way of health, must always
think a good deal of them. But I do know wLat you mean,
Ella, and I feel with you in a certain way. One wouldn't like
to live upon necessaries."
" No ;" Ella's face brightened at being understood, — " and
that is what some people do; and what I dread doing, and,
Aunt Mildred, it is what I am sure I shall do, if I live at
Encombe much longer."
" Six months' trial is a very short one."
" Enough for me," said Ella, yawning. " If it weren't for
coming here sometimes, I shouldn't have an idea left. But
you do let one rhapsodize a little."
Mildred's face was rather grave.
" Now, Aunt Mildred, that is an expression I don't like,"
continued Ella ; " it always seems as if there was something
hidden behind it, and I choose to know all. Now, confess,
what were you thinking of ?" she added, playfully.
" Merely whether rhapsodizing, as you call it, was a good
or a bad thing."
"Oh, good; infinitely good! It encourages enthusiasm,
and enthusiasm leads to heroism, and heroism to — why, all
the noble things which have been done in the world are owing
to heroism."
"Most true; you had better write a book upon it some
day."
"You are laughing at me; hut I don't see why you
should ;" and Ella, rather petulantly, took up some work.
" Not at all laughing, dear Ella; quite the reverse."
" Then crying ; I would rather you should do that than
laugh. 1 bate ridicule; it chills me."
•• Dear Ella, you know I never ridicule any one — iutcn
198 CLE YE HALL.
tionally, that is. My -words may certainly be twisted to :\
wrong meaning."
"Then why did you say I had better write a book upor.
heroism ? Of course that means, I had better not."
" Of course it does. Perhaps I said it because 1 thought
persons never write well upon subjects which they don't under-
stand, and that no one can understand heroism who doesn't
practise it."
" There is little enough opportunity for practising it at
Eneombe," observed Ella.
" One might think so at first sight, but you have had occa-
sions more frequently than most people."
" I don't quite see when. There have been no adventures,
otdy the wreck, which I had nothing to do with, and the
Croomej yes, that was terrible!" and Ella became much
graver in manner; " but the heroism belonged to llonald and
Mr. Bruce."
" I think you were something of a heroine, Ella. If you
had lust your presence of mind there would have been no
hope."
"One is inspired, I suppose, at such times," said Ella.
" I could never have supposed it possible to bear up as I did.
But to be a heroine for one day is nothing. What I wish is
to be one all my life, and in these times there is nothing to
give one the opportunity. Oh for the days of chivalry and
the Crusaders !"
" When ladies lived shut up within walls, and occupied
themselves in working tapestry with their maids, every now
and then relieving their tediousness by taking a stroll upon
the battlements, to see if their lords were coming."
" You are so absurd, Aunt Mildred. Who ever thinks of
beautiful ladies in the olden times taking a stroll?"
" But they did stroll, Ella, unless, as I suppose sometimes
happened, they felt it good for their health to have a good,
quick, constitutional walk."
" I can't talk to you," said Ella; "you always laugh about
knights and chivalry."
" Quite the reverse, dear Ella; I have the greatest possible
admiration for them. All I ever regret is that people should
spend their time in grasping at the shadow, and so lose the
substance."
" I don't know what you mean by that," said Ella. " I
CLEVE HALL. 199
never could discover any knightly substance, as you call it, in
these days."
" I should scarcely imagine you could," replied Mildred
quietly.
Ella looked up, a little piqued, and answered, " But if
there is any, I don't see why I am to be more blind than the
rest of the world."
" You are not more blind than most people," replied Mil-
dred. " Half the persons you meet would tell you that they
can discover nothing but matter-of-factness in the nineteenth
century."
"Please, Aunt Mildred, don't talk mysteries; you can't
think how they tease me."
"The meaning of my mysteries may not suit you, Ella,"
said Mildred, gravely.
".Perhaps so, but I should like to know it."
" I think that what we are accustomed to call chivalry was
an earthly adaptation of the Christian spirit, suited to rude
times and men of half-cultivation," said Mildred; "that, in
fact, it was a type of real chivalry."
" Then, what do you call real chivalry?" asked Ella.
" The spirit of self-devotion, self-denial, courage, endur-
ance, perseverance, not for the praise of men but the praise
of God."
Ella was silent.
" That does not quite approve itself to your ideas, does it ?"
said Mildred.
" It is all very good," replied Ella, " but I don't see any
chivalry in it."
" No ; and you never will in your present state of mind.
You are a knight going unwillingly to the wars, and always
sighing for the repose of his owu halls and the gentle glance
of his ladye love."
" That would never have been my case," exclaimed Ella.
" I could have fought, I know I could, like a lion."
" Oh, Ella! I wish you could do so now." Mildred's voice
was sad.
"Dear Aunt Mildred, don't speak so; I would think as
you do if I could."
" You can, Ella, if you will ; all of us can. The thoughts
would come if you would only act."
"Action; that is the difficulty;" and Ella sighed.
" A knight to sigh and say action is the difficulty !"
200 CLEVE HALL.
Ella blushed. " Aunt Mildred, I am not a knight."
"No, Ella! A Christian knight you can't be, because —
IS it very hard to say it'/ — you live only for yourself."
Ella's countenance betrayed a momentary annoyance, but
she recovered herself quickly, though her tone was still a little
constrained, as she replied, " You arc rather severe in youi
condemnation, Aunt Mildred."
" More seven; than is merited, am T ? But will you set me
right then, and tell me whom you do live for, — Grandmamma?
A nut Bertha ? Clement?"
"Oh! for no one in particular; who does? I am very
fond of everybody, but I don't know what you mean by living
for them."
" But, Ella, that will not do for chivalry. The knights of
old could never have fought as they did if they had nut had
some special object."
" But you say I am not a knight."
"We come round to the point from which we set off. I
don't think you have the spirit of a knight in you. I am
sure, indeed, you have not. .No one who is self-indulgent can
have."
" You don't like my sitting in easy chairs," said Ella, half-
raising herself.
" I don't like it, because it puts your mind into an easy
chair too," replied Mildred.
" No ; indeed I assure you I can think twenty times as well
when I am comfortable."
"There is a difference between being comfortable and not
being uncomfortable," said Mildred. "People can't think
when they have the toothache, but there is a wide neutral
ground between that and positive luxury."
" One's imagination works so much better in the pleasant,
dreamy state, which sofas and arm-chairs put one into," said
Ella, throwing herself back and laughing. " I do so wonder,
Aunt Mildred, that you who are so fond of poetry can't under-
stand that."
" Perhaps T can and do understand it too well," answered
Mildred thoughtfully. " But one thing Ella, I am quite cer-
tain of, that imagination and every other faculty will infallibly
degenerate if it is not kept alive by practice. If you can
write good poetry when you sit and dream all day in your arm-
chair, you will write much better if you rouse yourself and do
a kind act for a person in need. I believe, myself, that one
CLEVE HALL. 20 J
chief reason why we so often see persons of great powers of
imagination, degenerating and writing things <(fiite unworthy
of their first efforts, is that *hey think mental work everything,
and so neglect to recruit their poor minds by bracing practical
duties. Even in an intellectual point of view, Ella, you see,
I object to the arm-chair."
"Oh, dear! so comfortable;" and Ella sighed, and drew
her chair nearer to the fire.
" It seems very unfitting for me to say it, I am afraid,"
continued Mildred, n when I lie on a sofa all day. But then,
Ella, against that perhaps I may put the pain which God has
Beut me. I am never quite free from it. And in other ways
I do tty to practise what I preach; at least I hope so."
" Yes, Aunt Mildred, who could think you self-indulgent ?"
" I was inclined to be so once," she replied. " When my
dear sister was living, she took so much from me in the way
of duty, that I often felt there was no occasion for exertion,
and then I gave way. But it has been different of late yens,
and I have taught myself to open the windows of my mind,
and let in the fresh breezes from without, even though now
and then they are a little chilling."
Ella considered a little, still reclining at her ease. " Then,
Aunt Mildred, what would you have me do ?"
" What would I not have you do ? You like plain speak-
ing, you say. Nothing that you have done since you came
here, at least not in the same spirit."
" I can't alter the spirit, — it is that which I am in always,"
said Ella, rather moodily.
" Yet it was to have been different after your fright upon
the Croome."
" I thought so, for a time, but it went off; that is always
the case with me, — I can't help changing."
'' Simply because you think and don't act," replied Mildred.
' The notes which you sent me the week after your adventure
were full of good resolutions."
"Oh, yes; good resolutions: but what are they worth? I
am tired of them."
" So am I," was Mildred's grave remark.
Ella rose from her scat, and as she knelt by Mildred's side,
fiaid : " Please not, Aunt Mildred : any tone but that."
" Do you deserve any other, Ella?"
"No. I deserve nothing, L am very unhappy;" and Ella
' into tears.
Jf'J CLEVE HALL.
"You were to have taught the children regularly," con*
tinned Mildred, "and you have neglected them just as you
did before. You were to have been thoughtful for your grand-
mamma, and obedient to your Aunt Bertha, and there have
been nothing but complaints. I asked you to come here, and
told you what 1 wished you to do, and you promised what you
h.i\ e not in the smallest degree attempted properly to perform.
Yon are late at breakfast always, though your grandpapa
particularly wishes you to be in time; when he asks you to
walk with him, you move reluctantly; when be desires you to
play, you make excuses; when he recommends you books to
read, you waste your time over poetry and novels. And all
the while sighing for heroism, and the days of chivalry. Oh,
Ella, you would have made but a poor knight."
" Aunt Mildred, yes; if those days had been like these.
But they were different."
" No, Ella, they were the same, — formed for and by human
beings like ourselves, with the same foibles, the same passions
and temptations; and what we are now, that we should have
been then."
" Then I am a poor knight," said Ella, faiutly attempting
to smile, " doomed to be always defeated."
" And yet intrusted with the highest possible gifts ; talents
far above the average, a quiet home, leisure, friends "
"No, Aunt Mildred; begging your pardon, that is just
what I have not; a quiet home, and leisure, and friends. I
am continually interrupted, and there is no one that I can talk
to as I like."
"Ella, Ella; if you have the smallest value for goodness
or happiness, be honest with yourself. You allow the inter-
ruptions, and shut yourself up from your friends, and then
turn your own faults into excuses."
"Indeed; it is true. I never can talk to Aunt Bertha.
She is very good, I know; but — I must say it, if it is ever so
wrong, — she is intensely disagreeable."
" So I suppose am I," observed Mildred gently.
"Oh, no; you know I love you dearly, and I would do
anything in the world for you."
" Except the trifles I ask. You disobey me just as you
do Aunt Bertha."
" If you would ask me great things, I could do them. I
would cut off my hand to serve you."
CLEVE HALL. 203
" But you would not use it to copy a piece of music
yesterday."
" Oh, Aunt Mildred, I forgot."
" Dear Ella, if I could only once hear you say, — not I
forgot, — but I was wrong."
" I do say it very often," replied Ella.
" Yes, when the accusations are general, but never when
they are particular. That is the test of humility and sincerity,
not to say merely I have a bad temper, or I am indolent ; but
I was very passionate on such an occasion, and sat still when
I ought to have exerted myself on another. I fear, Ella, your
repentance is as vague as your resolution; and we can only
cure our faults by knowing their details and having rules by
which to correct them."
"Then mine will never be cured," replied Ella; "fori
hate rules, they are so narrow-minded. Aunt Mildred, you
must allow that."
" They may be narrow-minded. I don't see that they are
so necessarily," replied Mildred.
" AVell ! but — don't be angry with me, — Aunt Bertha is
full of rules. I am sure she never allows herself to eat, or
drink, or sleep, except by rule."
" Dearest Ella ; always alluding to Aunt Bertha, never
thinking of youi*self !"
" I am a heathen compared with her, I know that, but I
can't help believing, — I really don't mean to be conceited, and
I would not say it to any one but you, — I can't help fancying
that I am more agreeable."
" And you think the rules are the cause."
" I am sure of it. If one tries to throw oneself into her
ways, it is like being in a prison and one is always running up
against the bars. You know you have scarcely seen her, so
you can't at all tell what she is like."
" She is coming to see me soon," replied Mildred
thoughtfully.
"I hope you will understand her better than I do; but I
don't think you will; you are so unlike her. How she makes
me hate duty !"
" Well, then," — Mildred's voice became graver, — " what
do you say to love ?"
"Love of you? It would make me work for ever."
" Only you can't copy music for me. Ah, Ella, you sec
204 CLEVB HALL.
you have been tried and failed. No, it is not my love which
will help vmi."
" I am not fit for any higher love," said Ella, gravely.
" Only that you cannot escape it," said Mildred, earnestly ,
" the love which upheld you when you stood on the brink of
death, which inspired you with presence of mind, which scut
you succor at the very moment of need. Oh, Ella! for the
sake of that dear love, will you not try to he really good ?"
"Aunt Mildred, it is so terrible to say it; but I don't
feel it."
" Butj Ella, dearest, it is not a question of feeling; you are
the child of God's love even when you turn away and forget
Him. And now He has recalled you to Himself; and has
bestowed upon you a great mercy, and only requires you to
show your thankfulness by attention to little duties. Can you
have the spirit of a Christian knight if you refuse V
Ella looked distressed.
"Please don't remind me of that," she said. "I know
I never could be a knight or anything else that is good for
much."
" But indeed, I must remind you of it, because, though
you think I laugh at you, I do really and truly feel that the
longings which you have so often, those poetical dreams of
bygone days, are really the indications of what you ought to
be, and may be if you will."
" Not if I will."
" Yes, most certainly if } r ou will. It is only the will which
you want."
" But I can't make myself will."
"But you can pray; that is the beginning of willing, and
without it will is nothing."
"I have no perseverance; I do everything by fits and
starts," said Ella; "and when the mood is upon me I can't
resist."
" All which shows that you have certainly, as regards
goodness, a weak will. But against this you must put enthu-
siasm, taste, quick perception of all that is beautiful am)
noble; the advantages ought to balance the defects."
"I must be what 1 was made," replied Ella.
" No, dear Ella, never, never I" exclaimed Mildred, eagerly
' God gives us all the materials for the formation of charac-
ter. He leaves it to ourselves to decide into what form ii
shall be moulded; only He tells us that if we come to Him
CLEVE HALL. 205
and ask His aid, He will teach us how to form it to the greatest
perfection."
"I am sure I don't know what my materials are," said
Ella.
" Then, my dear child, it is high time you should know.
It is the root of all education, whether of ourselves or others.
Look at yourself closely ; it will do you no harm. Search out
all your good points ; bring out all your natural advantages ;
inquire at the same time into your faults. When you have
done this, you will be able to understand what ought to be
your course of self-education."
" It is a fearful task," said Ella, wearily. " Aunt Mildred,
I think you had much better do it for me."
" No one can do it thoroughly but yourself, Ella. It is
very well to be educated by others when we are children ; and
it is very necessary for those who wish to educate properly, to
study the characters which they have to form ; but when we
have passed the age of early childhood, no persons but our-
selves can really do much for us."
" I am sure no one ever studied me or understood me,"
said Ella.
"So much the more reason that you should understand
yourself. Only one caution I would give you. It is not wise
to attempt or wish to be anything but what Grod has marked
out for us. It is useless for a very imaginative person to
endeavor to become matter-of-fact; and useless in the same
way for a very matter-of-fact person to try and be ima-
ginative."
" Then you will leave me my imagination, and not call it a
sin, like Aunt Bertha?" said Ella.
" Leave it, and encourage it to the very utmost," replied
Mildred; "only I would make it what it was intended to be,
— a help and not a hindrance. Our strongest characteristic,
whatever it may be (I am speaking of course only of that
which is good), is the grappling-iron by which we are first to
seize on Heaven. Oh, Ella, if you long for beauty and per-
fection, and sigh because there is no one to love with all your
heart, why do you not turn to the Source of all beauty, — the
love which can never change?"
''Because I can't," replied Ella, candidly. "Aunt Mil-
fire,], I have had the same thin-' said to me again and again.
Mr. Lester has talked tn me. I have read it in sermons. I
206 CLEVE HALL.
know it is all true and good, but I can't feel it. I can't malic
myself love."
"Dearest Ella, no. Love is a gift, — the highest giftofall.
But action will, through God's mercy, bring you to it."
"And tiresome, troublesome rules, make me fend as if I
never could love/' said Ella. " They make me dread reli-
gion/'
" I should be sorry to deceive you, Ella. Religion, to a
person of your self-indulgent, imaginative temperament, must
always, at the beginning, be irksome. But the very excita-
bility of your disposition may be your help. Yuu say 3011 can-
not feel love, but that is not true at all times. You did feel
it the other day when you were saved from that horrible
danger."
" Yes, I couldn't help it;" and Ella's face showed a quick,
inward self-recollection and self-reproach.
" And you feel it when you read beautiful poetry, or hear
of noble deeds, — of heroism, chivalry, for instance."
" Yes, but that is only feeling."
" Yet clench the feeling at once, whenever it comes, by
some action, however slight, and you will, unknown to your-
self, have made a step in advance towards rendering love per-
manent."
" Rules," murmured Ella, " I hate rules."
"And don't fetter yourself with rules," replied Mil-
dred. " They are not religion, only aids to it. They clog
some minds, whilst they strengthen others."
" But Aunt Bertha says people are worth nothing unless
they live according to rule," said Ella.
" She is right, no doubt, to a certain extent. You know I
did not say, don't attend to rules, but only don't fetter your-
self with them. A few rides, simple, easy, and capable of be-
ing stretched if necessary, are quite sufficient, especially for
you. For, Ella, you will never be happy yourself, or assist in
making others so, until your rules are the result of your feel-
ing of love, and not merely of your sense of duty."
" But, Aunt Mildred," — and Ella started up in astonish-
ment, — " at home they are always preaching to me about
duty."
" So would I preach too, Ella, if I thought it would make
you do your duty. But, as I said before, we have certain ma-
terials given us by God out of which our religious character is
co be formed. "With many minds, when the temperament is
CLEVE HALL. 207
calm, and there is an instinctive love of order and method, the
idea of duty is infinitely powerful. It will never, indeed, by
itself, produce a very earnest religious feeling j but it will put
us in the way which leads to it. But it is not so with all.
There are those to whom the very name of duty sounds cold
and repulsive. Those are the minds which take the highest
flight and sink to the lowest depths. Ella, will yours be
amongst them ?"
Tears glistened in Ella's eyes. " Aunt Mildred, if you
would only tell me what to do ? Even now I don't see."
" Pray, dear Ella, first; without that, nothing can succeed."
" Yes, I know ; but in other ways."
" You would not be obliged to inquire, if you could remem-
ber that your life has a second time been given you ; and that
He who restored it, asks for your love in return."
" Aunt Mildred, I do wish to please Him." Ella's tone
was humble, and more gentle.
" And the wish is not lost, dear Ella, Every wish, the
very least, is remembered by Him. If it is followed by an ac-
tion, it is accepted."
Ella stood up, and pushed the easy chair aside. " Aunt
Mildred, I will copy the music for you at once."
Mildred smiled. " And, Ella, may I suggest one little
rule ? — that the easy chair should never be used till evening,
and not then unless you are really tired."
It was a very trifling ending to a long conversation ; yet
Ella was neither moody nor indolent for the remainder of that
day.
-—-
CHAPTER XXIV.
MR. VIVIAN" had taken up his abode in an obscure lodg-
ing, in one of the tall, decayed, mournful streets of de-
parted grandeur, to be found in the north-west region of Lon-
don. His shabbily furnished apartment was large, and had
once been handsome, and still retained indications of ornament
in the outline of a heavy cornice, and the stuccoed richness
of an old-fashioned ceiling. A few books were on the table,
with a writing-desk and papers; and a fire blazed in the huge
grate, shadowed by a high mantel-piece, which was supported
20S CLEVE HALL.
by Medusa heads. There was an attempt at comfort in the
room — but only an attempt ; it wanted a lady's hand to arrange
the furniture, and the niceties of a lady's taste to give ii in
the least an air of home; and Mr. Vivian, used though he had
been to years of solitude, sighed, perhaps, with the recollection
of the days when even a humble dwelling had been rendered
eh. erful and inviting by the affectionate care which had
adorned it.
Neither was the scene without more cheering ; a yellow
London log, streets covered with mud, black chimneys, smoke-
stained brick walls j no wonder that Mr. Vivian turned with
disgust from the window, and sitting down to his desk, endea-
vored to while away the weary hours by writing.
His letter was the outpouring of a burdened and not
entirely chastened mind. He was an altered man, humble-
minded, heartily religious, but he was himself still ; and often,
as his pen was moving rapidly, he paused to consider, whe-
ther the impulse which urged him was one to which it was
safe to yield, or whether it was but the indulgence of that
craving for sympathy which had often in other days led to
weakness.
" My dear Lester,
"I wrote to you thr - ee da} r s ago, and why, you will say,
should I write again? Because I am lonely and dispirited,
and have nothing else to do. A sufficient answer for my
conscience, though not perhaps for your patience. London is
very dreary, my life here most wearisome. I try to bear it, as
you say I ought, and I fail. Moreover, I cannot see the rea-
son for delay. Hope grows less. The children, you tell me,
are scarcely ever with their grandfather; nothing, then, can
be done through their means. You and Bertha may want to
open my way more clearly, but you have undertaken a task
beyond your powers. John Vivian is far too experienced a
rogue to betray himself. Let me go to my father, cast all
upon the die, and, if rejection is my answer, I will submit;
leave England, take my children with me, if not to Jamaica,
to some other home, and forget that I ever indulged the vain
hope which has already brought me so much sorrow.
" Any certainty is better than this killing suspense. I am
not strong enough to bear it — morally strong — I feel it does
me injury. I am becoming captious and impatient. Your
letters are the only things I can bear. Bertha's try me beyond
CLEVE HALL. 203
endurance. She is always telling nic of my children's faults,
— that Ella is wilful, and Clement desultory, — and dinning
it into my ears, that it is the uncertainty of their present life
which is so bad for them.
" I know it as she knows it ; and better, ten thousand times
better. It has been the remorseful lesson of my life, that 1
have injured them. Why does she add bitterness to a sad-
dened spirit ?
" But I am unjust .to her, I feel. She has done for mj
children more than I could have asked; she loves them, I
fully believe, sincerely, if not tenderly. I have no right to
require more ; and yet when her letters come they dishearten
me, to such a degree, that again the impulse seizes me, fo
throw off disgrace, once more appear at Encombe, and ta (e
the decision of my cause into my own hands.
"Preach to me, my dear Lester, I need it sadly; my mind
is terribly undisciplined, and I can so little bear with myself.
You told me to accept my life as my punishment. It is the
only way in which I could endure it. But there are times — ■
they ciime more frequently now in solitude and leisure — when
the spirit of submission seems to forsake me, and when the
thought of having brought the suffering upon myself, by my
own wilfulness, my own folly — worse than folly — my sin, is
almost maddening.
" Men talk of repentance as if the past might be wiped
out by tears, and no scar left to mark where the evil has been.
Lester, I have shed tears of agony. My first thought in the
morning has been sorrow, my last consciousness at night has
been of penitence, and in the silence of midnight I have risen
to pray that God would think upon me in His Mercy, and
' remember not the sins and offences of my youth.' And I
believe that I am forgiven. I can look forward to death with
a humble hope of acceptance, through undeserved Goodness,
and the Atonement once made for all; and yet the stain is
there — indelible to my own eyes — though it may be unseen
by man, and in mercy forgotten by God.
"Repentance does not place us, in this world, in the posi-
tion in which we should have been if we had never sinned.
The mark once set upon us, it is ineffaceable. The wound
once given, and it must and will at times re-open. Oh! if I
could make Clement feel it! — now, whilst he is comparatively
innocent, whilst his offences are the opening faults of a boy,
nol Mi" full-grown wickedness of a man. And yet many would
210 CLEVE HALL.
3coff at me for Baying this; they would tell me that my mind
is morbid; that whatever my youth may have been, I have
redeemed it by the years which followed. Alas! my early
life lingered far longer under the dominion of evil than those
wlii have only watched its outward course would imagine.
When I hit England to work in a foreign land, I was not
penitent, but exasperated. Irritation and repining darkened
nol only my own existence, but that of her who had sacrificed
nil fir me. The thought is as a dagger to me. Not till she was
taken from me, and the past, as regarded her, had become
irremediable, did I fully see what my course had been. And
then — I have heard it said that the knowledge of evil is neces-
sary, that it is experience,- and consequently power — Oh!
Lester, how little can such persons imagine the agony of those
moments when first the heart is awakened to the knowledge
of its guilt; the sickening glance cast upon the past, the
despairing darkness of the future, and the longing, the intense
longing, to hide oneself deep from all eyes, even, were it pos-
sible, from the Eye of God. Those feelings are not strength,
but weakness; they make the eye dim, and the hand weak.
Even when the offer of mercy comes to soothe us, their
remembrance still haunts us ; and when we should be press-
ing forward to the brightness of Heaven, they bid us turn back
to gaze again upon the blackness of our own hearts, and once
more seek to wipe out our offences with our tears.
" I need not say this to you. You know it all ; not by
your own experience. God be thanked, your career has been
very different from mine ; but by the griefs of others. Yet it
is a relief to me. There is comfort in working out in my own
mind why, though I have attained to peace, I have never y<'t
reached forward to joy. It may come — you will perhaps tell
me that it must come — with the increasing sense of God's
infinite love; but I doubt it. The more deeply we love, the
more keen must be the grief for having offended. Joy is for
those who have from the beginning held on their course
unwaveringly. Peace and hope are, I believe, the highest
boon granted in this world to those who have sinned grievously
and repented truly. But no more of this — it is but another
form of self-indulgence. I must learn to live to myself and
by myself, not disturbing the happiness of those who have
never wandered by the cloud which it seems, now, must for ever
rest upon my own spirit. For my children's sake I would
especially strive to do so; — the open brow, and the glad smile.
CLE YE HALL. 211
must be for them and for the •world ; the sackcloth, and ashes,
and the tears of humiliation for the Eye of God. Yet to you
I would say that even when 1 am most apparently repining at
the punishment which I have brought upon myself, — I could
accept my grief, ay, were it a hundred times greater, and
from the bottom of my heart thank God for it, if by it I were
enabled successfully to warn Clement against the fatal yield-
ing to small temptations, which ruined my own character as a
boy, and then sent me, stamped with the disheartening brand
of weakness, to encounter the temptation of a man. Victory
at fourteen would have been victory at four-and-twenty.
Victory at four-and-twenty would, through God's Mercy,
have been safety for life and for eternity. Tell it him, Lester,
as you love me, as you would save yourself, in the Great Day
of account, from the reproach of having failed to warn when
the opportunity was placed within your reach.
" And now, farewell ! I began my letter with impatient
complaints, I end it with the confessions of repentance. A
true epitome of my whole life ; yet so far what I said at first
was not mere impatience, that I do not see we are progressing,
and time is passing on, and if I cannot remain in England, I
must prepare for establishing ^ home elsewhere. Bertha's
complaints of Ella make me uneasy, and Clement too cannot
be. left to his present course of life. Something must be done
for both. I feel repugnant to allowing Clement to accept as
a favor from my father, what even now I cannot help feeling
ought to be his as a right. Even if I am cut off for my
offences, there would seem to be but little justice iu punishing
my child.
" I sometimes think that a situation in a merchant's office
— and I have interest enough to procure him that — might be
more honorable for him, and, in a worldly point of view, more
advantageous than the University. At any rate, I must have
him under my own eye. The little I saw and heard at En-
combe made me feel that direct authority is imperatively neces-
sary for him.
" Some things about him I can so well understand ; they
are so sadly like what I was at his age ! Write to me soon,
and give me some definite views, or I shall relapse into despair.
" Always most affectionately
" and gratefully yours,
"G. 15. V."
21:2 CLEVE HALL.
" Hon i think I am expecting to hear of success as regards
John Vivian and his plots. I scarcely think about them.
They are so vague, and so far in the past. 1 feel that what-
ever they wric they have done rue all the harm they could,
and that the discovery of them could not profit me."
Mr. Lester's answer was received in the course of the same
week.
" My dear Vivian,
' You write me volumes. I hope you don't expect volumes
in answer. Yet I shall have a good deal to say before I Lave
done. First to business. You can do nothing better than
preach patience to yourself, and by the time the lesson is learnt
we may Link forward to a little hope. I think I see some
already. Ella is at the Hall, — the first opening that is for
awakening interest; and whatever may be the end of our re-
searches into John Vivian's doings, we shall have good cause
for bright anticipations if we can once induce the General to
look favorably upon the children. Mrs. Campbell's step in
bringing them to Encombe was dangerous, but she has plenty
of worldly wisdom. I don't think Clement as yet likely to
win his way to his grandfather's heart. With a great deal of
good about him, he is too careless and self-sufficient, but I
have some hope of Ella under Mildred's influence. So still
patience, my dear Vivian, — patience with me, if you can, and
patience with your sister-in-law, even if you cannot. I assure
you she deserves it much more than you would think. A peep
into the home at the Lodge would convince you of this ; and
you must remember that she has been trained up in a school
which gives her a quick eye for defects, and a slow one for
virtues. ^
" There are two theories of education, one which checks
faults, the other which encourages virtues. I lean to the lat-
ter; but then I am a man, and don't pretend to know much
about the education of any of woman-kind, except my little
Rachel.
" All my hopes rest upon Mildred. When I speak of her
I am raising up the old question, why may you not tell her
where you are? The answer is soon given — she knows it.
Don't quarrel with me for acting upon my own responsibility.
Your last letter made me unhappy. I felt that she could com-
fort you much better than I could, and, moreover, I was cer-
tain that you would not bear the concealment much longer
CLEVE HALL. 213
.Miss Campbell and I took counsel together, and yesterday
evening I told her.
" Perhaps I ought to say, too, that I found myself getting
into a difficulty. Mildred had been complaining of your only
writing short notes through me. As a proof that I am not
given to plots and deceptions, it never struck me till the other
day that we could not go on very long keeping up this kind
of mock correspondence.
" Of course she was considerably startled, and for a few
moments I was rather frightened at the effect the news had
upon her, but she soon recovered herself. I think too that,
at first, she was much annoyed at not having bee a told before.
But she is always most good and reasonable, and I made her
see how impossible it was for you to meet, and, therefore, that
it was much better she should know nothing about it. Sbe
feels with me that we must not hurry matters; but she will
write and give you her own ideas. The fact of your being in
England is an immense relief to her in one way, — it makes it
possible to see you; but, as is natural enough, she is full of
anxieties. The necessity of keeping up before the General
will be veiy trying to her ; but Ella may be a great help by
diverting her attention.
" I am inclined to be vexed that we did not tell her before,
now I see how well she bears it ; but I was afraid of the sur-
prise for her, and certainly we have spared her a good deal in
that way.
" This, I trust, will be one great load off your mind. For
the rest I would say — remember that you came unsummoued,
and have, therefore, no right to complain that we are not ready
fi >r you. By your own acknowledgment you have still, humanly
speaking, some months before you. Give us time, and if at
last we can do nothing for you, you can but come forward
yourself, and, whatever may be the result, at least you will
not have to say that you have again marred your own fortunes
by impatience.
"John Vivian is going on much as usual. He looks
askance at me, knowing I am your friend and have an interest
in Ronald; so we seldom exchange more than a few words.
It makes me often unhappy; but I feel that a day must, in all
probability, come when he will be forced to hear me. Ronald
is at home still. Miss Campbell and I had planned getting
liini into the merchant service, but it made the father so out-
rageous that we did doI dare press the point. All I can do
214 CLEVE HALL.
now is to urge him to educate himself as well as he can, in
preparation for whatever may open. He has taken my sug-
gestion, and works at Latin and mathematics as heartily,
though perhaps not as willingly, as he shoots, fishus, climbs
the hills, or manages a boat in a storm. A most noble fellow
lie is! bat there is a cloud over him, and sometimes I am
afraid of its effect. I can't help feeling sorry that Bertha
ever told him his father's history: he feels now, lean see,
that he is the born enemy of all your family, and shrinks from
receiving kindness. That is part of his mother's sensitive
nature, which he inherits strongly. He is scarcely at all with
Clement now. When he once knew that we disapproved of
the intimacy, he was the first to break it off. I suspect he
has suffered a good deal in consequence : Miss Campbell, who
manages to know more of him than any one else, tells me that
he often hints at a state of affairs with his father which must
be terrific. John Vivian is a madman when aroused.
" As regards Clement (I believe I am a moral coward, for
I have kept the most difficult subject to the last), I confess I
am not thoroughly comfortable. Encombe is not the right
place for him, but where else to send him is a problem I can't
quite solve. I don't at all like the notion of a merchant's
office ; his fastidious pride would revolt from it, and I suspect
it would render him very bitter. The University would do
well, if we could make him work, and turn him into a barris-
ter ; but I dou't see, at present, any inclination for exertion
of that kind. He makes me at times very anxious. I hoped,
when withdrawn from the temptation of Ronald's companion-
ship, that he would make himself happy at home; but this is
not the case. In some way or other, there has sprung up a
kind of rivalry with llo,nald, whose energy and independence,
and even recklessness, are just now the objects of Clement's
envy and imitation. He hears them exaggerated and admired
by the villagers and fishermen, and so he must needs endeavor
to copy them ; not seeing that his advantages are of a totally
different character. I keep as strict a watch over him as pos-
sible, but I can't neglect my parish, and I must leave him
some degree of freedom, or I should drive him into deceit.
In a certain way he gives me his confidence, but it is princi-
pally confined to generalities, and I see vanity creeping out
even in his fits of good intention. Then his disobediences,
which are the chief topics of complaint on my side, are but
small • and to be always harping upon what seems to him tri-
CLEVE HALL. 215
fling faults frets his temper, and sometimes, I fancy, makes
him worse, instead of better. I should care less, but that 1
feel there may be some hidden mischief at work. John Vivian
and Guff are continually putting themselves in his way, and
tempting him to be with them. I have, of course, strictly
forbidden the intercourse ; but the law I have laid clown is per-
petually broken upon slight pretences, and, in some instances,
the fault can scarcely be said to lie with Clement. They
haunt and persecute him till it would require a firmness much
beyond what we can expect in him to resist; and then, as I
said before, comes the spirit of rivalry and envy of Ronald,
to aid the temptation, — and so he falls.
" This must not continue, or it will be his ruin, and the
destruction of all our hopes. The General already believes
that Clement has a taste for low company, because he has
seen him talking to Captain Vivian and Goff, and heard him
use slang expressions. Nothing can be more false than such
an impression. Place Clement in his right position at Cleve,
and give him companions of his own age who would raise his
tone, instead of lowering it, and his natural cultivation of
mind and honorable feeling would, at least, prevent him from
sinking, till he had attained that higher principle which alone
will give him stability.
" Certainly, the analogy of life teaches one more and more
the infinite wisdom of God's Providence in giving us our posi-
tion as Christians, and bidding us keep it, instead of leaving
us in our natural state of degradation, and then telling us to
work, even with His aid, to raise ourselves. Clement's mind
is just one of those which can retain, but cannot reach for-
ward; and the uncertainty of his position is his stumbling-
block. An additional reason, my dear Vivian, for hastening
the moment of decision. Trust me, it shall not be delayed a
moment lunger than is absolutely necessary. I have dark sus-
picions sometimes of John Vivian's falsity; but the more
dark the less to be brought forward without substantial proof.
" I have talked to your friend the sexton lately, and led
him to repeat to me again all which passed on that eventful
day of your cousin's visit to the Hall. He dwelt more than
ever upon the strangeness of Guff's manner, and his certainty
that some villany was pending. Could it have been furgery ?
I believe either, or both of them, capable of any amount of
iniquity. John Vivian left England immediately afterwards.
fie has only returned to Encombe within the last five years,
21G clevi: hall.
ami that not till Golf had pioneered the way for him. I could
never understand what became of them both in the interim.
" I have pondered much, lately, upon the consequences of
opening the inquiry with the General. A year ago I should
have hesitated less, but he has broken very much latterly, and
I tremble to think what excitement would do. Then there
must be a trial, — public exposure, — all the old griefs brought
up. No one can say how I dread it.
" If you can think of anything which will remove Clement
from Enoombe, please let me know. A private tutor at a dis-
tance might be the right thing, but then — the money ! You
must not let your pride stand in the way of your boy's good.
I should not myself at all mind sounding the General on the
subject.
"Good b'ye, my dear Vivian! from my heart I feel for
you. You must require this assurance when I write so calmly
upon questions in which all the happiness of your life is at
stake ; still more when I take so little notice of the burden of
your letter. But I have said before all that can be said, at
least by me, on that point. Repentance, as you say, cannot
place a man in this world in the position in which he would
have been, if he had. never erred ; but it may deepen his love,
and quicken his gratitude; and I don't think that feeling can
ever be sound which would make us so mourn over the past,
as to render us insensible to the blessings of the present and
the hopes of the future.
" This, I think, is the tendency of your mind. May there
not also be something of repining in the spirit which, instead
of being thankful for peace, is inclined to despair because it
cannot attain to joy? I am lecturing myself at the same time
that I seem to be warning you. He is indeed happy, who has
not some sin upon his conscience, which though it may not
have brought disgrace upon him in the sight of men, has
lowered him in his own eyes, and still haunts his memory, —
as the one black spot which, in moments of weak faith, it
would seem could never be effaced.
" God give us strength to bear the sight of our own hearts,
and still to trust in His mercy.
" You shall hear from me again soon.
" Always most affectionately yours,
"Robert Lester."
CtEVE HALL. 217
CHAPTER XXV.
MR. LESTER was at the Hall the day after the preceding
letter had been seut. The day was bright, for snow had
fallen in the night, and Clement, taking advantage of an ex-
hilarating frost," had called to take Ella for a long walk. Mr.
Lester, therefore, found Mildred alone, busy as usual, and
my cheerful ; yet with the worn lines of thought particularly
marked. She received him nervously, as if expecting he must
bring fresh tidings to startle her, but she tried to be calm, and
her first remark was a slight reproach that he had not seen her
father the previous day. " He heard you were here the eve-
ning before," she said, " and he declares that you will never
come to him, but that all your visits are to me."
" I hoped General Vivian was getting better," was Mr.
Lester's reply; "they told me he was down stairs again, and
had been out in the garden."
" He is better; yes, I think so," said Mildred, with an air
of consideration, " but he is more feeble than he was, and his
spirits are not good."
" Is it illness, only, do you think?"
" I don't know ; it is very difficult to tell anything about
him. Oh, Mr. Lester, why are some natures so unapproach-
able ?"
" To teach others patience and submission, we may sup-
pose. But, Mildred, this state of things can't go on much
longer."
" No," exclaimed Mildred, " for every one's sake. I have
written, as you said I might. I have told Edward he must be
patient, but my heart grows sick with fear. The intense, at
limes agonizing, longing to see him, seems even worse, now he
is so near. And my father, too, makes me unhappy. He will
never confess it, but his spirit is broken. I am sure he feels
very desolate."
" His own act, an act which one word might revoke."
"Yes, if he could think it right to revoke it; but the
weaker his physical powers, the stronger becomes his will.
Yet I try not to despair."
" Despair is for those who have said in their hearts ' there
is no God/ " replied Mr. Lester.
" Than).' /ou ; I remind myself of that very often ; and 1
*0
218 CLEVE HALL.
feel that things are belter now, and have more hope for tho
future, than at one time I could have expected. I am thank-
ful to have Ella here."
" Does the General take much notice of her?"
" A good deal, in a curious way ; never by praise, but as
though be Avere always weighing what she said or did."
"That must be anxious work with such a person as Ella."
" Yes, and she is so incautious, so entirely wanting in self-
restraint. There must have been something sadly wanting in
her education."
"Not something, but many things. Chiefly though the
spirit of love. But I ti'ust to you to do wonders for her."
" Please not to do that," said Mildred, eagerly. " I have
seen so little of girls of her age, I don't feel as if I at all
knew what to do with her."
" You have educated yourself, which is the chief and best
guide in our education of others."
" God has educated me," said Mildred, reverently. " Many
times when I have been inclined to murmur at the trials of
my life, I have subdued and comforted myself by the thought.
But what I feel about Ella is that she has not an eye to see
the meaning of her troubles. Self-indulgence blinds her. Oh !
31 r. Lester, there are times when she is so sadly like my poor
brother."
" You must not call him poor now. He at least has learnt
the meaning of his trials."
" They have come to him in the form of punishment," said
Mildred. " I would strive to save Ella from that. Punish-
ment and discipline are very different."
" I trust that Vivian's future life may be only discipline,"
replied Mr. Lester. " I shall have great hope if we can once
open the way with the General. Does he never allude to the
past?"
" Never, except in that stern fashion of self-congratulation,
which is so terrible to me."
" He wraps his heart in his principle of justice, as a man
does his body in a water-proof cloak," said Mr. Lester, " and
it shuts out all other claims, and makes him feel so warm and
comfortable, that he does not know they exist."
" Yet it is dreadfully oppressive to him," said Mildred.
" He feels he has had such a disappointed life."
" Perhaps, because he has been trying to fit the world to
himself, instead of fitting himself to the world. But a man
CLEVE 1IALL. 219
with only one moral principle of action must be disappointed.
It absorbs all others into itself, and becomes darkness. Where-
as the love of God, the only perfect motive, is formed of the
many rainbow hues of heavenly perfection, melting into one,
and producing light."
Mildred smiled, rather sadly. "We must not hope to
make him understand that," she said.
" No. I have learnt at last, to think that, after a certain
period of life, true, and I hope not wrong, worldly wisdom,
consists less in trying perpetually to alter the persons we have
to deal with, than in taking their characters as they are, and
framing our own actions accordingly. When the outline of
the character has once become rigid, nothing but the special
interposition of God's grace can soften it. But we will hope
for that, Mildred, and pray for it."
" That is my father's footstep," said Mildred, listening.
She turned very pale.
" He walks firmly," observed Mr. Lester.
The door opened, and General Vivian entered the apart-
ment.
It was strange the power which his presence exercised.
Mildred's cheek was still colorless, but in one instant she was
composed and seemingly indifferent in manner; and Mr. Les-
ter, too, turned to address the stern old man in the quiet tone
of affectionate respect, which seemed to have no thought ex-
cept for the usual civilities of life.
"You are a stranger, Mr. Lester," and General Vivian
held out his hand with an air of stately cordiality.
" Not willingly, Sir. I have had more to do than usual in
the parish. There is a good deal of sickness about. I heard
better reports of you though, and I hope they are true ; you
are looking tolerably well."
" As well as an old man of seventy-five can expect to look.
Mildred, Hardman'says that the poachers were about in the
woods again last night."
General Vivian sat down, and clenched his stick with both
hands in thoughtful deliberation. " I wish, Mr. Lester, you
could preach a better spirit into your people."
" I wish I could, Sir, most heartily. But Hardman doesn't
suspect any in particular, docs he V
"lie tells me the leaders are from Cleve. It seems thai
Encombe and Cleve divide the honors of villany between them.
Encombe patronizes smuggling, and Cleve poaching."
220 CLEVB HALL.
•• An evil choice," observed Mr. Lester.
" Evil, indeed; but at any rate we can claim pre-eminence
in example. The Cleve poachers are not likely to have ho dis-
tinguished a leader as the Knconibe smugglers. We may ex-
pbCl t lit- name of ( laptain Vivian to head the list of indictments
ai the next sessions."
" He has not been taken ? There is nothing found against
him, is there'/" inquired Mr. Lester, hastily, and Mildred
also raised her pale face to her father's, with a look of quick
interest.
" If he has not been taken, the more shame to the coast-
guard," exclaimed the General. " It is the talk of the neigh-
borhood that the trader lying off the shore belongs to John
Vivian, and is a smuggler, and yet they are for ever laying
hands upon some poor wretch, whose only fault is that he is
too weak to stand out against those whom he knows he ought
to respect. But it will come at last. The name will figure
bravely in the annals of the county gaol. Ay, and I would
be the first to put it there."
"Are they on the look-out for him, then?" inquired Mil-
dred.
" Why, child !" he turned to her suddenly, with a scruti-
nizing gaze : " You are ill this morning, Mildred."
" Only a little tired, dear Sir. Did you say they were on
the look-out for Captain Vivian ?"
" Pshaw ! wretch ! leave him. Mildred, my darling, you
musnt't look so." He went up to her couch and stood beside
it, and his manner became as tender as before it had been
severe.
'" My dearest father," and she took his hand affectionately,
" there is nothing really the matter."
" You talk too much :" he looked at Mr. Lester distrust-
fully.
" Mr. Lester has only been here a few minutes," said Mil-
dred, smiling.
" One minute is quite enough for mischief, Mildred. I
give Mr. Lester credit though for not doing intentional harm."
"Not any harm at all, 1 hope," said Mildred; "his visits
always do me good."
" Yet I must take him from you, my child. Mr. Lester,
have you a few minutes to spare for my study ?"
"As many, Sir, as you may desire;" and the General's
impatient glance caused Mr. L< ster to rise at the same instant.
CLEVE HALL. 221
They passed through the hall, and went up stairs. General
Vivian's private room was on the same floor as his bed-room.
Mr. Lester remarked that the steps were a difficulty to him,
otherwise he might have been a man of fifty-five rather than
seventy-five. Some ordinary parish business, no doubt, was
to be discussed, yet the General's manner when he closed the
door, and sat down in his great arm-chair, motioning to Mr.
Lester to place himself opposite, betokened something more
than ordinary. For a few seconds he said nothing, but open-
ing the drawer of his library table, searched in it for some
paper which it seemed he wanted. It was soon found. General
Vivian's papers were in such order that he used often to boast
that he could place his hand upon any one in the dark. His
old military precision, indeed, was to be seen in all his arrange-
ments, and joined with it there might possibly have been dis-
covered traces of the carefulness which some had even ventured
to term, though most unjustly, penuriousness. The furniture
of this, his private room, was homely. A dark, common
carpet, in parts completely faded, covered the floor; a large
square, library table, old-fashioned, with innumerable drawers
and long projecting legs, filled the centre of the apartment;
around it were shelves, not filled merely with books, but with
small boxes, packets of parchments, and papers ; whilst a few
good prints hung on the wall, and near the mantel-piece, close
to the chair which the General usually occupied, was a small,
graceful minature of a very lovely woman.
Mr. Lester took up a book to while away the spare minutes.
The General glanced at him keenly. " In a hurry, I am
afraid, Mr. Lester? Pardon me, I won't keep you long."
"No hurry, Sir, for myself; only for others."
" Still I may ask for a few minutes. An old man's claims
will not be many or long."
" Yours will be first always with me, Sir, if possible. Pray
don't hurry yourself."
" I could not if I would, Mr. Lester ; the time for haste
is past." He placed a packet of papers before him, and slowly
drew the arm-chair nearer to the table. Mr. Lester saw that
the exertion was too much for him, and yet he could not help
him. The offer would have been considered an insult.
" I have been looking over my papers, Mr. Lester; a work
for all to do at stated times, especially a man of my age."
" Certaiidy, Sir. I wish your example were more generally
followed. It would save a great deal of trouble."
•'■'•> CLEVE IIAI.L.
•• Ainl worse than trouble ; evil of all kinds. If my fathei
and my grandfather— but never mind that,— you are in a
hurry— only L will lake the opportunity of Baying one thing.
You are likeh to be on the spot when I die, and Mildred will
look to you. Poor child! she has no one else." A pause,
and a clearing of the throat, hut the voice which continued
was unchanged. " 1 should he sorry to have any confusion.
I have tried to prevent it. All that will be necessary for—
whoever comes after me, will find all papers relating to the
estate in the escritoire," and he pointed to an ebony cabinet
which stood by the side of the fire-place; "all personal papers
in the desk above it; all parish and public papers in the large
drawers of this table. I did not mean to take up your time
with these details, only lest I should forget, I mention them.
Now to business. Time goes on, Mr. Lester; what do you
intend to do with Clement?"
.Mr. Lester might have been startled by the abruptness of
the question, but he did not show it. " Mrs. Campbell wishes
him to go to College, Sir."
" And she has the means of providing for him there. That
settles the point. I trust the boy will do well."
" I trust so too," replied Mr. Lester, "but Mrs. Campbell
has not the means of fully providing for him; and that is our
difficulty."
" Then what do you intend to do with him ? I understood
from what you said that it was settled."
"Settled, if wishes could settle anything," replied Mr.
Lester. " But we thought that you would not be angry, Sir,
if we were to ask you for assistance ; and I meant, when the
fitting time arrived, to make application to you."
The General bit his lip. " Mrs. Campbell has taken every
step hitherto without consulting me, and I don't see why she
should look for help now. But I am not going to dispute the
matter, Mr. Lester; the boy shall go to college. It shall
mver be said that I neglected my grandson. He shall have
an allowance from me. His debts I leave to others."
" We may hope, Sir, that they may not be incurred."
No reply for some seconds. The General looked carefully
ovei' the paper of memoranda which he held in his hand
Then he continued : — " He will have a hundred and fifty
pounds a year paid to him by mc, from the time he enters
College, till he is one-and-twenty. If I die before, he will
receive it — out of the estate." His keen eye glanced at Mr>
CLEVE HALL. 223
Lester ; apparently what he read there was not perfectly satis-
factory. "I wish to put him in the way of providing for
himself, Mr. Lester; I wish to give him a chance. Am I
not right ?"
" lie deserves more than a chance, Sir," was the bold reply.
The General's eyes flashed. " His deserts must be left to
my judgment. It is my intention, besides, to leave in your
hands, as trustee, the sum of five thousand pounds, to be
applied by you as shall seem most likely to further his
prospects."
Mr. Lester sat immovable ; it might almost have seemed
that he had not heard.
" I look to you as Clement's guardian," continued the
General. " I believe that you have, done, and will do, all that
can be done to serve him. His ruin will never be attributed
by me to you."
" I suppose I ought to thauk you, General Vivian," replied
Mr. Lester, somewhat proudly. " You have shown a confi-
dence in me which I hope I sufficiently value. I should be
glad to be able to carry out your wishes ; but I can scarcely
think they will long continue to be yours."
" And why not ?"
" Because I trust, — forgive me for the liberty I am taking,
— that consideration may show you sufficient cause to alter
them," replied Mr. Lester.
The General bent forward in his chair, and frowned. " Mr.
Lester, I asked assistance in furthering my views ; not advice
as to how they should be formed."
" I am aware of it, Sh\ I have no right to intrude advice ;
but when I am called upon to be a party in any act, I am
bound to consider whether it be equitable."
" Equitable ! Mr. Lester" — and the General's foot moved
up and down rapidly — " You are a clergyman, and the friend
of years. You had not dared else to insinuate such a re-
proof."
"I would not insinuate, Sir. I hate insinuations. I would
say openly, — your grandson deserves more at your hands."
The words were free, yet Mr. Lester's manner betokened deep
respect; and the self-controlled spirit of General Vivian re-
ceived the check which was intended.
" We won't discuss that point. I ask again, are you will-
ing to accept the office of trustee for Clement and for his sis-
22 \ CLBVE HALL.
lers? I propose to leave them that which will secure for each
;i hundred a year."
Mr. Lester was silent.
" Then 1 will turn to some other friend. Good morning,
Mr. Lester; I regretthat I have intruded upon your time j"
and the General rose, though with difficulty, and stood with
hi> tull figure drawn up haughtily, though, at the same mo-
ment, he supported himself by resting oue hand upon the
table.
Mr. Lester rose also, but not proudly. His eyes were bent
npon the ground in deep thought. When he spoke, his words
came with some degree of hesitation : — " General Vivian," he
said, ''you have always been a most kind friend to me, —
more than a friend. In hours of sorrow I have looked to you
as to an elder brother, and I could, yes, from my heart, I could
"hey you reverently; but I have another office, which com-
pels me to speak freely; in consideration of it I am sure you
will hear me. May I entreat you not to decide on this mat-
ter hastily? It -involves many interests, and great principles
of right and justice."
•• It does; right and justice to my people; my tenants,
and the poor."
" (Jan an unjust act at the beginning work justice in the
end?" inquired Mr. Lester.
The General's eye sparkled with indignation. " Who ven-
tures to say that it is unjust V he exclaimed ; his tone deep-
ening with the effort at self-restraint. " My property is my
own ; I may do with it as I will."
" We are stewards," replied Mr. Lester; "not owners."
" Let it be so ; as steward, I do that which is for the good
of those intrusted to me."
" When we devise means and instruments of our own, and
put aside those which God has marked out for us, we cannot
he sure that we are working for good," was the reply.
"I don't understand your philosophy, Mr. Lester; neither
do I wish to hear more of it. Justice, not philosophy, is mj
object."
" Justice without mercy will cease to be justice," replied
Mr. Lester; " for it is not the justice of God."
" Again I say, yir, I don't understand you. I seek the
good of my people. I will not uudo the work of a life at its
last moment."
" I should be the last person to wish you to do so," replied
CLEVE HALL 225
Mr. Lester; "but I fear we err when we take the ordering of
the future into our owu hands. You are afraid to trust your
grandson, — you think it right to choose another heir. Who
is to guarantee that he shall be irreproachable? Or, if he
should be, who can answer for his children ?"
The General took out his watch. " Excuse me, Mr. Les-
ter, I have gone over the ground often : my resolution is un-
alterable. Time presses. I have an engagement at three
o'clock. If you decline accepting the office I propose, I will
make other arrangements."
Again Mr. Lester deliberated. " I hope," he said, at
length, " to send a written answer, if not to-morrow, yet in
the course of a few days. I trust that may satisfy you."
The General bent his head coldly. Mr. Lester continued :
"And I will ask now to be allowed a few more words upon
another point. Clement would be safer removed from En-
combe."
" Unquestionably :" there was an accent of scorn in the
word.
"If he is to go to the University he should first have a
private tutor."
" I should suppose so."
" Then may we look to you for assistance in that case, as
well as for supporting him at College?"
The General's countenance changed. He slowly walked
up to the ebony cabinet, removed the desk which stood upon
it, and placed it upon the table. " Mr. Lester, pray sit down
for a few moments longer; I won't detain you more." He
unlocked the desk. " My private accounts," he murmured,
in a tone of apology.
"I am sorry to give you so much trouble, Sir. I did not
in the least mean to press the question as to details — merely
to know generally whether we might look to you for help."
" A certain sum has been set aside. I don't know how
much of it remains." The General took out several packets
of paper, and laid them on the table.
"1 am giving you a great deal of trouble, Sir, and there is
really no hurry."
" No time like the present." The desk was drawn nearer
the edge of the table, and the General sat down.
Some one knocked at the door; he turned round quickly
accidentally pushed the desk, and it fell : the papers wern
scattered on the "round.
22G LEVE HALL.
Mr. Lester stooped to pick them up. "Come in," said
the General, and a servant entered. "Farmer Brown wishes
to spmk to you, Sir."
•• Let him wait."
•• 1 told him you were engaged, Sir, and lie lias waited a
quarter of an hour, lie says lie musl go now."
General Vivian never .sent business away; it was one of his
iin>-t rigid principles.
" Well ! show him into the ante-room. Mr. Lester, I will
return immediately. 1 am afraid you have a tiresome task."
'• The papers are all disarranged, Sir. Can't 1 help you
in replacing them 1"
" No, thank you, no f and the General's manner was al-
most nervous. " Pray, only lay them on the table; nothing
more." lie stopped as he was leaving the room, and looked
back, apparently about to give some other direction ; but Ik;
altered his mind, and left the room, saying that he should re-
turn directly.
Mr. Lester gathered up the papers. They were for the
most part letters, all carefully placed together iu separate pack-
ets and eudorsed. Mr. Lester's eye unintentionally caught
the superscription of two. One was Edith Vivian, with the
date of her birth and death. The other only bore the initials
E. I>. V., and consisted apparently not of letters only, but of
loose papers and bills. It was larger than any of the rest,
ami arranged with less atteution to order. It seemed as if it
had been put together in some moment of confusion, and fas-
tened hastily, for the string round it was loose, and when Mr.
Lester put it down a few of the papers slipped out. He had
only just gathered them together, and taken up the string to
secure it more firmly, wheu the General returned. Mr. Les-
ter laid the letters down again. The General cast a hasty
glance upon the table. "Never mind, Mr. Lester, that will
do, thank you," and he laid his hand nervously upon the
packet. "Old letters, as you see. It mayn't be worth while
to keep them, but one never knows of what use such things
may be." There was an attempt at unconcern in his tone ami
manner, but it did not deceive Mr. Lester; and his hand trem-
bled SO much that he was unable to collect the papers, and
instead of placing them in order, scattered them again. He
tried to stoop. Mr. Lester picked them up for him, and as
he restored them the General seized and looked at thorn
carefully.
CLEVE HALL 227
" That will do, Mr. Lester, thank you. There are no more ;
only your handkerchief which you have just dropped."
Mr. Lester took up his handkerchief, and with it, unknown
to himself, a paper which was lying under it. Both were put
into his pocket.
The General allowed the rest of the papers to remain on
the table. His manner was confused, "I don't know what
we were talking of," he began. " Oh, yes ! I remember, my
private accounts. He opened a book which had been taken
from the desk. " I look upon Clement, Mr. Lester, as the
son," — he hesitated :—-" the inheritance of the child of a
younger son is all he has any right — absurd ! there is no right
— it is all that, on any principle, could be demanded of me.
Let me see," and he unclasped the book. "A private tutor
you say. He will not have that under two hundred a year."
" No, Sir, certainly not. Travelling, dress, pocket-money,
we may reckon as fifty more."
" And well if he keep within it !" The General sat down,
and began to calculate with a pencil and paper. " Seventy
pounds per annum, Mr. Lester, is the sum I can afford."
Mr. Lester tried not to look disappointed.
" You expected more ?"
"I had hoped that half the expense of the tutor might
have been taken by you, Sir. The additional thirty pounds
is a laro-e item " Pie did not seem to know how to finish
the sentence.
" It is a large item in the affairs of any person who wishes
to be exact. My income is appropriated ; I can't alter it."
The tone admitted of no further reply. Mr. Lester only
said, " I must thank you, Sir, in Clement's name."
'• No thanks are required. I desire to do justice — justice,"
the word was repeatedly emphatically — " by every one."
Silence followed. The General occupied himself in restor-
ing the papers to their place in the desk. Mr. Lester looked
round for his hat, yet in a way which showed that he was
unwilling to go. The General closed the desk and took out
his watch.
"May I put the desk back for you, Sir?" asked Mr.
Lester.
" Thank you, no." General Vivian carried it himself, and
then returned to the fire-place.
'• If I have said anything to offend you, Sir," said Mr
228 CLEVE HALL.
Lester, " I trust you will forgive inej it was very far from uij
intention."
'• There is no offence, Mr. Lester. You act upon a prinei
pie of duty : I try to do the same myself."
■• And 1 should have hoped, therefore, Sir, we might have
been likely to agree."
•• I have cot found that a natural consequence in life. Few
persons have agreed with nie in my notions of duty." The
shadow of a smile crossed Mr. Lester's face, hut General Vi-
vian, without perceiving it, went on, rather in an exculpatory
tone, "I find the moral code of many men lax, Mr. Lester.
They, on the contrary, think mine strict. I have no wish to
quarrel with them ; but when a principle has been adopted
from conviction of its truth, I can never think it right, to sacri-
fice it to expediency."
"To expediency! No, Sir, never!" exclaimed Mr. Lester.
" The reasons which I have; heard brought forward in oppo-
sition to my own views have always been those of expediency,"
continued the General.
" Kxpodiency is a word bearing many interpretations," ob-
served Mr. Lester.
" Only one in my ideas. ' It is the sacrifice of duty to
individual feelings or individual interests."
"It would be my own definition," continued Mr. Lester;
"but duty must always be compounded of two virtues balanc-
ing each other. It can scarcely be considered expediency to
endeavor to keep the balance equal."
" You are metaphysical, Mr. Lester. My idea of duty is
of a law. I don't understand the principle of two laws."
" Yet both the moral and the natural world are governed
by opposing laws," said Mr. Lester. " Love and fear, justice
and mercy, cause the beings of the spiritual creation to move
harmoniously round the one Centre of their worship, as the two
counteracting forces cause the planets to move round the sun."
He was almost sorry when he had said it, the General looked
BO impatient. They parted rather coldly, but when Mr. Les-
ter was gone General Vivian leaned back in his chair, and
thought.
CLEVE nALL. 229
CHAPTER XXVI.
ENCOMBE GRANGE was a large, lonely, white house.
standing beyond the village, and fronting the open com-
mon terminated by the cliffs. It was a very dreary-looking
place. Originally it might have been picturesque, for the
building was low and irregular, with a singular high turret at
one corner, which had been added as a kind of observatory by
one of its former possessors ; but now all beauty was lost in
the appearance of decay. Nearly all the trees which once
surrounded it had been cut down. Two or three indeed re-
mained near the turret, but these shut out the view over the
sea which at one time had been an attraction, whilst others
more exposed to the south-west winds were not only stunted
in their growth, but had that feeble, oppressed look which
always belongs to trees bent in one direction. There was
some attempt at a flower-garden and plantation near the house,
but all was in a neglected state ; the branches of the shrubs
spreading at their will, and covering the narrow gravel walks,
which were dark and green with grass and weeds; the flower-
beds completely overrun, and poultry, dogs, cats, and occasion-
ally a horse or a cow, straying at their pleasure over the
unmown lawn. Within, the scene was equally desolate. A
great portion of the house was shut up, and in the rooms
v. hich were used the walls were hidden by the scraps of papers
of different generations ; the paint was worn from the wains-
coting; and near the kitchen and servants' apartments even
the floors were unsafe. One parlor there was comparatively
comfortable, with a carpet, and a horsehair sofa, and a great
arm-chair, and some convenient corner cupboards; and this
was Captain Vivian's dwelling room, and here he lived con-
tentedly j for as long as he could sit by a blazing fire if he
was cold, and eat when he was hungry, and rest when he was
weary, and form his plans of adventure or speculation without
interruption, he eared nothing for the elegancies of life, and
little for what many would have considered ordinary comfort.
He was a man sunk below anything approaching to refinement
of taste; ami amongst the many secondary supports which
keep us from utter ruin in tliis world, perhaps none are more
powerful, or more deeply to lie lamented when lost, than taste.
Yet it was not because he cared for money in itself, that h6
230 CLEVE BALL.
strove i" gain i\ by evil means, and lived without the advan
which be had the means of obtaining. lie had run
through a large fortune, and still was carelessly extravagant as
regarded personal self-indulgence; but a consciousness of
degradation from guilt had led him to seek forgetfulness in
low company and low babits, till the claims of his position as
a gentleman by birth, and in some degree by education, had
been totally put aside.
It would be long, and perhaps tedious, to tell how it was
that lie had reached this point. There was the traditional
tune of his branch of the family to begin with; and reputation
has more to do with the first formation of character than we
may he inclined at the first glance to imagine. Then there
Was evil example, bringing opportunity for evil, and followed
by the loss of personal self-respect; and when this is gone,
moral descent is very rapid. Yet there had been occasions
when the past might have been redeemed. Even the most
hardened villain can probably look back to some period of his
life when, like the angel arresting the steps of the prophet,
repentance has met him in the way; and perhaps had the
secrets of Captain Vivian's heart been made known, it would
been found that, even with him, there was one period
from the recollection of which he turned in hasty anguish,
with the feeling that the example of his wife had opened to
him the gates of Heaven, but that he had wilfully refused to
enter in.
Possibly the influence of a different mind might have had
more power over him. Mrs. Vivian was extremely gentle,
implicitly obedient, except where religious duty was concerned ;
but she had been made religious by the means of sorrow, —
disappointment in him; and this bad given a mournful tone
to her character, and at times irritated him. It was the
excuse which he made to himself, when at the time of her
death remorse had for a few weeks been busy with him. Now
he made no excuses; he showed his feelings about her only
by refusing to hear her name mentioned. It was the one
especially painful barrier, amongst the many which existed,
be! ween liiin and Ronald.
For Ronald lived upon bis mother's memory; not to the
knowledge of the world, scarcely even to that of Mr. Lester
and Bertha Campbell; the rare occasions when he did give a
momentary vent to his feelings were as the sudden rush of the
tempest, which passes, and all is calm as before. But in a
CLEY.E HALL. 201
remote part of the dreary old house there was a small chamber
which he had fitted up with the few articles belonging to his
mother that had escaped the wreck caused by his father's
extravagance ; and there, with her picture before him, her few
books arranged in a small Indian cabinet, her work-box, and
writing-case, and a few special ornaments placed on the little
table which had stood beside her dying bed, Ronald had
formed for himself a sanctuary which her spirit seemed still
to inhabit, and from which a softening, chastening influence
had been permitted to reach him even in his most reckless
moments.
It might have been sentimentalism with many; but Ronald,
in his "loneliness, and the heaviness of his self-reproach, had
no room for sentimentality, even if the feeling had not been
totally foreign to his nature. He never showed his little
room to any one ; he never even spoke of it ; he scarcely ever
realized to himself why he reverenced it. The feeling had
grown up unconsciously from the time when, on their first ar-
rival at the Grange, and when the grief for her loss was still
fresh, the few things which belonged to her had been placed
in it. Captain Vivian avoided it; the servants did not trouble
themselves to enter it ; and Ronald himself never thought of
inhabiting it. Only at times, when his heart was most op-
pressed, he would pause before the door, and it would seem as
if he still could hear her voice within ; and occasionally, —
very rarely, for Ronald's fits of devotion had, till lately, been
as uncertain and varying as the winds, — he would venture in,
gently, reverently, as if intruding upon the presence of the
dead, and kneeling down, confess, in the simple words which
she herself had taught him, the guilt which burdened his con-
science, and the fears which lay heavy upon his heart.
These were his calmest and best moments. In his
hours of desperate remorse — and they were far more fre-
quent — he would no more have intruded himself into that
quiet chandler than he would have thrust himself unbidden
and unprepared as a partaker in the holiest rites of the Church.
Rut even then, the remembrance was not without its influ-
ence, it was as if there was still a resting-place within his
reach — a haven which he might hope to attain when the storm
was past ; and when Ronald spoke of, or thought of home, in
the sense which renders it so dear t<> all, his imagination re-
curred nnt to tin- empty chambers of the almost deserted house,
nor to the parlor where his father was wearing away life in
232 CLEVE HALL.
coarse self-indulgence, — nor even to the li.ile room in the tur-
ret, with its rude uncurtained bed and rough furniture, "where
he had piled in heaps the heterogeneous articles which served
him for use or for amusement, — but to the small closet, it
could scarcely be called more, in which his mother's spirit
seemed yel lingering.
Vis, that thought had saved him in many an hour of temp-
tation. For Ronald's life had been far less guilty than in his
despairing self-accusation he represented it.
lie had seen evil often, in its worst and most debasing
forms, and to a certain extent he had himself mingled with it;
but Captain Vivian, hardened though he might be, would not
force his son to become what he himself was; and Ronald had
many times escaped the actual contamination of wickedness,
which yet bad been so present with him that he could not
realize to himself that he had been saved from it. To sepa-
rate himself from his father seemed impossible; and when
Captain Vivian sank, Ronald felt that he himself had sunk
likewise. Perhaps, but for the recollection of his mother he
would have done 30.
His life had in a degree been happier during the last few
weeks. Before that time his refusal to tempt Clement to dis-
obedience had caused bursts of passion which were often ter-
rific ; but now he was left more to himself and his own pursuits.
A change had taken place apparently in Captain Vivian's
schemes. He confided them more to Goff; perhaps he felt
that he had to deal wdth a will as unbending as his own, and
therefore did not endeavor to alter it; perhaps — there is some
redeeming point even in the very worst — the one humanizing
feeling yet left, his affection for his boy, made him shrink from
implicating him in the guilty plans which yet he would not relin-
quish. Re that as it may, since the abandonment of the idea
of the merchant service Ronald had been suffered to carry out
his own wishes for the employment of his time for the most
part undisturbed. He was studying now not for pleasure ; it
was a great effort to him, and the escape from his books into
the fne air, with a gun or a fishing-rod in his hand, was eager
delight. But the energetic spirit, once turned in the direc-
tion of self-discipline, could not be checked. Bertha had given
him the impulse for good, Mr. Lester had suggested a few
rules for its direction, and with the same intensity of purpoi e
with which, it' commanded, he would have endeavored to ex-
piate his faults by bodily penances, did he now attempt to fob
CLEVE HALL. 233
ow up that far more difficult penance, the subjugation of tho
mind.
He was happier, — yet not for that reason at rest. Mr.
Lester had said truly that there was a cloud over him. How
indeed should it be otherwise ? the farther he advanced on the
right path himself, the more sensible he must necessarily be-
come that his father was moving on the wrong one. This
alone would have been enough to sadden him, but Ronald
could never forget that worse might be behind; — that fallen
as his father was now, there might be darker evil hidden ; n
the past, and that to him the task of discovering and revealing
it had in a certain way been intrusted. Therefore it w T as that
he would sit alone in his own chamber, or pursue his solitary
wanderings over the wild hills and by the lonely shore, — shrink-
ing from companionship, dreading conversation, — and though
forced to live with his father, aud at times to mingle with his
associates, yet keeping watch over his hidden grief, whilst
anxiously guarding every avenue to the temptations which
might lead him back into the vices of which he had repented.
The idea which thus oppressed him had first been sug-
gested by Bertha, but it was in no way followed up by her.
After that one conversation which had made him acquainted
with his father's history, the subject had never again been
mentioned between them. Probably Bertha repented what in
her eagerness she had done, perceiving the effect of the dis-
closure upon a spirit sensitive as a woman's, and impetuous as
a man's. At any rate whenever they met, which was but
seldom, it was only to exchange the confessions of sorrow and
penitence on the one side, and of affectionate interest on the
other ; whilst Mr. Lester never by word or look allowed it to
be supposed that he considered Ronald in the slightest degree
involved in the cause which he had so much at heart.
It was late in the same day on which Mr. Lester had been
with General Vivian. Ronald had been out upon the hills
shooting; Captain Vivian on the shore and at the Point, for
purposes best known to himself. They had returned about
the same time, and Ronald, wearied and yet excited by his
day's spnt, was dreading less than usual the dinner with his
father; fir on BUch occasions they had common subjects of
interest without touching upon those on which they would
have been likely to jar.
Captain Vivian's countenance also wore a satisfied expres-
sion, and he greeted his son without the uncomfortable re-
23 1 CLEVB HALL.
proaches which were generally his vent for any disappoint-
ment. Ronald asked no questions. The success or defeat of
his father's projects brought him almost equal pain. He was
only thankful to be allowed t < » eat his dinner in peace, and to
narrate the progress of the day's spurt without interruption.
When dinner was over lie was preparing, as usual, to go to his
own room, when Captain Vivian stopped him. "Off! my boy?
Where tO?"
• "To read or to rest," replied Ronald; "I've had despe-
rately hard work."
"Read? Pshaw! "What are you talking of ? I thought
you never troubled yourself about reading-. Why can't you
stay here ?"
"I can if you wish it," was Ronald's cold reply.
" Oh ! if you're tired, it's another matter. Be off."
" I am not so tired, — at least I shouldn't be going to bed
lor the next three hours," said Ronald.
" Only brooding over books. Why, Ronald, you're worth
something more than that."
" 1 don't know what I am worth, Father," replied Ronald;
'• I have never been tried yet."
"At the old story? Wanting to do something? Per-
chance I may put you in the way of it before long."
" Thank you," replied Ronald, in the same unmoved tone;
and he walked a few paces towards the door.
" A game at backgammon would be better for you than
books after a day's work," said Captain Vivian.
" I had rather read, thank you, Father, unless we play
without betting."
A cloud of displeasure crossed Captain Vivian's face; but
he only said, "Well, bring out the board. If Goff comes in
we may have a turn."
Ronald placed the backgammon-board by his father's side,
and went to fetch his books. He brought them back with his
writing desk, but he looked very little inclined for study. His
father laughed at him as he threw the books upon the table,
whilst a tired sigh escaped him.
•' Why you foolish fellow, one would think you were going
to turn clergyman. What d'ye think now is the good of all
that rubbish?"
" I suppose it may turn to good some day," replied Ronald.
" At any rate it's belter to do that than nothing."
"Books don't make a man's fortune, trust me for that.
CLEVE HALL. • 235
Ronald. Why, there are secrets — and to he had for the pur-
chase too — which give a man, iu one hour, what books wouldn't
give him in a whole life."
"And to be lost as quickly as gained/' replied Ronald;
" that's not in my way, Father."
" But it used to be. Time was when you were as daring a
fellow as any in Christendom, and would have got at anything
that could be had at a leap. That's the good of consorting
with women and clergymen, — they would eat the spirit out
of a lion." Captain Vivian's color rose, and he muttered to
himself, " But it won't last though." Then, speaking aloud,
he added : " I say, Ronald, it's time you should be off.'
"Where, Father ?"
" Anywhere ; if you mean to seek your fortune for your-
self."
" It is what I wish," was the answer.
" Ay ! wish in your own way, but never in mine."
11 1 wish to obey you, Father, in all things in which I may,"
replied Ronald, speaking very quietly, though his clenched
hands showed the effort which it cost him.
" Well, then ; I take you at your word. Our little vessel
at the Point goes off again next week; try your hand at com-
mand. The fellows will be glad enough to have you on
board."
Ronald's flashing eye showed how much his own inclina-
tion accorded with the suggestion, yet he hesitated.
" It's an offer that I should have jumped to clutch at your
age," continued Captain Vivian. " But boys now aren't what
buys were, nor men neither."
" Regular service is more to my taste." — Ronald began the
sentence boldly, but the change in his father's couutenanco
made even his spirit quail.
Captain Vivian burst forth in a storm of passion. " It was
his will," he said. " He had waited long enough, keeping
Ronald tied at home to be a burden to him ; and now the
time was come for action, and act he must and should." And
Ronald acquiesced in the determination; but again, and with
less hesitation, insisted upon the desirableness of the merchant
service.
Just then there was a loud knock at the outer door; but
the fierce words still raged, whilst Ronald, bending down,
with his head averted, looked steadfastly into the fire. Ah
the knock was repeated the second time, however, he rose,
236 CLEVE HALL.
and was about to clo e the parlor door, when he was stopped
l,\ the entrance of Goff, and, to his consternation, Clement
Vivian. ,
Captain Vivian's wrath subsided in a moment; perhaps
thai was the reason why Ronald felt his to he rising. He
advanced before his father to meet Clement, and they shook
hands; but Clement's manner was coldly nervous, and he
glanced reproachfully at Goff, as if he had been betrayed into
society which lie had not expected.
(i off came into the room with the manner of a person quite
at his ease, and sat himself down hy the fire, motioning to
Clement to seat himself also. "You didn't expect company
to-night, eh, Captain V
" Not (|nite so many. But Clement, my boy," — and Cap-
tain Vivian put his hand across the table, and shook Clement's
heartily, — "you're welcome, anyhow. What's the business,
Goff?"
" No hurry ; it's a cold night, and the fire's comfortable;"
and he drew his chair in.
" What brings you out to-night, Clement?" asked Ronald,
in a careless tone.
Goff answered for him, — " A bold spirit, to be sure, Ro-
nald, that's ashamed to sit over the fire like a girl."
Ronald turned round upon him rather roughly, — " You'll
be careful what you say, if you please ; let us hear your own
tale, Clement."
" Ask him how he escaped from his master?" said Goff,
sneeringly.
" I will ask him if Mr. Lester knows he is here?" replied
Ronald.
Captain Vivian broke in upon the conversation, — "What
signifies ? He's here, and he's going to stay. Here's a health
to you, my lad ! and we won't ask what brings you here, oidy
we are glad to see you."
All this time Clement had been sitting, shyly, at a little
distance from the table, casting furtive glances round the
room. Now, as Ronald fixed his keen eye upon him, he an-
swered with apparent indifference, — "I was at the Hall with
a message) and Goff and I met coming back, so we bore each
other company/'
"It's not the nearest way from the Hall to the village,"
said Ronald, quickly.
The color rose in Clement's check, but Goff helped him.
CLEVE HALL. 207
•' If it isn't quite as near it's twice as good ; and it's better
going two than one on a winter's evening, and so Master Cle-
ment and I must needs trudge it together."
" And take a resting-place on your way," obseiwed Captain
Vivian; "and a very good notion, too. It's the first time,
but we hope it won't be the last."
Ronald stood moodily by the fire, and there was a momen-
tary silence. Goff took up the dice from the backgammon-
table, and tossed them. Captain Vivian called out the num-
bers, and laughed as they came down right. " Now, Clement,
try your luck ;" and Clement did the same, watching with
some eagerness to see the result.
" Bravo ! you'll do, I see. Now, once more ; ten to one
you are right."
Clement was again partly successful.
" Luck's with him," said Guff. " It's born with some
people."
" Just opposite to what it is with him," said Captain Vi-
vian, pointing to Ronald; " he never made more than one
good hit in his life."
" Try, Ronald," said Clement, rather eagerly.
" Thank you, no."
"He's afraid," said Goff; "he hates losing."
" Oh ! nonsense, Ronald," exclaimed Clement. " There's
no betting; what does it signify?"
" Some folks are too proud to be beaten in anything, bet-
ting or no betting," said Goff.
" I see no fun in it," said Ronald ; " and if I did, I wouldn't
do it now."
"Wouldn't! why not?" Captain Vivian turned to him
angrily.
Ronald hesitated for a second, then he said, " Because I
wouldn't be the one to lead Clement to that which may be his
ruin. There's a warning for you, Clement;" and he walked
out of the room.
Captain Vivian's anger evaporated, so at least it might
have seemed, in a laugh, whilst Goff threw up the dice again,
and made Captain Vivian guess, without any reference to Cle-
ment, who sat by uneasily.
The cluck struck eight, and he started up. " I ought tc
he at home; they expected me back at seven."
" And you keep your word, do you?" said Goff. "That's
than you do with me
238 CLEVE HALL.
■• Clement will lie out of leading-strings before long, I'll
venture to say," observed Captain Vivian, lightly. "1 wish
1 could hope as much of my boy. He's turned quite tame,
and won't even take a cruise for a few days."
•• Won't Ronald take a cruise?" inquired Clement, with
some eagerness.
"Not he; though I offered to put him in command of a
vessel. But the very life's gone out of him; lie* II do nothing
hul sit at home over his books. Old Occau was but a fancy
with him, after all."
" As it is with a good many youngsters," continued Goff.
'• Well enough on a fine day, with a sea which a baby might
Bleep on; but come a storm, and they're nothing but pale-
faced cowards. I'll bet you anything you like, though, that
I bring Ronald round."
" Volunteers, not pressed men, for my money," was the
reply.
"Ay; volunteers, if they are to be had." Goff glanced
at Clement. " I say, Master (Element, if I don't go with you,
can you find your way home ?"
" I should hope so. I have been over the fields often
enough," said Clement, proudly.
" And been in time for roll-call," said Captain Vivian,
laughing. " Why, Clement, what will you say for yourself?"
" The truth, if I am asked," replied Clement.
" The truth, to be sure. Who ever heard of a Vivian uot
speaking the truth ?"
" Only it's a bit awkward, sometimes," muttered Goff. " We
shan't see you here again, I suppose, Master Clement, when
the truth's out ?"
" I don't see that. I go where I choose, and return when
I please."
"They'd think you had been at some dire mischief, here,"
said Captain Vivian, carelessly, as he threw the dice into the
air.
" That was a curious calculation you were making with
those things the other night, Captain," said Goff. "I'm not
up to figures. What did Ronald say to it ?"
" Ronald has no head for figures neither; he always hated
them."
'• Very curious it was," repeated Goff, in a musing tone.
"What was curious? A calculation? I can calculate
pretty well," said Clement., eagerly.
CLEVE IIALL. 239
Goff looked at him with pretended amusement " Of course,
you can do everything."
"I have calculated very difficult questions," continued Cle-
ment. " I believe" — and he touched his forehead — " I havo
a mathematical head."
" Possibly ! But you mightn't be able to do this. Be-
sides, there isn't time, and you are wanted at home."
" Nonsense, to send him away !" observed Captain Vivian.
" Why shouldn't he stay, if he likes it 1"
"I'll try the calculation for you at home, if you choose to
give it me," said Clement. He spoke eagerly, longing to show
his superiority to Ronald.
"Thank you; but I can't give it you just in a minute.
You will be coming by this way another time, I dare say, and
then I'll show it you. But your master would be after you,
if you were to take it home."
The word master always touched Clement on a tender point.
He instantly began a lengthened explanation of his true posi-
tion with Mr. Lester; that he was his father's friend, and was
kind enough to teach him some things; but that he had no
authority over him beyond the hours of study ; whilst Captain
Vivian and Goff listened with an incredulous air, which only
irritated him the more to assert his independence. When he
had ended, Goff 's exclamation was, " Deeds, not words, Mas-
ter Clement. Show us you are your own master, and we'll
believe you ; but don't waste such a quantity of breath about
it. Why, you are afraid now to go home for fear of the rod !"
And he laughed heartily.
Captain Vivian took Clement's part, and found fault with
Goff for ridiculing him, saying, " that it was very natural that
such a young fellow should be kept under. It wasn't every
boy that couid be what Ronald was at sixteen — though he had
gone back sadly of late."
This told more keenly upon Clement than all Goff's coarser
ridicule, especially when it was followed by some characteristic
anecdotes of Ronald's dauntless bravery, which goaded his
envy, whilst they excited to the utmost his admiration. A
]i:nise came at last, and Clement summoned resolution to' go,
without any more last words of boasting. Captain Vivian
went with him to the door. His tone was much softened, and
there even appeared to be some interest in it. " We shall see
you again/ 1 he said; "and if you could look in and help Ro-
nald and me about that calculation, we should both thank you.
2-10 CLE YE HALL.
I've no bead for it ; neither has he. But don't come, if you
think you will gel into disgrace. Good-night!" They shook
hands cordially, and Clement, though shrinking from the word
disgrace, walked away, saying to himself, that Captain Vivian
had certainly been condemned unfairly. lie had still the
spirit of a gentleman in him, when he chose to exert it.
-*>-
CHAPTER XXVII.
p APTAIN VIVIAN returned to the parlor, carefully locked
\J the door, tried another which led through some passages
to a distant wing of the house, and then going up to Goff, who
was bending down over the fire, with his hands spread out to
warm them, exclaimed, " He's caught !"
" Ay ! thanks to me !" was Goff's rather surly reply ; and,
without looking up, he added, abruptly, "and high time; the
game will be up soon !"
Captain Vivian moved so as to confront him. "Up! What
d'ye mean ?" His tone was hollow, though the words were
uttered calmly.
"We were fools," continued Goff, "mad fools! He has
escaped us !"
" Edward Vivian ! Ha!" And a strong hand clutched
the shoulder of the rough fisherman, till it must have been
actual pain. "No need for fierceness, Captain," continued
Goff, disengaging himself. "It was luck that might have
befallen any one. When you put me upon the track, I fol-
lowed it ; and if I'd met him that night, we should soon enough
have come to an issue. Put who was to make me guess his
sneaking ways? You, yourself, said that we might rest con-
tent, for that if it was he, he would be back again at Encombe
before a week had passed over our heads. He's in London
now : never mind how I found it out, but 'tis true."
A long pause followed. Captaiu Vivian's face was pale
with fear and anger.
" It may go hard with us, if the old General and he make
one again,'' lie said at length in a low, deep voice.
Goff took up his words. " Hard with us ? Put them once
CLEVE HALL. 241
together, and the sooner old ocean roars between ns and this,
part of the world the better."
" He must be kept at bay.
" Easier said than done. It's one thing keeping a man at
bay, when of his own accord he takes to the Indies; and an-
other, when he thinks fit to show his face in England. I warn
you, Captain, the time's at hand when Encombe Grange may
be too hot to hold you."
" You are in for it yourself, too," was the sharp rejoinder.
"Not as principal; that makes all the difference."
" You swore to the handwriting," said Captain Vivian.
"And got five hundred pounds for my pains, and little
enough for the jeopardy. But it's you, Captain, that's to be
troubled for. There's none of them will have an eye to me."
Captain Vivian leant his head upon his hand in deep
thought, whilst Goff threw himself back in the arm-chair, with
the attitude of a man who feels that he has the upper hand
in the affair under discussion.
" It's best always to look matters full in the face," he con-
tinued, composedly. " The game is one of chances. First
of all, the paper may have been destroyed."
Captain Vivian started up. " May ? A hundred to one
that it is. The old General was too mad with anger to keep
it. It told against his honor."
" Then the forgery's safe."
" If I hadn't thought so, do you think I would have set
foot in Encombe again ?"
" Yes," replied Goff. " When more than a dozen years
had gone by, and Edward Vivian was in Jamaica, and at
daggers drawn with his father; why shouldn't you? If there
was danger, why there was safety too. Y"ou were at hand to
watch, and might start at a moment's notice. You'd have
lost a capital opening for trade, if you had let fear come in the
way of settling here. No, no; all that's been done is well
enough; but things are altered now; and since we are reckon-
ing chances, we mustn't forget there's a risk on the other side.
The paper may be forthcoming."
Captain Vivian's knees trembled, and he sat down.
" Let Edward Vivian and his father meet," continued
Goff, "and it's an even chance that you are done for."
" If the paper's gone, there's no legal proof," said Captain
Vivian.
"And so no mischief!" exclaimed Goff. "Why, mm,
11
242 GLEVE HALL.
pou're ;iu idiot. Think of Edward Vivian at the Hall, lord
and master, with the grudge rankling in his breast. If ho
can't have revenge in one way, trust him to have it in another.
The story will be blazoned over the country; even your own
people will take it up; there'll be a hundred eyes spying at
you, and Edward Vivian himself set to ruin you, to say nothing
of the General. How's the trade to go on then? and what
kind of life, think you, we shall lead? Do as you will,
Captain, yourself, you'll not find me sitting down quietly with
a foe at my very door. Let him set one foot in the Hall, and
I'm off."
" It might be the best plan, anyhow," said Captain Vivian,
thoughtfully. His assent was evidently unacceptable to G-off,
who answered with a look of cool contempt. " And will you
please to tell me, then, why you ever came here, since you're
to be off at the first fright ?"
" I came because it would be a good speculation, and we
might make the thing answer. I didn't reckon that Edward
Vivian would be back like a ghost from the grave."
" Well ! and hasn't it answered ? Aren't we carrying on
as pretty a business as a man might wish for; plenty of hands
to help us; and the place just fitted for it? I tell you,
Captain, if you cut the cable you'll be swamped."
" Possibly."
" Certainly ; as sure as I stand here. There's no hope but
to stick by Encombe to the last."
" With a view of Botany Bay beyond."
" Shame on you, Captain. There isn't a fellow belonging
to us who wouldn't cry craven if he heard you."
" I am only doing what you yourself advised," was the
reply, "looking the matter fully in the face."
" And what's the end of that ? You look your enemy in
the face one minute, to knock him down the next."
Captain Vivian started. "I've enough on my hands
already," he said, quickly. "I'll have no more."
Guff's laugh was one of cold, fierce sarcasm. "Chicken-
hearted ! are ye, Captain ? Yet I've known you calculate
even to a penny the chance of a man's ruin. But don't be
afraid. I'll keep your neck safe enough from a halter, though
may be it will be a more difficult matter to keep your hands
from fetters." Then, as he saw Captain Vivian wince at the
suggestion, he added in an under tone, "A pistol shot would
settle it quick enough between me and my enemy any day;
CLEVE HALL. 243
but if you areu't up to that, you'll surely be thinking of some-
thina; else. — The boy might help us, but for your marplot
Ronald."
" We must be rid of him." Captain Vivian spoke coldly
and sternly.
" I told you that long ago. When the Lodge folks came to
Encombe, said I, it isn't a fit place for Ronald. Have you
warned him, that if you fall he falls too?"
" Warned him ! Ronald ?" Captain Vivian's eyes flashed
with indignation, and then a sudden paleness overspread his
face, and rising, he paced the room in great agitation.
Goff went on without noticing him. " It's not so much
the ill-will against the son as against the grandson, which will
work our way. There's prejudice enough against Edward
Vivian already, and if Clement is thought to be running the
same course, why, the thing's done ; and the Hall door shut
against them both, let who will say, open. It's what you and
I have said hundreds of times, and acted upon too."
" And what's to be done now, then ?" inquired Captain
Vivian, moodily ; " we can't do more than we have to keep up
the old prejudice."
" It must be more than a prejudice for our purpose," replied
Goff.
" You are too deep for me, man;" but Captain Vivian sat
down again as if prepared to listen.
" Why, look ye. Suppose we get Clement into the net,"
and Goff laughed mockingly ; — " not a difficult task with the
boasting young sparrow, he's close upon it now ; — suppose, I
say, we make him one of us, set him on a sail to the coast
yonder, and to return with our men. A hint to the preventives
will put them on the look-out, and not much harm done to us
— only the loss of a keg or two if we manage properly. But
the skirmish will do our work with the General. He'll take
a vow as deep as when he thought that his son had paid away
his money before ever he got into possession of it, and never a
Btep will Clement Vivian, or his father, set in Cleve Hall from
that hour."
Captain Vivian was thoughtful. "The plan may do," ho
said, " to cut short Clement's prospects, but not to stop Edward
Vivian's return, and the possibility of our discovery."
"Why, the one goes with the other," exclaimed Goff; "or
if it doesii't, still we have tbe name in our own bands. Trust
ine, and I'll bring the youngster into such a plight, that his
- I 1 CLBVE HALL.
father would buy bis safety with five times the sum you took
from him ; and he should too, if I had to deal with him."
'• You mean the hoy no harm?"
•• ll.iiin ! I'll make him worth twenty-fold what he is now !
I'll show him what work is; put a little spirit into him!
Why, his father might thank me, if 'twere only for making a
man of him. But let there he harm; you might just think
to yourself that you're only squaring matters. If you get
Clement on your side, it's clear as a pike-staff to rue, that
they are getting Ronald on theirs."
The insinuation stung Captain Vivian to the quick, and he
hurst out in a torrent of vehement indignation. Goff allowed
his anger to have free scope, every now and then adding fuel
to the flame, by recalling circumstances connected with the
old enmity hetwecn him and Mr. Vivian.
He had his own purposes to gain in stirring up ;he rank-
ling spirit of revenge. Years before, he had left Mr. Vivian's
service on a charge of dishonesty, which, being proved, though
not brought forward in a court of justice, had entirely de-
stroyed his character. The feeling of enmity was the first tie
hetwecn him and Captain Vivian. They had carried out their
schemes together, and hitherto successfully. For some years
Goff had remained with Captain Vivian as his confidential
servant, or rather adviser ; afterwards, circumstances had led
hi i ii again to Encombe, where he entered upon his smuggling
life, and at last persuaded Captain Vivian to join him.
The speculation was more profitable to him than to Captain
Vivian ; it suited his daring temperament; and putting aside
any personal feeling of ill-will, he would have hazarded Very
much rather than relinquish it. As it was, with the possi-
bility of being discovered as an accomplice iu an act of for-
gery, and the certainty that, if Mr. Vivian were once restored
to his father's favor, there would be an enemy at his door,
k< eping a constant spy upon his proceedings, it was no wonder
that Goff's fierce nature should be roused to projects from
which the more calculating spirit of Captain Vivian would
have naturally turned, as involving risk that might only end
in greater ruin. Yet the feeling of revenge for the wrongs
of former years was excited without difficulty; and though
Goff, if left to himself, would doubtless have provided, if
necessary, for his own safety by shorter and more desperate
means; he was apparently contented now, when he found
CLEVE HALL. 215
Captain Vivian willing to take in the project he had proposed,
and to discuss the steps by which it was to be accomplished.
On one point, however, there was no discussion. Ronald
was, as soon as possible, to be removed from the scene of
action ; and it was determined again to tempt him by the ex-
pedition in which he had already refused to join, and which
might be so arranged as to give him occupation for some time
on the opposite coast. In his absence Clement would,_ as it
was supposed, be led without difficulty into the snares laid for
him. By careful arrangement, the means of making terms
with Mr. Vivian, if he' should reappear at Encombe, would
then be in their own power; and, at the worst, if every plan
should fail, and a reconciliation with the General lead to an
inquiry into the past, the possibility of escape was always
within their reach.
-+*-
CHAPTER XXVIIE
CLEMENT VIVIAN did not hurry on his way home,
although quite conscious that he was late, and that if
questions were asked, the answers required might be awkward.
He delayed for that very reason ; once in a difficulty, and he
seldom had moral courage sufficient to meet it face to face. He
had been sent to the Hall, as he had stated, on a message to
Ella, and had been met by Goff on his return, and induced,
partly by ridicule, partly by the love of adventure, which the
smuggler's conversation always aroused, to go considerably out
of hi'i way, through by-paths and copses, till coming suddenly
upon the Grange, he was taken unawares, and lured into the
house, under pretence of waiting only for a moment with
Ronald, whilst Goff said a few words in private to Captain
Vivian.
There was not x^y much to shock a conscience like Cle-
ment's in all this, lie had done nothing — so he said to him-
self — which could lead him into mischief; and he had accus-
tomed himself too much, of late, to slight disobediences of a
similar kind to be very scrupulous on that point. And yet
he was uneasy. There was no exact claim upon him to con-
fer, for no strict law had been laid down, only general advice
2-16 CLKVH HALL.
given; and if there was Harm in Golf's companionship he
could Bay, honestly, that he had nol sought it. Vet some-
thing within whispered that Mr. Lester's displeasure would
! reater than it had ever been before, if it was known that
he had actually gone into the Grange. Hitherto the inter-
course between him and Captain Vivian bad been confined to
occasional chance meetings, for it had been a matter of policy
nut to tempt him to any glaring act of disobedience. Even
at the time when he bad been most friendly with Ronald,
they had always parted company at the shrubbery-gate. Now,
the deed was done, lie had entered within the charmed walls,
and what had he seen? Nothing, indeed, to tempt him to
repeat his visit ; yet nothing which, to bis ideas, would be a
reason for not doing so.
Captain Vivian amused himself with dice; but he did not
bet, or ask Clement to bet; on the contrary, from the little
thai had passed, it seemed as if be rather occupied himself in
questions of calculation than ot profit : certainly he had upheld
Clement in obedience, instead of tempting him to the con-
trary. A reaction began to spring up in Clement's mind; a
sense of injustice, such as before had made him cling to
Ronald. Captain Vivian, he fancied, had been unfairly dealt
with; Mr. Lester knew little about him; bis Aunt Bertha
was prejudiced. They could not see, as he saw, that Captain
Vivian, being Ronald's father, wa3 certain to have some of
Ronald's redeeming qualities. All this, and much more,
passed through Clement's mind, with some show of reason.
Only one thing might have suggested itself as a reason for
doubting the correctness of his conclusions, he could not
resolve to mention his visit at home, still less to Mr. Lester.
Many were the excuses be made; that it would be causing a
fuss about nothing; exciting groundless suspicion; that it
was no fault, being only the result of accidental circum-
stances ; these, and other equally sophistical arguments, such
as are always at hand to tempt us to follow the course we
like: yet, ever as Clement repeated them to himself, his own
natural honesty of heart reproached him for untruth, and
caused him to linger on his way, repeating again the reason-
ing which the moment before he had imagined was quite con-
clusive.
His thoughts were engaged in this manner as he slowly
Wended his way over the fields, which lay between the Grange
and the village, when he perceived in the twilight a figuie
CLEVE HALL. 217
which ho had dttle difficulty in recognising as that of Ronald
Vivian, advancing to meet him from a cross path. lie stopped,
and Ronald came up with him quite out of breath.
" Well, Ronald, what's the matter now ? what do you
want ?" was Clement's first inquiry, spoken rather impatiently,
for his spirit was still rebelling against the warning which had,
unasked, been given him.
" You are going home, aren't you ?" replied Ronald, reco-
Tering himself. " I suppose, if I am travelling the same road,
we may as well go together."
" To-night ? What is } r our business ? Is there anything
going on V
" Nothing that you'd care to hear about. I'm not going
far. But you had the start of me, Clement ; I had no notion
you were off."
"I stayed longer than I intended as it was," rr plied Cle-
ment, " but you are wonderfully anxious for my company to
take the trouble to lose your breath at such a rate. Just now
I thought you had made up your mind not to remain in the
same room with me ; you were out of it as soon as I came in."
" I should have made mischief if I had stayed," replied
Ronald.
"Mischief? how? what?"
" I've a tongue in my head, and nine times out of ten it
runs away with me ; so I decamped."
" I don't see what there was to make it run away, then,"
replied Clement. " No one was going to quarrel, that I saw;
I am sure I wasn't."
" I wish you had been. Clement, you'd best stand at arm's
length with my father. There, — I say it, that would sooner
die than have cause to say it, but I must."
" There is never any other way of standing with him,"
replied Clement. " It's little enough that I see of him, and,
as you know, this is the first time I ever set my foot within
the Grange."
" Then let it be the last time."
" It may be and it may not be ; I don't choose to tie my-
self down; but I am obliged to you, Ronald, for your hospi-
tality, at least."
" I care nothing for your obligation, one way or the other,"
exclaimed Ronald, impetuously; "but once for all, Clement,
if you wouldn't rue the day that ever you came to Encombe,
2 I 3 CLKVE HALL,
you'll keep :is far from the Grange as you would from" — and
his voice sank — " the pit of destruction."
The eager tone of his deep voice struck forcibly, and even
awfully, upon Clement's ear, and, grasping Ronald by the
arm, he Baid, earnestly, "Ronald, you didn't talk in that way
when first L came here."
•• I did not know then that there was any cause. But
don't trouble me, Clement j don't ask questions. You are to
be off soon, aren't you?"
lie tried to speak lightly, but the effort was unsuccessful,
ami Clement passing by the question, returned to the former
topic.
" It is the way they all talk to me," he said. "*They are
full of mysteries, and I don't choose to put up with them. I
am old enough surely to have some judgment of my own. I
can till righl from wrong, as well as they can; and if I don't
sec that things are wrong, why am I to be forced to give them
up ? As for your father, he might as well be at Nova Scotia
for anything I get from him, whether good or bad; and if a
man doesn't do me any harm, I don't think I have any reason
to think he means to do it."
" You'll argue differently one of these days," was the reply.
" Preaching, are you ?" and Clement laughed. " I didn't
know that was one of your gifts. I suppose Aunt Bertha has
put you up to it ; come, tell me now," and he laid his hand
playfully on Ronald's shoulder, " hasn't she been setting you
to jaw me in this fashion?"
Ronald drew back. " When you want to know what Miss
Campbell says to me, you had better go and ask her. I have
said my say."
Clement stopped him as he was turning away. " Answer
me one question, Ronald. If you were in my place shouldn't
yon do as [ do ?"
Ronald considered for a moment, and answered firmly,
" No."
"Then what should you do?" Clement's tone betrayed
considerable pique.
" I hope I should act the part of a brave man, not of a
coward."
" Coward !"
" Coward," repeated Ronald, quietly. " I would have my
head cut off before I would be trusted and betray my trust."
CLEVE HALL. 2 19
" I am not trusted. It is the very tiling I complain of;
fchey do not trust me."
" If you weren't trusted you would be locked up."
" You are mocking. Lock me up ? As if any one had
power to do that I"
" Mr. Lester has power at any time."
" Physical power. Folly ! who thinks of that in these days ?"
"Honor is instead of power, then," said Ronald; "and
honor would keep me from deceiving him."
" Ronald, you would madden a saint," exclaimed Clement
" I tell you I don't deceive him."
" Then he knows everything you do. He will hear of
your having been at the Grange to-night."
" Hear Tif he asks. I wouldn't tell a lie."
" And I wouldn't act one."
" I don't understand; you make me angry; I won't stand
it !" exclaimed Clement, in a fretful tone of wounded pride
and irritation. "I vow, if it weren't for old days, I should
think you had come just to insult me, and give me the oppor-
tunity of knocking you down."
" Try, if you will," replied Ronald, quietly, and perhaps a
little contemptuously; "I shall not return it." But he added
more quietly, " Don't let us make fools of ourselves, Clement,
by sparring for nothing. You know I don't mean to insult
you, as you call it."
" Then what do you mean ?"
" Simply to make you get up pluck enough to be honest ;
and when you are out upon parole, not to break it; and when
you do break it, to own it."
The question seemed to strike Clement in a new light.
" I never thought about that sort of thing," he said. " 1 was
at school before I came here, and the boys there thought that
pluck was to risk getting your own way without being caught."
"I suppose they did: I don't know about school-boys; 1
never was at school."
" Then who told you what pluck, and honor, and such
things meant ?"
'• My own heart, and — " Ronald added, in an under tone —
"things I was taught when I was a child."
"It's all very tine, Ronald," exclaimed Clement, after a
moment's thought; "but twenty to one you've done more
rtild things in one day than I have done in all my life."
Ferhaps it was well fur Clement that the dim light hid
250 CLEVE HALL.
from him the change which passed over Ronald's countenance
is the words were said : be might have reproached himself
too bitterly. Set even without seeing, there was something
deeply touching in the changed, humbled, faltering tone of
the reply. "Yes; oh, yes. Clement, you must never be
like me."
Clement seized his hand kindly. " Cheer up, old fellow !
I'm sine I- didn't mean reproach. If you did twenty bad
,nings, I dare say I should have done a hundred. I wasn't
thinking a bit of boasting; I'm far enough oif from that
really."
" And I was not told ; I never betrayed trust," continued
Ronald, with something of his former energy.
•• No, of course you didn't. You are true to the backbone.
But I shouldn't like you to think I could do so either."
"You mightn't mcau it, but you might do it; and vou
w iH if "
"If what? out with it,"
"If you don't tell Mr. Lester that you have been at the
Grange to-night."
"I don't'sce that. I shall tell if I'm asked."
" Honor is in telling without being asked."
" Going to confession," said Clement, with something of a
sarcastic laugh.
" If it's necessary."
" Yes, if it is; that's the point; but I'll think about it."
They stopped, as if by mutual consent. Ronald made one
more effort. "Clement, you told me once that you wished
we had been brothers; is the feeling all gone?"
"Gone! no;" and Clement shook his hand affectionately.
■■ 1 would wish nothing better than to have you for my bro-
ther; if only you wouldn't be on one day and off another in
the way you are. I can't understand that."
'• Then if we are as brothers, give me a brother's confi-
dence, and promise, even if you don't see the necessity, that
you will tell .Mr. Lester where you have been to-night."
Clement hesitated, — began to speak, — was silent again, —
in>l at length, after grasping Ronald's hand violently, ran off,
3xclainung, " I hate promises ) but I'll see about it."
CLEVE HALL. 251
CHAPTER XXIX.
C1LEMENT reached home just as tea was being made, after
; a delay of three quarters of an hour, which ,had been
very trying to the whole party ; and particularly so, as the
two children had, for once, been allowed to sit up for the late
tea. His excuse was hasty and incoherent, — that he was
kept longer than he had expected at the Hall, and had walked
back rather slowly ; both statements being true in the letter,
though false in the spirit. Fanny, who was the make-peace
of the party, found a place for him at the table, and provided
him with a plate, but every one else treated him as if he was
in disgrace ; and Bertha, especially, not quite understanding
how to show her annoyance with one individual, except by
making all suffer, sat perfectly silent, except when every now
and then she asked, in a tone which had a peculiai'ly melau-
choly intonation, whether any one wished for more tea.
Louisa occasionally attempted a little conversation. Quick
observation was teaching her tact ; and, besides, there was a love
of power innate in her, which made her feel pleasure in the
cnii-ciousness of taking the lead in any matter however small.
" How was Ella, Clement?"
"Oh! pretty well;" and Clement cut for himself a large
slice of bread.
" Had she been out to-day?"
" I don't know; I didn't ask her."
" When is she coming home ?" asked Mrs. Campbell. " I
can't let her stay away much longer."
" She doesn't want to come home yet, she says, Grand-
ma."
" It must be very pleasant to sit by the fire all day, and
read," observed Fanny, who partook largely of her sister's in-
dolence.
" Aunt Mildred won't let her do that, I'm sure," said
Louisa. " It's very bad for Ella not to go out; she always
gets ill if she doesn't take exercise."
"Louisa, my dear, j r ou had better not trouble yourself
about what is good, or bad, for Ella," said Bertha. ''Give
me Grandmamma's cup for some more tea."
" Just half a cup, my dear; not so much sugar, and a little
more milk," said Mrs. Campbell.
-J.', 2 CLEVB HALL.
Thai was the first attempt at conversation. Bertha poured
out tli<' tea; then put too much sugar, and too little milk;
then too much milk, and too little water; then too much
water, :nnl too little tea; and was rewarded by hearing the
beverage she had provided pronounced totally undrinkable. A
martyr could not have been more touching in her resignation.
Louisa was aware of the fact; and, when Aunt Bertha began
the concoction a second time, she attempted once more to
arouse the dormant energies of the party by a fresh observa-
tion.
" What a heap of letters went to the post to-day ! Do you
know, Betsy said there were as many as x\nne, at the Rectory,
could carry."
" I don't know who could have written them," observed
Mrs. Campbell, with rather a sharp glance at Bertha. " Writ-
ing letters is a great waste of time, unless people have real
business to write about."
" There were three of Aunt Bertha's," said Fanny, who
had a remarkable talent for mal-a-propos observations.
Bertha colored, and looked annoyed. Louisa came to her
rescue : — " They weren't all ours, though. You know there
were Mr. Lester's letters, too. I don't know how many there
weren't of his ; and Rachel had been writing besides."
" Rachel is a great deal too young to write so many let-
ters," said Mrs. Campbell. " It is a very bad thing for
children; it teaches them to scribble. I wonder Mr. Lester
allows it,"
" My hand is not spoilt, at any rate, by the number of let-
ters I write," observed Clement. " I am sure I don't get
through half-a-dozen in a twelvemonth."
"Ami when you do write, you don't waste many words 01
much paper," said Louisa.
" No; why should 1? It's an awful bore, anyhow."
" .Mr. Lester's hand must quite ache," said Louisa, " He
writes so small, and crowds in such a quantity. I am sure one
of the letters to-day looked quite like a book."
"Louisa, how could you know?" and Bertha turned to
her hurriedly ; whilst even Mrs. Campbell gave a glance of
surprise.
But Louisa was unabashed. " I couldn't help knowing,"
she said; " Anne came with us down the lane, when we were
running after you, Aunt Bertha, and she let them fall, and
Fanny and I helped to pick them up."
CLEVE HALL. 253
" I think it was seeing Goff coming round the corner sud-
denly, that frightened her," said Fanny. " She can't hoar
him.'"
" He was very civil, though," observed Louisa. " He
made us such a funny bow, and asked if he should carry the
letters for us, because he was going into Encombe, and he
thought we wanted to go to the shore."
"And Anne was very glad he should," continued Fanny;
"because she had so much to do, and it saved her the walk."
" But it wasn't quite right, Aunt Bertha, was it ?" inquired
Louisa. " When she was told to go, she ought to have gone.
I said so, and I made her quite angry."
" And we said that we would ask you to let us go through
the village, and put the letters in the post," continued Fanny,
perceiving by the change in her aunt's countenance, that some
one had done wrong.
" It was very wrong. Anne ought to have known better,"
began Bertha; when Mrs. Campbell interrupted her in a fret-
ful tone :
" What is it all about ? I don't understand. What did
you do about the letters, my dears?"
" Xothing at all, Grandmamma."
" Then, Bertha, why do you find fault with them ? You
are always hard upon them. You ought to inquire before you
blame."
" I am not aware that I did blame them," replied Bertha.
" Louisa, did Goff take the letters?" She spoke rather anx-
iously.
" I think he did, Aunt Bertha, but I am not sure. Fanny
and I ran on before it was settled."
" No great harm if he did, that I car see," observed Cle-
ment, moodily : " Goff 's not likely to lose the letters."
" And I shouldn't think he could read them," said Fanny.
" Such a rough, odd man he is."
"For that matter, Fanny," answered Clement, "he can
read as well as you or I. He told me all about the loss of that
ship, off the Irish coast, word for word, nearly as it was in the
newspaper. He had read it all."
" That was in to-day's paper," said Louisa: "Aunt Ber-
tha read it to us. How did he hear about it before?"
A curious look of confused discomfiture crossed Clement's
face ; he answered abruptly: "I didn't say that he had read
it before to-day."
254 CLEVE HALL.
Bertha appeared to be engaged in putting away tlic sngai
and looking up the tea-caddy; but she heard all that passed.
" Vmi bave seen Goff to-day, then, Clement?" Her sharp,
inquiring looked abashed whilst it made him angry;
"Yes; 1 have seen him." And he played with his tea-
spoon, whilst his features assumed an air of impenetrable de-
termination, which Bertha had no difficulty in interpreting.
" Vou saw him this evening, I suppose?"
- Yes."
" And I imagine that was the reason you were at home so
late."
AVhatevcr might have been Bertha's object in her ques-
tions, it was manifestly unwise to put them before Mrs. Camp-
bell and the children. Clement's countenance became only
the more dark, whilst Mrs. Campbell, as usual, taking her
grandson's part, and forgetting that she had been kept wait-
ing, insisted that it was folly to tease him about where he
hail been, when he came in in time ; and breaking in upon the
subject, told Fanny to ring the bell and have the tea-things
taken away.
Bertha went out of the room, and Clement took a book,
and sat by the fire ; but his reading was merely a pretence.
lie was in reality thinking of the difficulty into which he had
been brought, and wondering how much of his proceedings lie
should be obliged to tell. Not more than he could avoid, that
was undoubtedly his conclusion, in spite of Bouald's warning.
Something he supposed he must say, but he would be guided
by circumstances ; a most convenient salve to the conscience,
when there is not sufficient moral strength in the charac-
ter to act upon principle. What he really intended to do
might have been clear to him by the manner in which he
reverted, in his own mind, to the folly of having mentioned
Qoff.
"Louisa, where is your aunt?" inquired Mrs. Campbell,
as licit ha failed to return at the usual reading time.
" I don't know, Grandmamma; I will go and see."
Louisa left the room, not so much from obedience as to
satisfy her curiosity. She came back almost immediately.
''Betsy says, Grandmamma, that Aunt Bertha put on her
bonnet and cloth cloak, and she thinks she has gone up to thii
Rectory."
" Very strange !" was Mrs. Campbell's observation. " 1
suppose, then, there will be no reading to-night!"
CLEVE HALL. 255
" I will read, Grandmamma," said Clement, lie was too
uncomfortable to do anything else ; and even when he began
to read, betrayed the wandering of his mind by the mistakes
which he made.
Mrs. Campbell was accustomed to Bertha's independent
modes of action, and was not likely to disturb herself as to her
absence, so long, at least, as she was amused ; and Clement's
voice, after a short time, lulled her into her usual quiet even-
ing doze; and then Louisa and Fanny went to bed, and Cle-
ment Drepared some lessons for Mr. Lester.
-«*•-
CHAPTER XXX.
rpiIE evening at the Rectory had been more pleasant than
at the Lodge. The hour for tea was earlier, at least
nominally, though Mr. Lester's engagements did not always
admit of his being punctual. This evening he happened to
be very fairly at leisure, and bad given Rachel more of his
time than he was often able to do. They were very precious
hours for Rachel, which were thus snatched from other duties.
They tended more to enlarge and form her mind than any
which were devoted to regular study. Mr. Lester's character
was peculiarly simple, notwithstanding the depth of his intel-
lect. He never dogmatized, or patronized, even when talking
to a child. There was no effort to obtain influence or produce
au effect, and so conversation, with him, even when touching
up m the most abstruse subjects, flowed easily, because no one
could feel shy, or be afraid of betraying ignorance, before one
who never seemed to lose the consciousness that he himself
was but a learner.
It was this characteristic which had so tended to develops
Rachel's intellect. It had been nurtured in a genial atmo-
sphere, free from the blight of coldness, or the stunting
influence of condescension, or the weakness caused by the cul-
tivation of any faculty merely for the purpose of display. She
was not quick in acquiring mere knowledge, and had therefore
never been considered clever; and this, perhaps, was rather
an advantage, since it served to make her like her father,
simple-minded and free from self-consciousness. But she had
256 CLEVE HALL.
great powers of comprehension, and could grasp a vast idea
almost as it seemed by intuition, even when she was unable to
follow oul the detailed evidence by which it was supported,
[f Mr. Lester's mind had been controversial, this alone would
not bave satisfied him; if he had found pleasure in reasoning
for the sake of controversy, or delighted in argument from the
love of victory, he would have required a companion who
Could at times throw down the gauntlet against him, and »ive
interest to his researches by opposition. But truth alone was
his object; and if all the world could see and recognise truth,
he was only so much the better pleased. And it was very
pleasant to find a willing listener always ready at his fireside,
and to listen to Rachel's remarks, and set her difficulties at
rest. Intelligent ignorance is most valuable when we are en-
deavoring to reason correctly. It makes us view our theories
from many different points; and those, peculiarly, which our
own preconceived ideas would have been likely to hide from
us; and Mr. Lester often learnt more from Rachel's humble
question, How can that be, Papa? than he would have done
from hours of study.
The danger Avas lest this kind of abstract speculation should
be too absorbing for both. "With a less amount of conscien-
tiousness, it might have rendered them unreal. But Mi-.
Lester's own training had taught him, as a moral caution, the
lesson which is sometimes learnt to our cost, in another sense,
by the bitter experience of life. " Save me from my friends,
I can save myself from my enemies," would have been trans-
lated by him, though only in a secondary sense, "Save me
from my virtues, 1 can save myself from my vices/' His
warnings to Rachel were but the expression of those which he
gave to himself; and fearful of the enticing nature of such
intercourse, he continually checked and limited it, never
allowing it to interfere with the slightest practical duty, even
when a plausible reason for the indulgence could be brought
forward, and always, if possible, deducing even from the most
abstruse theories some definite conclusion which might operate
upon the daily course of life.
A conversation of this kind had been carried on by the
flickering, cheerful firelight; Mr. Lester leaning forward with
his arm round Rachel's neck, and Rachel on her low stool,
resting her head against his knees. He had been explaining
to her the kind of argument used in Bishop Butler's Analogy,
— trying to make her comprehend the true strength and good-
CLEVE HALL. 257
D6SS which are to be found in being contented with the faith
of probability, rather than the certainty of demonstration ; or
rather not so much endeavoring to make her understand, as
pouring forth his own ideas, — showing her how the argument
had worked upon his own mind. And liachel was drinking
in his words, finding in them, not indeed an answer to the
difficulties which her working, thoughtful mind, often sug-
gested j but that calm, trusting, enduring principle, based
upon the consciousness of our own infinite ignorance and God's
Almighty Wisdom, which, if we think at all, can alone support
us through the mysterious scenes of this mortal existence.
It was not quite agreeable to be recalled from these favorite
subjects, and the enjoyment of the hour so rarely free from
interruption, yet Mr. Lester did not even look annoyed when
Bertha's knock was heard at the door, and ltachel only said,
" It is over now, Papa, thank you so very much/' and kissed
him, and moved away before the door opened, that Miss
Campbell — for she guessed it could be no one else — might not
think she had disturbed them.
Bertha entered the room slowly, and, after saying that she
was afraid she had interrupted them, sat down by the fire.
Rachel begged her to take oft" her bonnet and shawl, but she
declined, still in the same unmoved voice which gave no
indication as to why she had come, or how long she intended
to stay. Mr. Lester was used to her, however, and went at
once to the point. " Do you wish to see me for anything
particular?"
" Thank you, I should like to say a few words to you, alone."
" Then, Rachel, run and see if the fire is burning in my
study; perhaps we had better go in there."
" I won't keep you long," said Bertha.
" The study is the best place for business, whether it be
long or short," said Mr. Lester; and to the study they went.
Rachel asked for the lamp, and began her evening work
for the poor ; her thoughts occupied with all her father had been
Baying, whilst her fingers moved nimbly.
" Clement has been with Goff again to-night," began Bertha
at once. She was abrupt upon principle, when business was
concerned, from an idea that abruptness was a species of
honesty.
"lias he? when, and how long?" Mr. Lester always
treated her in her own way, and never offered consolation or
258 CLEVB HALL.
sympathy till everything relating to the matter before tliem
had been Baid.
" My mother sent him to the Hall on a message. I did
not think it desirable, but she was determined, ('lenient met
Goff coming borne, and Stayed with him nearly three quarters
of an hour beyond his time. At least — no — I can't be sure
that he staved with him all the time, but he was certainly
three quarters of an hour behind time."
" And what excuse does he make for himself?"
"Nunc; I did not give him the opportunity. Another
thing I wanted to say. Your servant took the letters to the
posl to-day, and met Goff, and alloAved him to carry them for
her. I don't think that is safe."
Mr. Lester's countenance changed. " Took them, do you
pay? Did she let him have them?"
" Yes, so the children told me."
Mr. Lester rang the bell. It was answered by the delin-
quent Anne.
Bert ha turned round upon her sharply; but Mr. Lester
spoke very gently, much more gently than when he was
addressing Bertha : " Anne, you took the letters to the post
to-day?"
"Yes, Sir."
" Did you put them iu yourself?"
A blush, and a hesitation. " I gave them, Sir, that is, I
took care that they should be put iu."
" That is not the point. Did you put them in yourself?"
"No, Sir; but " Anne looked round for help, but
there was none to be obtained from Bertha.
"Don't be frightened, there is no good in excuses. Who
did put them in ?"
Anne's voice trembled, and her tears began to flow, as if
sentence against her had been already passed. "I met Goff,
Sir, and be was very civil; and I was so busy; and I didn't
know you would mind."
" And you gave them to him ? Did you ever do so before ?"
" Yes, Sir; I think so."
" Recollect, tyou must be quite sure. You have given them
to him before?"
" I can't tell, I don't remember. Please, Sir, don't send
mo away, I will never do so again."
" Foolish girl ! You will be certaiu of being sent away if
you deceive me. Let me know at once how loug you hava
CLEVE HALL. 259
been in the habit cf allowing this man to take the letters foi
you."
Mr. Lester doubtless intended to be gentle still, but bis
uneasiness and anxiety gave a sternness to his voice, and an
impatience to his manner, which effectually frightened poor
Anne, and without any further attempt at excuse she poured
furth a confession which, though comparatively slight in its
evil as regarded herself, was the cause of the most painful
misgivings as to the affairs in which Mr. Lester was interested.
It seemed that Goff had for a long period been endeavoring
to make friends with Anne, always putting himself in her
way, talking to her, and from her obtaining a good deal of
information as to the proceedings at the Parsonage and the
Lodge. Anne had given her information in the simplicity cf
her heart, not in the least intending to do harm, not knowing
that what she was saying could be of the slightest consequence,
but only at first yielding to the love of gossip, and perhaps a
little intimidated by the questions of her interrogator, which
were generally put in such a way as to give her little choice
as to her answers. By degrees, however, he had drawn her
into a confidence which she herself saw to be wrong and dan-
gerous, but it was then out of her power, or at least so she
thought it, to recede. Whenever she went out, Goff met her,
persecuting her with questions, and threatening her myste-
riously if she refused to answer them. However she might
try to avoid him he was sure to cross her path ; most especially
he put himself in her way, as had happened on the present
occasion, when she was intrusted with the letters for the post,
sometimes making her show him the directions, and more than
once inducing her to give them up to him. Anne's excuse
was that she could see no harm ; it did not seem to her that it
signified much whether one person or another took them; and
it saved her a walk which she was very glad of, as she had so
much to do. Yet she was forced to acknowledge that she
never came back without a fear of being scolded, if she was
found out, and for that reason had carefully avoided letting her
fellow-servant know what she had done.
It was one of those many instances in which a fault has
been committed much greater than has been intended or
understood, but for which there is little excuse, since the
warning of conscience ought to have been a sufficient safe-
guard. Anne was dismissed with a severe reprimand, and
3lied bitterly when she was told that, her master had lost his
260 OLBVB HALL.
confidence in her; but Mr. Lester's thoughts were at the mo.
incut too painfully occupied to permit him to dwell long upon
her share of tl (Fence; and as the door closed behind her,
he sal down, and forgetting Bertha's presence, gave way to a
train of perplexing considerations.
Bertha remained by him unmoved. She would have waited
■I hour without interrupting him, but her patience was not
quite so sorely tried. Mr. Lester looked up at length, and
paid, " We have been utterly outwitted by him."
" I hope not," was Bertha's quiet answer.
"What lrope do you see?" inquired Mr. Lester, quickly.
"If he had discovered anything, we should have known it
before this. At the utmost, he can but suspect."
" I would not trust, lie might know everything, and still
keep quiet till the last moment. This affair of the letters,
you see, has been going on for some time."
"Yes." Bertha looked more anxiously grave. "I will
them myself for the future."
" Or I will ; we can trust no one but ourselves. But I
think less of that." He paused; then added, suddenly,
" What do you say to the time being arrived for the decisive
step?"
The color rushed to Bertha's cheek in a quick glow, and
faded awav as suddenly. " Oh, Mr. Lester, do you at last
say that ?"
" I see no other alternative. The moment the fact of
Vivian's being iu England is absolutely known, or even very
probably suspected, we are exposed to schemes against which
it is impossible for us to be on our guard. Goff may have
opened our letters, or he may not; at any rate, it is clear he
has found out that Mr. Bruce is not Mr. Bruce, or he would
have had no curiosity in the matter."
"And you would have Edward go openly to his father?"
in [uired Bertha.
" I see nothing else that is to be done."
" But, dear Mr. Lester, you speak so despondingly."
He hesitated for an instant; then he said, "I have seen
General Vivian to-day."
"And you have sounded him? Why didn't you tell me
before ?"
" I sounded him as much as I dared, with regard to Cle-
ment ; but he has intrenched himself within a wall of false
principles, and there is no reaching him."
CLEVE HALL. 201
" And you don't think that Edward's appearance in person
will have any effect? A father ! it must soften him."
" And it may harden him ; he may, I think he will, call it
a fresh act of disobedience."
Bertha looked discouraged. " There is no time to work
upon him," she said, "as we had hoped, through the children."
"No; and if there were, I am afraid I shuuld not be very
sanguine as to the result."
" General Vivian is too keen-sighted not to see Ella's faults,
even if they were less hidden than they are," replied Bertha.
" Yes; and there is the old prejudice."
"She is a Campbell," said Bertha, bitterly. "Little
enough the Campbells would have to do with the Vivians if
they could help it."
Mr. Lester laid his hand kindly upon hers ; yet there was
reproof in his tone, as he said, " I hoped that old feeling had
been buried."
Bertha colored. " General Vivian takes pains to revive
it," she said.
" It must be buried, if there is to be any hope of success
with us. We must trust almost everything to you and Mil-
dred, and you must therefore be friends."
Bertha was silent.
"You will find her anxious to prove herself a friend," con-
tinued Mr. Lester, gravely.
" She has made no advances," was the reply.
"Is that quite a fair judgment?" replied Mr. Lester,
" considering how little she is her own mistress. And surely
she has sent you kind messages."
Bertha's habitual candor conquered her momentary pique.
" I dare say Miss Vivian has done all that I ought to expect,"
she said ; " but it is very difficult to forget that if it had not
been for the old family feud, poor Flora must have been re-
ceived by thein, and all that happened afterwards would have
been spared. There was no fault in her."
"Mis* Vivian feels this as much as you do," replied Mr.
Lester; "and you, on your part, must consider that, but for
what, no doubt, there was cause to consider an unfortunate
attachment to your sister, her only brother might never have
been an exile from his home. I don't say this to pain you,"
he continued, observing Bertha's face of distress; "1 only
wish to make you view the question from both sides. It, ma_v
be most essential that there should be no misunderstanding
202 CLEVE HALL.
between you and [Mildred. Ton have both something to for*
gel and to forgive, as regards your family histories."
"I will try not to be prejudiced," said Bertha; but the
tone implied a mental reservation.
" And you will succeed," replied Mr. Lester, "if you don't
attempt too much. These vague feelings of family dislike are
scarcely to l>e combated like actual faults. We can only accept
them, and deal with them as we do with individual character-
istics, — negatively, that is, rather than positively."
"I don't quite understand," replied Bertha.
" What I mean to say is, that we can't actually make our-
selves, all at once, forget them, or feel as if they did not exist,
any more than we can suddenly become insensible to certain
peculiarities of manner or expression which may offend us ;
but we can prevent ourselves from allowing them to weigh
with us unduly; and it is always in our power to put them
aside in action."
" I have never seen Miss Vivian yet," replied Bertha; "so
there have been few opportunities for action."
" She would like to see you as soon as you can make it
convenient to go to her; the sooner now, I think, the better.
She is one with us, and has, I think, quite forgiven the con-
cealment of Mr. Bruce's identity."
^ Bertha seemed undetermined ; and said she could not per-
ceive what good was likely to accrue from the meeting.
" Essential good, if our hopes should fail," replied Mr. Les-
ter. " In that case you will be the only person to keep up any
satisfactory communication between Mildred and the children.
Poor Vivian will be more cut off than ever."
"■ I am so unfortunate and awkward," said Bertha. " I feel
that I mar everything I come in contact with. I don't mean
it, I am sure," she added, as tears rose to her eyes.
Mr. Lester answered eagerly : " No, I am sure you don't.
Perhaps, — don't think I am taking a liberty in saying so, —
perhaps contact with another mind may throw more light upon
your own. Only, I will just remind you, — you mustn't think
it necessary to fall in love with Mildred."
Bertha smiled in spite of herself. " Not much fear of that,"
.^he said.
" I am not so sure. I really believe that conscientious
people have great difficulty in accepting antipathies, and so
they make violent efforts to overcome them, which have just
the contrary effect from that desired.'
CLEVE HALL. 2G8
" The antipathies are wrong, of course," replied Bertha.
" Their indulgence is wrong, but the feeling may be the
result of circumstances' beyond our own control, and we are
much more likely to be just to persons when we acknowledge
to ourselves we have a prejudice against them, than when we
try to conceal the fact and persuade ourselves that we are fond
of them. But we must leave all that now. I am sure you
will try to understand Miss Vivian, and I hope when I come
back from London I shall hear that you have met."
" Are you going to London ?" inquired Bertha quickly.
" I think I must see Vivian ; but I shall only be absent
two or three days."
" And he will come down at once then V
"He will wish to do so, I suspect; any risk will seem
better than the monotonous life he has been leading. But
even without this fresh call, I think I must have gone to talk
to him about what is to be done with Clement. The General
offers to assist in placing him with a private tutor."
Bertha's countenance brightened. " Oh ! then, he does
acknowledge a duty."
" Partly ; I don't mean to be perverse, but I honestly
would rather he did not. Persons are so difficult to deal with
who go half way with a duty, and then say good-b'ye to it.
He promised, — let me see — I made a memorandum as to the
conversation when I came away."
Mr. Lester felt for his pocket-book, and in doing so took
out his handkerchief, and with it the paper which he had,
without knowing it, brought away from the Hall. It fell upon
the table, and Bertha took it up. " Is this it?" she said.
" Thank you, no : I wrote it on a blank leaf." Without
/ooking at the paper, and supposing it to be a bill, Mr. Lester
placed it in the pocket of his little book, and then proceeded
to read to Bertha the heads of his morning conversation.
" You see," he said, when he had ended, " there is little
if any hope : the feeling is as strong — stronger perhaps than
ever; and each day that goes by strengthens it, by enlisting
pride in support of what seems justice. No, we have now
only one alternative, to make a last appeal to the General's
feelings, and possibly in doing that we may find the cine to
John Vivian's rascality, and so at least place Vivian's conduct
in its true light, even if we can do nothing else."
"And if all should fail, Edward must return to Jamaica,"
said Bertha,
264 CLEVE HALL.
" I trust in it thai ; ho would never stand it : wo must make
:i home for him somewhere; and with you and Mildred fcofeel
with him we may hope that it may bo fairly happy. But that
is running on very far ahead, and wo must nut forget Groff and
the present moment."
•• I don't sci' what is to he done about him," said Bertha.
"Nothing, just now, hut to watch. Oh! Clement, Cle-
ment ! the despair it is not to be able to trust him."
"And he piques himself so upon being honorable, and
having the feelings of a gentleman," said Bertha.
•• STes, not at all perceiving that the very essence of honor
i- never to abuse confidence."
" Don't you think it might be as well to see him, and in-
quire what he has been doing with himself tins evening V
ask oil Bortha.
Mr. Lester considered a little. "I hate being suspicious,
and the very fact of inquiring so minutely very often suggests
deceit. Yet perhaps it may be as well : I will walk with you
across the garden, and then I will bring him back."
" There is no occasion for that," answered Bertha, in reply.
" The moon is just up, and it is quite light. Besides, I must
stop for one moment at Duff's cottage, to ask for his child. I
will send Clement to you; that will be the best way."
Mr. Lester demurred, but Bertha was positive, and just in
that way which made him feel that he should annoy her if he
insisted upon carrying his point. So they said good-b'ye ; and
Bertha walked across the little garden, and Mr. Lester re-
turned to his study to wait for Clement.
One thing could not but strike him, as he recurred to what
had passed : the very matter-of-fact way in which all had been
said and arranged, not in the least as if great interests were
at stake, or there wore grounds for unusual uneasiness.
Throughout the whole of the conversation, Bertha's rather
monotonous voice had scarcely been raised above its usual
low pitch; she had seldom laid any peculiar emphasis on her
words, or, in fact, in any way betrayed that the topics discussed
were of importance to her.
Accustomed though he was to her, Mr. Lester marvelled.
Perhaps in his heart he felt pained. It was very difficult to
work with such a person, to give or receive the sympathy ne-
cessary for support in doubt and difficulty. And then with
Mr. Vivian and the children ! What was to be the end ? Could
they possibly live together? Would Bertha over really obtain
CLEYE HALL. 2G5
a right influence in her own family ? — Yet the uncomfortable
misgiving partially vanished when he remembered how she
had given him her hand at parting, and said very timidly :
'•'I don't know how to say thank you, as I ought." There
was something so humble, simple, child-like, and true in her;
such a consciousness of her own deficiencies!
That unfortunate early education, — nipping, blighting, as
it had been ; what a noble nature it had marred !
-+*-
CHAPTER XXXI.
"~|\/TR- LESTER wants to see you, Clement." The words
J.VJ. broke most uncomfortably upon Clement's slumber, as,
having finished his writing, he established himself in an arm-
chair, opposite to his grandmother.
" Wants to see me, does he ?" and he rubbed his eyes.
"It's awfully late and cold."
" It won't take you two minutes to run across the garden,
and you must not keep him."
Clement delayed, and Bertha was obliged to repeat the
message.
" Mr. Lester will be very much annoyed, Clement, if you
don't make haste."
" Going, Aunt Bertha, going." He went out into the
passage, but came back again. " Where on earth can that
girl have put my great coat ?"
" Your great coat, Clement ? nonsense. It is not a hun-
dred yards to the Rectory."
" Enough to feel the cold, Aunt Bertha ; I must have my
coat." He rang the bell; Bertha left the room, called out to
the servant not to answer the bell, and went herself to the
closet where she knew that the missing coat was to be found.
Clement looked ashamed. With all his faults, he had the
feeling of a gentleman. "I beg your pardon, Aunt Bertha;
I really didn't mean to give you the trouble, but that girl is
so intolerably careless."
" And a boy ought to be ashamed to be dependent upon
her. She has enough to do without waiting upon you, Cle-
ment."
12
266 clevi: hall.
"Then T wish she wouldn't meddle with my things at all,"
muttered ('lenient, determined to have the last word. Ho
drew on his coat very slowly. Bertha looked at him with that
evident self-eon fcrol which shows that impatience is on the
point of bursting forth. Clement, however, did not see this.
lie buttoned his coat up to the chin, preparing, as it might
have seemed, for a walk of ten miles; and set forth as leisurely
as if he had felt quite at his ease.
lie was shown at first into the room where Rachel was sit-
ting at work. A poor man had just come up from the village,
having business with Mr. Lester; and u message was there-
fore sent, begging him to wait.
Clement's heart sank. " What are you doing there, Ra-
chel ?" he said, drawing near to Rachel's chair, and watching
her busy fingers. He said it merely to distract his thoughts.
Anything was better than that wretched standing by the fire,
waiting for the door to open again.
" Making a warm coat for Barney Wood," replied Rachel.
" Won't it be comfortable ?" and she held it up for him to see.
Clement looked at it carelessly, and Rachel, a little disap-
pointed at receiving no admiration of her performance, re-
turned to her work in silence.
Clement, still finding his own meditatious uncomfortable,
spoke again : — " I thought Barney Wood was worse."
" Yes, so he is, a great deal; that is the reason he wants
something specially to keep him warm. Who do you think is
going to give the coat?" she added, her face brightening with
pleasure.
" You are, I suppose," he replied.
" Oh, no; I haven't half money enough I am making it
for Ronald to give. It was so kind of him to think of it."
" So odd, you mean," replied Clement.
" Odd ! why?" She turned round quickly, and looked at
him with w T onder.
" It's a queer thing for a fellow like him to think about a
child's coat. That's a woman's business."
"Not to think about it, is it?" said Rachel. "It's a
woman's business to make it, and that is why I am working
for him. But Ronald is odd, I suppose," she added, thought-
fully.
" Have you found that out for the first time to-day, eh,
Rachel?" and Clement laughed a little satirically.
"I don't think I ever should find it out myself," replied
CLEYE HALL. 267
Rachel. " People say Ronald is odd, and so I suppose he is,
but he never seems so to me."
" Much experience you must have had of him, little
woman," said Clement, patronizingly, as he patted her on the
shoulder.
Rachel drew back with an air of annoyance. She could
not endu r e familiarity, and answered, rather coldly, that she
certainly did not see Ronald often ; but when she did she
liked him very much, and thought him very good.
Clement laughed. "A doughty champion Ronald will
have," he said, " when it comes to a fight for his character.
But, Rachel, you will have no one else on your side. I don't
think Ronald's goodness is what the world admires him for."
" He is good, though," said Rachel, resolutely.
" Then he must make you his confidante, and tell you all
his virtues," said Clement. " You wouldn't discover them
yourself."
" I think I should," said Rachel ; " I do indeed, for he
never praises himself. That is one thing I like him for."
" Virtue the first; and what next?"
" He doesn't think about himself," continued Rachel ; " I
mean he will take any trouble for any one, and he is always
civil ; and, — I can't tell exactly everything, — but I am sure
he is to be trusted."
" Trusted ! yes, I suppose he wouldn't steal."
Rachel's eyes kindled. " I should think not, indeed," she
exclaimed, laying down her work, and turning to Clement,
with a flushed cheek ; " but it wasn't that I meant ; being
trusted doesn't mean money, but honor. He wouldn't tell a
story or deceive ; or pretend anything that wasn't true; and
he keeps his word. When you look at him you feel that he
is to be trusted."
Clement bit his lip, and answered coolly: — " No great
praise after all. Most persons speak truth."
" Yes ; but it is not speaking truth," replied Rachel, her
musical voice becoming deeply earnest ; "it is feeling truth.
Clement, don't you know what I mean ?"
"Perhaps I do, only you express yourself so oddly; you
always do."
" Do I ? I didn't know it;" and in a moment she was the
humble child receiving a reproof, as she added, " I will try and
be clear, but I don't quite know how."
Perhaps Clement had no wish for her definition of truth.
2G8 CLEVE HALL.
for he gave her no encouragement to continue. Yet, in 1h:t
simplicity, Rachel did not perceive this, ami thinking that he
was waiting for her to explain herself, she went on with a
blush on her cheek, and a little hesitation in her voice: — "I
mean that Ronald never seems to be two persons, or to mean
two things. When he promises anything he does it, and when
he says he likes anybody, you always see that he really does.
Sometimes I have heard him say he dislikes what papa thinks
he ought not to dislike, parts of books and such things; but
that doesn't prevent his being true. Papa says" — she con-
tinued, and she glanced at Clement doubtfully, in the fear
that she might be relapsing into odd expressions — " that truth
i.- formed of two halves, fittinc; into each other, and making
one whole. I am sure Ronald's words and his actions always
fit ; and I dare say his heart and his words fit too, only I can't
tell so much about that, and it is so much more difficult to
make them fit."
" You are desperately given to metaphysics, Rachel," said
Clement.
" Am I ? I only say what papa says. But, Clement, I am
sure you know what I mean about Ronald."
" He's a very good-hearted, honest fellow," replied Cle-
ment ; " but I can't tell how you seem to know so much about
him, Rachel."
" He comes to talk to papa about his Latin," said Rachel,
" and about Barney Wood, too ; and sometimes we have met
him when we have been to see Barney. I don't know much
about him, really, though."
" And so he means to pay for that wonderful coat you are
making ?"
" Yes; he asked Miss Campbell and me to get it; and we
went to Cleve, the other day, and chose it."
" Barney Wood is fortunate in having so many persons to
look after him," said Clement, carelessly.
" He won't want care very long," replied Rachel ; " so it
\B right to make him as comfortable as we can whilst he ia
here. I can't think how he comes to be such a nice child,
when he is Goff's grandchild."
" Oh ! you hate Groff, like the rest of the world, do you ?"
said Clement.
" I don't hate — I don't hate any one ; but I don't like
him ; and I know papa thinks he does a great deal of mischief,
CLEVE HALL. 289
and I am sure lie is afraid that Barney's father is going to be
like him."
" And Ronald, too, then," said Clement, " as they are
always together."
He said it merely to tease her ; but she could not see this,
and fancying him in earnest, she threw down her work, and
starting up, exclaimed, " Oh ! Clement, you don't know any-
thing about llonald ; you are very unkind to him ; and I used
to think you were fond of him," she added, more gently, but
still very reproachfully.
" Perhaps I am just as fond of him as you are, Rachel ;
only I see more of him, and know more of his ways."
" You don't know more than papa does," continued Rachel,
taking up her work, and evidently trying not to speak as if
she was annoyed ; " and he thinks that if Ronald has good
persons about him he will be a very good man."
"Possibly. I wouldn't for the world dispute it; only I
don't see where the people are to' come from who are to make
him good. His father won't do much in that way."
" I don't know anything scarcely about Captain Vivian,"
replied Rachel ; " but I am afraid of him."
" He's a good sort of fellow enough," was Clement's off-
hand reply; " only not very pretty company for girls."
"Then I shouldn't think he could be good for boys," ob-
served Rachel, with a quick glance at Clement, which made
him a little angry.
" I should be glad, Rachel, if you would decide for your-
self, not for me," he said. " You can't possibly be a judge."
Rachel looked distressed. " Did I vex you, Clement ? I
didn't mean to do it. I only thought that papa is so sorry
when you have been with Captain Vivian."
" I can't help being with him sometimes."
" Can't you really? Then I suppose it won't do you any
harm."
The remark was made with such apparent childish simpli-
city, that Clement began to laugh.
"Was it anything very odd that I said?" continued
Rachel. " I thought nothing could do us harm which we
couldn't help."
" What an absurd child you are !" exclaimed Clement.
" You take up one's words as if you were weighing them.
Can't help, doesn't really mean, can't help."
" Papa won't let me say I can't help a thing," replied
270 CLEVE HALL.
Rachel, "unless I really can't. lie says that people teach
themselves self-deceit by their words. And you know, Cle-
ment, nothing can be wrong which we really can't help."
•• Then L am quite sure I am the most virtuous being in
existence," exclaimed Clement; " for I can't help half — no,
lint three quarters — of the wrong things I do."
" But if we ought to say, I don't try to help it," persisted
Rachel, " that would be a great mistake."
" I don't read learned books, and study metaphysics, as you
do, Rachel," said Clement, sarcastically. " And, happily for
me ! My head would get addled in a month. You a»e enough
to perplex a saint with your quibbles."
"It is no quibble; and I don't learn it from books, nor
from anything," exclaimed llachel, her naturally quick temper
being roused by the taunt; "I learn it from my own heart.
When I say I can't help a thing, and I really can help it, it is
something inside that tells me it is untrue. But " she
paused, her tone changed, and she added humbly, " I ought not
to speak out so, Clement; please, forgive me."
Clement murmured something in reply, which was scarcely
audible. He glanced at the door, feeling, he did not know
why, that the interview with Mr. Lester would have been
more endurable than this conversation with the open-hearted,
true-minded child, whose every word was a reproach to him.
llachel fancied she had deeply offended him, and again
be«;<red for forgiveness. She knew, she said, that it was her
way to speak out, and she did try to keep her temper under;
oidy not so much as she ought. " You will forgive me, won't
you, Clement?" she added, in her most pleading voice.
It must have been a very hard heart that could refuse ;
and Clement was naturally good-tempered, and really liked
Rachel, only he took pleasure in shocking what he called her
matter-of-factness. He pretended to hold out a little, for the
purpose of hearing her again beg for pardon in that very
sweet, humble tone ; and then suddenly changing and start-
ling her by a laugh, he exclaimed — " Why, llachel, you
are more silly than I took you to be ! I never said I was
angry, did I V
" I didn't know. I very often do speak out when I ought
not," was the answer; and there was rather an awkward
silence, which perhaps neither of them was sorry to have
broken by the entrance of the servant, who summoned Cle-
ment to Mr. Lester's study.
CLEVE IIALL. 271
CHAPTER XXXII.
IT is a marvellous and fearful subject, that of unconscious
influence. It might almost paralj'ze us with its enormous
responsibility, if it were not for the fact, which becomes obvious
to any person who studies the formation of character, that the
weight of indirect good always in the end preponderates over
indirect evil. We advise, and warn, and reprove, and — either
from some defect of manner, some deficient mode of expres-
sion, or perhaps some latent vanity or temper — we neutralize
our own words ; and the person whom we are attempting to
lead in the right way, leaves us to follow the wrong ; but, if
we are not called upon to give counsel, and yet are in a posi-
tion to act, each deed of self-denial, self-control, thoughtful
kindness, — each word or tone which may tend to reveal our
secret motives, comes unmarred from Him who has enabled us
to serve Him, and brings with it a power which is, in its very
nature, necessarily victorious over evil. A child brought up
by two persons — neither attempting to direct in words, but the
one practically earnest and good, and the other practically
careless and indifferent, will cling to the former, and reject the
latter. But a child receiving excellent advice from one per-
son, and very bad advice from another, will, in nine cases
out often, listen to the bad, and reject the good. Who has
not felt the indirect influence of a child's goodness? Who
would not have felt, as Clement did when he left Rachel
Lester, that those few unconscious warnings, the result of her
own honest, simple, high-minded spirit of truth and obedience,
had a power which even impressive eloquence might have failed
to exercise? Clement was in a different frame of mind, when
lie appeared before Mr. Lester, from that in which he had left
the Lodge : then he had quietly made up his mind to say
nothing; now, on the contrary, he was inclined towards candor
and sincerity; and when Mr. Lester addressed him with his
usual kindness, and told him he was sorry to have kept him
waiting, it seemed as if he could at once have acknowledged
his offence, and made reparation by promises for the future.
But he was still trusting to himself, unaware of the weakness
of his own resolution.
Mr. Lester began the conversation cautiously. " You went
to the Hall this evening, Clement ?"
272 CLEVE HALL.
« res, Sir."
" Ami you returned late, and met Goff V
« Yer, Sir."
Mr. Lester paused, hoping for something besides the mono
syllable ; but Clement's courage was not equal to the confession,
without help.
'• Were you -with him long?"
"I don't know the exact time, Sir."
" Did he force himself upon you?"
" He came and walked by my side, Sir." A keen pang of
conscience, and a recollection of Rachel, and Clement added: —
" lie said he was going my way, and so we went together."
Mr. Lester's countenance brightened. There was a tone
of candor in this, which was cheering. He thought that
('lenient had told all. " I suppose you came straight home V*
he said.
" No, sir ; we went round by — the fields." Another pang
of conscience, worse than the first. He had almost corrected
himself as before, and added, — by the Grange. But he waited
for another question.
" Oh, by the fields. I suppose, then, that was what made
you so late ?"
Alas for Clement ! the almost right was changed, as so
often happens, into quite wrong; and, seizing on the suggested
excuse, he replied, — " It was a good way round — farther than
I thought."
Something in his countenance and tone struck Mr. Lester
painfully. "Clement," he said, "you are above suspicion, —
I cannot possibly doubt your word ; but if there is anything
in this which I ought to know beyond the fact of your having
been with Goff, I trust to your honor to tell me."
A minute before Clement would have responded to the
appeal, by at once acknowledging his visit; but the first equi-
vocation, contrary to the voice of conscience, had done its
work. He had not spoken out at first, — he was ashamed to
confess his evasion, — and so he covered it by another, still
intending to say the whole presently.
" I don't think anything Goff said could have done me much
harm, Sir. He talked about the loss of the steamer off the
Irish coast, most of the time."
" What he talked about, Clement, is not the question. If
he had been giving you the most excellent advice all the time,
I should still have objected to your being with him."
CLEVE HALL. 273
That -was an unfortunate speech for 'Clement's courage. If
Mr. Lester so strongly objected even to a walk and an innocent
conversation, what would he say to the visit to the Grange !
The old excuses suggested themselves again, but the pang of
conscience was intensely keen. Rachel's voice and words were
rinsing in his ears. To resist now would be a more wilful sin.
Mr. Lester seemed considering deeply. Clement stood
before him in an agony of weak intention. He delayed ; — and
there are cases — many and most common — in which delay is
all that the Tempter requires for his victory.
Presently Mr. Lester said, with a slight nervousness of
manner, — " You must know, Clement, some of the reasons
which make us all so anxious to prevent your having any inter-
course with that man Goff."
" I know people say he is a smuggler," replied Clement.
Another pause. Mr. Lester's tone was still more uneasy,
as he replied : — " There may be deeper reasons than that, —
family reasons ; you have heard of them."
" Family affairs are a mystery to me," said Clement, shortly.
"That is not the exact truth, Clement. You^lo know
something."
" I know that my father has been very ill used," replied
Clement; "and that we ought all to be much better off than
we are."
" Possibly," answered Mr. Lester, dryly. " But, Clement" —
his voice became deeply earnest and serious — " your father has
been suffering for years from the consequences of that same
spirit of wilful independence which will infallibly be your ruin,
if you yield to it. He was warned against companionship —
against Captain Vivian's companionship • he saw no necessity
for the warning, and he would not take it. The result was the
loss of home, friends, and fortune — exile for himself, poverty
for his children."
"My grandfather was unjust," exclaimed Clement, indig-
nantly.
" Let it be so. Your father erred, and has grievously
repented his error."
" If he was disinherited unjustly, I don't see what there
was to repent of," replied Clement.
" What we suffer, Clement, has nothing to do with the
extent of our offence. And there is one truth which I would
most earnestly strive to impress upon you. It seems to be one
of the marked rules of God's Providential government, that
274 CLEVE HALL.
seemingly trifling offences should, if committed wilfully, and
against warning, bring upon us irremediable punishment. One
thought of evil admitted into our hearts, by our own choice,
will do us more harm than all we are taught by experience,
wit hunt our choice, as we pass through life. The word or
suggestion of sin which Goff or Captain Vivian may bring
before you, when you are wilfully seeking their society, or,
what is the same thing, wilfully refusing to avoid it, will haunt
you to your dying day; and one weak yielding to a slight
temptation to disobedience may be, with you, as it was with
your father, ruin for life. It is tLe first time I have spoken in
this way," continued Mr. Lester. " It is intensely painful to
me to bring up the remembrance of faults which have been
expiated, as far as sorrow and amendment can expiate any
guilt ; but your father would be the first to bid me warn you
by his example and his sufferings. In his name, Clement, I
bid you remember that it is not the amount of our offence,
but the wilfulness with which it is committed, which is our
sin in the sight of God, and which brings upon us His just
vengeance."
Clement's heart beat very fast ; the words, " I have done
very wrong, Sir," escaped him. He might have added more,
but Mr. Lester, seizing upon the acknowledgment, — almost
the first which he had made without any attempt at excuse, —
interrupted him by saying in a lighter tone : — " It is all I
wish, Clement, that you should see that these little disobedi-
ences are very wrong. I dare say you have excuses for them.
I dare say Goff thrusts himself upon you. Very often you
may have a difficulty in ridding yourself of him. But that
ought only to give you the more spirit in resisting. Where
would be — I will not say the merit — one ought not perhaps to
use the word — but the satisfaction, of victory, if there were no
struggle ?"
The expression was rather an unfortunate one, for Clement's
vanity was piqued. He answered hastily, — "There is not
much struggle, Sir, I am sure, in getting rid of a fellow like
that ; I am not so desperately fond of his company, after all ;
ouly he thrusts himself upon me, and I can't shake him off."
" Not can't, Clement; you cau if you will."
"He wouldn't go to-night, Sir; I tried several times to
take short cuts."
Quite true this was, as before, in the letter ; but the excuse
had led Clement a long way from the spirit of truth. If ha
CLEVE HALL. 275
were to say now that he had gone into the Grange, it would
seem as if he had spoken an untruth, or at least something
approaching to it. Mr. Lester looked at his watch, heing
anxious to close the conversation. "Well, Clement, I can
only say, what I have often said before, that I trust to your
honor. I cannot possibly tell how much or how little you put
yourself in the way of these men, or whether they only pursue
you for their own bad purposes. They have some, you may
be sure; and if they could lead you into serious mischief, their
end would be gained ; but in this, as in everything else, your
only real safety is openness. If you have been betrayed into
disobedience, say it. Don't wait till you have been tempted
to great sins, but acknowledge the small ones. Of course I
believe to-night that Goff thrust himself upon you ; that you
only walked with him through the fields ; and that he said
nothing which I should object to your hearing. I very much
disapprove of anything of the kind ; and most unquestionably
you were wrong in not taking the shortest path. If the thing
should happen again, some stricter precautions must be taken,
as it would be evident that you are not fit to be trusted."
Clement's heart was very full. He was upon the point —
all but upon the point of being candid; but he hesitated still;
a knock at the door was heard — and he was silent.
So it is : we will not take the right step at the right
moment; when we wish to take it the opportunity is past.
Surely not in vain is it written, " To everything there is a
6eason, and a time to every purpose under the heavens."
Clement went home weak and miserable.
*•*-
CHAPTER XXXIII.
u 1 |~ERE is a note from Grandmamma, Aunt Mildred," said
JjL Ella, entering Miss Vivian's morning-room with a
countenance expressive of anything but satisfaction.
"No bad news in it, I hope;" and then Mildred, catching
the meaning of Ella's face, added, " She docs not want you
back again ?"
"She says Aunt Bertha is coming to talk to you about it
to-day."
270 CLEVE HALL.
It was Mildred's turn to look a little uncomfortable then.
This visit of Bertha's had been hanging over her like a night-
mare ever since Ella had been with her. Yet she answered
cheerfully, " We must make the room look pretty and com-
fortable it* Aunt Bertha is coming. I should like her to have
B pleasant impression of the Hall."
" I am sure she will have one if she is like me," said Ella,
drawing her chair nearer to her aunt's sofa. " But then she
is not at all like me, that is the misfortune;" and she sighed.
" Or you arc not like her, Ella, and that is the misfortune;"
and Mildred looked at Ella, and laughed.
"Now you wouldn't wish me to be? Aunt Mildred, you
must say it; you wouldn't be pleased if I were like Aunt
Bertha.'''
Mildred considered. "I should be pleased, Ella, I am
sure, if you were like her in some things."
" Some, yes; of course she is not a monster, she has some
good points."
" A very great many, if report says truth."
" Report and Mr. Lester," replied Ella. " He lauds her
to the skies."
" Then she must deserve to be lauded. I don't know any
one more unprejudiced than Mr. Lester."
" But what is being unprejudiced, Aunt Mildred ? It is
one of the words I hear so often, and I never can in the least
tell what it means."
" Derivations help one very much in the meaning of words,"
replied Mildred. " Prejudice is prejudgment, judging before-
hand; unprejudiced persons, therefore, don't form their judg-
ment before they are acquainted with facts."
" That scarcely applies to Mr. Lester and Aunt Bertha,"
observed Ella. " Of course Mr. Lester judges according to
what he sees ; and so would every one."
" I beg your pardon, Ella. One of the rarest qualities to
be met with in this trying world is that of judging according
to what a person sees."
" Is it?" and Ella looked extremely surprised.
" I will tell you how people generally form their judgments,"
continued Mildred. "They have their own preconceived no-
tions of right and wrong, possibly correct, possibly incorrect ;
but, either way, these notions are their standard to which they
think all ought to submit. When they become acquainted
with any individual, they try him by them. If they are re»
CLEVE HALL. 27V
ligious, they find out whether he holds certain doctrines; if
they are politicians, they test him by his opinions upon some
of the questions of the day. They don't look upon his whole
character, but without having had time to become acquainted
with him thoroughly, they form their judgment and like or
dislike him."
"I am sure that is natural enough," said Ella. "I can
always tell after I have seen persons twice whether I like
them."
" No doubt you can : but the mischief is- that prejudiced
persons allow their private feelings to blind them to facts. I
will give you an instance of what I mean. Suppose you were
reading a book written by a person you dis. iked ; if you were
prejudiced you would begin with a conviction that the writer
held certain opinions, and instead of taking his words in their
natural meaning you would twist them to suit your own pre-
conceived ideas of what he thought. So again, if it were a
book which you could not help admiring because it showed
great talent, you would leave the beauty and dwell upon some
small defects. This is especially common in the case of ser-
mons. If a clergyman does not hold precisely the opinions
approved by those who hear him, they will put aside all that
is really true and right in what he says and harp upon what
may be defective, till at last one is apt to forget that he really
has told one anything from which one might profit. Now all
this kind of narrow-mindedness Mr. Lester is totally free from.
He would give a candid and impartial judgment of his great-
est enemy."
" Does that mean Aunt Bertha ?" asked Ella, mischiev-
ously.
Mildred laughed. "Not quite He admires Aunt Bertha
extremely."
" He hasn't to live with her every day," said Ella.
" That does make a difference, certainly. He sees enough
of her though to know what she is really like ; and he is quite
*ware of her defect of manner ; but it would never make him
form a false judgment of her."
"Then you think I am prejudiced, Aunt Mildred?"
"Yes, very."
" Thank you for being honest," and Ella blushed, and tried
to smile, but almost cried.
" Prejudice is a most common fault with young people,"
continued Mildred; " one may almost say it is natural to them.
278 CLEVE HALL.
Bui there is hope for you, Ella, for that very reason. The
prejudiced persons whom one really grieves over arc the well-
meaning people who shut themselves up in their own fancies,
ami mix only with those who agree with them, and so never
give themselves the opportunity of being cured."
" Oh ! Aunt Mildred an advocate for dissipation I" ex-
claimed Ella.
" I hope not. Worldly people are just as likely to be pre-
judiced in their way as religious persons are in theirs. But
certainly it does vex one heartily to see the mischief that is
done in these days by the prejudices of really kind-hearted
people, who yet can sec nothing good beyond their own narrow
circle. The moment an unhappy individual differs from them
on certain points, he may be as earnest, and honest, and self-
denying as a saint, but his words and actions are distorted
until one begins to think that truth has left the earth. There,
Ella," and Mildred laughed, " I have delivered my testimony,
as Mause in Old Mortality would say. You didn't think I
could get so excited, but if there is one thing in the world I
dread more than another, it is prejudice. Perhaps," and her
manner became graver, " it is because I know that I have a
tendency to it."
" If I am prejudiced, I don't know how to find it out,"
said Ella.
" One can easily test oneself," replied Mildred. " You are
fond of me, you are not fond of Aunt Bertha. Suppose each
of us had done something very noble, or written something
very clever, which should you admire the most V
The reply was a hearty kiss.
" Thank you for the kiss, dear child, but not thank you for
the prejudice."
" Seeing a fault is not curing it though," said Ella.
" It is the first step towards it. I found out my own pre-
judice before Mr. Lester came, when we had a clergyman
whose manner I disliked extremely, but who really was a very
good man, and preached excellent sermons. In those days I
was not quite such a cripple as I am now ; at least, I was able
to go to church oftener. I discovered that, instead of think-
ing of what the clergyman was saying in church, I was always
criticising his unpleasant manner, or some particular expres-
sion which I disliked. One day he preached a sermon which
my father admired very much, and as usual I cried it down.
and seized upon certain sentences which I disliked. The next
CLEVE HALL. 279
week I was reading a new volume of sermons by a person
whom I especially reverenced, and I actually found this very
same sermon amongst them. I really was shocked at myself,
and from that day I set to work to cure myself of prejudice."
" I dare say you did it at once," observed Ella; " you could
never have had any difficulty in conquering your faults, Aunt
Mildred."
"I beg your pardon, Ella; it has been the work of years.
You know I scarcely see any persons except the few living
near Cleve and Encombe ; and that kind of life certainly tends
to encourage prejudice. However, I do try to guard against
it."
"But how?" inquired Ella.
" When I am going to meet a person whom I think I shall
dislike, I try to give up any preconceived idea I may have
formed of his character, and to judge him only by what
actually comes before me."
" That is so difficult," said Ella.
" Yes, and for that very reason a rule I have made for my-
self is never, if I can avoid it, to express an unfavorable opinion
of anything said or done by a person whom I don't like until
I have thought the question over twice. If it is impossible to
praise, I try to be silent."
" But, Aunt Mildred, I do dearly love hearty likes and dis-
likes. That constant caution is so tame."
" I go with you entirely, Ella. Like or dislike actions 01
principles as much as you choose, and I will join with you to
your heart's content. But there is no real, honest approval or
disapproval in prejudice. It is a mere petty, narrow-minded,
uncharitable giving way to personal feeling, the only thing
about it which is not exclusive being that it is common to all
sides and all parties."
"Good people as well as bad; then one need not be so
ashamed of it," said Ella.
" Prejudice again, Ella. A fault is a fault whoever is
guilty of it. I can't help thinking myself, indeed, that it is all
the worse when it is found amongst the good, and I am sure it
does more mischief. Truth requires no support from prejudice,
it needs only the faith of those who profess to fight for it."
" Dear Aunt Mildred, you are so tired," said Ella; and she
looked at her aunt anxiously.
Mildred smiled. " That is because I have been talking so
much, Ella; but you don't know what a rare thing it is fot
280 CLEVE HALL.
me t" find any one to whom I can speak out freely, except
perhaps, .Mr. Lester, and I see him so seldom. I lie on mj
sofa and read iii the newspapers what is going on in the world ;
all the prejudice, and bitterness, and party-feeling; till at
last 1 become so interested and excited that I feel as if I
really could bear my solitude no longer; and sometimes I write
it all cut, and sometimes I talk it out, and that is what I have
done to-day. But it is not wise."
" When I am gone from you, you will be in solitude again,"
observed Ella.
" Yes, but you must come and see me often ; I feel as if I
had learnt to know you now."
" To know how bad I am," replied Ella.
" To know how good you may be, rather. Ella, dear, you
have done wonders lately."
" Because I have had you to help me and keep me up. I
have had sympathy: Aunt Mildred, that is what I require."
" What you would like, you mean," replied Mildred. " Wo
require only what we have."
" It does not seem so at home," said Ella, sorrowfully.
"Is any one of your duties too much for you?" inquired
Mildred.
" Not any one exactly, but all together are."
" That can scarcely be. Duties are not like soldiers. We
don't confront them in masses, but singly. When two come
together, one is forced to yield."
" But it is possible to be wearied with fighting singly," said
Ella.
" Ah ! there I grant you is the difficulty, especially with
persons who are a little inclined to be lazy;" and Mildred
looked at Ella and smiled. " But Ella, there is a remedy for
that too. To use another simile, indolent people, who have not
strength to swallow their disagreeable duties at one dose, should
learn to sip them by degrees."
"I don't understand what you mean by sipping," replied
Ella,
" Each day's duty is a drop, and we are never required to
take more at a time. However indolent we may be, we can
rouse ourselves to swallow the drop ; and if we do this every
day, we shall have the victory in the end quite as surely as if
we had endeavored to take the whole at once."
" But persons never can take the whole at once," replied
Ella. " They can't tell what will be required of them."
CLEVE HALL. 281
"They can rouse themselves to the effort of resolution,"
replied Mildred ; " and if you inquire, you will find that in
many cases this is done. When a duty is put before a very
energetic, persevering person, it is generally seized and deter-
mined upon at once. I mean in this way : take the case of a
bad temper. Energy generally goes with it. An energetic
person making a humble resolution to strive against ill temper
will not always succeed; yet the resolution once taken, its
impetus is sufficient, through God's grace, to carry him on for
years. Of course, constant watchfulness, and self- recollection,
and, above all, fervent prayer, are necessary; — but once let it
be determined that the evil shall be subdued, and, humanly
speaking, it is subdued. The resolution made cannot be shaken.
So it is with bad habits, evil company ; one earnest exertion
of the will, in dependence upon God's help, and the victory is
gained for life. This I call being able to swallow the duties
of a life at once ; and a great advantage it is : only, when we
are inclined to envy it, we must remember that special dangers
go with special blessings. There is a risk of self-reliance in
this strength of purpose. It requires great watchfulness not
to be led to rest on ourselves, when we find that what we resolve
to do we can do."
" It must make it much more easy to be good, though,"
said Ella.
" Perhaps so, in some ways; but indolence is not so very
difficult to cure if it is properly dealt with. What I mean in
your case by sipping your duties was, that you should not
try to make the strong resolution I have named to subdue a
fault at once. Resolve for one or two days, or for a week, and
learn to leave the rest to God. Don't ever allow yourself to
think of what it will be to continue striving for your whole
life. Our Lord's warning about earthly anxieties is equally
applicable to spiritual ones, ' Sufficient unto the day is the evil
thereof.' You must remember that to discipline ourselves
properly, it is necessary to accept our characters as they are,
not to deal with them as if they were what they are not. A
very indolent and changeable person cannot possibly make the
Strong resolution which will carry him through life ; but a con-
tinuous determination will do the same work as a strong one.
And it is a great point, Ella, to keep ourselves from being dis-
heartened. Half our task would be done if we were sure of
success."
Tears gathered in Ella's eyes, and resting her arm upon
282 CLE YE HALL.
Mildred's pillow, she said, "I have more cause to bo disheart-
ened than any <me, for I have made so many resolutions, and
strong ones too."
" Excitable resolutions, you mean, dear Ella," replied Mil-
dred. ''There is a vast difference between strength and ex-
citement."
" 1 don't fed the difference."
"Strength is quietness, calmness; the power to foresee
difficulties without shrinking from them. It is the effect of
reason rather than of feeling; and where it exists, it is accompa-
nied by a certain consciousness of power granted by God,
which is, in the warfare of the soul, what the courage of the
soldier is who has never been known to retreat in battle."
" Oh ! if I did but possess it !" exclaimed Ella.
"It is nature, not grace," replied Mildred; "and grace
can make up for all the deficiencies of nature. Only we must
remember that grace will not destroy nature, — it will but guide
it. Once more, dear Ella, I would enti*eat you to deal with
yourself wisely; and whatever resolutions you may make, let
them be for a day, a week, or at the very utmost a month, and
then renewed. So, through God's mercy, we may trust that
you will have that prestige of victory which carries us half-way
towards our next success."
" And I must go home to-day, and begin," said Ella,
mournfully.
" I hope not. My father would like to keep you here; and
I think your Grandmamma will wish to please him."
" It is not Grandmamma, it is Aunt Bertha," said Ella;
and then seeing Mildred look a little grave, she added, " Aunt
Bertha thinks I am only a trouble here; but it is not quite
that, is it?"
" Not since you have taken to reading out to Grandpapa
at night, certainly," said Mildred, kindly.
" And he let me walk with him yesterday," continued
Ella; " and we got on beautifully till he fancied, I am sure,
that he saw Captain Vivian talking to Clement, and then he
turned away, and scarcely spoke again. I found afterwards
that it was not Captain Vivian, but I didn't venture to tell
him so ; was I right ?"
" Perhaps so. I can scarcely tell. It depends so much
upon the mood he is in."
Ella looked thoughtful. "Aunt Mildred, there are somo
CLEVE HALL. 283
questions I should like very much to ask you, only I am afraid
you wouldn't like them."
" Then don't ask them," replied Mildred, a little quickly,
but checking herself directly, she added, " Doubtful questions
are always better avoided, unless there is some good to be ob-
tained by them."
Ella was evidently rather disappointed.
" You shall have them all answered some day, dear Ella,
but I doubt if this is the time."
" There would be no opportunity, if it was the time," said
Ella, as she went to the door. " I am sure I heard the hall
bell. It must be x\unt Bertha."
She went a few steps into the passage without remarking
how very pala Mildred looked, or in the least guessing her
feelings. For herself there was some excitement in the idea
of doing the honors of the Hall, in spite of the little pleasure
she had in seeing her Aunt.
Ella was right; it was Bertha, and she ran up to her
quickly. Bertha's manner was kind, but extremely nervous ;
and her first question was, whether General Vivian was at
home ?
" No; it is his hour for going into the park; he won't be
in for another half-hour or more. How are they all at home,
Aunt Bertha ?"
" Pretty well; tolerable, Yoa are quite sure General Vi-
vian is gone out?"
" Oh, yes ; Grandpapa is in the park, isn't he, Greaves ?"
and Ella turned to the gray-headed butler, who was the Gene-
ral's confidential servant.
" The General went out about ten minutes since, ma'am.
He will return to luncheon at one."
" And you will stay to luncheon, Aunt Bertha? I don't
think you have ever seen the dining-room, have you ? It is
such a beautiful room."
Twenty years before Bertha had once been in that room,
on the occasion of a public meeting, the first at which she had
ever been present. It was a dream of awful grandeur to her,
— one of the most impressive of her youthful recollections;
and she could recall the stately courtesy of the General, — the
polished civility of his manner, giving that (indefinable im-
pression of dislike, which can neither be reasoned against nor
overcome; and Edward Vivian, — young, handsome, full of
hope and energy, distinguishing himself by a speech of consi-
284 CLEVE HALL.
derable talent, — and Flora listening with her head bent down,
but with a rapt attention, which had been the first thing that
awakened in Bertha's mind the perception of her attachment.
Yes, there were memorable associations connected with the
great dining-room at Cleve Hall. Bertha had no wish to dis-
turb them by tbc sight of the stern old man, — the martyr to
his own principle, — sitting alone in his proud consciousness
of rectitude, amidst the ruins of happiness which himself had
caused • and she hurried on with her eyes dizzy, her memory
full of shadowy images, and scarcely conscious whether she
was walking in dream or in reality, until she found herself at
the door of Mildred's apartment.
Ella threw it open eagerly. She was amused and excited,
and her eyes were bright with animation, — a strange contrast
to the cold and self-restrained, yet somewhat furtive glance
which Bertha cast around her, as, for the first time, since the
events which had shed a gloom over both their lives, she stood
face to face with Mildred Vivian.
" Ella, dear, draw the easy-chair near for your aunt. I am
such a cripple, Miss Campbell, that it is difficult to move ; but
I can give a welcome, still ;" and Mildred held out her hand,
and the rebellious tears which rose to dim her eyes were kept
back by a strong effort, as she added, with a winning smile,
" I think I ought to quarrel with you for not having come to
see me before."
" I fancied you seldom received visiters," was Bertha's
reply, uttered with a quietness and precision which even Mil-
dred's quick perception could not have discovered to be a
cloak for painful feelings.
" Not very often ; we have so few neighbors; but," — Mil-
dred was a little confused by Bertha's composed gaze, and
rather hesitated, as she added, "I hoped that Ella's being
here might have proved an inducement; but it is rather a
long walk."
" I am a very good walker," replied Bertha, not accepting
the excuse. " It is scarcely more than a mile and three quar-
ters by the cliff."
" Oh, you came that way, did you ?" Mildred's voice
showed her relief at having reached an easy topic : " the wind
must have been rather high."
" Bather ; but it was deliciously fresh. Ella, shall you
mind returning that way ?"
" Return, must I ? Oh, Aunt Bertha !"
CLEVE HALL. 285
" Grandmamma thinks you have had rather a long holi-
day," continued Bertha.
"But I have not been at all idle, have I, Aunt Mildred?
especially the last week. I have worked much more regularly
than at home."
" If Mrs. Campbell could spare her a little longer, I think
my father would be pleased," said Mildred. " She reads to
him in the evening, and I think he will miss her."
Bertha's face lighted up in an instant : " Of course," she
said, " if General Vivian wishes her to remain, it would cause
a difference."
" And she has been walking with him, lately," continued
Mildred ; " making herself much more useful than I can. I
am only afraid," she added, with an air of interest, " that her
absence will throw a burden upon you with the little ones. I
wish I was near enough to help you."
With any other person the wish might have seemed only
matter of civility; but there was an innate truth in Mildred's
manner which made it impossible to take what she said for
mere words. Bertha's " thank you" was cordial.
" Ella tells me that you give her a great deal of assistance
always with the children," continued Mildred. " That must
be rather troublesome, when Mrs. Campbell is such an in-
valid."
" Aunt Mildred tells me I am not to let you help me any
more," said Ella, bluntly. " And if I were to go home now,
perhaps I should be good, and do it all myself quite properly.
I have made a number of resolutions."
Bertha's face was graver than the speech required, and Mil-
dred, fearing a lecture, said lightly, " Aunt Bertha will think
with me, perhaps, Ella, that good deeds are worth more than
good resolutions ; however, I give you credit for both here."
" I have had experience of Ella's good resolutions," said
Bartha, coldly ; " but I am glad she has improved in any way."
Nothing, perhaps, tests humility more than being told one
is improved. Ella had not yet reached the degree of lowli-
ness which would permit her to hear it with patience, and she
paid angrily, "I know, Aunt Bertha, you are not likely to
give me a character for improvement."
A very gentle sigh escaped Mildred ; Ella heard it, and
went up to her : " You are vexed with me, Aunt Mildred. I
ought not to speak out so ; but Aunt Bertha never gives me
much credit for. anything."
286 CLEVE nALL.
"I dare say she gives you as much as you deserve, and
perhaps a great deal more," said Mildred, smiling. "But
suppose you take your books upstairs, now, if you really are
n.it going home, and leave Aunt Bertha and myself to talk a
little together; we shall find a good many things to say which
will not exactly concern you."
The bright, loving face was very inviting for a kiss, and
Ella gave one, and said in a half-whisper that she did not
think she left her character in very good hands, and then de-
parted ; whilst Bertha sat in silent astonishment at the ready
obedience to a request which, if she had made it herself, would
have been followed by the moodiness of hours
—+-
CHAPTER XXXIV.
WHEN Ella was gone, Bertha's manner was much changed.
It was as though she felt more at ease with herself,
and had lost the unpleasant consciousness that her acts were
watched and commented upon. Mildred, on the contrary, was
more awkward. It might have seemed that she had topics to
bring forward which she was studying how to introduce. She
made an observation upon Ella's unusual height, and theD
paused for an answer, which was given her by Bertha's walk
ing up to the sofa, and placing a note before her saying, " Mr.
Lester begged me to give you this : he is gone to London."
Mildred's speaking countenance in a moment betrayed her
feelings whilst she read the note; her face was of an ashy
paleness ; when it was ended, she laid it down gently, and
said, raising her eyes steadily to Bertha's, " Then the hour is
come for action V
" Mr. Lester thinks so," was Bertha's reply.
Mildred said in a low voice, " Thank God," and there was
a pause.
" Suspicion is the worst of all evils," observed Bertha.
Mildred appeared scarcely to hear her, and only answered,
" Mr. Lester tells me you will give me details."
Bertha drew her chair nearer ; it was an involuntary move-
ment of sympathy. Mildred noticed it. " We have oue
feeling," she said.
CLEVE HALL. 287
" Yes, I hope so. Oh ! Miss Vivian, how will It end ?"
" Not Miss Vivian, — Mildred if you will — we have so many
interests in common." She took Bertha's hand affectionately.
That little movement ! — Bertha could never have made it
herself, — hut it touched the secret chord of cherished and
hidden feelings ; she forgot that Mildred was a Vivian as she
answered, " I always hear you called Mildred, but few call mo
Bertha."
" May I be one of the few ? It would seem most natural,
for Edward calls you so."
" It is strange that he should, — your brother."
" Why strange ? where would bis comfort, his hope, his
children have been without you ? I have so often longed to
thank you."
" I have only done my duty," replied Bertha.
" But none can do more. He must thank you himself. He
does deeply, heartily; but perhaps he has never found words
to say it rightly."
" He has other things to think of than gratitude now,"
replied Bertha.
" He ought not to have. Yet perhaps we must forgive
him if he is engrossed. Is this determination his own ?"
"No; Mr. Lester's. He thinks that concealment is no
longer safe. Goff has been making friends with one of the
servants at the Bectory; taking the letters to the post; and
we suspect prying into them. We can't tell how much he
knows, but something, we are nearly sure, he has discovered."
Mildred was silent; but her hand shook tremulously.
Bertha went on. " We only found this out yesterday.
Mr. Lester had no time to write, except those few lines. He
left me to tell you all. He has no settled plan yet ; he says
he can't form any till he has seen Edward ; then he means to
write to you, and "
" And what?" Mildred regarded her anxiously.
" He must trust to you to prepare General Vivian's mind
for the knowledge that Edward is in England, unless ; it
struck me whether it might be better that they should meet
without preparation."
" No, never !" Mildred started up. " I beg your pardon;
I did not mean to be so hasty ; but it might be his death."
Bertha's color rose, and she looked much distressed.
"I know it has been Mr. Lester's notion," continued Mil-
dred; u and it might have answered last year, but my father
appears very much shaken within the last few months. We
288 CLEVE HALL.
might ruin all l>v such incautiousness. No one knows him,"
kIio added, her voice sinking. " Mr. Lester thinks him hard;
he is hard externally ; hard in his own eyes; but he is a
father still."
" But there must he no delay," said Bertha, with some-
thing (if her former coldness and determination.
31 i hi red shrank a little from her manner: hut the feelimr
was scarcely perceptible in her tone, as she replied, '-'No,
indeed ; if there is danger for Edward, how could there be
delay V Yet she spoke doubtfully, perhaps unwilling to
comprehend the possibility of danger.
" 3Ir. Lester thinks that both Captain Vivian and GofF
have reasons for being your brother's deadly enemies/' con-
tinued Bertha.
" I know it. There is a mystery; but my father has never
allowed me to approach the subject. He has never mentioned
Edward's name since — since that fatal day."
" If they are his enemies there must be danger," continued
Bertha ; " they are both desperate men."
Mildred clasped her hands in silent prayer. " The God
who has protected him hitherto will protect him still,''' she
said. " But I wish I could have seen Mr. Lester himself."
" He felt it better not to wait," replied Bertha. " It was
only yesterday we discovered what Goff had been doing. Of
course there was a motive for his interference. Perhaps it
was unwise to send our letters as we did, but we had not cal-
culated on any risk. It seemed only natural that 3Ir. Lester
should write to 3Ir. Bruce, and your letters and mine were
always enclosed in his. 3Ir. Lester said it was best to go to
London immediately, for he could not trust to any more
letters."
Mildred remained silent for some seconds, as if forming
some inward resolution ; then she looked up at Bertha, and
said, " You will think of me, and pray for me ; none can tell
the effort it will be to speak to my father."
Bertha's softer feelings were touched ; and she answered
gently and kindly, " God's help is always with those who live
for the happiness of others."
" I hope so ; if one does live for that purpose. Yet I have
never been able to make my father happy."
" General Vivian does not give me the idea of an unhappy
man," said Bertha, with a bluntness whi^h was somewhat
painful.
CLEVE HALL. 289
" Possibly not. I have heard it said before; but, Bertha"
— the name was spoken in a tone of apology — " must one not
live with persons daily before one can venture to judge of that
deep question of happiness?"
"Yes, indeed," Bertha spoke eagerly; "I know none can
judge."
" Not the nearest and dearest at times," continued Mildred,
11 still less those who only see otbers as the world has seen my
father — in public meetings and formal society. It has been
his pride to appear happy, and he has succeeded with all but
me."
" And Mr. Lester and Mrs. Robinson, " observed Bertha.
" They have always said that he was a crushed and broken-
hearted man."
" The wound which God makes, God will and can heal,"
said Mildred. " There is no healing for that which we open
for ourselves." She dashed away a tear from her eyes, as she
added, in a low voice, " My poor father ! his sorrow is greater
than Edward's."
" It would scarcely seem so to those who look upon them,"
observed Bertha.
" Ah ! I forgot," and Mildred's face became suddenly
animated ; " you have seen Edward. Is he changed ? Does
he look very old — older than I do ?" and she smiled, and then,
in a sadder tone, added, " Perhaps we may not recognise each
other."
" He does not look like General Vivian's son," replied
Bertha.
" Then he is changed, — he was so like ! See," she un-
clasped her locket, "should you have known it?"
" I should have remembered it," replied Bertha, regarding
the miniature closely. The allusion was painful, — for an
instant it carried both back to the days when they had met as
strangers, having a mutual antipathy; and when the first
thought of a near connexion had been the death knell of their
happiness.
Bertha was the first to speak again. " Ella is like it," she
Said.
" Yes, very; much more so than Clement, though they arc
twins."
" There is such talent in it," said Bertha, still looking at
the miniature.
13
290 CLEVE HALL.
" Yes, 1 » nt Ella will surpass both her father and her brothei
iii that. She is wonderfully clover."
"Talent thrown away," said Bertha, shortly.
Her tone was like the opening of a closed door to Mildred.
It revealed such intricacies of feeling. " Is it thrown away V
she asked with some hesitation.
" It may not be yet, but it will be. It produces no fruits."
" It wants culture," observed Mildred.
" A great deal has been given her, but it is useless."
" She seems young to say so."
" Yes, if she were not so clever."
" But disproportionate talent becomes awkwardness," con
tinued Mildred.
" That didn't strike me before. I don't know now that 1
can tell what it means."
Mildred waited for a moment. An effort was needed for
the reply, which at the moment she could scarcely make. Yet
she conquered her reluctance, and turning from the subject
of all engrossing interest, answered in a tone as unconperned
as Bertha's : " Moral powers and mental powers take different
times for growth, I imagine. Mental powers appear to spring
up rapidly, whilst moral powers require a lifetime to come to
anything like maturity. So one is continually struck with a
sense of disproportion between talent and goodness, and then
comes disappointment."
" Certainly, I don't know a more disappointing person than
Ella," observed Bertha, in the same cold tone.
" I think she is very disappointing till one begins to under-
stand her."
" Understanding doesn't help me," observed Bertha.
" Doesn't it ? I should have thought it would have kept
you from expecting too much."
" But how can you help expecting a great deal from a
person who can talk and reason like a woman of thirty when
she is only sixteen, and can acquire more knowledge in a day
than others can in months, or years?"
" According to my theory this is only intellectual growth,"
said Mildred, " and therefore must not be depended upon for
action."
" But it ought to be power," said Bertha.
" Scarcely, — I should say indeed that it tends rather to
weakness, like any other want of proportion."
Bertha looked doubtful, and again Mildred was obliged to
CLEVE HALL. 291
urge herself to continue the conversation by remembering that
it might be long before a like opportunity would recur.
" I confess to having a theory about proportion, very vague,
and perhaps very unfounded, — but one must think of some-
thing when one is obliged to spend hours alone upon a sofa ;
— an idea, it is, that the principles of all beauty both physical
and moral are to be found in proportion, that perfect beauty is
nothing more than perfect proportion, — and that perfect good-
ness is the same. But all that is very dreamy, and not much
to the purpose ; only I think one can see as one goes on in life,
that the characters which leave the most lasting impress upon
the world are those in which the mental and moral powers are
the most equally balanced. So I fancy, if I had the manage-
ment of a child, that is what I should the most strive to attain."
" And if you had the management of Ella what should
you do ?"
" I can scarcely tell till I have seen what she is at home."
" But you can form some idea ; what is it you think she
wants?" '
"Sunshine," said Mildred, smiling; and seeing that
Bertha looked a little annoyed at not receiving a clearer
answer, she continued, " Ella's intellectual growth seems
to have been so rapid as to cast a shade over her moral
growth, if one may so speak. Perhaps, therefore, she wants
hope, encouragement, cheerful sympathy, and patience, to
expand and foster her better feelings. She is morbid now, and
wayward, and has a great tendency to unreality."
" She is very unreal," observed Bertha.
"Would she be if she understood herself?" inquired
Mildred. " She deceives herself now because she fancies that
talking of goodness, which is an effort of the mind, is the same
thing as carrying it out in practice, which is the work of the
heart. But I think she is beginning to open her eyes to the
vast difference ; when she sees it clearly the danger I should
fear would be despair."
" She does have fits of despondency now," observed
Bertha.
" And I suppose then the right thing would be to give her
encouragement," said Mildred.
" It is so difficult, when she is continually vexing and dis-
appointing one," replied Bertha.
"Still, without encouragement — without sunshine, — lmw
can there be any growth?" asked Mildred, gently.
2 'J CLEVE HALL.
" STes, I suppose you arc right. I dare say I manage hei
very badly."
"She musi be exceedingly trying, — especially to a per-
son who has fixed principles of right, and always acts upon
them."
•• No! always," said Bertha quickly, "very seldom."
Mildred smiled. " Perhaps others can judge for us better
than we can of ourselves on such points."
" I know we ought to give sympathy," said Bertha.
"Yes, because one receives it; and what should one be
without it?"
A shade of sorrowful thought crossed Bertha's face ; she
said abruptly, " Can people acquire sympathy?"
" I think — I hope so. Most of us have very little of it by
nature."
" I have none."
" Oh ! indeed, indeed !" Mildred raised herself up eagerly;
" if you had not sympathy, how could you have done what you
have? And Mr. Lester tells me of others who are indebted
to you. Ronald Vivian, for instance."
" That is from circumstances," replied Bertha, her changing
voice showing the quickness of her feelings.
" But if we have sympathy in any one case, it proves that
we have the power within us, only we may not know how to
exercise it."
" Then it is useless."
" Yes, till we teach ourselves better."
" That is the question. I don't think we can teach our-
selves ; it is a feeling."
" But we make ourselves feel by action."
" I don't know that. I can act well without feeling
at all."
" Perhaps you don't understand yourself," said Mildred.
"I am sun' you feel a great deal more than you know."
" Whatever sympathy I may have, it is not enough for the
children," said Bertha
" It may he their fault in a great degree; and they must
be so different from you."
" Yes, Ella and Fanny are, and Clement too. I can under-
stand Louisa better."
" But I suppose it may be possible to practise putting
oneself in the place of the children," said Mildred, "trying
CLEVE HALL. 293
as a matter of reason to see with their eyes and feel with their
feelings."
" But reason won't be of any use," persisted Bertha,
"I should have thought it might be. I should have
imagined that it Avas one of the chief instruments which
God has given us to help us to guide others; one of the
great causes of the superiority of a mature mind over a young
one."
" I don't understand," said Bertha, as shortly as before,
but with a greater show of interest.
Mildred felt that she must follow the leading of her strange
companion, who seemed to have no perception that this was
not the moment for carrying on abstract inquiries upon educa-
tion, so she continued :
" I suppose this kind of reasoning, and trying to place one-
self in the position of another, is the best way of learning
sympathy; and children we see can't avail themselves of it
thoroughly, for they don't know what a grown-up person feels.
But we have passed through childhood and youth, and have
only to make an effort of memory to recall our own difficulties,
and by that means understand their troubles."
" But all children are not alike," persisted Bertha.
" How is it possible to reason upon feelings which we have
never had ?"
" Imagination, I suppose, may help us," said Mildred,
"and books — fiction, which many grave people laugh at.
Whatever displays human nature truly, is an assistance to
the lesson of sympathy. And then too the least sympathy
invites confidence, and confidence is experience, and expe-
rience enables us to give greater sympathy. You see there
is a continued re-action if we can only make up our minds to
begin."
" And how would you show Ella sympathy ?" inquired
Bertha, her mind turning at once from general theories to a
direct object.
" I know how I should act myself," replied Mildred. " I
could not venture to say what any other person should do."
" But what would you do yourself?"
" I think I should try always to bear in mind her constitu-
tional indolence, and so, as a beginning, not expect her to be
energetic; and whenever she did exert herself, 1 should praise
her, even for a very slight amount of energy. Then as to her
pride and -elf-will, I should endeavor to make allowance for
204 CLEVE HALL
them, by judging her not according to what strictly speaking
she ought to be, but according to the effort which she would
i d to be humble and obedient. I should remember too that
her very talents are her temptation, causing her to be carried
away by feeling and excitement, and I should try to throw
myself into her pursuits, for the very purpose of being a
balance to her mind. Perhaps by this kind of watchfulness L
might avoid irritating her or being irritated myself, which I
am sure 1 should be otherwise."
" Yes," replied Bertha, speaking more freely when she
found that Mildred could share, or at least comprehend her
difficulties, "that is the great trouble, after all; she is pro-
voking, and I am angry, and then I dare say I speak out
quickly."
" She has made me speak out quickly several times since
she has been here," replied Mildred. " I am just beginning
to learn to think twice before I find fault."
" But don't you find that spoils her?" inquired Bertha.
" I am sure people require to be stirred by a quick word now
and then."
" Quick words are sometimes very good for quick natures,"
replied Mildred, "but I doubt if they are good with slow
ones."
" Ella slow ! oh, no; she is immensely quick."
" Intellectually, not morally. I think quick words repel
her, and make her creep like a snail into its shell. Besides,
I fancy they only do if one is generally very affectionate in
manner; that in a degree neutralizes the quickness."
"And I am not affectionate, I know," said Bertha, can-
didly. " I dare say Ella has complained of me."
" She thinks you are more fond of the little ones," was
Mildred's evasive answer, and Bertha, not satisfied, put the
question again more directly.
" I can scarcely call it complaint," replied Mildred. " She
thinks you don't understand her, but she is quite aware that
a great deal is her own fault."
"And do you understand her?" inquired Bertha, quickly.
" I am not sure that I do, but I see some things in her
very like my brother. I don't encourage her, though, in that
notion of not being understood; it is an excuse for a great
deal of sentimentality, and even selfishness of feeling in young
people. I always tell her that you and every one else would
understand her if she would oidy try to act up to her princi-
CLEVE HALL. 295
pies. and be humble and considerate; but it is such an age for
moods, and fancies, and pet griefs, one must be merciful tc
it."
Bertha had not been at all merciful to Mildred, who was
nearly tired out, but there had been a painful fascination in
this conversation with a person whom hitherto she had regard-
ed with a kind of respectful antipathy, which carried her be-
yond what she had in any way intended. It was a pleasure
to be drawn on, even though in a certain degree against her
will. She did not see that on Mildred's side there was a
continual effort ; she only felt that even if they differed,
they were not antagonistic. Mildred had said nothing
hard of Ella, quite the contrary; yet she could see and ac-
knowledge her faults : and neither had she been flattering to
herself; she had suggested, indeed, several possible blunders in
education, but it was always as though she herself was the person
liable to make them. The effect of {he conversation was un-
questionably soothing, and when at length Bertha was recalled
from it by the striking of the clock, which warned her that it
was time to return home, she rose with evident regret.
The feeling was not shared by Mildred, — solitude, leisure
for thought, was her one longing desire. Yet even then she
could throw herself into Bertha's character ; and she asked
again, as a special favor, that Ella might be allowed to remain.
It was a well-timed and well-turned request. Bertha
liked deference. She was a little sensitive as to her position
with the children, and had an undefined dread of Mildred's
influence and interference. Two aunts on different sides might
very well have found matter for disagreement ; but Mildred
was thoroughly unselfish, and had no love of power. Bertha's
answer was very cordial. She was quite sure that her mother
would consent ; there could not be any objection if General
Vivian liked it.
The point settled, Ella was summoned.
The look of delight which followed the announcement of
the permission was a little painful to Bertha; but she had
learnt something, much, indeed, in that half hour's interview
with Mildred, and, instead of thinking of her own chilled
feelings, she threw herself into Ella's pleasure. " Shall you
want any books sent you, Ella ? The Cleve carrier will call
to-morrow morning."
" Aunt Bertha, thank you ! yes;" and Ella's eyes sparkled
at this unlooked-for instance of consideration. She ran out
of the room to make out a list
20G CLEVE HALL.
Bertha drew near to Mildred. Now, for the first time, she
perceived that the conversation had been carried on too long:
Yet .Mildred smiled, and said she should be quite well after
luncheon.
" Strong people forget what weak ones feel," said Bertha,
in a tone of self-reproach.
''And weak ones are a great trouble and burden to strong
ones ; but I am most grateful to you for having come."
"I hope I shan't forget what yon have said," observed
Bertha, bluntly.
Mildred smiled. " I dare say I make many mistakes. It
is all theory, — I have had no practical experience."
" But you must have thought a good deal."
"About my own faults; that teaches more than anything."
" May I come and see you again sometimes?"
A very awkward question. General Vivian might not at
all like to see Miss Campbell frequently at his house.
Mildred could only answer it honestly. " Will you let me
write and ask you to come? It may be the best plan."
Bertha understood, and colored deeply.
" It is not my will, nor my doing, you will believe, I am
sure," said Mildred, timidly.
Bertha felt very contradictory, but she was too good to give
way to the feeling. " I suppose it may be the best plan," she
answered, in a tone tolerably free from restraint.
"Thank you very much for understanding; but I shall
hear from you."
" Yes ; if there is anything to communicate. I scarcely
see what there can be."
" One lives always in fear and expectation," said Mildred.
She sighed, and the sigh revealed to Bertha that the sister's
anxiety was far keener than her own could be.
She reproached herself, and said, "I have been troubling
you about Ella, and asking your advice, — I ought not to have
done it now."
" It has done me good, by distracting my thoughts. I shall
try not to think till the time comes. Mr. Lester, you suppose,
will write to-morrow?"
" I imagine so. He was going direct to your brother, and
I know he is anxious that no time should be lost."
" Then God help us all !" said .Mildred; and Bertha silently
echoed the prayer.
Ella came back again with the list of books, and asked a
CLEVE HALL. 207
good many questions about homo, to which Bertha answered
fully and kindly; but Mildred did not speak again until just
at the last moment, when, as Bertha was wishing her a final
good-b'ye, she said, in a voice so low as to be inaudible to Ella,
" If Mr. Lester is away, keep Clement at home."
" Yes, if I can ; but he is so wilful."
Bertha departed; and Mildred, too tired to talk more to
Ella, or even to listen to reading, lay quite still, thinking upon
the practical experience which life had given her of all that is
involved iu that common word — wilful.
< >>
CHAPTER XXXV.
" TTAS the postman been yet, Louisa ?" It was Mrs. Camp-
XJ_ bell's question when she came down to breakfast on
the second day after Bertha's visit to the Hall, and it was
addressed to Louisa as a matter of course, for no one else was
so certain to be on the watch — at least so Mrs. Campbell
thought. She was not aware that Bertha, in her anxiety, had
.stationed herself at the shrubbery gate to intercept the letters
before they were delivered at the house. Louisa's answer was
in the negative ; but almost immediately afterwards Bertha
entered, laid the letters on the table, and left the room.
Louisa saw that Bertha had secured her own ; Mrs. Campbell
saw nothing but that there was a long epistle from an old
friend, and this she began to read.
Bertha came back to read prayers and make breakfast ;
again, no one but Louisa noticed that she was less quiet and
indifferent than usual, and certainly no one else would have
had the quickness to suspect the cause, or the overweening
curiosity to inquire into it. But Louisa had no mercy when
the indulgence of her besetting propensity was iu question,
and as soon as they were seated at the breakfast table she
besran the attack. "Aunt Bertha, when is Mr. Lester coming
back?"
" I don't know, my dear."
" But he is only gone for a few days, is be?"
" I can't say, my dear."
" Rachel said she hoped he would return soon."
298 CLEVB HALL.
•■ Very possibly, my dear."
A pause, and a little diversion of Louisa's thoughts, from
the tart that Betsy came in with a message from a poor woman,
which of course she fully attended to. But she began again,
" Mr. Lester is gone to London, isn't he, Aunt Bertha?" .
" I believe so."
" Rachel said she thought you would hear if he were com-
ing back to-day or to-morrow, because he told her that perhaps
he might be obliged to send her a message through you instead
of writing himself."
" Perhaps so."
"But can't I give the message for you ? I am going up
to the Rectory after breakfast."
" Thank you, Louisa," — Bertha's tone was chilling and re-
proachful, — " but I can take care of my own messages."
" Oh ! I beg your pardon, Aunt Bertha; I only meant to
save you the trouble." Louisa was satisfied then. She had
learnt what she wished to know, that Mr. Lester had written.
She went on : " Then if Mr. Lester doesn't come back, Rachel
may come and stay here, mayn't she ?"
" We will sec about it."
Here Mrs. Campbell interposed: "I can't have Rachel
staying here. She can come to drink tea as she did last
night-; but I don't want her this week; the servants are
busy."
" Mr. Lester must be coming back by Saturday," persisted
Louisa, in a disappointed tone.
" Very likely, my dear, but I can't have Rachel staying
here; 1 won't allow it."
Louisa looked extremely disconcerted, and repeated that
Mr. Lester would be at home on Saturday, and then they
should not have Rachel for weeks.
" Louisa, that is very perverse," said Bertha, " You know
that Mr. Lester never objects to Rachel's coming here, except
when she has some special engagement at home."
" I don't understand. What is all this fuss about Rachel
and Mr. Lester?" inquired Mrs. Campbell.
Bertha's quick reply was, " Oh ! nothing of any conse-
quence;" which did not satisfy Mrs. Campbell.
"But where is Mr. Lester? When did you say he wa3
coming home ?"
" Some time this week he hopes it may be," replied Bertha.
" When he does come he can bring down that packet of
CLEVE HALL. 299
tea for us," observed Mrs. Campbell. " Hemcmber you ask
him, Bertha."
" I dou't know the exact day when be is coming/' replied
Bertha.
" He must be back by Sunday," persisted Louisa.
"Or he must have some one to take his duty," observed
Fanny, delighted at the idea of novelty.
" He will sure to be back by Saturday," said Clement, in
a very moody tone. " I never knew him stay away yet."
" What is to keep him, Bertha; do you know ? Have you
heard from him ?"
Louisa's eyes sparkled with amusement. Her grand-
mamma had asked precisely the question she was longing to
put.
Bertha could not avoid a direct answer. " I had a few
lines from him this morning," she said. " He does not men-
tion when he shall be at home."
" But is it business he is gone for, or what ? It was quite
a sudden notion."
" Rachel said she thought he was gone to see a friend,"
observed Louisa.
" My dear Louisa, 1 didn't ask you. Pray don't answer
unless you are spoken to. Your aunt will tell me. Is it any
friend we know, Bertha?"
Louisa whispered loudly to Fanny that she was sure it was
Mr. Bruce, because she happened to see the direction of a
parcel Mr. Lester took with him, and it was the same as that
on Mr. Brace's letters; and Fanny communicated the fact to
Clement ; whilst Bertha, blushing and hesitating, answered,
evasively, that she never inquired into Mr. Lester's private
affairs.
" That is no answer, my dear Bertha ; what is all this
mystery? I can't bear mysteries. Why shouldn't you say
to me that he is gone to see Mr. Bruce, if he is gone ?" Mrs.
Campbell spoke very fretfully, and Louisa glanced at Clement
in triumph.
Bertha felt she must speak out at once : " Mr. Lester talked
of seeing Mr. Bruce," she replied; " and he says to-day that
he is kept in London, because Mr. Bruce is not very well. He
doesn't mention the day of his return, and he thinks it may
be necessary to provide for his Sunday duty. He writes, be-
sides, about some little parish matters."
" Well ! but let me sec the letter; can't you show it me V'
300 CLEVE HALL.
"There are one or two things private in it," said Bertha;
'* I ;mi afraid li<' wouldn't like it."
Thai was sullicient to annoy Mrs. Campbell for the whole
day. If Louisa had wished to render everyone about her
uncomfortable, she had most certainly succeeded ; and she had
punished herself too, for she was very quick in discovering
the impression she had made, and could see plainly that it was
not likely to be a smooth day with Aunt Bertha.
She said very little during the remainder of the breakfast,
and when it was over went up to Clement.
"Clement, what is the matter about Mr. Lester and Mr.
Bruce 'I and why does Aunt Bertha make such a mystery about
it all V
"I don't know; how should I?" was Clement's blunt
reply.
•• But you do know something, I am sure."
" Not I. How you do tease, Louisa !"
" And how cross you are, Clement ! and you were cross all
yesterday; it was that reckoning made you cross. Who gave
it to you to do ? Did Mr. Lester ?"
" Nonsense, nobody. What on earth do you pry into my
concerns for?" Clement spoke very impatiently, and made
his escape as soon as he could; Louisa looking after him, and
thinking that something strange must be going on, when
every one was so easily put out. And what was Clement
calculating? She would find out that, if she did nothing else.
Bertha had a better excuse for being put out than any one
else. The last thing she would have desired was that the
children or her mother should believe there was at this time a
mystery connected with Mr. Lester's movements. There was
enough to make her anxious, without the dread of incaution
and idle curiosity in those with whom she lived.
Mr. Lester's letter was short, and by no means satisfactory.
" My dear 3Iiss Campbell,
" I arrived yesterday, about five o'clock, and found my
friend very far from well. He has had an attack of influenza,
which confines him to his bed. He is improving, but I don't
think it would quite do to let him travel to-morrow. It is
possible that I shall be obliged to make arrangements for hav-
ing my Sunday duty taken ; the week days are provided for.
I have not been able to say anything about business. I will
Write again as soon as I can. I shall send a few lines to Miss
CLEVE HALL. 301
Vivian. Will you please give the enclosed note to RacheL
I trust her quite to your care.
" In haste, most sincerely yours,
" Robert Lester."
In the postscript were a few directions ahout some pool
people, whom Bertha was taking charge of; and the last worda
were, " I need scarcely urge upon you caution and great watch-
fulness, especially as regards occupying Clement, and keeping
him out of mischief. You may be certain I shall return the
very earliest day possible."
Perhaps Bertha could scarcely have expected, in reason,
anything more decisive in this, Mr. Lester's first letter; but
suspense was intensely trying to her, and now it was aggra-
vated by the knowledge of Edward Vivian's illness, which
might protract it considerably. She felt sadly faithless, and
conscience painfully reproached her for it ; but it seemed as
if, for the first time, the magnitude of the interests at stake
were revealed to her.
It was as though she had gone on in a dream of hope for
years before, never really hoping or expecting anything ; talk-
ing of the changes which might some day come, without really
anticipating them. Only within the last few days, since Mr.
Lester himself had acknowledged that the moment for action
was arrived, had she dared to realize to herself the possibility
of success or of failure.
It required all Bertha's conscientiousness to bring her mind
to the contemplation of her ordinary work. But she was a
person who could never waste time in useless regrets or fears ;
each hour in the day had its occupation marked, and she was
almost scrupulously exact in keeping to it. A few minutes
of leisure were however always to be found directly after
breakfast, whilst the children were preparing their lessons;
and, taking advantage of them, she pleased herself by carrying
Rachel's note to the Rectory instead of sending it. There
tvas something in the gay smile and the affectionate glance
that would meet her there, which was soothing even when she
could not open her mind, and tell all her anxieties ; and per-
haps one of Bertha's tew self-deceptions might have been
discovered in the excuses which she made, when anything
particularly vexatious had occurred at the Lodge, to go to the
Rectory, and spend a quarter of an hour with Rachel.
Rachel was met in the porch, with her bonnet and shawl
302 CLEVE HALL.
on. She had expected a letter, and not receiving one, was
going tii the Lodge to make inquiries. She ran up to Bertha
eagerly: " Dear Miss Campbell, how kind of you! and you
have a note!" She seized it eagerly, and then recollecting
herself, added: "May I read it? you won't think it rude?
But you must come in and sit down by the fire; it is very cold
this morning."
Even in her anxiety for news from her father, she could
not forget consideration for one present with her ; and Bertha
was taken into the study, and the fire was stirred, and she was
made to unfasten her cloak, and then Rachel turned away to the
window to peruse her precious note. It was read through twice,
and a kiss given to the name at the bottom ; but still Rachel stood
looking out of the window with a watery mist dimming her
eyes. Bertha, seated by the fire, waited patiently. She knew
well the struggle that was going on in the poor child's mind.
Rachael had never calculated upon the possibility of her
father's being away more than two days. But it was a calm
v. lice which spoke at last, only rather lower and more restrained
in its accent than was wont; and if tears were gathering in
Bachel's eyes, they were not allowed to go further, as she stood
again by Bertha's side, and said : " He doesn't know when he
shall come back."
" Not exactly the day, dear Rachel ; but it can't be long."
" Can't it? but he promised, he thought he should be back
to-morrow." A rush of sorrow rose up in Rachel's throat,
but she swallowed it with a strong effort. " I don't mean to
be wrong, Miss Campbell, I want to bear it, — I will," — and
there was another effort at self-command.
" Yes, because small trials come to us from the same Hand
as great ones."
" Thank you;" and Rachel put her arm fondly round Bertha;
" that is just what papa would say. It does me more good
than telling me the time will soon pass," she added, as an
April smile brightened her face. " But you think he will
come ?"
" Certainly, the very first day he can. He must, you know,
for the sake of his parish."
"And for mine ; what should I do without him ? It is so
lonely."
That was a little unmeant reproach to Bertha. It seemed
very hard that she could not at once take Rachel to the Lodge,
but she knew it would not do to propose it. Her mind waa
CLEVE HALL. 303
Bet at rest, however, by Rachel's saying : " Papa tells me that
if I don't hear from him about his coming home to-morrow,
he shall ask Aunt Mildred to let me go to the Hall. I shall
enjoy that excessively, but it won't be like having papa."
" You will have Ella, too, as a companion," said Bertha.
'• Shall I ? How very nice ! Yet I thought she was coming
back." _
" Miss Vivian wants her to stay. She thinks her grandpapa
will like it."
" Will he really ?" Rachel seemed about to add something
very energetic; but she stopped, and concluded by saying,
''Did you see Aunt Mildred yesterday?"
" Yes, for an hour nearly. We had a long talk."
" And you think — yes, I am sure you think as I do — that
she is very — I don't know what to say — not at all like any one
else."
"No, very unlike."
" And Ella is so fond of her !" continued Rachel. " She
sent me a little note the other day, and told me that she was
beginning to love her just as I said she would. It will be very
nice going there ; only if papa could be there too " and
she heaved a sigh.
" We can't have all we wish," said Bertha.
It was a truism; yet Rachel's simple humility took it as it
was intended, and she replied, " No, I ought to remember
that; I ought to be thankful. And the Hall will be very
pleasant, and •" she stopped, for tears would come in spite
of her efforts.
" Doesn't papa say anything else in his note ?" inquired
Bertha, wishing to distract her thoughts.
" Yes, one thing — I forgot." Rachel read it through again.
" He has left his pocket-book behind him ; he wants me to
look in it, and send him a receipted bill that is in it. He says
if I am in any doubt, you will tell which it is. It is a school
bill, which he paid in Cleve the other day."
" Perhaps we had better find the pocket-book at once," said
Bertha, looking at her watch. " I have just ten minutes to
spare. Then we can settle which is the bill."
" I saw it yesterday, I remember," said Rachel, searching
about the room. " I thought why he had left it. Oh ! hero
it is." She gave it to Bertha.
"You had better open it," said Bertha, returning it.
" There arc such loads of papers !" Rachel took them out,
one after the other. "This — no, it is a note; and this is a
30-i CLEVE HALL.
list of school children ; and these are letters. — 1 don't thiufc
the bill is here/'
" Perhaps that may be it," said Bertha, pointing to a folded
paper which had a name written on the back.
"1 don't know; it may be." Rachel opened and looked
at it. " I d( n't think — it isn't a receipt — what docs it mean V
She put the paper into Bertha's hands.
Bertha read : —
" Three months after the death of my father, I promise to
pay John Vivian, Esq., or order, the sum of five thousand
pounds. Value received.
Edward Bruce Vivian."
" Dear Miss Campbell, aren't you well ?" Bertha's colorless
cheek, her fixed gaze, might well warrant the question.
She started. "What did you say ? Yes, 1 am very well,
thank you. It is not the bill, I think. Hadn't you better
ask the servants if they have seen it?"
" Perhaps I had." Rachel was frightened by Bertha's
manner. She hardly knew what she was to ask the servants ;
but she ran away, glad to be out of the room.
Bertha was alone — the strange paper in her hand; but she
could scarcely read it again — the letters swam before her eyes.
Yet her thoughts, her powers of reasoning were singularly
clear. It must mean, it could not mean anything but that
Edward Vivian had deceived them; that he had really been
involved to an extent five times as great as he had ever
acknowledged; that he had extricated himself by means cal-
culated to exasperate any father, most especially a man with
General Vivian's jealous sense of justice, his keen family
pride and personal dignity, reckoning upon that as already his
own, to which his only claim lay in his father's will. She
recalled Mr. Lester's manner during his last conversation, and
fancied now that his tone of despondency was greater than sh8
had ever known it. Perhaps he had only lately, in his inter-
view with General Vivian, been made aware of the extent' of
Edward's offence; perhaps he had not liked to give her his
true reason for going to London, and had seized upon Goff 's
interference with the letters as an excuse ; perhaps, when he
said that the hour for the decisive step had arrived, it was
from the conviction that Edward had sinned beyond the hope
of pardon, except by a final despairing appeal to mercy.
CLEVE HALL. 305
Bertha's fears gave strength to her convictions y yet even
in this there was much to perplex her. A paper so important
left to chance, placed in a pocket-book, with trifling memo-
randa, and, as it seemed, forgotten, — very unlike that was to
Mr. Lester, so careful and particular as he was in all matters
of business. And how did it come into his possession ? How
long had he kept it from her ? These were questions not to
be solved. She heard Rachel returning, and her impulse was
to restore the paper to its place ; but a second thought made
her hesitate. It might be unsafe. Mr. Lester might have
forgotten it. It seemed better to take care of it, and then tell
him what she had done. Happily, Bertha's conscience was so
free from any double motive, that she had no cause to mistrust
her own intentions, and safe in the certainty of Mr. Lester's
kind interpretation of her actions, she took possession of the
mysterious document ; whilst Rachel came back with a forlorn
face, having heard no tidings of the receipted bill.
Bertha was too anxious to be willing to wait till further
search had been made, and even in the excitement of her feel-
ings and the perplexity of her thoughts, was conscious that
the ten minutes she had given herself were expired ; and Ra-
chel, knowing her strict punctuality, would not ask her to stay
a moment beyond the appointed time, but insisted upon look-
ing through the pocket-book papers again herself, and promised
to bring the bill to the Lodge to be inspected if it were found.
Just at the last minute, Bertha thought whether it would be
wise to tell Rachel that she had taken the paper ; but she felt
a little shy of confessing what might appear a liberty, and was
afraid of exciting remark. She fancied, besides, that Rachel
was not likely to miss it, as she had scarcely looked at it, and
certainly did not understand what it meant.
Bertha, therefore, went home to teach the children, give
directions to the servants, wait upon her mother, and, in the
midst of all, to ponder upon the painful light which had thus
suddenly been cast upon the family affairs. Rachel remained
in the study, and went through the papers carefully again ;
this time, perhaps because she was not flurried by Bertha's
occasional glances at the timepiece, she found the bill without
any difficulty: and then, having a vague recollection that she
had missed something which ought to be there, took another
survey in search of the old dirty-looking paper which .she had
put into Bertha's hands, and which at the time she remem-
bered to have thought very unlike all the rest.
30G CLEVE HALL.
Most provoking it was, just as she was going to sit down to
read, to be hindered in this way; but now the old paper was
gone. Twice she went through the letters and notes as they
wen' folded in the pocket-bookj then she unfolded and exa-
mined them, looked under the table, under the chairs, under
books and sola cushions, in every place where such a paper
was must unlikely to be found, and at last went again to th«;
kitchen to confide her troubles to Anne.
And Anne was standing in the back yard, and a door which
led from it into the Rectory lane was open, and near this door
was Groff, haunting the premises still, trying to make friends
with Anne at home, as he had not met her the day before in
the village. Rachel came out, full of her annoyance, with an
idea that by means of a sweeping-brush Anne would be aide
to penetrate into the secret recesses of any hiding-place in
which the tiresome paper should have secreted itself. And
she gave a full description of it to the best of her ability; said
that it was old and discolored, and was written in a scrawly
hand, with a great name signed at the bottom which she
thought was Edward Vivian ; and that she remembered what
it was like especially, because Miss Campbell turned so pale
just when the paper was given her that she fancied it must be
something written on it which frightened her. Of course it
was not that, because it was only an old kind of bill, and there
was nothing really the matter with Miss Campbell. To all
which details Anne gave very little heed, though promising to
use her best endeavors to assist Rachel's wishes, and to pick
up every piece of paper she might see on the ground in the
hope of discovering the truant.
Anne did not heed, but Goff did ; and when Anne, at Ra
chel's request, went back with her to the study, Goff, cool,
reckless, desperate in danger as in the carrying out of schemes
of guilt, hurried to the Grange to communicate to Captain Vi-
vian what he had heard, and discuss the plans which it might
be necessary to adopt in the probability that the missing paper
was the evidence of their guilt and the cause of Mr. Lester's
sudden departure.
:
CLEVE HALL. 307
CHAPTER XXXVI.
news from Mr. Lester the following morning. Bertha
had looked forward to the post with intense anxiety; and
when the blank " no letters to-day" was heard from Louisa, as
the postman passed the gate, her heart sickened with disap-
pointment. She had waited, hoping to hear of his return,
and intending to delay any inquiry as to the paper in her pos-
session until she could see him. Since the discovery of Golf's
interference she had a superstitious dread of trusting anything
which might be of consequence to the post ; and the more she
considered the subject in calm moments, examining carefully
the signature, and going over in her own mind all that she had
ever heard as connected with Edward Vivian's affairs, the more
her first feelings were altered, whilst a strong conviction forced
itself upon her that the document of which in so singular a
manner she had become possessed was false. The writing
unquestionably strikingly resembled Mr. Vivian's; but it was
stiff" and careful; not such as his would have been under any
pressure of anxiety. There were slight differences in the letters
also, but these could not be so much depended upon, because
years tend very much to alter handwriting, and she could not
well recollect what her brother-in-law's had been so long ago.
But that which most weighed with Bertha was the full belief,
impressed upon her mind by family troubles, that his debts
bad never amounted to more than one-fifth of the sum named
in the paper. Mr. Lester doubtless must, like herself, have
had suspicions upon the subject, and the paper must be con-
nected, she felt sure, with his London journey; perhaps he
did not say so for fear of exciting false hopes ; perhaps — but
that was all a mystery, not to be dwelt upon if she wished to
keep her mind quiet; only Bertha felt that whether her con-
jectures were true or false, the discovery of the paper threw
light upon General Vivian's feelings, and gave him a claim to
sympathy fully as much as to censure.
Nothing of this anxiety was shown outwardly. The quiet-
ness of Bertha's ordinary manner was an assistance to her
in keeping up the necessary self-restraint. She was so grave
usually, that no one noticed a shade more or less, except it
might be Louisa, and even she was often baffled by her aunt's
composure. Yet it was a serious effort during the day to keep
COS CLEVE HALL.
her wandering thoughts in order, and go through the routine
of lessons; and the pre-occupation of her mind, added to a
natural want of observation and quick penetration into charac-
ter, prevented ber from watching Clement, or discovering in
him anything which might have led her to think that his
heart was ill at ease.
That first deception had led him on much further than
he intended. When Captain Vivian met him the day suc-
ceeding his visit, and proposed to him to repeat it, asking,
as a favor, that, besides giving him help for amusement, he
would assist him in a ease which was a question of business,
Clement had nothing to fall back upon to support his weak
will, and, of course, yielded; and a second visit involved a
third, still apparently innocent, but making him, after the
excitement was over, very uneasy, and enabling Captain Vivian
to discover in the course of conversation all he required to
know as to Mr. Lester's movements, where he was likely to be
in London, and the probability of his return; Clement telling
everything with perfect .simplicity, and never for one moment
suspecting a meaning in this apparent interest.
And he flattered himself, too, that he was gaining some-
thing by the intercourse. Captain Vivian talked to him of
the sea and his fancy for it, aud gave him some useful advice
not unmixed with flattery, promising, any day that he could
manage it, to take him for a short sail, merely that he might
have a few practical lessons, which were better, he said, than
any talking. If it had only not been against Clement's con-
science, he would quite have enjoyed going to the Grange,
especially as he found that by some means he was free from
Ronald's warning voice. Both days he had been there Ro-
nald had been absent, sent by his father on some business to
Cleve, or over the hills ; and Captain Vivian had cautioned
Clement playfully against mentioning his visit, saying, that
when they had made out their puzzling questions, he meant
to surprise him with his cleverness, for Ronald never fancied
he had a head for reckoning.
There had been a proposal that they should meet again on
this day, still with the excuse of what Captain Vivian called
business ; and Clement had given an evasive answer, which
left it at his option to go or not, as he might choose. So his
conscience was tolerably easy for the present, though the past
weighed upon him most uncomfortably.
It was not likely that Bertha should suspect any of this
CLEVE HALL. 309
evil. Clement had kept regularly to hours, and walked once
with his sisters, and was attentive to his studies. This after-
noon, also, after some demur, he agreed to go with them over
the hills to Greystone Gorge, to see Barney Wood; and
although Bertha was not at all fond of being left in any way
in charge of Clement, feeling that her control was not suffi-
cient for him, she was satisfied that he seemed more disposed
than usual to be obedient. Perhaps it was the consciousness
of his unacknowledged fault which made him particularly
grave and quiet.
It was a long walk, and the days were now so short that it
was necessary to leave home early. Without Clement, indeed,
Bertha might have hesitated about undertaking the expedition ;
for it was unpleasant to return over the hills alone, or only
with the children, when it was growing dark, and Barney
Wood's cottage had not the best possible reputation. His
mother, who was dead, had been Goff's daughter; and report
said, that the crafty smuggler made use of his son-in-law's
house as a resort for himself and his comrades, in case of
necessity. It was certaiuly very much out of the way of
inspection, although within an easy distance of Dark Head
Point, and not very far from the Grange, — all advantages to
persons engaged in the contraband traffic carried on to such
an extent upon that part of the coast. Dark Head Point was
well known to be the general rendezvous of the smugglers.
It was the highest headland in the neighborhood, and from it
they could keep a strict watch over the country for runes ;
and, though called inaccessible from the shore, it was said
that the practised foot of the smuggler could find a footing
upon narrow ledges, which scarcely a goat could venture to
tread; and that the tubs, when landed, were often hidden in
recesses of the cliffs, which the preventive men, with all their
hardihood, could not reach. But all this was but hearsay.
Smugglers have a code of honor peculiarly their own, ami no
one of the Encombe band had ever yet been known to betray
the secrets of his comrades; whilst the villagers would have
believed it an act of the grossest treachery to reveal aught,
either by word or look, concerning the traffic in which so
many of those nearest and dearest to them were deeply
engaged.
It was a difficult task intrusted to Mr. Lester, that of guid-
ing these lawless people : t<> himself they were uniformly civil,
and, for the mast part, there was little more to find fault with
310 CLEVB HALL.
amongst them than amongst the generality of their cl:isa
Drunkenness was the prevailing vice, but there were few petty
thefts; the children were seut regularly to school ; the wives
worked diligently at home; the attendance at church on the
Sunday was as regular as it commonly is in a seafaring place;
mi the week-days, few men would have been found, in any
village of the size, able to leave their daily work. Only now
and then, some affray with the preventive men roused the
fiercer passions of the people, and revealed the depth of the
mischief which, at other times, was doing its work secretly,
but surely. And it was not easy to find occasions for warning,
where the offence was so carefully concealed. The men called
themselves fishermen ; their boats were ostensibly fisHng-boats,
and, indeed, often used for that purpose; they were connected,
too, with other smuggling bands along the coast, and it was
customary to shift the offence from one to the other, till it
become almost impossible to attach it to any individual. But,
worse than all, they were unquestionably supported and en-
couraged by powerful example; and, whilst Captain Vivian
remained in the village, Mr. Lester felt bitterly that all hope
of really improving his people, or teaching them the actual
culpability of their conduct, was vain. Yet with him there
was even greater difficulty in fixing the offence than with the
lower classes. The vessel kept off the coast, and known to
belong to him, and to be engaged in smuggling expeditions,
was owned nominally by another person, and was ostensibly a
trading vessel, which went backwards and forwards for appa-
rently innocent purposes of business. It had even been
searched, but nothing had been found. Yet there was no
more real doubt of its being used for smuggling purposes,
than that the man chiefly connected with it was a lawless vil-
lain ; all that was needed was proof, and proof was never at
hand.
It seemed hard to visit the sins of the guilty upon the inno-
cent; harder still, when it was known that temptation and
threats were used in the village to no slight extent; and that
those who would not join the smugglers from interest, wci'e
compelled to do so from fear. This had been the case, in
some degree, with Mark Wood, the father of little Barney.
He had been a quiet, respectable man, till he married Golf's
daughter. Even then he seemed anxious to keep himself aloof
from the evil practices prevalent around him; but once nearly
connected with a man of bad principle, and he could not again
CLEVE HALL. oil
set himself free. Mi*. Lester had been a friend to Mark and
to his wife; he had attended her through a long illness, and
been with her at the moment of death ; and at that time it
seemed that the unhappy husband's heart was open to good
impressions, and Mr. Lester, anxious to follow them up, had
taken especial notice of his sickly boy, left without a mother's
care. With the assistance of Rachel and Bertha Campbell,
he had provided Barney with comforts, and even luxuries, in
the wish to keep up his influence with the father by the means
of his child. But the case was not as hopeful now as it had
been. Groff was more frequently at the cottage ; his son-in-
law was with him oftener in other places. It had even been
reported that Mark Wood was to be seen, late at night, watch-
ing on Dark Head Point; but this was only report, and Mr.
Lester could not leave the sick boy to suffer because his father
was yielding to evil example. He still allowed Bertha and
Rachel to visit him, and aided them in any little plans for the
child's comfort, often making an excuse to visit the boy him-
self, with the desire of meeting the father, and gaining an
insight into his habits. But, once a smuggler, and Mark
Wood's sense of honor and truth was as perverted as that of
his companions. He would treat Mr. Lester with civility,
listen to his advice, and show himself grateful for his kind-
ness ; but there was no more confidence between them. Mark
had given himself to a service which would admit of no com-
promise ; and if a lie could serve the purpose of concealment,
he would not scruple to use it for smuggling purposes, though
he would have scorned to avail himself of it for any other.
The visits to Barney Wood were very satisfactory to Bertha,
for they were almost her only opportunities of seeing Ronald
alone. His care of the child was watchful and unceasing. It
seemed as if the little fellow was a safety-valve for the softer
feelings which could find no other vent. For Ronald Vivian
could not live without some one to love. The strong feelings
which at times carried him beyond his own control in anger,
or exhausted themselves in the better impulses of fiery resolve
and strong determination, took also, occasionally, other forms
of intense longings tor affection, eager and passionate desires
to find some work which should draw him away from himself,
and give him personal love in return for devoted self-denial ;
and then he seized upon the first object which presented itself,
and gave himself up to it unremittingly, and with the same
spirit of intense reverence with which he had watched his
312 CLEVE HALL.
mother, during her lingering illness, whilst receiving the im-
pressions that had so often been his safeguard during his most
perilous lite.
We cannot forget purity when once we have been brought
in contact with it. The memory of evil may die when the
Boul lias long dwelt in the presence of goodness, but the vision
of holiness is immortal, even as lie from whom it proceeds.
Ronald Vivian had learnt from his mother what a woman can
he in meekness, self-devotion, endurance, and faith; and not
all those terrible scenes into which he had since been plunged,
had sufficed to eradicate the impression. Still the best resolu-
tions of the present, and the strongest wishes for the future,
were formed from the images of the past. In Bertha Camp-
bell, and Ella, and Rachel, he saw, or fancied he saw, his
mother's virtues reflected; and when he tended the sick boy
on his suffering bed, he acted over again iu imagination the
scenes so deeply imprinted on his memory when his mother
had in like manner watched over him.
It was a marvellous power which could thus keep before
him a standard of goodness so infinitely beyond anything
actually present to his eyes. Bertha was wanting in his
mother's grace and tact; and Ella, be could sometimes discover,
was wayward ; and Rachel was too young and seen too seldom
to exercise any very direct influence ; but to Ronald they were
beings of a superior order. They had the refinement and
delicacy — the soft voices and the gentle consideration of
manner — with which all his better feelings were associated ;
and when disgusted by the coarseness and freedom of the
rough men with whom he was so often brought in contact, his
thoughts reverted to them with a feeling almost superstitious
in its reverence, — as if they, and such as they, alone prevented
this earth from sinking to the horrors of Pandemonium.
And thus it was, from the longing to escape from the
scenes he loathed into a purer atmosphere, that the care of
little Barney had become Ronald's solace, as ofi'ering a vent
for his pent-up yearnings, — a duty which would associate him
with those who were as his better angels, pointing him the
way to Heaven. When he found that Bertha and Rachel
Lester were interested in the sick child, his work became
ennobled : when he could act with them, or for them, in any
plan which they might have for Barney's gratification, it was
as though he had been raised above his natural sphere, and
higher, purer pleasures and hopes were being placed before
CLEVE HALL. 313
him ; and in this spirit he had begun, and for a time carried
on, his visits to the child. But a still deeper blessing, though
yet an earthly one, was in time granted him. Love he must,
in some form, either in remembrance, or reality, or hope.
Whilst he lived alone with his coarse-minded father he had
loved the memory of his mother, and it was long before he
could persuade himself that any other affection could be vouch-
safed him. But the possibility dawned upon him as a star
rising upon the darkness of night, whilst he watched by the
sick bed of Barney Wood. His father might be harsh and
repelling ; Bertha might be too far above him for every-day
sympathy; Ella and Rachel had interests quite removed from
his ; but there was one face which always brightened when he
drew near ; one little voice which never failed to entreat in
longing accents for his return ; one eye which had learnt to
know when he was sorrowful, to look lovingly and anxiously
for his smile ; and the pent-up fountain of Ronald's heart was
touched by the loving hand of a child's sympathy, and the
affection which had hitherto exhausted itself in regret, or been
dried up by the scorching furnace of sin, gushed forth pure
and free to revive the drooping spirit of the boy, and be in
turn refreshed and strengthened itself.
It was now very nearly Christmas, and Greystone Gorge,
inviting though it might seem in its wild loneliness beneath
the beauty of a summer sky, looked mournfully dreary under
the dark atmosphere of a December afternoon. There was
not even the excitement of frost and snow ; the sky was a
cold, hard gray, and though the sun tried to break through it
at intervals, it had but little power; the thin coating of turf
had become brown ; the fern leaves were dry and withered ;
the straggling bushes seemed only fit to burn ; all was faded,
and the cottage itself had a mournful, neglected appearance.
Barney had long ceased to enjoy being laid upon a mattrass
out of doors, though he was generally drawn every day over
the few paces of level ground in his little carriage. Bertha
and Rachel had provided him with a thick wrapping-shawl,
and Ronald had brought him a sailor's coat to put over hi in,
so that he could be kept tolerably warm ; but since the winter
had set in he had taken up a position on a small couch by the
wide open hearth, and when he did go out, could bear the
fatigue only fur a few minutes. He was left very much to
himself. An old woman who lived in a cottage lower down
the Goree was hired to take daily care of Mark's household,
14
314 CLEVB HALL.
but it was very little attention -which the suffering child
obtained from her. She dressed him roughly, (hen laid him
on his couch, and proceeded to her household work; scolding
Barney it" he interrupted her, and now and then reproaching
him with having so many friends that he wanted for nothing.
A grown-up person understands such a trial, and sutlers
from it; a child happily scarcely does, and Barney was quite
contented when he was left with his picture book, and his
scissors and paper, whether Mother Brewer, as the old woman
was called, attended to him or not. He would occupy himself
for hours together with them, whilst his brothers and sisters
were at school ; and when they returned, though it was fretting
to be disturbed, there was excitement and interest in hearing
all they had done; and they were not at all rough with him,
and his father was especially tender ; altogether Barney was
not an unhappy child, and his little wizen face, though thin
and sharp from illness, could brighten up with a smile which
often became a hearty laugh, when Ronald told droll stories or
the children amused him with their games.
He was looking out for llonald this afternoon, fancying it
a long time since he had seen him ; and he had persuaded the
old woman to move his couch to the opposite side of the
hearth, and to leave the door partly open, that he might hear
the first sound of footsteps. So he sat half upright, cutting
pieces of paper into strange figures which he called men and
women, and making a game of them for his own amusement,
all the time fully on the alert for what might be approaching.
" Such a litter ! there's no end to the work," grumbled
Mother Brewer, as she picked up the shreds of paper which,
in a sudden move, Barney had scattered upon the floor.
" Why can't you keep quiet, child, eh ?"
" He's not coming yet," was Barney's reply, — giving vent
to his own thoughts, without noticing the angry tones to which
he was so well accustomed. He laid down his scissors, and
listened again.
" Well ! and what's the use of an imp like you fussing?
He'll come if he can, and if he can't he can't. I won't have
you lie there with the door open much longer."
Barney strained his neck to try and look round the door.
The old woman gave him a tap on the shoulder, sufficient
to startle, not to frighten him. " Lie quiet, can't you? Don't
you know the doctor says you must."
" "lis Captain John, and father, and grandfather, 'tisn't
CLEVE HALL. 315
Ronald," said Barney. His face changed its expression; he
would have cried if he had not been ashamed.
" What sharp ears the child has ! 1 don't hear any one."
The old woman went to the door. " Oh ! yes, there they be ;
we must move you, my master ;" and she drew the child's
couch back to the wall, placing him in a position where, even
if the door were open, he could see nothing. " No crying ;
don't let's have any fuss; father will beat you, if you cry."
The threat was disregarded, for Barney had never experienced
a beating; but he was very quiet, and self-controlled, and
shrank up into a corner of his little couch, and turned his face
away, as though he longed to escape notice.
The three men came into the room together; Captain Vi-
vian first, Goff following him with the air of an equal. Mark
Wood lingered behind ; and when he did enter, went up at
once to his child's couch, and patted his head.
" "We don't want you, mother," was Goff's uncivil greeting
to the old woman, who instantly left the cottage; " and we
don't want him neither, eh, Mark ?" he pointed to the child.
Mark looked at his boy for a moment. " No fear for him ;
here Barney, child, cut the Captain out a wolf;" and he tossed
him a scrap of paper. " 'Tis a fuss to move him ; it gives him
pain, and besides we've no time to lose."
" No, that's for certain ; your young fellow will be upon us
before long, Captain ; so now to work."
They withdrew to a distant corner, and carried on the con-
versation in an under tone. Goff began : " You're in for it,
Mark, remember."
Mark gave rather a sullen assent.
"And in for a good fifty pounds," said Captain Vivian,
jocosely. " Why Mark, my man, you'll be off to America
upon it."
Mark replied as gravely as before : " I should like to un-
derstand the work, though, better, Captain. I see no good
in a man's undertaking a job till he see where it will lead
him to."
"Folly!" interrupted Goff. "Haven't I told you 'twill
lead nowhere? The young gentleman's up to a frolic, and
wc are "-oins; to help him to it, that's all. But we'll have none
of this nonsense. Do you mean to keep your word, that s the
question ?"
Mark hesitated.
" It's my own relation, my own flesh and blood, as you maj
810 CLEVE IIALL.
Bay," observed Captain Vivian, more gently. "I'm not likely
to go in any way against one of my own kin. He and 1 are
the best friends possible. It's only a boy's lark."
" And the fifty pounds has nothing to do with it," conti-
nued GofF, observing Mark's perplexed countenance; "that's
for the other work, you know. Land your cargo sale, and then
come and hold out your hand for the money. The boy's affair
has nothing to do with that."
" And it's not against the young gentleman's will ?"
" Not a whit, not a whit, man. And if the parson's up in
arms, why we know how to laugh at him."
The allusion was an unfortunate one. Mark Wood might
neglect Mr. Lester's advice, but he respected him extremely.
" I've no fancy to go against the parson," he replied. " He's
been a kind friend to me and mine ; and if I've sometimes
gone contrary to him, more shame to me."
" Of course, of course. But the boy's not going to be a
parson ; so where's the use of keeping him tied up as they
do. Besides, Mark, my man," — and Captain Vivian, resting
his hands upom his two knees, bent forward and fixed upou
Mark a gaze of stern penetration and defiance — "once ours,
always ours. Who is it the Preventives would give their
right hand to catch? and who may we give up to them in a
moment, eh ?"
Mark's countenance changed. The threat implied would,
he knew, be executed without remorse if the occasion offered.
Once suspected by his comrades, he would on the first oppor-
tunity be left to the vigilance of the coast-guard, even if no
deeper revenge were taken.
" It's not I that am wishing to draw back, Captain," he
said, in a more yielding tone. " I've gone far enough with
you, as you know, — too far, it may be," he added, in a lower
voice; "but no matter for that. Sink or swim together is a
needs be, when men have done what we have in company.
But I've no will to drag others in, specially a youngster who
is only just beginning to know his right hand from his left."
" Trust him for that !" exclaimed Goff, bursting into a loud
laugh. " He's as cunning a bird as any in England. But
put aside all that rubbish, Mark, and tell us plainly, once for
all — will or nill ? that's the question. Down on the beach
with a quick, firm oar, to-night at half-past seven, or" — his
voice sank ominously — " wandering like a skulking wretch,
CLEVE HALL. 317
afraid to meet his bold comrades? Come, man, I thought
better of you."
" Arid his life is safe, you are sure ?" said Mark.
" Life ! safe ! Why man, you are enough to drive a saint
frantic, let alone Richard Goff. I tell you it's a question of
fun. He'll be taken out safe and brought back safe; and
then, won't we turn round and have a laugh at the parson ?"
" 'Twill be the third night I shall have been away from
him," said Mark, pointing with one finger to his child.
" Oh ! he ! nonsense ! the old woman will take care of him,
and thankful. He's not in your way."
" And we are to be away, how long?"
" How can I tell ? It's according to what time you'll want.
Just take your work, man, as it's given you, and don't trouble
about anything else. You're not in command yet; when you
are, you'll know more about it."
Captain Vivian rose and went to the door. " I don't see
my boy yet," he said ; " but he'll surely be here soon. We
must have no more trifling."
" There's no disobeying you, Captain," replied Mark, sur-
" To be sure not," said Goff, in a cajoling tone. " What
would you be without the Captain, I should like to know ?"
"Very different from what I am," muttered Mark to him-
self; and then he added, more loudly, " I must understand
what's to be done clearly. To-night, at half-past seven ?"
" Ay, down on the beach, in the West Cove, by the Point,"
replied Goff.
" And the vessel waiting outside," added Captain Vivian.
" Then, when we and the young one come down," conti-
nued Goff, " we shall put him on board ; and you are to haul
off to the bark. When you are there, your business will be
done as to orders, and you'll have nothing to think of but your
own old concerns."
" And he is to go with us, then, across seas?"
" Yes, just for the sail. He'll be back with you."
"And we to show him all our sport? That seems folly
enough," said Mark. " Why, he'll turn sharp upon us when
he gets back."
" Never you trouble your head with that matter," said
Goff. "We are Dot going to let him see an inch beyond his
nose if we don't choose; and one way you may make special
318 CLEVE HALL.
use of him, — if the sharks are after you, put him first, and
scr if good doesn't come of it."
Mark gave a start of horror. " Put him first! into dan-
ger? — why Goff, you are a scoundrel."
"Thanks for your good opinion," said (luff, carelessly;
" I'm not more a scoundrel than my neighbors, only 1 speak
out, and they keep in. But I'm not saying the boy's to be
put in danger, — only put first. Let the sharks know who he
is, and there's feeling enough for the old General to keep them
from doing him harm. And if they catch him, 'tis but an
hour or two's rough handling for him. He's not such a ten-
der chicken for that to hurt him. Come, trust me, Mark,"
he continued, seeing his companion's changing and undecided
expression. " You've never got into mischief yet by trusting
me."
"Pshaw! what signifies urging?" exclaimed Captain Vi-
vian, impatiently. "If he won't do it, there are a dozen
others who will. And we shall know whero to look for our
friends for the future."
" And wc shall have thfc boy with us, at all hazards," con-
tinued Goff. "We are not going to be balked of our plans
by a downhearted fool, who hasn't a spark of fun in him."
The observation seemed to strike Mark in a new light.
"You are bent upon it, then?" he said.
" Ay, to be sure. Who ever knew Richard Goff take a
plan into his head, and give it up?" And Goff laughed
loudly and harshly.
Mark considered.
" A loss of fifty pounds," muttered Captain Vivian.
Mark glanced at his child, who was sitting up on his couch,
his large black eyes sparkling with eagerness as he fixed them
upon his father. Probably he feared to attract notice to the
boy, for the look was but momentary; and then he said, more
boldly, "Fifty pounds paid down?"
" Sterling gold, if you will," said Goff.
" Fifty pounds, which will go a pretty long way towards
paying the old General the rent of the cottage and the laud,"
said Captain Vivian.
" And which if you don't have, you must needs go forth
to wander where you can," pursued Goff.
A second quick glance at the child : — perhaps imagination
pictured the little fellow's grief in having to give up the only
home he had ever known, — perhaps there were images of by-
CLEVE HALL. 319
gone days and past happiness rising up before Mark Wood.
It would be a terrible trial to leave the cottage in the Gorge ;
but so it must be, unless the rent of the house and the land
could be paid before another month was over. His faltering
resolution was betrayed by the question, again repeated, —
" You are sure the boy's life is safe ?" to which Goff replied
by shaking his hand violently, and exclaiming, " As safe as
yours or mine, man ! and what would you want more V He
laughed again, so did Captain Vivian. Mark Wood only re-
plied sullenly, — " Then the matter's settled, and we'll say no
more."
He took up his hat, intending to leave the cottage. Goff
followed him to the door, looked out, and dragged him back.
''Hist! I say; not a word to the youngster; he's coming.
Captain, it's time for us to be off. Where's your back outlet,
Mark ?" He tried a little door near Barney's couch. Mark
went up slowly and opened it.
" Not a word, remember," said Captain Vivian, in a low,
hurried voice, — he slipped half-a-crown into Mark's hand, —
"I am glad we caught you at home; but remember, not a
word."
They passed through the little door, whilst Mark sat down
on a chair by the deal table, and, resting his elbows upon it,
buried his face in his hands.
-«5»-
CHAPTER XXXVII.
" 4 RE they gone, father ?" Barney's voice broke suddenly
_£1_ upon Mark Wood's meditations.
" Ay, I suppose so. What do you want, child ?"
"Grandfather speaks out so, and Captain John's wicked;
I wish they wouldn't come here."
" That's a bad boy, to say so. We'll have Mother Brewer
back ;" and Mark stood up.
"Ronald's coming; I don't want Mother Brewer," said
Barney.
li Ronald won't come; nobody won't come, if you talk like
a bad boy. There, go to your cutting and clipping again."
•320 CLEVE HALL.
Mark tossed him a piece of paper from a quantity which Ra-
chel had provided for his amusement.
Barney scarcely noticed the gift; but as his father still
stood moodily by the window, he continued, " Mother Brewer
says Captain John makes folks wicked."
" Idiot ! what does she know?" Mark turned angrily upon
his little hoy; and the child, frightened at the expression of
his eyes, began to cry. The father's heart softened. "There,
leave off; don't fuss, Barney, boy; don't whimper; take to
your cutting, and we won't have Mother Brewer back. And
here's Ronald; you'll be glad to see Ronald." He placed the
child more comfortably on his couch, gave an uneasy glance
round the room, wishing to be certain that no traces of his
recent visiters were left, and went to the door just as Ronald
same up.
" Good-day to you, Mark; how's Bamey?" Ronald's open
face, and manly, good-humored v6ice, were a great contrast to
Mark's clouded brow, and sullen tone of half welcome.
" The boy's nigh the same, thank you, Master Ronald.
You'll be going in, I suppose ?" and Mark moved aside, to let
Ronald pass.
" There's no one in, is there ?" asked Ronald, stopping.
" I thought I saw some one moving about in the back yard."
" Mother Brewer's been here, but she's gone home for a
bit," was the evasive answer.
" I thought Goff might have been here, or my father; they
were before me some way on the hills. But I suppose they
turned off to the Point."
" I suppose so. Will you please to walk in? The child
will be glad enough to see you." Then recollecting himself,
and remembering that Barney would be sure to mention the
visit he had just bad, he added, — " The Captain and Goff
were here for a bit; but they're off now; I don't know
where."
Ronald had early been taught the watchfulness engendered
by guilt and suspicion; even these few words of Mark's,
showing an unwillingness to mention Captain Vivian's visit,
gave him the clue to something not satisfactory. He would
have asked some cpuestions, but Mark was evidently unwilling
to stay and talk. He muttered a few words about business
and waste of time, and again begging Ronald to go in, for
Barney would be mighty glad to see him, he walked aw.y
with a lounging, idling step.
CLEVE HALL. 321
Ronald went up to Barney's couch, and the child threw
his arms round him, and kissed him, but without speaking.
" That's enough ! Why Barney, my man, I shall he
stifled!" Ronald laughed, and tried to disengage himself,
but the child still clung to him.
" I like you to come. I don't like Captain John ; and
Mother Brewer says he's wicked ; but father won't let me say
it." He stopped suddenly, catching the expression of Ro-
nald's face : — " Is it naughty in me to say it?"
" Captain John is my father, Barney," said Ronald.
" He ain't a bit like you ; and father is like me," continued
Barney.
" All fathers and sons aren't alike, Barney; but what made
you think of Captain John V-
" 'Cause he's been here ever so long, and grandfather, and
father; they've been talking."
" What, this morning ? A long time ?"
" Ever since Mother Brewer moved me up in the corner.
Captain John doesn't speak out, like grandfather."
" And they let you stay here?"
"Father said 'twas a trouble to move, and they hadn't
time; and he gave me this" — Barney held up his paper — ■
" to cut out a wolf for Captain John ; but I didn't cut — I lis-
tened 1" His brilliant eyes were fixed with keen intelligence
upon Ronald.
"But, Barney, they didn't mean you to listen; that was
wronsr."
"They talked out sometimes," said Barney, quickly.
" Grandfather made most noise."
" And they went away just before I came, I suppose ?"
said Ronald.
" Just a bit before. Father was cross then."
" Barney, Barney, what does Mr. Lester tell you ?"
" I ain't to say father's cross. I won't say it, but he is."
" But you do say it; and that's naughty. You must try tc
be dutiful. I've told you so often."
"Captain John's cross to you sometimes, ain't he?" said
Barney.
A perplexing question ! Ronald replied to it, indirectly,
" He tells me when I don't please him."
"Then, ain't you dutiful?"
Ronald's countenance changed, and Barney's quick eye
noticed it, " When father's cross I don't like him," he said;
o2-2 CLEVE HALL.
"that's naughty of nic; but you always like Captain John,
don't you V
"We mustn't talk about liking our parents 3 we must like
them anyhow," said Ronald.
Barney seemed perplexed j but presently he went on:-—
•• Mr. Lester says that God likes good people; must we liko
wicked ones ?"
Ronald made no answer; bis bead was turned aside, and a
large tear was rolling down bis ebeek.
Barney caught bis band, and forced him to look at him.
" Why do you cry? I didn't mean to make you cry!" he
siid. "Is it 'cause Captain John's wicked ?"
" Because I am wicked myself, too, Barney;" and Ronald
brushed his hand across his eyes, and tried to smile.
" Miss Campbell and Miss Rachel think you very good,"
said Barney. "They say if I go to Heaven, that you'll go,
too. I asked them one day; for I shouldn't like to go alone."
"Miss Campbell and Miss Rachel may wish me to go to
Heaven, but they can't tell that I shall," said Ronald; "and
we must be very good, indeed, you know, Barney, to go
there."
"That's why I shan't go, then," said Barney, quickly;
"'cause I don't like father when he's cross."
" Rut you know you must say your prayers, and ask God
to forgive you, Barney, when you've been so naughty; and
then perhaps he will let you go to Heaven still."
'• Is that what you do?" asked the child, with a strangely
inquisitive expression in his worn face.
Ronald hesitated ; but Rarney was determined upon obtain-
ing his answer. " Ho you say prayers when you are naughty ?
Is it ' Our rather', you say V He would not let Ronald move,
but kept bis hand closely clasped between his own small, long
fingers.
" Yes, sometimes. People don't always say the same prayer,
you know, Rarney," was Ronald's answer.
" I like ' Our Father' best," continued the child, " because
Miss Campbell says it's God's prayer; but I don't say it when
I am naughty. I say, ' Pray God, forgive me, and make me
ft good boy, for Jesus Christ's sake.' Is that what you say ?"
" Something like it, sometimes;" — Ronald still hesitated.
" I'm glad you say it. I like you to say the same things
as me. Rut then you aren't naughty when Captain John's
cross. What makes you naughty ever?"
CLEVE HALL. 323
«
A grout, great many things, I am afraid," said Ronald.
" But tell me what ; I want to know."
" I couldn't tell you ; you wouldn't understand."
"Shouldn't I?" A look of thought came over his face
"When I'm a man, then, I shall understand; but I don't
want to be a man."
" Don't you, Barney ? Why not ?"
" Men are wicked," said Barney. " Wicked's worse than
naughty."
" Oh ! Barney, Barney ! who taught you anything about
wickedness?"
" Father taught me some, and Mother Brewer. She topes
1 shan't be like father, nor grandfather, nor Captain John,
nor any of them ; and so I say in my prayers, — ' Please God
take me out of this wicked world.' Do you say that too ?"
Something seemed to rise up in Ronald's throat, to choke
his utterance.
Barney kept his eyes fixed upon him intently, and, obtain-
ing no answer, said, half reproachfully, — " You wouldn't like
to go."
" Shouldn't I ? Oh, Barney, if I were but sure !" The
words escaped apparently without intention ; for, the moment
afterwards, Ronald added, — "Never mind me though; you
are sure."
" I ain't," said the child, quickly. " Miss Campbell tells
me to say, ' through Jesus Christ,' to make sure ; and you can
say it too."
Ronald half smiled. " Yes, I can say it certainly ; but
saying's not everything. You'll know that, fast enough, Bar-
ney, when you're a man."
" I shan't never be a man ; but I know about that now,"
was the grave answer.
" What do you know?" Ronald sat down by the couch,
and leant over the child fondly.
" I know He got us the place, and made it all ready for
us ; and if we say our prayers properly, and try not to cry and
be cross, He'll give it us."
" But if we don't say our prayers prorerly, and are cross,
what then, Barney ?" and the sorrowful tone struck upon the
Child's ear, though he could not comprehend its meaning.
" Somebody else will take our place," he said, with a scru-
tinizing look, which seemed to inquire whether Ronald could
possibly be alluding to himself.
324 CLEVE HALL.
"And we shall bo punished," paid Ronald.
"You won't be," said Barney, "because you say your
prayers when you are naughty."
" Ah ! but Barney, that isn't everything. If we don't do
right, we deserve to be punished."
" Parson Lester says He was punished for us," said Bar-
ney, quickly. Ronald made no answer, and Barney continued :
— " Parson Lester told me that one day after Pd had a dream ;
and I thought Gcd was going to put me down into a deep
dirk place, 'cause I'd called father cross. He said that if
I'd say my prayers, and try to be a better boy, God wouldn't
punish me, because Jesus Christ had been punished for me.
It was very kind of Him to be punished, wasn't it?"
" Yes, very kind; but still, if we don't try to be good, we
shall be punished," said Ronald.
Barney looked up rather impatiently : — " But I don't like
to think about being punished, — I like to think about being
good ; and Jesus Christ loves me, and so He won't punish me."
" Oh, yes, indeed, Barney, He will ; if you are naughty."
" But lie won't if I try not to be naughty. Mother Brewer
was scolding me last time Miss Campbell was here, and she
said she wasn't to scold me, 'cause I was trying; and so, if I
try, God won't scold me. And I do try," headded, looking
earnestly at Ronald's face; " I didn't cry once all day yester-
day."
" There's a good little man ; I'm glad to hear that;" and
Ronald stroked the child's head.
" And He loves me then, don't you think so ? Miss Camp-
bell says He does, and 3Iiss Rachel said He loved me better
than you do. Does He ?"
" Ah ! Barney, yes, I know He must; but I love you verj
much."
"And I love you with all my heart;" and Barney raised
himself suddenly, and tried to reach Ronald's head, that he
might bend it down to kiss him. " I love you now, and I
mean to love you when I get to Heaven ; and then by-and-by
you'll come there. I'm sure there's the place ready, with
your name upon it "
Ronald looked away, and busied himself with replacing
the child's cushions. When he spoke again, it was to make
some trifling observation.
^ Barney was perplexed ; presently he said, in a low, almost
frightened voice, as if conscious that he was venturing upon
CLEVE HALL. 325
forbidden ground, " I should like to know whose name's there,
besides. Do you think Captain John's is ?"
Ronald could bear it no longer; and, careless of the child's
presence, he leant his forehead upon the arm of the couch, and
groaned.
" Dou't take on; what's the matter? Please don't take
on," said Barney. "I dare say he'll be there," he added,
seizing upon the point the most likely to have caused such
distress. " Don't take on," he continued, trying to draw away
Ronald's hand, and force him to raise his head. But Ronald
did not look up for many moments ; his countenance was so
haggard, when he did, that the poor child gazed on him with
alarmed amazement.
" If Captain John says his prayers he'll have his place
there, too," he said, timidly. " And we'll ask God to teach
him his prayers, shall we ? I'll ask it every day, if you will."
Ronald bent down and kissed him with a woman's tender-
ness. " Barney, will you ? I shall like that."
"Shall you? I like to do what you like. I can say it when
I pray God to bless father, and grandfather, and brothers, and
sisters, and Ronald." He paused, then added, — "I never
forget that ; one day I asked if you might have the place next
mine, so I dare say you will; and 'twill be so happy."
It was a strange, thrilling feeling which those few words
created in Ronald's breast ; he could scarcely call it hope, and
yet it was hope : even when he felt that they were but the ex-
pression of a child's affection, touching upon subjects immea-
surably beyond its comprehension. They were so vivid, so
undoubting; the faith was scarcely to be called faith, it was
reality; and it is this which our dim-seeing, earthly minds
require to give them strength.
A smile reassured Barney, and made him feel that the
cloud had passed away; and suddenly, with a child's quick
forgetfulness of the serious questions which had been occupy-
ing his mind, he insisted upon Ronald's sitting down by him
to show him how to cut out some curious figures which he had
promised him. All his thoughts were turned into that channel,
except at intervals, when any sudden noise made him look up
timidly. He was evidently afraid of the usual visiters at the
cottage, at last he begged Ronald to go to the back yard and
see if Captain John was there. " I shouldn't like him to ha
out there," he said; "perhaps he'd stay there all night."
32(5 CLEVE HALL.
"Oh, Barney, how silly! People don't stay out of doofp
all eight ; and if he did, lie wouldn't do you any harm."
" People do stay out all night," replied Barney, quickly.
'• Father's going to be out to-night."
" To-night ? What for ? What do you mean ?"
" Mother Brewer's coming here; grandfather said she'd do
for me."
" I don't understand. Do for you?"
" Father's going away," continued Barney ; " but he doesn't
like it."
Ronald's interest was excited ; but he said, without express-
ing the least surprise, " Was that what father, and grandfather,
and Captain John, were talking about?"
" They made a great hushing and whispering up in the
corner; I couldn't hear."
" But you heard something?" Ronald's voice was tremu-
lously eager.
" I heard grandfather say Mother Brewer should come
when father was gone in the boat. They didn't stand here;
they were out by the door."
"The boat? oh!" And Ronald's interest sank, for he
thought it was only some smuggling scheme which had been
planned.
" Is it anything wicked, do you think ?" continued Barney;
" 'cause father doesn't want to go."
" I can't tell. Was that all you heard ?"
The question was too direct. The boy had been trained
to silence, though he often forgot his lesson ; and now, recol-
lecting himself, he said, " I mustn't tell any more ; father
won't let me ; he'll beat me, he says, if I do ever tell what I
hear."
" But, Barney, if I want to hear, — if it is of great con-
sequence that I should, — you would tell me then ?" Ronald's
conscience reproached him, as the words were uttered. lie
corrected himself quickly, and added, " But never mind, never
mind. When is Mother Brewer coming back?"
" I don't know. You aren't going ?"
"Perhaps so; I think I must. Which way did Captain
John go, Barney ?"
" Out at the back yard. D'ye think he's there now ?"
The old, frightened look returned.
"No, no; lie quiet. There's nobody."
CLEVE HALL. 327
"There is somebody; I hear him. Oh! Ronald, won't
yon look ?"
" Barney, that's naughty, I tell you there's no one ; only — "
he stepped to the window; — "yes, can't you see? I'll move
you; — now, look out at the door, across the Gorge: who's
that coming? Some one you'll be glad to see, I'll answer
for it."
The child stretched his neck forward, so as to catch a
glimpse of the pathway up the Gorge. His eyes sparkled
with delight, " Miss Campbell and Miss Rachel !" he exclaimed,
" and the young gentleman, too, and the little ladies !"
"What, Clement?" Ronald hurried to the door. The
party were drawing near. Ronald returned again to the
child : — " You are sure, Barney, that grandfather and Captain
John are gone."
" They went out at the back, you can see." Barney paid
but little attention to the question; his interest was given to
the new arrivals.
Ronald quietly opened the back door, and went into the
scullery, and from thence into what was called the yard. It
was shut in by the hills, which rose immediately behind the
cottage, but there was no regular enclosure. Nothing was to
be seen from it, but the precipitous banks which formed the
head of the Gorge; bare, and desolate, and scattered over with
large loose stones and rocks. Upon one of these rocks Ronald
mounted, and gazed around with the quick sight of one who,
from infancy, had been tutored to vigilance. At some distance
was the track which led from the secluded Gorge to the open
common between Cleve and Encombe, and from thence to the
headland of Dark Head Point. Along this path one figure
Mas to be seen ; it looked like Mark Wood ; but no one else
was near, except the party just arrived from Encombe. He
heard their voices ; the children and Clement were running
races, — Bertha trying to keep them quiet, lest they should
come too suddenly upon Barney. They seemed all in high
spirits. Rachel was with them; and her laugh especially,
with its sweet ringing tone, came distinctly to the ear. Ronald
watched, and listened ; and the feeling, painfully morbid,
which so often checked him in his happiest moments, riveted
him to the spot. What was he, that he should attempt to
mingle with those so much beyond him; — whose innocence
and ignorance of sin he could never hope to attain ? He left
the rock, and walked a few paces away from the house, to a
328 CLEVB HALL.
smooth bit of turf, almost the only level spot near. Hia
inclination was to go away, without being seen, but there were
Other restraining feelings, one especially, which he could not
account for; a dread, — a thought that he must remain near as
a guard, though why, or for what purpose, he could not rea-
sonably tell. He waited till they had entered the cottage, and
then sat himself down on the further side of the rock, upon
which he had been standing, till he could quiet the tumult of
his feelings, and summon courage to meet them.
There was an intense stillness immediately around him.
The sea-gull, the enly living creature to be seen, was winging
his flight towards the ocean noiselessly, and not even the tink-
ling of a sheep-bell broke upon the wintry quietness. And
yet Ronald listened ; and as he listened he heard the closing
of a wicket-gate, wbich gave admission to the small plot of
ground near the cottage, cultivated as a garden. It startled
him, and his impulse was to stand up and look round ; but he
did not stand, he only moved so as to see without being seen.
Two men passed from the back yard into the garden, one was
Captain Vivian, the other was Goff. They stood and spoke
together for a few moments ; then Captain Vivian went down
the Gorge; and Goff — Ronald did not see what became of
him, but when he looked again he was gone.
There was no shyness nor morbid fancifulness in Ronald's
mind now; his thoughts were distracted from himself; they
were set upon suspicion — very incoherent, but still enough to
quicken his perceptions. Yet his only definite idea was, that
Goff was lingering about in the hope of meeting Clement,
and that, by watching, he could be a safeguard. This idea
made him go at once to the cottage, walk round it, ascend the
hills a few steps to look about, and then go through the yard
and the scullery, glancing quickly and carefully around. He
could not see any one; but the door of the scullery (which
Ronald remembered to have shut behind him, fearing the
draught for Barney) was open, — an indication that some one
had gone out since himself. As far as he could tell, no one
was there when he went through, yet he could not feel quite
sure. The scullery was large, for so small a cottage, crowded
with things which did not all belong to Mark Wood, — several
casks, and boxes, and an old mahogany chest, which were
Goff's property; and it was dark, lighted only by one little
window, and that dimmed by the hill rising behind the cot-
tage; a person might easily have been overlooked, standing in
CLEVE HALL. 329
the farthest corner. Perhaps that might have been the case
before; but there was no one there now, Ronald made quite
sure of that ; and then he fastened the door in the inside, and
entered the outer apartment.
Bertha had taken Barney in her lap, and was showing him
a book of prints, which she had brought with her, whilst Ra-
chel, kneeling by her side, watched with eager interest the
expression of the child's face. Clement was playing with
Mark Wood's dog, in front of the cottage ; and Louisa and
Fanny were running up and down the banks.
Barney recognised Ronald's footstep the moment he en-
tered, and called out to him, without any introduction, —
" Here's a beauty, Ronald ! isn't he? And ain't she kind ?"
he added, lowering his voice to an aside, as Ronald came close
to him.
" Very pretty, indeed, Barney. "What a house for you to
live in I" And Ronald drew his attention to the brilliant white
edifice, with yellow and green trees standing behind it, which
formed the frontispiece. He was glad of anything to cover
his shyness, for he was always particularly shy with Bertha
Campbell; she knew so much more of him than any one else
did.
" Barney told me you were gone, Ronald," said Bertha,
giving him her hand with a cordial smile, which said more
than any words.
" And I said I was sure you were not ; that you had only
run away to hide yourself," said Rachel, laughing. " Do you
know, Barney, that Ronald very often tries to hide himself
when he sees us, only he is so tall that his head will peep out,
wherever he is."
"I don't like hiding," said Barney, quickly and bluntly.
" Father and Captain John hide. Ronald went to see after
them."
" They are not here, are they?" Bertha inquired of Ro-
nald.
" I think not ; I believe not." But Ronald's manner was
a little hesitating.
Bertha looked uncomfortable. " I felt sure," she said,
u that we should meet no one here, unless it might be you,
Ronald ; you told me your father was always on the shore at
this time of the day."
" 31 y father is not here, now," replied Ronald. " I sa\i
330 CLEVE II ALL.
him go down the Gorge. Goff, too, I think, is gone; hut ha
has been here."
Bertha turned pule. " lie won't be coining hack, you
think ?"
"I hope not; I don't know what he should come for;"
but as he said this, llonald glanced uneasily at the door.
"Look ! Here's a cow, and two sheep, and a big dog, like
father's Hover! Look! yon must look." Barney drew llonald
towards him impatiently.
l!nt Ronald did not look, his .thoughts were wandering.
" Show them to me, Barney," said Rachel, w T hose quick
tact made her see that both Bertha and Ronald were full of
anxious thoughts. She came close to the child, and turned
over the leaves of the book for him, and began, in her simple
way, to describe the pictures.
"Can't you come out with me for a few minutes ?" said
Bertha, addressing Ronald.
He followed her to the door without speaking; then, as ht,
caught sight of Clement, he went up to him and shook him
heartily by the hand.
" I did not expect to see you here, old fellow," said Clement,
good-humoredly. " I thought you were buried in your books.
What a rage you have for thcin now I"
" I came over to see the child. I come most days when I
can. Have you seen any one go by here just these last few
minutes ?"
" Not a soul. Whom did you expect?"
"I fancied Goff was here, he was just now; but I suppose
he's gone," said Ronald carelessly. " When does Mr. Lester
come back, Clement V
"I don't know. Aunt Bertha is the person to ask."
" He doesn't say when he will come; he may be here any
day," replied Bertha.
" But not to-day ?" said Ronald, quickly.
" No, not to-day, certainly. A friend of his is ill ; that
detains him."
Ronald raised his eyes to hers, and read in her face that
Mr. Lester's absence was a source of anxiety. There was an
awkward pause. Clement began to play with the dog again,
and ran off scrambling up the bank, and trying to make the
animal follow.
Ronald called him back. " Halloa ! Clement, Avon't vou
do something for me?"
CLEVE HALL. 831
Clement could scarcely refuse, but lie came back un-
willingly.
" I've got a word to say to Miss Campbell, but I meant, if
I could, just to have drawn Barney once or twice up and down
the green. He mustn't stay out more than a few minutes.
"Would you mind taking him out for me ? Rachel will wrap
him up."
" It won't do to trust her," said Bertha; "let me go;"
but Ronald prevented her. "Please not; I am sure he will
let Rachel put his coat on. Be off, Clement;" and Clement,
naturally good-natured, and nattered at being trusted, went
into the cottage.
Bertha followed him with her eyes, so did Ronald, till he
was out of hearing ; then he turned anxiously to Bertha, and
Baid: — "I wanted him gone; isn't Mr. Lester coming back
soon ?"
" Soon, but not directly; at least, I can't be sure, Ronald;
why do you ask ?"
" I can scarcely tell. I wish he was here, or that Clement
was away."
"You must have a reason; why don't you tell it me at
once ?" said Bertha, with a slight impatienco in her tone.
"Because it is not a reason — only suspicion — and it may
all be wrong."
"But tell me — tell me — this is mere tormenting;" and
Bertha looked and spoke great annoyance.
Ronald was pained, and his answer was cold : — " The last
thing I should desire is to torment any one, still less Miss
Campbell. My father and Goff keep their plans secret, but
that they have them I don't doubt. It can scarcely have been
for nothing that Gofl brought Clement to the Grange, the
other night."
" To the Grange ? — what 1 — where ?"
" Surely you know. He was there three nights ago."
Then seeing Bertha's countenance change, he went on : —
" There is nothing to alarm you; he only came with Goff, on
his way back from the Hall, and rested there for about a quar-
ter of an hour. Clement may not have thought it worth while
to mention it," he continued, in a tone of exculpation; " he
does not know what I do."
"Unjustifiable! — disgraceful!" began Bertha; and she
looked towards the cottage-door, as though she would at once
have gone to reproach him.
332 CLEVE HALL.
Ronald interrupted her: — " I will ask, for my own sake,
that the matter may pass now. He will feel that I have
betrayed him, and he won't understand my motive."
" So mean ! — so deceitful !" exclaimed Bertha; and, with
a sigh, she added, — " These are the things which make one
feel that one is working fur nothing."
Ronald made no reply to the remark. His attention was
still directed to the cottage.
Bertha considered a little. " I shall write to Mr. Lester,
and tell him that he must return without delay."
"Yes, that will be the best plan — much the best;" and
llonald spoke eagerly and earnestly. " Till he comes " he
paused, not wishing to exaggerate her fears — " I will do my
utmost to keep Clement from the Grange; so, doubtless, will
you."
" Yes, of course. Would he were to be trusted ! But,
Ronald, I may trust you for him."
" I would entreat you to keep him with you," replied
Ronald, gravely. " It may be quite out of my power to help
him."
Bertha's fears were again awakened; and she said, "You
have a motive for speaking in this way, and you are afraid to
tell it me." e .
"No, indeed; I could not fear to tell you anything —
everything. I have a motive — Clement's safety."
Bertha looked around her anxiously, and said, " We had
better go home at once."
" Yes. Not that there is cause for fear now ; so far, at
least, as I know. I dread more Clement's renewed visits to
the Grange ;" and Ronald sighed deeply.
Bertha saw the expression of his face, and read his
thoughts. " Ronald," she said, " I need scarcely tell you
how I thank you."
He stopped her. "Miss Campbell, that can never be
required."
Bertha, without heeding him, continued: — "You will
believe, I trust, that, even if forced hereafter, from circum-
stances, to estrange ourselves apparently, neither Mr. Lester,
Edward Vivian, nor myself, can ever really forget your
noble conduct. We feel that Clement is safe with yi.u as
with us."
" I have a debt to pay," he replied, gloomily. " It is uot
yet discharged."
CLEVE HALL. 333
" The debt is not yours," replied Bertha. " I was unwise
to lay the obligation upon you. Mr. Lester has made rne see
this. Let me entreat you to forget it."
"Forget it!" he exclaimed. "Forget that the name I
bear can never be uttered without a thought of reproach —
that even now I may be reaping the fruits of dishonor ! Miss
Campbell, tell me rather to forget my own existence; to bury
it, as full often I fain would, in the grave !"
" Ronald, this is wild and wrong. Your position is the or-
dering of God's Providence ; and the grave, when we seek it
for ourselves, is not the death of dishonor, but its birth for
eternity."
" Yes, I know it, I know it. But, Miss Campbell, there
are feelings to which you, a woman, — nurtured in innocence,
your name untainted, — must be a stranger. You have never
known that goading feeling for which even Heaven's Mercy
has no cure — disgrace !" The word, as it escaped his lips,
was almost inaudible.
" I may not have known it, Ronald, but I can imagine it,
and feel for it."
" Impossible ! I also once thought I knew it by imagina-
tion," and he laughed bitterly. Then, in a half scornful, half
sorrowful tone, he went on, speaking rapidly : — " There is a
tale — my father read it to me once, when I was a child — he
little thought then that I should find its likeness in my own
history ; — it tells of the living man bound to the dead, and
left to perish in the lonely wilderness. Miss Campbell," —
and his eyes flashed for a moment, and became dim again with
struggling anguish, — "that is disgrace — the dead sin that
clings to the memory — inseparable !"
" But, Ronald, it is not your own disgrace; and, as yet, it
is not disgrace in the eyes of the world."
He smiled grimly. " Who can separate the father and the
son ? When the living man sank beside his dead burden in
the wilderness, there were none to see ; but did he, therefore,
feel its horror the less? The Eye of Heaven is upon him who
is disgraced ; and were it possible for that Eye to be hidden
from creation — were he alone, the one, solitary, living being,
in the vast universe — there would be the eye of his own heart,
from which there can be no escape ! Miss Campbell, do not
try to comfort me ; tell me oidy how I may serve you."
" I will not try to comfort you, Ronald," replied Bertha,
" in your present mood you could not receive comfort. You
33-i CLEVE HALL.
have brooded over your position till its evils have assumed s
giant magnitude. Years, and experience, and Cud's blessing
upon your sincerity, will prove to you that even when disgrace
is irretrievable in the eye of man, it is never so in the sight
of God ; that before him we arc all dishonored, the best even
as the worst; and that repentance, which has restored the one,
can also give the place of honor to the other. It is but human
pride which looks upon any disgrace as indelible before God,
for it is only that which rejects the Atonement that can make
' the sins which arc as scarlet to be even as white as wool.' "
" It may be so; tlm time may come when I may feel it."
" It will come ; I do not doubt it," replied Bertha. " And,
in the mean while, Ronald, there may be means " She
stopped, afraid of being carried away beyond the limits of
prudence.
Ronald waited respectfully, but, finding that the sentence
was not concluded, he said, "What means? For what pur-
pose? There are none which Miss Campbell could suggest
that I should not be too glad to use."
Still Bertha's face expressed doubtfulness; but, after a few
seconds, she replied, " Means of averting public disgrace, I
was going to speak of; but I ought not to name them to you,
except that they may be your father's safety."
" I am willing to hear them," he replied.
" It is but repeating what I have said before," continued
Bertha. " You will, I am sure, understand that, if any influ-
ence of yours could induce your father to own the wrong we
have every reason to believe he has done, Mr. Vivian is the
last person who woidd press a charge against him. If it were
only for your sake, he would overlook everything; he owes
h-.s life to you, and the obligation can never be forgotten.
All that we desire is that any false impression should be re-
moved from General Vivian's mind. Perhaps there would be
less difficulty in bringing him to this point, if he knew that
we may soon be in a position to compel what now we only re-
cpuest."
A cloud of haughty feelings darkened Ronald's counte-
nance, and he turned away. But the feeling was momentary.
He came back again, and said, with stern self-control, "It is
not an easy task to require a son to bring his father to con-
fession."
Bertha looked distressed. " I fear I have done wrong,"
bhe said; "yet I have spoken in the hope of averting greater
CLBVE HALL. 33o
evil. One thing is most certain, that your father's dangei
will be as nothing if he himself will come forward and acknow-
ledge the truth."
" And if he does not ?"
" It may be, I must not say it is, imminent. Oh, Ronald!"
— and Bertha's voice suddenly changed into earnestness most
unlike her usual placidity, — " think, I beseech you, of what I
say ; think of what you may avoid, — for your own sake, for
your mother's sake." He stood by with a face pale as death,
but made no answer. She read the working of his mind : — ■
" Forgive me, forgive me, that I have so grieved you. At
first, when I told you all, I scarcely knew what I was doing;
I longed only to have a friend on our side. I thought you
might do more for us than any other person."
" I will do more. As there is truth in Heaven, I promise
it ; but not against my father's safety."
" Not against it, but for it. Time presses, and events are
hastening on. A few weeks, a few days even, may see Ed-
ward Vivian openly arrayed against your father ; they may
place a barrier, Ronald, between us for ever. I am not speak-
ing from fear or fancy, indeed I am not. If you ever believed
my word, count upon it now, if possible."
He wrung her hand in silence, and, as with one consent,
they both moved towards the cottage.
-••»-
CHAPTER XXXVIII.
THE twilight shades were gathering round the woods of
Cleve ; the heavy trunks and leafless branches were becom-
ing one dark, indistinct mass, above which lurid clouds were
gathering together in the wintry sky, piled into fantastic shapes
of mountains gilded at their crests, and traversed by lines of
fiery light ; and islands floating in seas of liquid gold, appearing
for a moment, and then passing into other forms, and sinking
swiftly, yet almost imperceptibly, into darkness. And in the
library at Cleve, in a heavy arm-chair, covered with crimson
leather, drawn close to the wide hearth, sat Genera] Vivian;
on a low stool at his feel was Ella ; whilst, resting on the sofa
opposite, lay Mildred. The room was dark; yet the dancing
330 CLEVE HALL.
light from the blazing logs flickered along the walls, and seemed
to mingle mysteriously with the departing rays afar in the
westeru sky, which glimmered faintly through the narrow
diamond panes of a window, deeply embayed.
It was an hour for kindly thoughts, — the expression of
those inward feelings which never come forth so freely as when
twilight or darkness veil the changes of the countenance, and
we spe-ak, as it were, to ourselves, not willing to recognise the
shadowy, ghostly forms of the friends who are scarcely visiblo
in the dimness.
A change had come over General Vivian's home since Ella
had become its inhabitant. Months before, he would have
spent that sobering hour in reveries — severe, if not gloomy ;
and Mildred, fearing to intrude upon him unsummoned, would
have used the lingering moments of day in thoughts of quiet
meditation, — blessed indeed, and most soothing, yet solitary,
as regarded aught of communion on earth.
Now they were together, talking little, thinking much, —
and probably very differently, — yet with a certain feeling of
common interest, of added cheerfulness and hope. Ella was
scarcely to be thanked for this : at first, indeed, her presence
had been a restraint; it had fretted the General's conscience,
though he would not acknowledge it ; and he had seized upon
all the weak points in her character, which were many, and
dwelt upon, and exaggerated them. Yet still she was an inte-
rest to him. The lonely, stern mind, which had, for years,
lived to itself, brooding over its own plans, and building up a
tower of self-confidence, was now, in a degree, diverted into
another channel. Even when he found fault with her, he liked
to watch her ; and when he did watch her, his strong sense
of justice assisted him against his prejudices. Ella was im-
proved, under Mildred's guidance; she had made resolutions,
few and simple, but they had been kept ; and this had given
her confidence ; and, of her own accord, she had then ventured
to do more. The General perceived this. Ella was more
punctual at breakfast and dinner, and that pleased him ; she
read steadily, and when he questioned her, the answers brought
out her talent; and, as Mildred had hoped, he began to feel
proud of her. When it was proposed that she should go home,
he felt that he should miss her. Not that he would acknow-
ledge it to himself; the excuse which he made was, that she
was a comfort to Mildred. Yet once it had flashed across his
mind whether it would be possible to keep her with them
CLEVE HALL. 337
always, — he did not say to adopt her, — that would have brought
up the old question of justice ; but without minutely considering
the arrangement, he fancied that she might just as well live
at one place as at the other. And Ella, on her part, was not
without some degree of romantic reverence for her grandfather.
His very faults inspired the feeling. She could see into, and
through, most minds ; she never seemed to reach beyond the
suiface of his. It was a painful fascination at first, and had
sometimes rendered her perverse. She amused herself by
appearing wayward, and expressing strange, wild opinions
before him, and watching their eifect upon him. It was a kind
of play, in which she was the heroine ; but she was baffled by
him. His notice was too slight to be exciting; often she could
not tell whether he even heard what she was saying; and
when, with an absurd self-consciousness, she became more
extravagant, and more wilful, she was put down by a sharp
rebuke, which yet was not felt to be irritating ; for it was the
reproof of a strong, powerful character, given without petu-
lance ; and there is more pleasure than pain in this kind of
subjection, especially to those whose strength is mental, rather
than moral. She became in consequence more gentle and sub-
missive ; and the very difficulty of discovering whether her
grandfather was pleased, or the contrary, gave an interest to
her efforts. There was a little quiet excitement always going
on at the Hall, which afforded a stimulus to her indolence,
and so satisfied her conscience, and put her in better humor ;
and at length, as the consciousness dawned upon her that he
was beginning to like her, came the pleasure of power, — power
over one whom every one else dreaded ; and Ella loved power
dearly, in spite of her indolence. She felt that she could amuse
her grandfather, — that he was interested in her conversation ;
she had that sense of being appreciated, which especially tends
to bring out talent, and this made her exert herself the more.
All these motives were, of course, very mixed, — they could
not, in any way, be depended upon for the steady improvement
of character; but Ella's faults were not those which the labor
of days or weeks, or even of months, could cure; they were
insidious evils, — pride, wilfulness, indolence, — requiring pa-
tience and self-examination, and constant watchfulness ; and
Ella was only just beginning to understand her defects, — how
then could she be expected, all at once, properly to apply the
remedies? Mildred was often obliged to say this to herself,
for Ella was continually disappointing her, — and even her good
15
3o8 CLEVE HALL.
deeds were not seldom alloyed by some taint of the old leaven
Must especially it was difficult to make her sec the effect which
her faults had upon others. Indolence had rendered her selfish,
and selfishness prevented her from putting herself in the posi-
tion of those with whom she lived, and understanding their
feelings. Besides, without being conceited, she had the con-
sciousness of talent which is inseparable from its possession ;
and knowing that she could make herself very agreeable, it
was not easy to believe that she was often just the contrary.
Then, too, her offences, though very tiresome and irritating,
were not the result of wilful malice, if the expression may be
used. She was always wishing to be much better than she
was, and fancied that every one must see this, and understand
it; and so, when she had done wrong, the fault was blotted
from her own memory quickly, because there was no depth of
bad intention in it, and she forgot that without a confession or
an apology, it could not be forgotten by those who witnessed
it. She would be most provokingly disregardful of Mildred's
wishes, and would even speak to her proudly and disrespect-
fully, and then go about her usual occupation as if nothing
had happened, and return to Mildred in perfect good humor,
without, perhaps, the thought once crossing her mind that her
aunt had reason to be annoyed.
Every day made Mildred see more plainly how much
Bertha must have had to bear with in a character so unlikt
her own.
Yet there was an improvement, an obvious one, and Mil
dred was by nature patient and hopeful, and Ella was ver,
young, and had, it was to be trusted, a long life before her fol
the task of self-discipline, and so it was not difficult to give
her encouragement ; and this made Ella's life much happier
than it was at home, and rendered even the silence of the old
Hall more cheerful to her than the mirth of the Lodge.
She was cheerful now as she sat with her grandfather and
aunt in the twilight, ruminating upon her own fancies, and
from time to time venturing to give them forth; and Mildred
had a pleasure in listening to her, even though occasionally
she saw cause to check her.
" Grandpapa, do you and Aunt Mildred never go to Lon-
don V was the question, after a silence rather longer than
usual.
" What should we do in London, child ? We can neither
of us move about."
CLEVE IIALL. 339
" But it would be the world; Enconibe and Cleve are not
the world."
"They form our world/' observed Mildred, "and that
satisfies us."
" But they are not the world, — the real world. It is like
being in a dream living here."
" And you don't like the dream, Ella ?" The General did
not mind asking the question ; he knew he was quite safe as
to the answer.
" Oh, yes, grandpapa, I do. Sometimes I think it is a
dream I should like never to waken from."
The General patted her head, and Ella drew nearer to him.
" But, grandpapa, don't you know what I mean ? There is a
diiference between dreaming and living."
" A wide difference," said Mildred, laughing, "but I should
have thought, Ella, that dreaminess was quite in your way ;
you dou't like active exertion."
" But I like to see it in others," said Ella, " and that is
why I should like to live in London."
" You would soon grow weary of it," remarked the Gene-
ral, shortly.
" Did you, grandpapa ?" The question was an experiment.
Ella often tried to make him talk of his young days. Occa-
sionally he would, but he was very uncertain.
" Yes, too soon for my own good, or for others' pleasure,"
was the reply. " They would have had me live in London,
Mildred," he added, less gloomily. " What would you have
said to that?"
"Not part with Cleve, grandpapa!" exclaimed Ella, inter-
rupting the answer.
"Ay, child, part with it, every acre; sell it, divide it,
scatter it to the winds ; the property which had come down
from generation to generation for the last four hundred years."
It was strange the impulse which made the General revert
to such a subject; perhaps his conscience was never tho-
roughly satisfied as to the course he had taken in life, and so
he tried to talk himself into the conviction that it had been
in all respects a right one. He went on : " We should have
led a different life, Mildred, if we had lived in London. I
might have been a gay cavalier; a courtier; who knows? But
it was a weary life, the little that I saw of it."
"But you never went much into society, did you, sir?"
840 CLEVE IIALL.
asked Mildred, encouraging the conversation, since lie seemed
to cuter into it.
" I had not the means," was the quick reply. " Ella," and
the General turned to his granddaughter, and spoke with sud-
den harshness, " remember that ; whatever you do, never live
beyond your means."
"I have no means, grandpapa." She said it simply, with-
out any purpose, but it had one unconsciously:
The General moved his hand, which had been resting on
her shoulder, and relapsed into silence.
Ella was not aware what she had done. It was too com-
mon an occurrence for a conversation to break off abruptly, to
cause any surprise. She looked into the fire, and made imagi-
nary hills, and rocks, and roads, out of the red coata, and was
quite happy.
Not so Mildred. The spirit of the old times was creeping
over her; she waited anxiously for the General's next words.
" We had better have candles, Mildred." Very little there
was in the words, but very much in the tone.
" Oh, please not, yet, grandpapa," exclaimed Ella. "I was
just in the midst of such a charming story."
" A fireside story, I suppose," said Mildred, relieved by
Ella's having given a turn to her thoughts.
" Yes, a fascinating one. I wish I could make you see it.
There is the pass over the mountains, and the travellers have
just got to the top, and now they are going down the other
side, into such a lovely country. Do, grandpapa, let us have
the fire-light a little longer."
"Waste of time, child;" but the General delayed to ring
the bell.
" Is it ? But why were such fancies given if they are not
to be indulged ?"
" They are very well for children," replied the General.
" Then, grandpapa, please, I am a child."
"There is no doubt of that," said Mildred, laughing.
" You are much worse than either Louisa or Fanny, I suspect,
in your love of stories."
" They won't help you on in the world, Ella," observed the
General. " Trust my word for that."
" But, grandpapa, have you ever tried ? Did you like stories
when you were young ?"
" Real stories; not such as you fancy."
" Stories of things which have really happened," said Ella
CLEVE HALL. 341
in a musing tone. " Perhaps every one's life is a story, if one
could but read it."
" Yes, Ella," — General Vivian spoke with mournful ear-
nestness, — " a story only understood when it is too late to
rectify its blunders ; so I would have you consider it carefully
before it begins."
" Mine is begun, grandpapa."
" Not begun so that it can't be altered, though," observed
Mildred, with something of tremulousness in her voice.
" No person's life is such that it can't be altered," said
Ella.
" Not exactly, but there is a very different feeling about it
as one grows older. It becomes, as it were, fixed ; circum-
stances and relations are formed ; it seems as if one could better
foresee the future. Now your future, Ella, may be "
" Anything," exclaimed Ella, quickly. " I like to think
of it sometimes, it is so exciting; only frightening, too."
The General had been sitting in a musing posture, appa-
rently only half hearing the last words of the conversation.
He broke in upon it, however, here. " Why should it be
frightening, Ella ?"
She hesitated, and the General repeated his question more
peremptorily.
"Because, — I don't quite, exactly know, why, grandpapa;
but we have led a wandering life, and strange things have
happened ; and " a pause and a glance at Mildred. " You
know we can't always live with grandmamma."
Mildred raised, herself, and stretched out her hand to ring
the bell.
" Not yet, Mildred ; we won't have candles yet. You can't
live with your grandmamma, you say, Ella. What change do
you expect ?"
" I don't know, grandpapa. Aunt Mildred," and Ella
looked round for help; "do you think we shall always live
with grandmamma V
" Perhaps not, my love; we had better leave the future."
" Yes, much better, — a great deal better." The General
spoke wry gravely. " Ella, it won't do to make dreams of the
future."
"Aunt Bertha tells me enough to frighten me about it,"
replied Ella ; " she says, when she is angry, that I may have
to wort for my bread."
'■ Oh ; Ella !" the words escaped Mildred involuntarily, and
342 CLBVE HALL.
a sudden movement made it seem that, but for her helplessness
sin' would have sprung from the sola to stop Ella.
" Lei her go on, Mildred; what else does your Aunt Bertha
Bay tn you, Ella?"
" Nothing, — not much else." Ella felt she was trcttimr into
a difficulty.
" She thinks you will have to work for your bread, does
she? Are you prepared for that?"
" I don't know."
"Should you like it?"
"Grandpapa! No. Does any one like it ?"
" Persons with energy don't mind it," said Mildred, rather
sternly.
" Stop, Mildred, don't interrupt her. Should you like it,
Ella?"
"No, grandpapa, I don't think I should." Ella looked up
at him perplexed by the question.
He stirred the lire and spoke at the same time, turning his
head away from her. The accent was low and trembling; it
came from a weary heart : " Would you live here, Ella, with
me, then ; and I would provide for you ?"
A strange, unbroken silence. Mildred could hear the heat-
ing of her own heart, running its rapid race with the ticking
of the quaint old clock in the corner of the room. The Gene-
ral pushed back his chair as though he would rise. Ella felt
the movement, and laid her hand on his knee. " Grandpapa, —
Aunt Mildred, — what must I say ?"
" What you feel, dear Ella," said Mildred.
" The truth," said the General.
"Grandpapa, I should like it, but — oh! Aunt Mildred,
help me;" and Ella rose and went to Mildred's sofa, and knelt
down by her.
" What is it, Ella? Speak, dear child, without fear," she
whispered.
" I can't. I could tell you alone."
Mildred glanced at her father. A clear flame from the fire
cast a bright, yet ominous, light upon his features ; it seemed
to alter them, — to make them look more worn; the haggard
face was set as in a framework of darkness.
" Go to him, and tell him what you mean," whispered Mil
dred to Ella. And Ella looked round at her grandfather, and
shrank from the cold severity of the fixed gaze directed to the
fire. " Ella, he will be angry if you don't," repeated Mildred.
CLEVE HALL. 343
Ella went up to him. " Dear grandpapa, it is very verj
kind of you;" she kissed his forehead. "I should like to
stay here; I am very happy here ; only" — her hesitation was
almost suffocating — " wouid it he right if papa were kept
away ?"
A groan was heard, but the tall figure sat erect, cold, im-
movable ; it might have been a lifeless statue rather than a
living being into whose ear the words were ?Doken.
"Ella, my crutches! Help me, will you?" said Mildred.
Ella gave them to her. " Now, leave us ; I will send for you
when you may come back." And Mildred moved slowly across
the room, and seated herself in a chair which Ella placed for
her by the General's side.
The door was closed, and Ella gone. The General heard
the sound, and slowly turned his head. " Mildred !" — She
laid her hand in his ; her eyes were raised to his face ; she
saw tears streaming down his cheeks. — " My child ! clinging
to me through all !" he murmured.
" To whom else should I cling, my dear, dear father?"
" Whom else, indeed ! We are alone in this world ; even
Ella cannot sacrifice herself to live with us." He said it bit-
terly.
" Hers is a strange nature," replied Mildred. " I should
not have expected such thought."
" It has been her teaching," said the General.
" Or the teaching of nature. Would you like her as well
if she did not feel it V
" She has no cause for it," he replied, abruptly.
" If it were my case, you would expect me to feel it."
" I have not brought disgrace upon you, Mildred." The
General averted his head, and withdrew his hand.
Mildred's heart seemed to rise up in her throat as she
said, " Ella does not see her father's disgrace, dear sir. Nei-
ther, perhaps, do others."
They were bold words. Month after month, and year after
year, since the first outburst of anger, had the father and
daughter dwelt beneath the same roof with that one mutual
sorrow, yet never approaching it, except by distant allusions.
The General replied calmly, his tone and manner so unsha-
ken that it struck .Mildred as something fearful. "■ The world
does think him disgraced, Mildred; though his relations maj
not."
344 CLBVE HALL.
" He did very wrong, sir; his marriage was most unfortu
Date ; indeed, we see it all."
" Only it is not disgrace," he replied, with cold sarcasm.
" Not his marriage, certainly."
"And nut his gambling '! — his friendship with that rascal,
John Vivian ? Mildred, Mildred I" — he put his face close to
hers and lowered his voice — " I know, if yon do not ; he dis-
honored my n'-me once; and I would have it blotted for ever
from the earth rather than trust him to dishonor it again."
Still Mildred's voice was gentle, though earnest. "I am
aware I don't understand it all, sir."
" No, you don't understand ; no one does nor can. And I
have borne all; — Mr. Lester's strictures, your sorrow, my
friends' judgments — all — all I have endured rather than tell"
— his voice changed suddenly, it became fiercely eager — " but
Avould you know it, Mildred? Stall I show you what your
brother was ? what he could do?" He stood up, pushed aside,
his chair, and turned to the ebony escrutoire which was close
to it. Mildred gave him a taper; he lighted it, and, with an
unsteady hand, tried the lock. The taper went out; here-
lighted it, opened the cabinet, drew out some small drawers,
searched in them, then put his hand to his head, trying to
recollect, and searched again.
" Your private papers are in the upper box, sir," Mildred
ventured to say.
" Yes, yes." He was impatient at the suggestion, but he
took down the box. The light of the taper was faint, and he
could scarcely see by it, but Mildred did not venture to pro-
pose ringing for a lamp.
The General, however, did so himself, and till it was
brought, sat silent in the arm-chair.
" Put the little table near me, Greaves, and that box upon
it." He watched the butler's movements with an irritable
eye. Then, when the man was gone, he began to look through
the papers.
The search was perplexing, though Mildred thought at first
that it was only painful. He muttered to himself, " It was
here, — in this packet. I can't have mislaid it," and again he
searched through the packet, whilst his features assumed a
most distressed look of doubt, and effort at recollection.
Mildred said at length : "If you would not trouble your-
self, my dear father, but tell me, if you don't miud. I would
rather hear than see."
CLEVE HALL. 345
He took no notice, but went on as before. Mildred watched
him anxiously, for she fancied he did not quite know what he
was doing.
" I would look, dear sir," she said, " if you would tell me
what to find."
" I can't ; it was here ; somebody — Mildred, who has
touched my box V he addressed her angrily.
" No one, Sir. No one could; it is always in your room."
A sudden dawning of recollection crossed the General's
mind. He muttered Mr. Lester's name.
" You were looking at papers the other day, Sir, wilh Mr.
Lester," said Mildred.
II is face became more troubled, but he put aside tha box,
and leaned back in his chair.
" Mr. Lester may be able to assist you in finding it," said
Mildred, " but you could tell me if you would what it was ; it
makes me very anxious." And the tone certainly gave full
effect to her words.
He raised his head, and gazed upon her as one in a dream ;
his voice, too, had something in it of a wavering, faltering
tone.
"I don't know why I should tell it; he is gone from us,
Mildred, — well that he is; he would have squandered all."
" He was extravagant, but he might have learnt wisdom,"
observed Mildred, timidly.
ik Extravagant ! yes." The General tried to raise the lid
of the box, which he had unintentionally closed. Mildred
stopped him.
" Do you wish to show me a list of his bills, dear Sir? I
think I know them."
" Bills, did you say, Mildred ? Little cared he for bills
when he could give checks, and promise away what was to be
his after my death. His ! his !" he repeated, and his scornful
laugh struck an icy chill to Mildred's heart. "But it was
reckoning- a little too much without his host, don't you think
so, Mildred? A man can't huild upon his own, when life
stands in the way of possession. My life ! his father's ! But
that was easily set aside. His wish was father to his thoughts,
eli, Mildred? He didn't think I should have been such an
old man. But I have outwitted him — stopped him when he
least expected it ; he has no inheritance now to play ducks
and drake with."
34G CLEVB JIALL.
"I don't understand yon, dear sir," said Mildred, indo
scribably alarmed at his manner.
" No, how should you ? What do women know of such
matters? I would have shown it you, but I can't." He tried
again to open the box, but his hand trembled so violently that
.Mildred took the key from him, yet without placing it in the
lock.
•• Do you mean," she said, " that he drew upon you for
more money, Sir, than he had a right to?"
" Drew upon me, Mildred ? Promised it, I say; — pledged
it; would have given my lands to the dewx, — to worse than
Jews, — to that scoundrel, John Vivian. Pshaw, why can't
i show you the proof?"
" It is impossible ! Edward could never have done it," ex-
claimed .Mildred, in a voice of agony.
The General shrank from the sound of the name, but
almost immediately recovered himself "I will find it, and
you shall see it; not now, — to-morrow, by daylight I can find
it. I have it here," he added, with a tone of sad triumph j
"in his own handwriting; the promise given to John Vivian,
Esq., that after my death, — after my death, remember, — the
sum of five thousand pounds should be paid to redeem his
debts of honor; his own handwriting, his own signature."
" There must have been a mistake; it could "not be; it is
impossible," exclaimed Mildred again.
" Doubtless ! a mistake ! impossible ! John Vivian must
have been deluded; the evidence of my own eyes must have;
deceived me; the evidence of one who saw the promise signed
must have been at fault. Why, Mildred, child, did I not say
the same myself? Say it, almost believed it, when the actual
proof was before my eyes. And did not John Vivian stand
by, with his bold defiance, and urge upon me to call up the
man, — the poor wretch who had been the plotter of that mise-
rable marriage, — the confidant of both; he who had seen the
actual words written ? Talk not to me of mistake, Mildred ;
there are deeds in which there can be no mistake."
" Edward had no opportunity given him of explanation,"
said Mildred.
"What! child, when I wrote to bim, and my letter wag
unanswered. He had no explanation to give, lie had been
befooled himself. He gave his worthless bond to John Vi-
vian, little thinking that it wovdd be brought to me: and
CLEVE HALL. 347
when it was brought, he was sunk in my eyes, and in his own,
for ever."
" But you paid the money, and so owned the justice of the
claim, sir," said Mildred.
" Justice to myself, to my own honor, for the last time.
My son's debts were a claim upon the name which he bore,
and I acknowledged them even to the utmost farthing. But
from that hour he ceased to be my son ; and now let him go
and pray the winds to hear him; they will listen as soon
as I."
Mildred's heart failed her. A few minutes before, she had
fancied that the time might be near for telling him that Ed-
ward was in England. Now, she only said, " He has severely
suffered for his offences."
No reply. She went on further, her words being uttered
with extreme precision : — " He is very penitent, whatever he
may have done."
" So are we all, when punishment falls upon us," was the
stern answer.
" Years have given him experience," she continued.
" So have they given to me," replied the General.
" And you would not trust him, then V She spoke in a
tone of doubtful timidity.
"Trust him? Yes, I would trust every man whose hands
are chained, and whose feet are fettered. He is doing well,
you say. Let him thank God for it, as I do."
" But if he has suffered, and is penitent, my dear father,
would there be no hope for him ever V
" Mildred, you speak ignorantly. It may seem that you
are addressing a cold, harsh old man — nay, don't stop me ;— -
I am not blind to what is passing around me, though often it
is thought I am. The world thinks me such, so do you, so
does Mr. Lester. Cold, strict prejudice, that is my character;
— a true one, in a certain sense. Do you know who made me
so ? My father — my grandfather — his father before him ; for
the sins of my ancestors have been my conscious inheritance
from my boyhood. Listen, Mildred. As a little child 1 was
generous, open hearted, unsuspicious. I flung my money away
to ine ritht hand and to the left. I gave when I was asked ;
I promised when I could not give. I was a true Vivian. That
was my disposition ; it continued mine till I was twelve years
old. Then came a change ; how or when it dawned upon me
I cannot say; but there is an atmosphere in every home,
348 CLEVE II LLL.
svhicli we breathe insensibly; tie atmosphere of mite was
can — -carking, harassing, lowering care. It crept into my
heart, and dulled my spirits; it made me fearful and doubtful
towards those with whom 1 ought to have been open as the
day. It pressed upon me heavily, and more heavily; and it
pressed upon others also. I saw it in the countenances of the
old servants; 1 heard it in the murmurs of my father's ten-
ants; I read it written on the broken-down fences, and the
walls falling to decay. We were a family on the verge of
ruin ; and in striving to keep ourselves from degradation, we
brought hardship and exaction upon those of whom we ought
to have been the protectors. The name of Vivian, once honor-
ed, was now execrated. I was but a boy, Mildred, when first
1 realized to myself the true position in which I stood; and it
may seem strange that I should have allowed the fact to weigh
with me; it may appear more natural that I should have cast
it away with a boy's thoughtlessness. But it did influence
me; it tinned my visions for the future; it shaped my plans ;
and at last it gave me a definite object for which to work. I
stood, one day, at the head of my class at school, and the
murmur went on around me, among the masters, that I was
capable of a great work; that whatever I set my heart upon
I must attain. They spoke, I knew, of worldly distinctions ;
but I read their words differently. Distinction was mine by
right of inheritance, for the Vivians, even before they came
to Cleve, had been the lords and leaders of others for centu-
ries ; but it would never be mine in possession, unless I re-
trieved the follies of the last generation. My heart swelled
within me, and in secret I vowed that, from that hour I would
toil without complaining, and suffer without repining, until
once more I could face the world, a Vivian of the olden times,
with my honor untainted, free to devote myself to the people
amongst whom 1 lived, and regarded by them, not as an op-
pressive landlord, exacting to the last penny, but as a master
and a father, living only for their happiness. There is no
need now, Mildred, to tell you how my vow was accomplished.
A mission was given me, and I fulfilled it; let those who know
me best say how. l>ut do you think that, after the labor of
those many years, — the self-denial of a life, — I am now to be
persuaded to throw myself and my people into hands which
will, which must, undo my work? Is the man who could act
as — as your brother acted — fit to be intrusted with the happi-
ness of others? Is his boy, is Clement, likely to be such a
CLEVE HALL. 340
successor as I should desire for the accomplishment of the
work for which I have lived? Put aside inclination, Mildred,
put aside prejudice, and answer me fairly : my honor and the
happiness of my people are at stake; — can I be justified in
sacrificing them to the weak instinct of affection ?"
" My dear, dear father, don't ask me. I cannot put aside
prejudice, — if it be prejudice; it is impossible." Her arm
was flung around his neck, and she rested her head on his
shoulder. " Let him be as he is — disinherited — yet let him
return."
" Madness ! Mildred, madness !" He almost shook her from
Lim, as he sat more upright, and every limb seemed to become
stiff with the effort at self-restraint.
" My father, not madness — but mercy;" and she clung to
him so that he could not release himself.
" Leave me, Mildred ; let me go." With a great effort
he withdrew himself from her, and rose, and stood with his
back to the fire-place, looking fixedly at her; but Mildred saw
him not, for her head was buried upon the arm of the chair,
and her sobs came fast and bitterly.
He spoke again, seeking to excuse himself: — "Your fancy
is a woman's weakness, Mildred. "Were it good for me, it
would be misery for him."
Something in the tone struck her as relenting, and she
raised her head, and dashed away the tears from her eyes.
" Misery ! oh, never ! it is his one last hope."
General Vivian crossed his arms on his breast and made no
answer.
Mildred's voice was heard again, clear and slow : — " Mercy
for him, father, even as you would find mercy yourself."
" It cannot be. To live with me as my son, and not my heii
— Mildred, you don't know what you are asking."
" Perhaps not to live with you, but to see you, if but for
once only, to hear that he is forgiven. It is for you and me,
and the sight of his home, he yearns."
"Lost thrcugh his own fault." And silence fell again
upon the darkened chamber; and the flickering gleam of
the dying lire showed the General standing in his place,
immovable, and Mildred's slight figure rigid as if carved iu
stone
Yet once more she spoke, and the tone was that hollow
whisper which speaks the agony of a broken heart : — " Father,
pardon him, and see him, he is now in England."
350 CLEVE HALL.
A strange gurgling, convulsive sound struck upon the
cur! General Vivian staggered to a chair, and sank back
eeuseless.
-*•-
CHAPTER XXXIX.
" OERTHA, how late you are; and where have you left
\j Clement?" Mrs. Campbell, having enjoyed her after-
noon's siesta, and then worked whilst there was light remain-
ing, had begun to feel impatient for the return of the p^-ty,
who had been wandering over the hills.
" I can't say, exactly," was Bertha's reply. " He was
with us just as we came off the hills; but he will be here pre-
sently, I dare say."
" He stayed behind with me first," said Louisa ; " and then
he clambered up the bank to get a stone, which I thought
was a fossil. He was so long finding it, that I didn't like to
wait for him."
" If he doesn't come in time we can't have tea kept for
him," observed Mrs. Campbell. " I have no notion of every
one's being put out for a boy of his age."
" It is not tea-time yet," said Bertha. " Louisa and Fanny,
you have your history to read for to-morrow ; you had better
fetch it."
" Poor little dears ! after their long walk ! I am sure they
can't possibly read history. You must let them off, Bertha.
Take off your things, my dears, and then come down and warm
yourselves, and tell me all you have been doing."
"There is not much to tell," observed Bertha, in an un-
comfortable tone, which was the only safety-valve she allowed
herself, when interfered with; "we only went to Barney
Wood's cottage."
"But you took him his coat, didn't you? You always
take him something."
" The coat wasn't quite finished," said Bertha, " Rachel
hud been busy writing to her father."
" Oh, Mr. Lester is not coming home, then. Betsy told
me that, and she heard it from Anne."
" They are both great gossips," observed Bertha, quickly
CLEVE HALL. 351
" I don't think anything is settled as to Mr. Lester's return.
Rachel only wrote in case he might not come."
Her manner fretted Mrs. Campbell, ajid, being inclined to
complain, she returned to Clement : — " Where do you say you
left him, Bertha ? You ought not to have left him ; there are
a great many bad people about ; no one knows what mischief
he may be led into/'
" A boy of his age must learn to keep himself out of mis-
chief," said Bertha, rather proudly. But though sbe spoke
with seeming unconcern, she looked out of the window to see
if he was coming.
" I am glad he has given up being with Ronald," observed
Mrs. Campbell, " now that we know what a mess Captain
Vivian is likely to get into."
" Is there anything new about Captain Vivian ? anything
particular?" asked Bertha, with quick interest.
" Betsy tells me that the Preventive officers are not
going to be outwitted any longer; and they vow they will
search the Grange from the garret to the cellar," said Mrs.
Campbell.
" And very much they will find there !" said Bertha. " If
they mean to do anything, they should not let Betsy know it."
" She can't help knowing it; it's talked of everywhere,"
continued Mrs. Campbell; "and what's more, Betsy has a
brother somehow mixed up with them."
" Poor <>;irl ! that is trouble enough," said Bertha, thought-
fully.
" She asked me to let her go out and see him," continued
Mrs. Campbell; "and I said she might, if she was in time;
so she went about four o'clock."
Bertha was too much occupied with painful thoughts of her
own, to take any particular notice of this piece of information ;
and Mrs. Campbell continued : —
" Betsy thinks there's something going on now. Mark
Wood had come for her brother, and had taken him out with
him, so that she couldn't see him. She takes it to heart a
good deal. 1 think, Bertha, you might just as well see her
presently, and find out what she is afraid of."
" Perhaps the less we know about such matters the better,"
replied Bertha, looking again out of the window. " If Mark
Wood has been in Encombe," she added, with an air of con-
sideration, "it must have been after we saw him going down
the Gorge."
352 CLEVE HALL.
•• Be and Stephen Hale had left Betsy's cottage just ten
minutes before she got there," continued Mrs. Campbell, evi-
dently pleased at having something to talk about, which
Beemed to draw Bertha's attention. "Betsy was told they
went off Inwards the Point; it is the place they all goto.
There is a cave, or some such place, I believe, where they
meet."
" Not a very convenient rendezvous," replied Bertha; " it
must be so difficult to reach. But it must be all talk about
anything particular going on now; if there were, they would
never let it out in that way."
"I don't know, I am sure," replied Mrs. Campbell; "at
any rate, it is high time that something should be done. The
village is getting into a sad state. Betsy says her brother is
quite a different person since he mixed himself up with the
smuggling. I can't think, for my part, what Mr. Lester can
be doing to let things go on as they do. He calls himself a
good parish priest; I know his parish is the worst in the
county."
Any suggestion to Mr. Lester's disadvantage was felt as a
personal incivility by Bertha, and she immediately began say-
ing, that no one could be better aware than Mr. Lester him-
self of the bad state of his people, or do more to remedy the
evil ; but whilst things were carried with such a high hand by
those who ought to set a good example, there was little hope
of amendment. Whilst Captain Vivian remained at Encombe,
it must and would be a disreputable place.
" Well, then, he will be taken from it soon, we may hope,"
replied Mrs. Campbell, rather triumphantly. " Betsy has a
cousin in the Preventive service, so she hears both sides; and
she tells me that they vow they will have the smugglers in
their power before the new year begins; that is what makes
her so afraid for her brother."
"They must be quick about it, then," said Bertha. "It
wants but a very short time to the new year."
" We shall see something before it comes," said Mrs. Camp-
bell, oracularly; and Bertha echoed the words in her own
ndnd, though with a different meaning. Mrs. Campbell re-
lapsing into silence, she took the opportunity of leaving the
room, and going, not up stairs to take off her things, but into
the garden and the lane, to look for Clement.
Bertha went a little way down the lane without meeting
any cue; then, hearing some persons approaching, talking
CLEVE HALL. 353
noisily, she turned into a by-path, by a cottage garden, and
stood there till they had passed. The voices, which she re-
cognised, made her very glad that she had avoided the meet-
ing. Mark Wood, Stephen Hale, and Goff, were together,
apparently disputing. Bertha watched them till they were
nearly out of sight, — if sight that could be called which was
only the indistinct perception of twilight, — and, even when
they were gone, felt unwilling to move from her hiding-place,
lest they should return. ]N T ot that she had any cause to fear,
— it was unlikely that they would notice, still less speak to
her; but the rough voices, and the very distant possibility of
being brought in contact with them, made her shrink into
herself. She waited what seemed a long time, — though in
fact it was only a few minutes, — then, scolding herself for foil} 7 ,
ventured back into the lane, and had gone some little distance,
when once more, as she had dreaded, the voices were heard,
and very near. The men had taken a short cut, and were
returning. Bertha did not like to run back, that would
attract notice j still less did she wish to proceed. For a mo-
ment she stood irresolute ; but the sound of a footstep behind
gave her confidence, especially when, on looking round, she
recognised Ronald. His finger was raised to his lips, as a bign
for silence, and without noticing her, he turned shortly, strode
down the lane at a rapid pace, and entered the path which
Bertha had just left.
Bertha was surprised, yet her momentary feeling of fear
was over. She felt that a protector was near • and went on
boldly, smiling at her own weakness, as the men lowered their
voices when she passed, Mark Wood and Stephen Hale even
touching their hats.
Five minutes afterwards, as she stood at the Lodge gate,
Fionald joined her • his voice was agitated, and he began with-
out apology or explanation. " Clement is with you, Miss
Campbell, of course."
" No, not yet ! I expect him."
" Not with you? When did you leave him?"
" He left just as we entered the village- he stayed be-
hind."
" Behind ? Alone ?"
" Yes ; that is, Louisa was with him ; but she came bad-
to us. What is the matter, Roland?"
'• Nothing Have you been long returned?"
354 CLEVB HALL.
"Not very; we were all late. For pity's sake, Ronald,
tell mo what this means?"
" I thought Clement might he with GoflF. I knew he was
loitering about the cottage, and I watched after you were
gone, but could not see him at first; I did afterwards. He
followed the path you took, and I followed, too, some distance.
Then "
"Well! what then?"
"I met my father; he sent ine haek to the cottage on a
message; and I lust sight of you all. Good-night," — he
broke off abruptly; "I will look for Clement;" and he hur-
ried away.
J lis course was rapid and intricate. He knew all the by-
lanes and short cuts of the village, and every cottage garden
was open to him as to a friend; and so, with almost a direct
course, he made his way to the Grange, noticed only by a few
stragglers returning late from work, who, recognising his step,
greeted him with a laugh and, " How are ye, Master Ronald ?"
but not troubling themselves as to his wandering movements,
and scarcely even making a remark upon his evident haste.
The shrubbery gate of the Grange was wide open, and the
large, lonely house was silent and dreary in the glimmering
twilight, neither fire nor candle to be seen through the uncur-
tained windows of the deserted apartments; and when Ronald
entered, his footsteps sent a hollow echo through the long
stone passages. He went first to the parlor, which was empty;
but the cloth was laid for dinner, and the shutters were closed.
A rough, club stick lay on the table, and a glove was on the
floor. Ronald, without any particular thought, picked up the
glove and laid it down carelessly, whilst he stood for a few
moments thinking whether to remain for his father or return
to the Lodge to satisfy his mind about Clement. An uncom-
fortable misgiving was still haunting him. Barney's imper-
fect hints of a mystery returned to him, and with it came the
impulse to go at once to the Point and watch whether any-
thing more than usual was going on there. But the evening
was growing darker and darker, and the moon would not be
risen for another hour; he could see nothing, even if he were
to go ; and, in the mean time, if any mischief were afloat it
would most probably be something which would bring Clement
to the Grange. Just at that moment Ronald's eye fell upon
the glove, a rough winter glove — too small, surely, for Captain
Vivian's hand. He tried to put it on; it was too small fol
CLEVE HALL. 355
himself; it must be Clement's, left there probably the previ-
ous night he had been there. But no, Ronald recollected now
that he had seen Clement wearing it that very day, and had
thought at the time that he would try and procure a pair of
the same kind for Barney.
He rushed out of the room; but still, habitually csutious,
controlled his eager step as he passed through the hall and the
back passages, and softened his voice when he encountered the
solitary domestic, of whom he inquired whether his father had
returned to the Grange within the last hour.
It might or it mightn't be an hour, the woman couldn't
say, but the Captain had been in and put off dinner; — and
she walked away, sulky from the additional trouble.
" Stop, Madge ! can't you ! Was my father alone ?"
" Who's to say, Master Ronald? not I. D'ye think I
showed my nose in the parlor?"
" But you may have heard. "Was he speaking to any one ?
Did he seem as if he was alone ?"
" Seem ? Why he was alone when I saw him. What
should you keep me here talking such daft folly for?" — and
Madge retired within the precincts of her own domain, and
closed the kitchen door violently, as a hint to Ronald, that he
was on no account to follow.
Ronald opened the hall door, and went out into the gravel
sweep, and listened ; and he heard the distant trampling of a
horse's hoofs, and the cry of a sick child, in a cottage occupied
by one of the farm laborers. But the wailing wind drowned
all other sounds, save that which mingled with and deepened
it — the hoarse rush of the waves beating against the precipi-
tous cliffs.
For several minutes he stood there, his face turned to-
wards Dark Head Point. A rising mist had now obstructed
even the faint gleam of lingering daj r ; but twice Ronald fan-
cied he saw a light gleaming in that direction, though so far
off that he knew it must be from a vessel at sea ; and then,
again, there seemed another moving, and higher up, upon the
cliff; but the mist gathered over again, more thickly, and all
was obscure.
Some one clapped him on the shoulder, with a heavy hand.
u What, Ronald, my lad, watching? what's that for?"
" For you, father; 1 wondered where you were."
"No cause for wonder, 1 should think; I'm out often
o5G i i;vi; hall.
enough many hours later than this. But, come, let's ill t<s
dinner."
Captain Vivian hurried on; and when Ronald would have
lingered to watch the light on the cliff, he called to him im-
patiently, saying that they had both waited long enough, and
he was ravenous. Yet Ronald did linger, for some seconds,
and when his father had entered the house, he stood for seve-
ral moments on the step of the door with a longing, which he
could scarcely resist, to brave Captain Vivian's displeasure,
and run back to the Lodge, to gain some tidings of Clement.
" Ronald, where are you ? Come in, I say. I won't have
that wind through the house; shut the door, and come in."
And Ronald obeyed mechanically.
They sat down to dinner. Captain Vivian talked more
than was his wont. Ronald gave but short answers. He was
considering in his own mind, whether it would be wise to
mention Clement's name, and ask how his glove had been
found there. Nothing in any way, however, led to the sub-
ject. Captain Vivian's conversation was confined to discus-
sions upon the superiority of the little smuggling vessel over
the regular traders upon the coast, and anecdotes of the won-
derfully short voyages she had lately made. Once, Ronald
mentioned Barney Wood, and made a remark upon Mr. Lester
and Miss Campbell's kindness; but it was badly received,
Captain Vivian turned it off with a sneer, and went on as be-
fore, somewhat incoherently and unconnectedly — his words
uttered very fast, his tone half jocular, half hasty. Ronald
could not think, he could only listen and reply.
A loud peal at the Hall bell ! Captain Vivian went him-
self to answer it ; Ronald also followed a few paces behind.
A message from the Lodge was brought by Mr. Lester's gar-
dener. " Mrs. Campbell's compliments, and she would be
glad to know if Master Clement was at the Grange."
Captain Vivian burst into a loud laugh, and almost shut
the door in the man's face. " Master Clement here? What
folly will be asked next? My compliments to Mrs. Campbell,
and Master Clement doesn't trouble me much with his com-
pany. She must look for him elsewhere. What, Ronald !"
he grasped his son's shoulder, as Ronald was going to re-open
the door; "rushing after ?- what for? Do you think the
tender chicken's lost ?"
" He has been here. I know it; I have a proof." Ronald
tossed Clement's glove upon the floor.
CLEVE HALL. 357
Captain Vivian kicked it from him ; his face was livid either
with anger or fear : — " Clement was here. He is gone home,
or he omrht to be. Now, back to dinner, and no more of this
fully."
He led the way to the parlor; Ronald followed moodily.
Both sat down to the table, but only Captain Vivian talked.
He had apparently repented his hasty show of authority, and
tried to bring Ilouald round, pressing him to cat, urging him
to take wine, joking him about his books ; but Ronald still sat
with his abstracted gaze, listening for distant sounds, and giv-
ing only such short answers as were absolutely necessary. Irri-
tated by his total absence of interest, Captain Vivian began in
another strain : — " So, Ronald, you mean to show yourself a
pleasant companion, to leave the conversation in my hands;
I thank you for it ; it is all, of course, I have a right to expect
from my only child. Yet I might have thought that so much
woman's teaching might have given you a touch of good man-
ners. Bertha Campbell sets up for a lady, but it's little enough
of a gentleman that you have shown yourself since she set foot
in Encombe. Don't think I am surprised, though ; it's the old
grudge, malice carried on for a dozen years — cunningly, too,
setting my son against me."
Ronald had given his full attention to this last speech, but
he could not answer it. Had not Bertha Campbell, though
unintentionally, been the means of embittering the feelings
which, even before, were but too acutely conscious of his
father's faults?
Captain Vivian went on more painfully, because with less
of sarcasm : — " I am not what many fathers are, I know that.
I'm not the man to set up for a Squire, and make a fuss about
my boy, and put him in the way of fine people. It never was
my way, and it never will be. I was brought up roughly, my-
st If. aiid I've led a rough life, and it's too late now to mend it;
and what I am my son must be. But I should never have
thought that for that reason he was to be made to turn against
me, to plot with my enemies."
" Plot with them ? Oh ! father, how little you know !"
" Ay ! plot with them," continued Captain Vivian. " You
don't think, do you, that I'm so blind as not to have an eye for
what's going on close at my door?"
"1 don't know what you refer to, Father/' replied Ronald.
" Probably not ! You would be the last person to own, if
you did."
So8 CLEVE HALL.
Captain Vivian's manner was proud and coldly determined
It mighl have been the manner of his early days, never entirely
forgotten ; and it struck a chill, and something of a feeling of
awe, into llonald's heart. It was as if, after all, there was
something better left than that low recklessness, which had of
late been his chief characteristic.
Honald answered more quietly, and even respectfully : " If
you are suspicious of me, Father, and will tell me your suspi-
cions, I will try to remove them."
" What ! how 1" Captain Vivian started up and went to
the door looking out into the hall : " Folly; it's only the old
woman's tramp."
He came back again, and stood with his back to the fire :
" Suspicions you were talking of, lionald : what would you give
to hear them ?"
11 A great deal, Father, if I could make you believe they
are unfounded."
" Well, then !" — a pause — a second commencement, and a
second pause — at last the words came with thundering
emphasis : " Suspicions that I have a traitor in my camp, who
would desert me at the last gasp !"
Ronald pushed aside his plate, and rising, paced the room
in a tumult of excitement.
Captain Vivian went on coldly : " What is the care for this
miserable boy, Clement Vivian ? What is the devotion to
Bertha Campbell, and the obedience to Mr. Lester ? — treachery,
treachery from the beginning to the end."
" Are they your enemies, Father ?" Ronald's voice was
husky with agitation, for his promise to Bertha was present to
his mind, and even now it seemed he might be called to fulfil it.
"Circumstances made them my enemies," was the reply;
" that's enough for you to know."
" Then Clement is your enemy for his father's sake ?"
Captain Vivian answered cautiously : " Such a ooy as that
my enemy ! he is beneath me."
" Yet" — Ronald hesitated — " through him you might work
harm to his father."
" Who tells you that?" and Captain Vivian turned upon
him fiercely.
" My own reason partly," replied Ronald ; and, summoning
more courage, he added : " I know through Miss Campbell
that you have, as you yourself say, cause for mutual -enmity."
CLEVE HALL. 359
" Ha ! the family secrets ! And pray what may Miss Camp-
bell have thought proper to confide to you ?"
" She has given me warnings rather than confidence — warn-
ings, Father, which I would fain give to you."
"lam obliged to her;" Captain Vivian's face showed a
change of color. " Threats, I presume ; a notice that I shall
be taken up for a smuggler, as they call me."
" They were very vague, indirect threats," replied Ronald,
in an unmoved tone, though his heart beat painfully; "jet
they made me feel that danger might be at hand."
" Danger at hand, and you not tell me of it — ungrateful
boy !"
Bitter reproaches followed, which Ronald, leaning against
the wall, heard, yet without hearing, for still his thoughts
reverted to Clement ; and the words fell upon his ear, as they
had often done before, almost as sounds without meaning.
Captain Vivian stopped at length, and then in a calmer
voice insisted upon knowing everything which Miss Campbell
had dared to say. Ronald was hesitating for a reply, when
another and more violent ring at the hall door a second time
interrupted the conversation.
This time Captain Vivian did not go out himself, but stood
in the open doorway ; and both he and Ronald, as by mutual
consent, paused to hearken.
It was a man's voice speaking, and angrily. Mrs. Camp-
bell had sent another message : " Master Clement had been
seen, with Captain Vivian, going to the Grange. Mrs. Camp-
bell desired to know when he had left it, and what direction
he had taken."
Ronald turned upon his father a look of keen distrust.
Captain Vivian's countenance did not alter. He went
directly to the door, and said : " My compliments to Mrs.
Campbell. Master Clement was here for two minutes, and I
walked with him a little way down Long Lane, but he turned
off at the end. Is she uneasy about him ?"
" He hasn't been home yet, and it's past eight," said the
man, gruffly. " Mrs. Campbell said she was sure the people
at the Grange knew something about him."
"Who is looking for him?" inquired Ronald, anxiously.
" One or two people have been asked ; but we have been
expecting him in every moment, when we were told that he
wasn't here."
" We will g ) to the cliff/' said Ronald, and he took up his
OGO CLEVE HALL.
hat, and stepped into the porch. To his surprise, his father
made no attempl to stop him.
" We thought he might have been with Goff, and some of
his men. He's fond of getting about with them," continued
the gardener, more cordially; " but Goff's al home, and doesn't
know anything about him."
Captain Vivian came out, and stood with Ronald in the
porch : " You may tell Mrs. Campbell, that my son and I will
go down to the shore, and make inquiries," he said.
" Yes, tell her we will go in every direction," added
Ronald, eagerly ; " we will not return till we have had tidings
of him. You may trust me, man," he continued, laying his
hand on the arm of the gardener, as he lingered with an evi
dent feeling of hesitation.
The light from a little oil lamp in the hall fell upon
Ronald's face; it bore an expression which could not bo
doubted. Captain Vivian's was hidden in the shade of tho
porch. Ronald repeated again: — "You may trust me," and
the words were received with a hearty " To be sure, Master
Ronald ; every one trusts you."
The man departed ; and Ronald would have set off instantly
for Dark Head Point, but a strong hand detained him : " You
don't escape me, my lad, in this way. Every word that Bertha
Campbell has uttered about my affairs before you stir."
" I have told all," replied Ronald ; " and yet, — no, I have
not told all. She has said, Father, that whatever wrong there
might be between Mr. Vivian and yourself, he would be the
last to press it against you, if only you would acknowledge it,
and clear him in the General's eyes."
A mocking laugh interrupted him : " A woman's folly !
And you believed it? Was that everything? At your peril
deceive me."
Ronald paused, — in the tumult of his mind, he could
scarcely tell whether he was at liberty to betray more of what
had passed ; he added, with hesitation, " She warned me also
that it might soon be in their power to enforce what now is
only a request."
Not a word escaped in reply, but the dim thread of light
from the little lamp showed a face ghastly with conflicting
passions ; and Captain Vivian, seizing Ronald by the arm,
6trode forth into the darkness.
CLEVE HALL. 3G1
CHAPTER XL.
MORN rose gorgeously over the sea; an atmosphere of
orange light seeming to penetrate and mingle with the
long line of gray clouds, which stood as a wall against the
horizon, and here and there breaking through it in a crimson
line, until at length the full burst of radiance flooded the
eastern sky, and shed its myriads of golden sparkles upon the
waters ; not resting upon them with the long and lingering
gaze which sunset gives to the world its brilliancy has glad-
dened, but lightly playing upon the surface of the rippling
ocean, and tracing upon it, in a pale yet far-spread glory, the
joyous smile of the opening day.
Ronald Vivian wandered alone upon the sandy beach.
Behind him were the red cliffs, and the dark headland worn
by the fretting of the sea, hollowed into caves, cut into pro-
jections, and in parts clothed with scanty lichens; before him
spread the interminable expanse of ocean, without a sail to
mark its distance. Ronald's eyes were fixed upon the beach.
He would have appeared deep in meditation, for the water
plashed gently against the rocks, and rippled close to his feet,
and still he seemed unconscious of the tide ; whilst, with folded
nrms and a slow and weary step, he walked towards the jutting
point forming the western extremity of Encombe Bay. Occa-
sionally, however, it might have been seen that he was not so
abstracted. As the passing breeze brought to his ear what
might have been the echo of a school-boy's shout, or the morn-
ing greeting of the laborers passing to their work, he would
pause for a moment and listen, and then glance quickly round,
and perhaps stoop to examine some dark object at his feet — ■
a stone, or a knotted mass of sea-weed : he was looking, and
watching, and searching still, but it was not the search of
hope.
Three hours of that night had Ronald spent in fruitless,
and, in a great degree, irritating inquiries. His father had
jeen with him, allowing him no freedom, stopping every ques-
tion which might possibly have led to the discovery of Clement's
movements, wnilst pretending the warmest interest in the re-
mit. Ronald had at times been tempted to break from hint,
mo insist upon carrying out his own views in his own way;
nui it was difficult to resist a parent's authority, and Captain
Lfi
302 CLEVE HALL.
Vivian had always sonic plausible reason at Land to silence liig
remonstrances.
Yet he was kind in his manner, — much kinder than Ro-
nald had supposed possible, when they left the house together,
alter Ronald had communicated Bertha's warning. A moody
silence had followed for some little time, and then all seemed
passed away and forgotten, except that the softness which suc-
ceeded, carried with it at times a tone of mockery more galling
than reproaches.
One thing, however, was quite clear to Ronald — whatever
might be concealed under Bertha's hints, they had worked
upon his father to a degree which gave cause to think they
were well founded. The defiant, self-reliant manner which
had been Captain Vivian's characteristic was gone. He was
fitful, abstracted, — often lost iu thought, only fully conscious,
as it seemed, of one fact, that he must not lose sight of Ronald ;
and when, after their long search, they had returned for a few
hours' rest to the Grange, it was with a promise that they
should go again, at daybreak, to the shore, to renew their
inquiries together.
This was now Ronald's purpose. He had risen veiy early,
disturbed by anxiety and foreboding. But his father was gone
before him, and had left a peremptory message in writing that
he was to join him directly at the cave under Dark Head
Point; the reason given for the order being, that Captain Vi-
vian was himself going to the shore, as the most likely place
to hear what they wished. Ronald felt bound to obey, yet his
step unconsciously lingered as he drew near the place appointed
for the meeting. Sleep had raised a barrier of years between
his present feelings and the excitement of the past night. He
looked back upon it, in a degree, as men look upon the turmoil
of youth from the dreary waste of middle life. His spirit had
been roused to anger then — now he was only saddened. His
thoughts had been full of eager excitement for Clement then ;
now he was tempted to consider his absence as possibly a boy-
ish freak. Doubt and delay were wearing his spirits, whilst
exhausting his energy. More than all, — then, in the bitter-
ness of his heart, and the rush of his fiery temper, he had
felt able to cope even with his father, and dare and suffer peril
or misery, if only he might save Clement, and redeem the evil
which had been wrought ; now, in the glad light of morning,
with the sights and sounds of daily life and daily toil around
him, spirit, and heroism, and self-devotion had vanished, and
CLEVE HALL. 3G3
all that lie could feel was the consciousness of his father's
degradation, and the stain of disgrace which had not even the
strength of passionate feeling and impulse to enable it to be
endured.
The test of our true selves is to be found in the morning
resolution and the morning feeling ; and Ronald had yet to
acquire the temper of mind which can be as resolute to begin
work, without previous excitement, as to pursue it, when cir-
cumstances both moral and physical have aroused the imagina-
tion, and given force to the nervous energies.
Yet that quiet walk along the sea-shore was soothing to
him, and in its measure supporting. The ocean is always
great, and it was the feeling of greatness which Ronald needed.
The hard beach, furrowed with ridges, spread for about half
a mile before him, crossed at times by little streams, tinged
with deep yellow from the iron-ore of the rocks. The water
in some places was deep above his ankles; yet he turned
neither to the right nor left, but went on, directing his course
by a dark spot visible at the height of about one-third of the
ciiff. This, on a nearer approach, was seen to be a hollow,
perhaps the opening of a cave, perhaps only a cavity formed
by the mouldering away of the rocks. There were many such
along the coast, and report said they were often used by the
smugglers for the concealment of contraband goods.
The cliff at this point projected far into the sea, and at
high tide could only be passed with difficulty, by scrambling
over the huge broken rocks which, having fallen from above,
were heaped around its base. Ronald, however, made his way
over them with the ease which showed that every stone was a
familiar resting-place, and paused only upon the summit of
one of the highest rocks, when a glance along the beach
showed that no one was in view; then stepping upon the
nearest point of the cliff, a few bounds brought him, slightly
out of breath, but in no other way exhausted, to a level with
the opening, which was now seen to be not so much a cave
as a passage, formed partly by nature, partly by the hand of
man.
It was carried for about a distance of twenty feet inwards,
and where the cliff had fallen away, it had been built up by
stones; then it terminated in a more regular cave, remarkable
only for being a clear, hollow space, capable of containing
perhaps a dozen men. The walls were smoothed artificially,
hut one large stone had been left at the further end, probably
3G4 CLEVB HALL.
to serve as a scut. The place was evidently used for the pur-
puses of rest or concealment. Some burnt sticks showed tli.it
a fire was occasionally lighted in it, the smoke escaping through
vent-holes at the side ; a hammer and hatchet lay in the cor-
ner, and a rough wooden bench, and small deal table, gave it
some appearance of a human habitation.
It was empty, however, now; and Ronald, throwing him-
self upon the ground, rested his back against the wall of sandy
rock, and bending his head forward, so as to catch the glimpse
of sea discoverable at the extremity of the passage, awaited in
gloomy meditation his father's arrival.
The delay was not long. Five minutes had scarcely passed,
when a long shrill whistle from below gave notice of an ap-
proach, lionald answered it, but without moving from his
resting-place; and not till his father appeared in sight, ascend-
ing the cliff by what was something of a regular pathway, did
he remove his gaze from the fixed point in the far horizon,
upon which his attention seemed to have been concentrated.
Then he rose slowly, and went forward a few steps. The
greeting was abrupt on both sides; yet Captain Vivian ex-
pressed himself well satisfied with llonald's punctuality. " I
should have been here myself before," he said, in a tone of
indifference, as he sat down upon the bench; " but there were
more searchers being sent out for this young scamp. A pretty
game he has played us \"
He raised his eyes stealthily to llonald's face, as he spoke,
seeking, probably, to read there the difference between his
evening and his morning mind.
lionald replied, that if searching was still going on, he
was willing to take his part as before.
" That's as may be. I don't see why we are to put our-
selves out of our way any more for those who, if the opportu-
nity came, would do us an ill turn as soon as not. The boy's
off, and let those look after him who have driven him off."
u Driven him I" repeated Ronald.
" What else has done it, but the being shut up with books,
and tied to his aunt's apron strings? What boy of any spirit
would bear it? Not you, Ronald, I am sure."
" If I were in Clement's place, and did not bear it, I should
be to blame," answered Ronald.
" Eh ! what? But it's folly even to name you two in the
same breath ; even Bertha Campbell would own that. You
have seen her, I suppose, this morning ?"
CLEVE HALL. 3G5
It was a conciliatory question, but Ronald's answer was
cold : " No; I came here direct, as you had appointed."
" Good ! — obedience for ever, say I. It's Mr. Lester's
lesson, isn't it, llonald V
" Mr. Lester tells rne I am bound to obey you in all things
in which I lawfully may," replied Ronald.
" Good again," repeated Captain Vivian. He rested his
elbows upon his knees, and leaned his forehead upon his hands.
Presently he looked up, and said, " Lawfully — what does he
mean by that, Ronald V
" I understand, though I mayn't be able to explain," re-
plied Ronald.
"You understand; that won't do for me; what I under-
stand is the question. It's my belief that Mr. Lester and I
have different views upon that same point of obedience. Be-
fore long it may be we shall test thein."
11 1 am willing, I hope, Father," replied Ronald, " to show
you all the obedience you have a right to require; but" — he
paused for a second, the flash of his father's eye startled him
— " I should be sorry to have tbe trial carried too far. Per-
haps, though, you will tell me without delay what you wish,
for you do wish something."
His frankness seemed to take Captain Vivian by surprise.
He hesitated, stammered, uttered a few broken words, and at
length laughed ; but it was a dreary skeleton laugh — the body
without the soul ; and the wind bore it through the arched
passage, and its echo died away in the faint wailing of the
breeze which murmured over the sea.
Ronald spoke again : " I thought we were to plan another
search ; if you have nothing to say, we ought to lose no time."
He moved as though he would have gone out.
" Sit down ;" Captain Vivian touched Ronald's shoulder
with his stick. " You are a brave boy, Ronald ; I trust you."
" I hope so, Father. I don't know what I have done to
cause distrust."
" Yes, I trust you. You wouldn't go against your father,
•Ronald."
" Never, Father, never;" but Ronald's voice was faint, for
his heart beat quickly.
"I thought not — I knew not; I told Guff you couldn't."
"Goff! Father, do you consult him about me .'"
" I didn't consult, we talked it over. He doesn't do you
justice, Ronald."
oGG CLEVE HALL.
"A matter of very little consequence," was Ronald's
answer.
"To you, perhaps, — not so to me. Ronald, if I didn't
trust you" — he paused.
"Well, Father; if you didn't trust me?" — Ronald looked
at Captain Vivian steadily, and the gaze which he encoun-
tered sank.
" If I didn't trust you, I couldn't ask you to help me out
of a difficulty."
A pang of douht shot through Ronald's heart, yet still he
answered quietly : " You know that you may reckon on me in
all things in which there is no breach of the laws of God and
man."
" Umph !" the limitation was unsatisfactory. Captain
Vivian considered a little. " Are you ready for a long story,
Ronald?"
So steadily was the question uttered that tven Ronald
could not perceive the trace of any inward agitation.
" I will listen," was all he could say. He rested against
the rock, and turned his face from his father; but the changed
voice, which spoke in accents low and deep, made him look
round again.
" A promise, an oath never to betray, that must be given
first."
" A son may be trusted without an oath," replied Ronald.
" Not so, he may be led away."
" Never to betray his father to ruin."
" A quibble ! an unworthy quibble !" exclaimed Captain
Vivian.
" Yet all which I will give," replied Ronald.
A look of fierce anger crossed Captain Vivian's face ; yet
there was less real indignation in the softer tone in which he
said, " Then my son will not promise, but forsakes me."
" Your son will promise to do nothing, and to reveal no-
thing to his father's injury."
" A play upon words ; but" — Captain Vivian took out his
watch — " there is no time to argue the point."
" No arguments would alter me. If I am worthy to re-
ceive confidence at all, I am worthy to receive it freely. Father,
if this is all you have to say, I will leave you."
" Proud boy ! wilful from your childhood. But you must
— you shall hear. Betray me, and a father's curse will be
yours, and it lights surely and heavily."
CLEVE HALL. 367
Ronald shuddered, but he was silent.
Captain Vivian went on : "I take your promise, I hold it
to be binding. You have heard Bertha Campbell's threats ;
ycu know what she is always hinting at, aiming at. She talks
of my standing between the General and Edward Vivian ; —
did she ever explain herself more clearly ?"
Ronald felt his father's eye upon him as he answered,
"She told me Mr. Vivian's early history and yours."
" She told it, did she ? In her own way, doubtless. She
said nothing, of course, of deception, treachery, — how I was
led on to believe myself secure — encouraged, flattered, befool-
ed, triumphed over; as they thought," he added, in an under
tone; " but I had my revenge."
" She told me that you were led away by false hopes," re-
plied Ronald.
" False ! yes, false with a woman's falseness ! What that
is, let those tell who have experienced it. Flora Campbell de-
ceived not me only, Ronald ; she deceived her father and her
mother. Again and again they told me that I was safe, that
she had no other attachment, and her honeyed words and her
treacherous smile said the same. I loved her — Heaven knows
how — I can't talk of it ; and she might have made me what
she would." He paused, and Ronald, touched by a confidence
so unlike what he had expected, said in a tone of sympathy,
" It must have been a hard trial."
He received no answer for some seconds. Then the mo-
mentary softness seemed to have passed away, and Captain
Vivian spoke again : " Mean spirits sink under hard trials, as
they are called. That was not my way : I lived for revenge,
Ronald; you would do the same."
' It would be my temptation," he replied.
" Temptation ! pshaw ! What a man is made, that he must
be. Neither you nor I could ever live to be trampled on. Yet
revenge must be taken according to circumstances ; and if it
falls in with profit, where's the blame? What I did might not
suit all. Some would have called Edward Vivian out and shot
him ; but I had no fancy for that game."
The mocking laugh which followed the words curdled the
blood in Ronald's veins; and, without lifting up his eyes, he
said, in a hollow voice, " You ruined him."
There was the hesitation of a moment, but the assertion
was a relief, and Captain Vivian continued, hurriedly, "Well!
l ct it be said I ruined him. He was a fool, Ronald; it waa
8GS CLEVE HALL.
not fit to deal with him as with a man of spirit. And he
throw the game into my hands. For months he had let him-
self be led blindfold. He told me all his follies; I even
wrote his letters for him. lie had not the sense to see i was
his rival ; not, at least, till the very last. Then he turned
round and reproached me with plotting against his happiness
— he who, at the very moment, was plucking from my grasp
the prize I valued above all on earth. Surely, when he had
succeeded 1 had aright to tale the advantage he had put into
my hands. I knew his debts and his difficulties ; he had
placed me in possession of all before his miserable marriage,
and had arranged that I was to go to England, and see the old
General, and get from him all 1 could, whether in fair words
or good deeds. That, again, was his folly — for the General
hated me — but his fate blinded him. 'Quern Deus vult per-
dere prius dementat/ as they used to teach me at school. How
1 laughed in my heart as he played into my hands. It so
happened, too, that just at that time I had another ally, — ■
Goff, who was his servant. Long before I had bought the
fellow over to my side, and a good deal I learnt through him ;
nearly enough to have stopped the marriage, only, as ill-luck
would have it, they had a desperate quarrel about a week be-
fore it came off, and Goff was turned away at an hour's notice,
and came straight to me. When the deed was done, and the
marriage could not be prevented, he was my right hand in my
plans, for he knew all the ins and outs of Edward A^iviau's
life, and was as much his enemy as I was; why, — he didn't
tell me then, but I found out afterwards. There was some
question of honesty pending. Goff was never very scrupu-
lous, and there were threats of inquiry into his doings. But-
all that was nothing to me. I had got the man I needed, and
he had got the master who suited him. We understood each
other, and he was willing to back me; and so we started for
England directly upon the news of the marriage, I taking care-
not to betray my disappointment, but still writing to Edward
to trust me and I would put all straight with the General."
A gr< an was uttered by Ronald.
Captain Vivian laughed faintly. "Tut! lad, cheer up.
You don't understand such matters. Well for you ! perhaps.
But a man who means to carry out a scheme musn't be scru«
pulous ; and you know it's all gone by now. I was young, then,
and hot-headed, and what I'd set my heart to do I would do
CLEVE HALL. 309
TVouldn't be the same now. Cheer up," he repeated, as
llonald still hid his face from him.
" Go on," was all he said ; and his father went on, yet les«5
carelessly than before. He was approaching- that part of his
story where even his hardened spirit shrank from the confes-
sion of its guilt.
" We came to England, and saw the General ; and there
was a long talk about the marriage and the money affairs. He
was primed to take offence, and, of course, I didn't let mat-
ters appear too smooth. I had full credentials given me some
weeks before, so there was no question that I was an accre-
dited agent. To do the old man justice, he was so straight-
forward he would have run his head against a stone wall if it
had been built up right before him. He took my word for
truth, and if there was a doubt, Goff was at hand as a wit-
ness. So we told him some pretty gambling stories, — a little
embellished, perhaps, as was fair — and the marriage history
as a conclusion ; and he was willing to consider me as his son's
friend, and talk over arrangements for settlins; the debts. But
that wasn't quite my notion. He was stiff and hard, but there
was a twinkle in his eye which told of yielding and forgiving;
and if it had come to that, good-b'ye to all hope of revenge.
No; I wasn't to be balked in that way !" Captain Vivian uttered
the last words as thoush addressing himself, for something
seemed to check him when he would have pronounced llo-
nald's name ; and he rose up, and walked once or twice up and
down the cave, and went to the extremity of the passage to
look out upon the sea. Then he came back again, and said,
in a tone of icy unconcern, " That was the tug of war between
us, but I gained the day. When nothing else would answer,
I handed him a paper which did for Vivian : a promissory note
for five thousand pounds."
Ronald started up. " A forgery, father ! Say it was not
a forgery ! Oh, God ! have mercy !"
Miserable he was, but not so miserable as the wretched
man, from whose face every tint of color had faded, and who
stood, haggard, yet defiant, convicted by the confession of his
own mouth.
A long, lonu' silence — whilst the waves plashed softly upon
the smooth-sanded beach, and the cry of the sea-gull was faintly
heard amongst the rocky cliffs.
Captain Vivian was the first to recover himself. "The
deed's done, Ronald, and the day's gone by; and if you wish
370 CLEVB HALL.
for Borrow, I've had sorrow enough. But, good or bad, it's not
for a son to go counter to his father, or refuse to lend a help
ing hand when the time is come to save him from ruin."
Ronald did not answer, and he continued: — "It's what I
have always looked to. When it has crossed my mind that
things might take an awkward turn, I felt I had a friend at
home. Your mother said it."
" My mother ! Thauk God she did not live to see this
day ;" and llonald, roused for a moment, sank again into his
former attitude.
A trace of emotion was visible in Captain Vivian's face.
" Thank God, too," he said, "but she would have helped me."
" Father, what would you have me do V llonald looked up
steadily, with a glazed eye, and a countenance which in those
lew moments seemed to have been stamped with the suffering
of years.
" Edward Vivian is in England," was the reply.
" Yes, I know it."
" He has been at Encombe ; he is coming again. When
he does come, it will be to reclaim his inheritance."
Ronald only bent his head in assent.
" His success will be my ruin," continued Captain Vivian,
"unless . Thei-e is a paper, Ronald — that which did the
mischief; it is in Bertha Campbell's hands. How she got it
passes my comprehension, but it is there. It would be proof
certain, and your father would end his days as a convicted
felon. That paper must be in my possession before another
day has passed over our heads." He paused, and in a lower
tone added, "you must contrive to lay hold of it."
Captain Vivian's penetrating glance rested upon his son,
and a secret, yet irresistible, influence seemed to compel Ro-
nald to confront his gaze. Their eyes met, but neither of
them spoke for some seconds.
" Well !" burst at length from Captain Vivian's lips.
" Y r ou must find another to execute your purpose," was the
answer.
" Traitor !" exclaimed Captain Vivian.
Ronald continued in a tone cold and hard, as if every feel-
ing were petrified. "Mr. Vivian's claim is just; to destroy
the proof of his innocence would be unjust."
The rocky walls of the cavern rang with a fearful impreca-
tion, and, standing before his son, Captain Vivian poured forth
a torn -lit of reproaches, which yet only served to deepen the
CLEVE HALL. 371
immovable expression of Ronald's face. When his father's
violence had in a degree exhausted itself, he said, — "Ask me
what you will, that may be granted without sin, and were it
to give up my life it should be done."
Captain Vivian laughed scornfully. " Sin ! — to save a
father, by the destruction of a paltry paper ! The boy is
mad."
"Then God grant that the madness may last!" replied
Ronald. Changing his tone, he continued, in a voice of plead-
ing earnestness, which might have been the whisper of that
womanly tenderness inherited from his mother: — "Father,
you have asked a favor of me, and I have refused to grant it.
I have no right, therefore, to seek kindness from you ; yet I
do — I must. Miss Campbell's warnings are clear to me now,
so also are her promises. Trust her — trust Mr. Vivian — and,
by all that is sacred, I do affirm my conviction that you are
safe."
Captain Vivian looked at him wildly.
" Yes," repeated Ronald, " safe by their own promises, by
all the obligations of gratitude. Once I have saved Mr.
Vivian's life — once I assisted in saving his daughter. He
acknowledges the claim ; I have heard it from his own lips —
no matter how or when — but for my sake he will dread to
injure you. As surely, father, as there is truth in man, he
will be true to you, if only you will trust him."
He was interrupted mockingly. " And give myself up to
the nearest magistrate ? Ronald, you are a desperate fool !"
and Captain Vivian paced the floor of the cave with short and
hurried steps.
After a few seconds he stopped. " You have seen Edward
Vivian ; I guessed as much. Let me know the how and the
when."
"I saw him the last evening that he was here; we had
met upon the Croomc, and he had betrayed himself. I knew
then that there was enmity between you. I did not know for
what cause."
"Mean, wretched boy! Plotting against your father, de-
ceiving him for months ! And Edward Vivian — an idiot still,
preaching of promises and trust, when wealth or ruin was at
Btake ! The experience of centuries would not be enough for
such a man."
" It was I, father, who extracted the promise. I who spoko
af trust. I who do, and will, trust."
I - CLEVE HALL.
"And you who sold yourself to his purpose, and promised
to ;iid him for your father's destruction."
'■Oh, God! pardon me ! Have pity upon mc! I ana
very miserable." Ronald's spirit gave way, and ho cast him-
self upon the floor in an agony of grief.
Captain Vivian stood by him silently. Whatever might be
his feelings of indignation against his son for having kept from
him his communication with Mr. Vivian, it was not then the
moment to show it. Too much depended upon Ronald's con-
senting to lie a partner in his schemes to admit of any expres-
sion which would be likely to repel and irritate him; and
during those first few moments of suffering there was sufficient
time for self-recollection to convince him that if his object was
to be obtained, it must be by very different means than threats
or violence.
When Ronald, somewhat calmed by the outburst to winch
he had given way, at length rose and moved towards the en-
trance of the cave, willing, apparently, to put an end to the
conference, he was stopped by a voice which sounded rather
like the entreaty of a brother, then the command of a parent:
— " And you leave me, then, Ronald, to ruin ?"
" I leave you, father, because I cannot help you as you
would be helped ; but I will wait your orders at home."
" Hume ! I have none. I am a wanderer, sent forth by
my owu child. Is it so that you keep your mother's last
wish ?"
Ronald put his hands before his eyes. " My brain is
dizzy, — I can't think ; give me but an hour's rest."
" When we are in safety, — not before. Your father's
shame will be yours also."
" I know it; oh, yes, I know it, too well !"
" And if it is so that Edward Vivian is under such deep
obligation, he can never find fault with you for taking from
him what, according to your own story, he would never con-
sent to make use of as proof."
"I don't know, father; I can't understand. My head is
burning." Ronald leant against the wall for support.
Captain Vivian went on slowly. " He says that he is will-
ing to hush the case. It may be so, but I won't put my head
into the lion's mouth ; or, if I do, I will first draw his teeth.
Granted that he takes no measures against me, who is to
answer for the General? I have not lived fifty years in the
world 1o be duped by promises. The paper must be mine; if
CLEVE HALL. 373
not by fair means, then by foul. But with you, Ronald, it
would be an easy matter. Bertha Campbell puts faith in you,
even to folly."
" Impossible ! I have no excuse. I could make no pre-
tence."
" Pshaw !" Captain Vivian's tone relapsed into coarse
good humour, as he fancied himself gaining the ascendant.
" You don't think I have learnt what I have without forming
my plans accordingly. The thing is easy enough. Mr. Lester
had the paper; it must have been given him by the General.
In my folly I fancied that the old man, in his stiff, family
pride, would destroy it, that it might never tell the tale of his
son's misdeeds. Doubtless Edward Vivian and his friend are,
at this moment, planning to make use of it. But while there's
life there's hope. It is not in their possession now. Bertha
Campbell has it, — she keeps it about her in her pocket-book.
I learnt that by ways which you would never guess. You must
go to her with news of the boy, — of Clement; the story is
easily concocted. He shall be suspected to have gone off on
a lark, with some strange friend of Goff's, — a smuggling
friend, if you will," and Captain Vivian tried to laugh. " You
may guess that they'll be back some particular day, and have
a fuss about the date ; anything to induce her to bring out the
book. Then let Goff or me be near, with some sudden mes-
sage which shall make her lay it down at the right moment,
and leave you with it, and good luck to your cleverness in
taking advantage of the opportunity. A good scheme, eh ?
Don't you think so?" and he pried keenly into Ronald's pale
and stony face. Obtaining no answer, he added: — "What's
an easy job for you, would be desperately difficult for me.
She's on her guard the moment she sees me. Ten to one that
I should ever get admittance to the house; and twenty to one
that if I did, I should make her forget herself enough to leave
the book with me. And there's no time for failure ; what's
June must be done to-night, or good b'ye to Encombe, and
hurrah for Botany Bay!"
Ronald neither moved nor spoke.
" Well, are you agreed?" was his father's next impatient
rjuery.
He shook his head, but he could not utter a word.
"Senseless boy! this is no time I'm- jesting. Say, shall we
be off?"
371 CLEVE HALL.
" Impossible !" The word seemed to come from the depths
of his heart.
Captain Vivian caught its accent of resolution. " Impos-
sible! Let Heaven he witness, it shall cot be impossible. Yet
Stay ; it may be as well to hear the wise reasons which yon can
produce for bringing your father's gray hairs to the grave in
shame."
" It is false and unjust, and I have pledged myself to re-
pair injustice," was llonald's answer.
" Pledged yourself against me !"
" Not against you," replied Ronald, "but to restore Mr.
Vivian to his right. Father, your son would sacrifice life for
you, hut he cannot sacrifice honor. And if your plan were,
carried out," he continued, more calmly, " it could but partially
save you; all feeling of obligation as regards myself would be
cancelled. Mr. Vivian would be your open enemy, and mine
also, and every motive of self-justification would induce him
to sift the matter to the bottom. What the event would be
who can say ? Disgrace ! yes, at least, disgrace !" he repeated,
shuddering at the word.
" A noble, cautious boy ! Most sagely prudent ! And
what then would be your wise advice ?"
" A wrong has been done," replied Ronald, " therefore let
the wrong be repaired. I do not ask, father, that you should
put yourself in danger, or trust even Mr. Vivian as I would
trust him. If you will, let us leave the country, and place
ourselves in safety, and then let the confession be made by
writing. So far all will be done that could be to replace Mr.
Vivian in his right position with the General. As regards the
debt, let me work. Father, you do not know how I can
work, — how I can endure. Give me but this object, and death
only shall hinder me from obtaining it. And when we have
restored to General Vivian, or to his family, the sum unlaw-
fully taken from them, even though we may never return to
England, we yet may live honored and free." A gleam of
bright hope shot across Ronald's face as he stood up proudly ;
and the expression of his young and noble features told how
earnestly, how unwaveringly, the plan he had proposed would
be carried to its conclusion.
But the unhappy man to whom he addressed himself wa3
too far entangled in his own snares to be willing to adopt it.
He did not indeed ridicule it; perhaps even a softened look
of admiration might have been traced in his countenance; hut
CLEVE HALL. 875
he put the idea aside, as lie would the dream of a simple child,
and merely repl} r iug, " Good enough, perhaps, for some people,
if it were only possible," again inquired whether Ronald would
consent to yield obedience to his will.
And Ronald answered, " On this point, never !" And both
were silent.
Then Captain Vivian spoke once more abruptly; "So tho
boy's doom is fixed."
Ronald caught his arm. " The boy ? Clement ? Father,
you know where he is."
Captain Vivian withdrew himself, and strode to the entrance
of the cave, muttering as he went.
" Father, in mercy — in pity tell me ! Let me save him."
" You may, but you will not," was the answer.
" Cruel, cruel !" exclaimed Ronald, and he covered his face
with his hands.
" Do my bidding, and he is safe/' continued Captain
Vivian. "Refuse, and this very day I leave England, and
give him up to his fate."
" His fate ! what fate ? Oh, father, where is he ? Let me
only know, that I may judge." There was yielding in Ronald's
tone, and in his words.
Captain Vivian returned again into the cave and sat down.
"Where he is I can't say just now. Where he maybe, I
can guess. In a desperate scrape, — in prison, probably, before
the night is Over our heads."
Ronald looked at him in wild terror. " In prison ? Then
he has been tempted, — led away."
His father interrupted him. " Led away ! The boy's of
an age to judge for himself."
" Help me, — help me, — what can I do for him ?" And
Ronald clasped his hands together in the anguish of his
entreaty.
" I have told you. I am not going to trust more to a son
who won't stretch out his hand to save his father from public
disgrace. Clement's fate is in your hands."
"I can't tell, — I can't think." Ronald threw himself
upon his knees, and words of earnest but incoherent prayer
burst from him.
His father turned away, — he could not mock him.
The Jong, shrill, well-known whistle! Ronald started up.
" "lis he ! Goff!" exclaimed Captain Vivian, " He comes
to know your determination."
o
76 CLEVE HALL.
Ronald's face had recovered its expression of calm resolu
tinii. "Teil him that I will not do evil that good may conic.
Father, Cod grant yon repentance ami pardon."
Ho would have rushed away, but a powerful grasp arrested
his movements. " Wo will talk of this again, in another place;
you go with me now to the Grange."
Ronald had no means of escape. They were met at the
foot of the cliff by Goff. A hasty glance and murmured words
told that the interview had been fruitless, and Ronald had no
will to enter into explanation with his father's base accom-
plice.
They reached the Grange. Captain Vivian led the way
into the house. He had not uttered a word on the way. Now
he said, moodily, " We have much to talk of still. Ten minutes
hence I will call you, and you shall hear more of my plana;
in the mean time you will wait in your room." Ronald hur-
ried to his chamber, unspeakably thankful for the few moments
of rest and solitude. He did not know that he was watched,
he did not see that his steps were followed ; but as once more
he knelt by the side of his rough bed, seeking relief in prayer,
he heard the heavy lock of his door turned on the outside, and
realized that he was a prisoner.
-<a»-
CHAPTER XLI.
THE same glorious sunrise which Ronald had beheld as he
walked along the beach was watched also by Bertha
Campbell, whilst she stood at her bed-room window. Yet to
her, as to him, it brought but little perception of beauty.
She had stood there very late on the preceding night, and
she had stationed herself there again long before dawn ; and
now she was lingering still with that heavy load of wearing
suspense and responsibility, which deadens both heart and
intellect to every sense but that of wretchedness.
Bertha had but a woman's power, and even that had never
been fully exercised. She did not know what she could do,
and she was not confident what she ouo-ht to do. That last
night had been a terrible trial. Mrs. Campbell's nervous,
angry uneasiness, the children's fears, and her own infinitely
CLEVE HALL. 377
worse forebodings, were all to be borne; and they were borne
with Bertha's characteristic composure, but tbe trial did not
work the less inwardly. Messages were sent, and men dis-
patched in all directions, and every necessary inquiry was
made ; and at length, about half-past eleven o'clock, Captain
Vivian and Ronald made their appearance at the Lodge, to
announce that they had traced Clement to the shore, where he
had been seen in company with some strange men, supposed
to be a party from Cleve, but beyond this no tidings hsd been
heard. Mrs. Campbell found comfort in this. It proved, she
said, that he had not fallen over the cliffs, or been drowned.
She thought it might be a boy's freak, — perhaps planned for
the very purpose of frightening them, and she confidently
anticipated his return the next day ; but Bertha's mind had,
from the beginning, been more harassed by the idea of his
bSng led into evil company than by the dread of an accident ;
and "the information only confirmed her worst forebodings,
except that it seemed to exonerate Captain Vivian and Goff
from any share in misleading him. She had parted from Ro-
nald with the earnest assurance, on his part, that he would,
with the earliest dawn of light, prosecute his inquiries, and
would not rest till they were satisfied ; and then she had gone
to rest, but not to sleep. Conscience, stimulated by anxiety,
was busy with reproaches, and, perhaps, not all unfounded.
She felt that she had not watched over Clement rightly ; she
had lived apart from him, allowing herself to be engrossed with
interests peculiar to herself, and not realizing that, having
been placed towards him in the position of a mother, or, at
least, of an elder sister, she was called upon for sympathy
which should draw him out, and make his home happy. Mr.
Lester had often warned her that irritation and coldness might
drive him to seek amusement from home; and yet she had
not always, — she had very seldom, indeed, — been able to
command herself. So she had thrown him entirely upon
Ella's companionship; and this, — wayward, indolent, proud,
and self-indulgent, — had tended to strengthen his faults, and
made him fall a more easy victim to slight temptations.
Doubtless Bertha exaggerated her own shortcomings, and
ascribed to them worse consequences than could properly be
said to fall to their share. We are all responsible for our mis-
doings, whatever may be the defects of those set over us; and
Clement bad received instruction and warnings sufficient to
keep him from evil, if he had been inclined to attend to them.
378 CLEVE HALL.
But it is nevertheless true, and it is one of the great mysteries
of our present state of being, that the influence which we ex«
ercise without thought, daily and hourly, is working, cither
for good or ill, upon the moral character, and consequently
upon the eternal condition of those with whom we dwell.
We go on, it may be, sinning and repenting, — making
faint resolutions, and breaking them, fancying we arc in the
right, way, and that if wc offend, our offences are those of
human infirmity, upon which God will look mercifully; and
so, searching only into our own hearts, we are, upon the whole,
satisfied.
But there is another reckoning, — it will be seen at the
Judgment Day, — which tells the effect of every hasty word,
every proud, cold look or tone, upon the hearts of those who
dwell with us. Grod have mercy upon us when that revelation
is made !
Even now its bitterness is, at times, forestalled. Petulance,
coldness, selfishness, proud reserve, an overweening love of
power, labor silently, day by day, in raising up barriers in our
homes; and at length some unlooked-for circumstance shows
us that the work is done, — that we have estranged affection,
and lost respect ; it may be that we have saved ourselves, but
ruined the souls intrusted to us.
Not that all which has been said could be applicable to the
case of Bertha Campbell. With her the evil was but in its
infancy, and she was beginning to open her eyes to it, before
Clement's unlooked-for disappearance had called forth her
self-reproach so bitterly. But it was quite true that Clement
had often been induced to linger with llonald, or to idle his
time upon the shore, because Bertha's cold words, and con-
stant habit of finding fault, made home distasteful to him. It
was quite true that his indolence and wilfulness had been fos-
tered, because Bertha, by never taking any interest in his
pursuits, had thrown him entirely upon Ella for sympathy ;
and now, when foreseeing the fatal consequences which might
arise from such apparently trivial circumstances, it was not to
be supposed that she could exactly discriminate what her own
share in the evil had been.
They were very mournful moments which she passed
standing by the window, watching, as she thought, but in
reality lost in revery ; and the sun, as it rose higher in the
eastern sky, brought to her mind only a burdensome sense of
^hill and darkness in her own heart, rendered more evident by
CLEVE HALL. 379
the contrast of external brightness. She was physically weary
also ; her rest had been broken, and the atmosphere of a De-
cember morning, though the season was unusually mild, made
even the fur cloak in which she had wrapped herself a very
insufficient covering. Yet it required an eifort to dress, and
prepare for the business of the day. All order seemed broken
up: she did not know what to do, — what to think of; and
this to a mind usually regulated like clock-work, was a consi-
derable addition to every other trouble.
The post was late, and Mrs. Campbell's excitement much
increased in consequence. The point to which every one
looked was Mr. Lester's return, and this, Mrs. Campbell now
asserted, was impossible. There were no letters, and, if he
did not write, it was certain he would not come. It was in
vain that Bertha pointed to the clock, and showed that the
postman was only five minutes behind his time, which was a
common occurrence, and therefore there was no need to des-
pair. Mrs. Campbell's fears were as quickly excited as her
hopes, and her anxiety showed itself by incessant suggestions
and orders, mingled with complaints of Bertha's quietness,
which she called indifference, and reproaches against Mr. Les-
ter for being absent ; whilst every now and then she wandered
into murmurs against General Vivian, and reminiscences of
things said and done in by-gone years, which had, doubtless,
in her own mind, some connexion with the present uneasiness,
yet which it was not very easy to follow.
Bertha bore all quietly, not attempting to reason, but listen-
ing to what was said, with her head turned towards the win-
dow. At last she observed, in a very calm voice, " 1 think
that is Rachel coining up the garden."
Louisa was at the front door with lightning speed.
" A letter, llachel ! — have you heard?"
" Yes, he comes to-night," was Rachel's answer, but her
face was only partially brightened; yet she followed Louisa
quickly to the parlor, and meeting Bertha at the threshold, re-
peated the fact instantly.
" Thank God," was Bertha's whispered ejaculation, and
she kissed llachel heartily; but it seemed as though she had
no power to say more.
" Come here, my dear — sit down by me : tell me what
message your papa sends," said Mrs. Campbell, beckoning
llachel to her.
Rachel sal down and unfolded her letter, with a slight
o80 CLEVE HALL.
feeling of pride ;it being the bearer of an important communi-
cation.
Bertha sat opposite, her breath coming quick and faint.
"He says," began Rachel, reading aloud, — "my friend
scorns better, and 1 tliink it possible 1 may bring him down
with me for a little change; we may be at home to-morrow
night. Don't depend upon us, but don't be surprised if you
see us." — "That is very nice, isn't it?" she added, looking
up doubtfully in Mrs. Campbell's face, as if nothing could bo
very nice just then to any one.
" Yes, my dear; but 1 wish, — oh, detr ! Bertha, what time
does the coach come in ?"
"There are two coaches," replied Bertha. "Mr. Lester
doesn't say which he shall come by."
Rachel turned immediately to Mrs. Campbell to answer the
question : " Papa comes by the five o'clock coach generally, —
when ho does go away, that is. Bear Miss Campbell," and
she addressed herself to Bertha, with an accent of gentle
sympathy, "won't it be a comfort to you to have him back?"
" Yes, great; but the letter with the receipted bill may go
astray."
Even at that moment of anxiety, Bertha's mind would fix
itself upon anything which happened to be irregular.
•'•' Oli ! it won't signify. Everything will be right when
papa comes." Rachel paused, for she was thinking of Cle-
ment, yet could not bring herself to mention his name. She
repeated again : " Everything will be right when papa comes."
" Do you think Clement will come with him ?" asked the
blundering Fanny, who had only paid a half attention to what
was being said.
Louisa caught up her words : " Fanny, how silly ! You
always do say such silly things. What bill was it, Rachel ?"
"Never mind, my dear; it is not your concern," said
Bertha, alive directly to her duty as monitor.
Louisa still persisted : " But I thought, Aunt Bertha, that
you didn't send the bill ; it was in your pocket-book."
"What bill, Louisa ? You astonish me. What do you
mean by prying into every person's concerns in this way ?"
" I didn't pry, Aunt Bertha" — and the angry flush rushed
to Louisa's cheeks; "but if you remember, when 1 told yon
yesterday that Anne at the Rectory was still fussing about a
lost paper, you said, ' Oh! she needn't trouble herself; Rachel
knows all about it: I took it and put it in my pocket-book.'
CLEVE HALL. SSI
I remember quite well that was what you said ; and I told it
to Anne when I saw her, as we came back from our walk."
" I wish you to have no gossip with Anne of any kind,"
observed Bertha, quickly; " I won't have you speak to her."
" I don't think Anne gossips more than other people,"
muttered Louisa.
" She does, though," exclaimed Fanny, anxious to put in
her opinion upon the state of passing affairs. " She was talk-
ing a long, long time to Goff last evening, after we came
home — I saw her from my window; and he looked so ugly and
fierce, I wonder she wasn't frightened at him."
" I want to hear no more of either of them," observed
Bertha. She turned to her mother, and added : " I am think-
ing of going to the Hall. Miss Vivian will be anxious to
know what we have heard and done."
" I don't know what there is to tell," replied Mrs. Camp-
bell ; " I can't understand myself what any one is doing."
" The gardener is gone off to Cleve, trying to trace the men
who were on the shore last night," answered Bertha, without
endeavoring to excuse herself; "and there is another man
sent to give notice to the police ; and Job Horner is over the
hills by Barney Wood's cottage ; and Ronald said he and his
father would search along the cliffs, and keep a watch upon
the beach. I don't think we can do anything more till Mr.
Lester comes, — only wait ;" and she sighed deeply.
" I wish you could cheer one up, Bertha; you always take
the black side. Poor boy! I am sure he will be back soon.
But those dreadful men must have led him into it for a freak.
I am sure he will be back this evening. Where did you say
you were going ?"
" To the Hall," replied Bertha. '• I think some one ought
to see Miss Vivian. Rachel, will you go with me ? Fanny
and Louisa have colds."
Mrs. Campbell, not choosing her consent to be taken for
granted, began to make objections. She disliked, she said, to
be left; if persons came in, she shouldn't be able to see them,
and Bertha ought to stay at home and give orders ; and Bertha
acquiesced, and began to prepare for the children's lessons.
And then Mrs. Campbell changed her mind, and was surprised
that Bertha could be so indifferent, and thought that all kinds
of stories might reach the Hall if some one did not go and
explain matters. She was in that irritable, nervous state in
ffhich nothing can please and when fco see others quiet is only
382 CLEVE HALL.
an aggravation of suffering. But Bertha felt that slio must do
something, if it were only fur the sake of the children. No
good could accrue to them by sitting down in idle lamenta-
tions, nr walking continually from one room to the other, and
looking out of every window; so a compromise with Mrs.
Campbell's conflicting wishes was made at last; and it was
settled that Bertha should wait till after the early dinner, set
the children to their lessons, and hear all that might be heard
of the result of the different inquiries, and in the afternoon
walk with Rachel to the Hall; whilst Louisa and Fanny were
left with their grandmamma.
This was the best arrangement Bertha could think of, but
it did not thoroughly satisfy her. She disliked leaving the
children at home, for with Louisa's curiosity there was always
the dread of gossip with the servants, and though Betsy at the
Lodge was very discreet, the same could not be said of Anne
at the Rectory. In spite of her promises of amendment, Ber-
tha had reason to believe that she was by no means thoroughly
to be trusted ; and the little hint which Fanny had thrown
out respecting the last evening's conversation with Goff, rested
in her mind with a very uneasy feeling. Anne had nothing
to tell, so far as Bertha knew, which all the world might not
hear; but Goff's constant, communications made it evident
that he must have some object in keeping up the acquaintance.
Bertha resolved that Mr. Lester should be put thoroughly
upon his guard, and Anne's place was already, in her own
mind, vacant. That was not, however, to be thought of at
present; Mr. Lester was to return in the evening; and then
all this trouble, anxiety, and responsibility would be lessened,
even if before that Clement did not make his appearance.
-«-
CHAPTER XLII
BERTHA and Rachel had a very quiet walk. They were
both too thoughtful to talk — at least, at first. Rachel
often looked round, fancying she might hear or see something
of Clement. Bertha went on apparently noticing nothing, but
in reality with eye and ear thoroughly open, whilst the mind
was dwelling upon the most painful, and, as it might have been
CLEVE HALL. 383
supposed, absorbing topics. And absorbing they were, only all
connected with the one idea of Clement's absence. She thought
of what he might have been led to do ; of his father's horror ;
Mr. Lester's pain ; General Vivian's indignation; the down-
fall of that fabric of hope which for the last few months they
had been building. And then her own share in it ! That
came back again and again, and always with the despairing
feeling that she did not know how to amend, that she gave
offence without meaning it, and had no power of expressing her
feelings, and was thoroughly misunderstood — even by Edward
Vivian, for whom the best years of her life had been sacrificed.
At length the lonely feeling could be borne no longer, and it
came out to llachel, in answer to a passing observation of de-
light at the prospect of her father's return. " Yes, it will be
very nice for you. It must be very delightful to have some
one to whom you can say everything."
" So pleasant !" exclaimed Rachel ; and then, checking
herself as though it were wrong to think of anything pleasant
just then, she said, " But it won't be pleasant to-night — un-
less we have news, that is."
Bertha avoided the painful allusion, and answered the first
part of the speech : " Very few people have that happiness,
llachel ; you should learn to make the most of it."
" I do try, I hope; but I suppose grown-up people don't
want it as much as children."
" Yes, they do — quite as much," said Bertha, abruptly.
" But they don't want human beings to tell things to, I
suppose," replied Rachel, reverently, yet timidly.
" They want them, but they don't find them," continued
Bertha ; " and that is why they are unhappy."
" I shall tell everything to papa as long as I have him,"
said Rachel; "but if he were not with me, I don't think I
could go and talk in the same way to any one else."
" Then you would miss it, dreadfully," replied Bertha.
" Yes, dreadfully; I know that. It used to make me un-
happy to think about it, till papa said that love for him was
like a stepping-stone, that it was meant to teach me how I
was to love God ; and since that, I have tried sometimes, when
he has been away, to think that I had God to go to; and now
and then — not always, only now and then — it seems as if that
would make up for everything."
" Ah, yes ! Rachel — now and then; but what one wants id
tu feel it always," said Bertha.
384 CLEVE HALL.
"It would be wonderfully pleasant, wouldn't it?" replied
Rachel. " How it would help one in the world! But, dear
Miss Campbell, persons who are us good as you are must al-
ways feel it."
"Oh, no, Rachel j what a mistake!" and Bertha stopped
suddenly.
Rachel was thoughtful and silent. Presently she said,
without any attempt at a preface, " One day I was going up
the hills, feeling very tired, and trying so to get on, and then
being quite out of breath ; and at last papa came, and put his
hand at my back, and it made such a difference — I went on
almost without feeling it. And afterwards papa reminded me
of it, and said it was like the different ways in which I could
go through life; trying to overcome difficulties by myself, and
thinking I had a point to reach, aud then God would love me,
and be pleased with me — that, he said, was acting from duty
alone; or else, feeling that God was really with me now, help-
ing me on at every step; and loving me, not because I had
done the things, but because I was trying to do them — and
that, he said, would be acting from love. And, do you know,
Miss Campbell — it is so odd — I have had it in my mind ever
since ; and when I feel cross and lazy — and I do very often —
then I think that God is quite close to me. And I have a
kind of fancy — I hope it does not sound irreverent — that He
is really putting His hand at the back of my heart, and telling
me, that if I will move, He will keep it there, and make the
tiresome things easy. Is there any harm in such thoughts V
" JS T o harm, dear Bachel" — and a melancholy smile crossed
Bertha's face — " if you can really keep such notions in your
head."
"And it is true, isn't it?" continued Rachel, earnestly.
" Not, of course, quite as I say — that is only my way of fancying
it; but you know God does love us now, and help us on, and
make things easy."
" Yes, of course" — but Bertha's answer was not quite as
hearty as Rachel had expected; yet she went on, as was her
wont, with her own thoughts.
" It makes such a difference to me now I think of these
things. When I only try to do what is right, it all seems hard,
and I get cross with myself because I don't do all I want to
do — it is just like a cold, sharp, March wind blowing over
one ; but when I have the other feeling, it is like sunshine,
and I go on so happily. It is quite a pleasure to do disagree-
CLEVE HALL. 385
able tilings, because, you know, tbe Hand is there to help me ;
and when they are done, I can turn round and see that (rod is
pleased. I wish I could make j 7 ou understand ; it is almost
like seeing, it is so real."
" Yes, very real, undoubtedly."
The full, implicit, childlike belief lit up Rachel's thoughtful
eyes with a brilliancy that was even startling — and the flush
of excitement was on her cheek ; and in her eagerness she
paused in her walk, and resting her hand on her companion's
arm, looked at her with a gaze which thrilled through Bertha's
heart, for it might have been the expression of an angel's love.
Strange ! the power which touches one heart by the influ-
ence of another. That look did its work. Not then — Bertha's
thoughts were too occupied, her heart was too full of home
cares to understand it — but it lingered by her till other days,
haunting her with its only half-understood meaning ; it did
more than Mr. Lester's instruction, more than Mildred Vivian's
suggestions — for it was the soul speaking to the soul ; and He
who made the soul, gave its language a power beyond words.
It was Bertha's first vivid perception of the softening influence
of the motive of love.
The short conversation ended there as suddenly as it had
begun. Bertha felt, though she did not quite know why, that
she could not continue it ; and Rachel had said what was in
her mind, and relapsed into silence. They walked for a short
distance; Bertha pondering upon Rachel's simplicity, wishing
that Ella was like her, and thinking that she might have been
if she had been brought up in the same way.
That, however, was a mistake ; the two characters were
essentially unlike, and what was extremely good for one would
have been very bad for the other.
Mildred Vivian's personal rules and suggestions as to strict
self-scrutiny were absolutely necessary for Ella, because she
never took the trouble to think about herself at all. They
would have been injurious to Rachel, by engendering self-con-
sciousness, and irritating a naturally sensitive conscience into
a state of constant scruple and morbid search into the state of
her own feelings. Ella required to be taught to live in herself —
Rachel out of herself. But Bertha was not quick in perceiving
Midi distinctions, and the medicine which was good for one,
she would have considered good for all.
Her meditations were not left long uninterrupted ; a man's
quick tread was heard behind lier, whilst at the same moment
17
386 CLEVE HALL.
a rough voice called out, "Why, Miss Campbell, you walk so
fast, one would think you were running for a wager."
Bertha stopped, telling Rachel to go on, and let her speak
to Captain Vivian alone. He had probably, she thought, some-
thing to communicate to her about Clement ; and since his
kindness in the search of the preceding evening, she felt a
strange mixture of suspicion and cordiality towards him.
Captain Vivian came up and held out his hand: "Good-
day to you, Miss Campbell. I was thinking of coming up to
the Lodge, but I was afraid it would be no good."
"Then you have heard nothing';"' said Bertha, iu a tone
of keen disappointment.
He shook his head : "Two of my men have been out, round
by Cleve, trying to hear something of the fellows we traced
last night ; and Ronald's off somewhere. We must have some
tidings before night."
"I trust so;" but Bertha's tone was not hopeful.
"Come, cheer up; it's no use to be cast down," continued
Captain Vivian, rather good-naturedly. " 'Tis but a boy's
freak, after all. I'd have done the same at his age. But
where may you be going now ?"
"To the Hall. Miss Vivian and the General will be
anxious."
" You have heard, of course, that the old General is ill,"
said Captain Vivian.
" Yes, we had a message. He had an attack of faintness
last night, but he is better this morning."
" He does not leave his room though, and at his age attacks
of faintness are serious matters."
" Yes, but Miss Vivian doesn't seem alarmed. Is there
anything else you think we can do ?"
" Nothing, unless when do you expect Mr. Lester
home ?"
Notwithstanding Bertha's newly-awakened friendliness,
she had an instinct of caution, and answered ambiguously,
that it was not quite certain.
" It ought to be. Haven't you sent a message to him ?"
" No." Bertha was caught in a snare then, and felt her-
self obliged to add, " He may be at home this evening."
" Ah ! very good. The sooner he comes the better. And
his friend comes with him, doesn't he ?"
" I can't say." Bertha looked up in surprise.
Captain Vivian laughed : " Y r ou'll think I have a wonderful
CLEVE IIALL. 3b <
knowledge of what goes on ; but it so happened that one of
my men was at the Rectory just now, about this business, and
heard say that Mr. Lester was expected, and perhaps a friend
with him ; so you see I'm no magician after all."
" No." Yet Bertha felt uncomfortable.
"They'll be here by the five o'clock coach, I suppose?"
" Probably, if they come at all."
Captain Vivian considered a moment ; then his eye glanced
at Rachel, who was standing a few paces off, just sufficient to
be beyond reach of hearing : " You have a little companion
with you, I see. Is she going to the Hall, too?"
" Yes; we are rather in a hurry. I must wish you good-
b'ye, if you really have nothing more to say."
"Nothing more just now; but I may have. What time
shall you be coming back from the Hall '("
" I can't quite tell ; it depends on how long I may be kept
there." '
" But you'll not come home in the dark, I suppose ?"
" I shall have a servant with me, if I do," replied Bertha,
rather surprised at his thoughtfulness.
" Oh !" Not a very well-satisfied " Oh !" and Captain
Vivian's face bore a gloomy and troubled expression, though
he tried to laugh, and said, " I would offer myself as an escort,
only I know you would not accept me."
Bertha showed involuntarily how she shrank from the
suggestion, and she began a hurried excuse. He laughed
again : " Of course I don't offer myself; only perchance you'll
be anxious to know what we've been doing, and as it will be
rather out of my way to come to the Lodge, perhaps we might
manage to meet again half way. What do you say ? Shall
it be the turning into Encombe Lane, just as you get out of
Cleve Wood ?"
" I can't say; I don't know." Bertha did not at all like
to promise a second interview. Even this, short though it
was, made her nervous and impatient.
" Ronald promised to let me know everything," she ad'lod,
after a moment's thought. "Perhaps you could be kind
enough to send him to the Lodge, even if you can't come
yourself. I don't at all know what time I shall be returning
from the Hall myself, or whether it will be before dusk or
after; — the days close in so soon."
" I can't say for Ronald ; he's off somewhere. He mightn't
388 CLEVE IIALL.
be back before midnight j any bow, I dare say you'll bear news
before long."
lie turned from her, without e7en wishing her good-h'ye.
Bertha fancied she bad made him angry, and feared she
might be throwing away a hope for Clement. But in another
minute be returned : " I say, do you chance to have an almanac
in your pocket? I wanted to make a reckoning about some
sea matters I happen to be acquainted witb, which might help
us to a glimpse of Clement."
Bertha took out her pocket-book, and asked wbat he wanted
to know.
" I can't explain exactly. Perhaps you'd just let me look
one minute," and be held out his hand for it.
Villain though he was, the moment was too anxious for
him to be quite calm. The faltering tone of his voice struck
Bertha, and she instinctively hesitated.
" Ob ! I beg pardon; I didn't mean to pry into secrets."
"There are no secrets," said Bertha, slightly blushing;
and not knowing wbat excuse to make, she was on the point
of giving it to him. At that instant Rachel ran up to her :
" Oh ! Miss Campbell, some one so like Clement — so very like !
He has just gone down the lane to the Common : do come !"
And Bertha forgot everything else, hurriedly replaced the book
in her pocket, and ran after Bachel.
It was happy for her that Captain Vivian's muttered ex-
clamation was lost upon her. Standing upon a bank overlook-
ing the Common, he satisfied himself by his small telescope,
that Rachel was quite mistaken, and then walked away across
the fields to the village.
He went on, looking neither to the right nor left — gloom
on his brow, passion aud fierce disappointment in his heart.
Could he but have possessed himself of the paper, so close
within his grasp, all might have been well. But the oppor-
tunity was gone, and now what remained ?
The question could only be solved by an interview witb
fioff, and to his cottage Captain Vivian repaired. His own
mind was bent upon escape. Perhaps he was weary of the
load which for eighteen years had burdened his breast, remind-
ing him day and night that the hour of discovery and retribu-
tion might be at band ; perhaps, too, the morning's conversa-
tion with Ronald had touched some latent feeling of remorse,
which made him long to flee not only from danger, but from
the scenes associated with the pangs of a guilty conscienca.
CLEVE HALL. 380
But tlie influence of the comrade with whom he had con-
nected himself, was more powerful thau the weak impulse of
a heart softened only because it despaired of success. When
told of the failure in the attempt to obtain the paper from
Bertha, Goff only scoffed at Captain Vivian's cowardice, and
insisted that if the undertaking were intrusted to him, he
would even now gain possession of it before the evening
closed in.
They had succeeded, he said, hitherto; Clement was in
their power, a hostage. Through him any terms which they
chose to impose were certain to be accepted by Mr. Vivian.
Why was all to be given up without one more effort ? Even
if they failed as regarded the paper, he would, if it depended
upon himself, brave the question, and by threatening Clement's
life, force Mr. Vivian to destroy it. It was not even certain,
indeed, that the paper was that which they imagined — not-
withstanding all they had learnt from Mr. Lester's servant,
they were acting only upon suspicion; and if it were not,
nothing could be more senseless than to flee and leave the
game in their enemy's hand.
His arguments were plausible, and aided by one which he
had always found sufficient to stimulate the sinking spirit of
his companion. To bind Mr. Vivian to secrecy would be to
complete the revenge already taken, by shutting him out for
ever from the hope of restoration to the General's favor; whilst
by driving him from Encombe, and probably from England,
they would be left free to carry on their schemes as before.
Goff dwelt upon these points cunningly and successfully ;_ yet
it was long before any fixed agreement could be attained
between minds so differently bent, and each with a deeply-
rooted selfishness of purpose : Goff— desperately bold, and
willing to run all hazards for the furtherance of his own
schemes, and the opportunity of pursuing his profitable trade
at Encombe; Captain Vivian shrinking from the prospect of
meeting the man whom he had injured, dreading the evils
which his misdeeds had brought upon him, and brooding in
bitterness of heart over Ronald's alienation and his own de-
grading position.
A compromise between the two was at length effected. It
was arranged that Captain Vivian should linger upon the shore
-jr amongst the (Tills til! dusk, taking care to conceal himself
carefully from observation ; whilst Goff should be on the watch
fur the return of Bertha from the Hall, when he was to make
390 CLEVE HALL.
another attempt to obtain possession of the precious paper.
In the event of success, immediate notice was to be given to
Captain Vivian, who might then put in practice the scheme
which he had so long planned — meet Mr, Vivian, threaten
him with Clement's perilous position, as certain to be engaged
in a smuggling affray, and induce him, in the hope of saving
his boy from danger and public disgrace, to agree to any terms
of silence with regard to the past which his cousin might
demand.
If, on the contrary, the important document on which so
much depended could not be secured, Captain Vivian still
insisted upon escaping without delay. A boat was therefore
to be in readiness which would carry him off to his vessel.
In that case, Clement was to be left to his fate. Ronald, the
only person likely to help him, was a prisoner, and to remain
so till night ; there would, consequently, be no one to interfere
with the iniquitous scheme, so cruelly laid, to ruin him in his
grandfather's eyes, and raise, if possible, a still more formi-
dable barrier than that which now existed between Mr. Vivian
ami the General. All minor arrangements as to Ronald's re-
lease and future movements were left till the main points were
settled. Goff agreed apparently to the plans proposed; but
he had his own views for the future, and his own plans as to
their furtherance. They were such as could not be communi-
cated ; yet in the secrecy of his heart there lay a desperate
and fixed resolution that, come what might, the stake for which
he had already dared so much should not be yielded without
a struggle even, if it were necessary, to death.
~+-
CHAPTER XLIII.
('"I LOOM and silence brooded over the oak-pannelled apart-
X ments, the deserted lobbies, and mazy corridors of Cleve
Hall. Stealthily passed the measured footsteps of the old
servants ; and when, occasionally, a lighter or a quicker tread
ventured to break upon the stillness, it seemed a profanation
of the solemn grandeur of the stately mansion. General Vi-
vian would not leave his dressing-room; Greaves waited upon
him, Mildred sat with him, Ella occasionally went in and out
CLEVE HALL. 301
with messages. He was not ill, it was said, and he would not
consent to see a doctor. That was not surprising- ; he hated
doctors, and professed to have no faith in them ; and he was
never known to be nervous about himself. He often talked
of death, but never seemed to realize in himself the possibility
of dying ; and he was not going to die now, as far as any one
could judge. The attack of the preceding evening had passed
and left no very marked effects. Yet he would neither leave
his room nor enter into conversation, nor do anything except
attend to what he called necessary business. That he appeared
to be engrossed in, only Mildred saw that his eye was often
fixed as in inward thought when it seemed to be resting on the
papers or book before him ; whilst his hearing, lately rather
impaired, had suddenly accpuired a singular keenness — the dis-
tant opening or shutting of a door, the roll of a wagon, even
the shouts of children in the distance, were all observed. No,
whatever there might be of mental suffering, there was nothing
of death in the quick flash of his eye and the instantaneous
turn of his head ; but rather life, — vivid, active, most keenly
sensitive, yet crusted over by an exterior so petrified that only
those who watched him narrowly, and understood him by the
experience of years ; could have traced the current that flowed
underneath it.
Mildred seldom sat with him in the morning; he said
generally that it was an interruption to him, but now he could
scarcely bear her out of his sight. Yet he spoke to her sel-
dom, and then never upon the subject so paramount in its
importance to both. It had come, and it was gone. Who
could tell what he thought of it, or how it would influence
him.
Mildred was brave by nature — the gift of moral courage
had been hers from infancy — yet she could not venture to
break in upon this ominous silence. Her father's character
was still an unknown and unexplored region. Though they
had lived together, one in interest and in love, for years, she
could rarely venture to speculate upon the way in which
events, or words, or actions would be taken by him. She could
not say but that by attempting to turn the stream into one
channel, it would, in resistance, be diverted into the opposite
course. All with him was artificial ; — not untrue or put on
for show; but his was a heart which had been drilled into
obedience to self-imposed laws, and the free instincts of nature
302 CLEVE HALL.
had been curbed till it might have seemed that they had ceased
to act.
Long and weary were the hours that morning; memory
lingering upon the past, fear busy with the future, and a sharp,
present anxiety goading the natural despondency incident to
Bixch a position into suffering which it was almost impossible
to conceal.
Clement's disappearance had been known at the Hall on
the preceding evening, yet not so as to occasion any peculiar
uneasiness. But in the morning, soon after Mildred and Ella
had finished their breakfast together, another message brought
the intelligence that he had not been at home all night, that
a search had been instituted, ponds dragged, messengers sent
out. — but hitherto all in vain, except that there was a report
of his having been seen in company with some desperate-look-
ing men on the road to Cleve.
Mildred's head turned sick and faint with fear. Almost
her first thought was of her father, and strict orders were
instantly given that the General was not to be alarmed, — it
might do him injury. Greaves, who was the only person
that ever waited upon him, promised to be careful. Yet Mil-
dred could not be satisfied unless she sat in his room ; and it
was a source of infinite thankfulness that, on this most trying
morning, he was not only willing but even desirous of having
her with him. Still, every time the door opened she fancied
that some one was about to enter with painful tidings; and
Ella's careworn face was sufficient in itself to have excited
the General's remark, if his thoughts had not been otherwise
and so intently preoccupied.
" You had better sit down quietly and read ; you disturb
me coming in and out so often," said the General, impatiently,
as Ella entered for about the sixth time, to glance at Mildred,
and tell her by mute signs that nothing new had been heard.
" Thank you, Grandpapa, but I have my music to practise,"
and Ella went out again.
The General did not like a will contrary to his own, how-
ever small the matter in question might be, and Mildred
seeing it, ventured upon an apology : " Ella won't come in
again, Sir; she was only anxious to see whether I was com-
fortable."
" She might have trusted that to me. You are not uncom-
Portable, are you ?"
" Oh, no ! not at all, but — " Mildred fancied she hearo
CLEVE HALL. 393
distant voices, and stopped to listen ; then remembered she
had better not do anything to attract attention, and murmured
something unintelligible, whilst the General looked at her a
moment in surprise, and continued his writing.
A long silence followed — in the room, at least; below there
certainly were loud voices. Mildred was in an agony to stop
them, but the General took no notice until two persons were
heard talking in the lobby leading to his room : " Ring the
bell, will you, Mildred? I think it is within your reach, i
won't have that noise in the house."
Mildred rang, and the General laid down his pen, prepara-
tory to a reprimand.
Greaves entered, turning the handle of the door noiselessly.
" Who is that talking in the passage, Greaves ?"
"Mrs. Robinson, Sir" — and Greaves looked at Mildred,
doubting how much more he was at liberty to say.
" Mrs. Robinson ! What is she come for?"
" To speak to Miss Vivian, I believe, Sir, upon business.
I was just coming to say so."
" Let her come in. There are no secrets, I suppose,
Mildred."
Mildred turned very pale; but the General was busied
with himself rather than with her. He was working himself
up into stern coldness. Of all persons he would least have
desired to show weakness, either in feeling or in action, before
Mrs. Robinson.
It was a curious meeting. She came in as stiff and rigid
as himself, and made her respectful yet rather proud curtsey,
and sat down at a little distance from the table — all without
speaking. And the General bent his head, and hoped she was
well, with the stiff civility of a gentleman of the old school ;
but the merest stranger might have perceived that they did
not like each other.
Mildred broke the silence : she asked whether Mrs. Robin-
son had come about parish business.
" Not exactly, Ma'am. Mr. Lester, they say, is to be home
this evening, so" I could go to him if I wanted anything."
The observation was made quite unconcernedly, yet Mildred
read in the tone that it was intended for her comfort.
" My lodger comes back to Encombc with Mr. Lester, J
believe, Ma'am," continued Mrs. Robinson; and Mildred
involuntarily made an eager gesture, which the General per-
394 CLEVE HALL.
ceivedj though lii.s eyes never moved apparently from his
letter.
"You have had a lodger, have you, Mrs. Robinson?" he
said, inquiringly.
•• Yes, Sir, a little -while ago."
"A little while? hut how' long?"
" 1 can't say exactly how long, Sir; it might have heen
three months or more."
" Oh !" the General's pen moved with greater decision
" Does he come with Mr. Lester, did you say?" asked Mil-
dred; and in spite of herself her voice trembled.
"I helieve so, Ma'am, hut I don't know whether he .is
going to stay at the Farm again."
The General laid down his pen and listened.
Mrs. Rohinson went on, quite unmoved : " I was going to
send down to the Rectory to learn for certain, but our farm
people are all engaged. They have been all day, and I don't
know when they will be at leisxire; and as I was coming up
here, I thought I -would ask, Ma'am, whether you had heard
anything about Mr. Lester's plans. But, perhaps, you haven't,
so I won't disturb you;" and Mrs. Robinson rose from her
seat, and was about to retire, when the General spoke again :
" You don't take in lodgers, Mrs. Robinson, do you, generally?"
" Only sometimes, Sir, in the summer. This was a very
civil-spoken gentleman."
" And he is coming again, you say ?"
"There is a talk of it, Sir."
" I thought you said he was to be here with Mr. Lester."
A scrutinizing glance accompanied the words, which might
have perplexed any one but Mrs. Robinson. She, however,
was perfectly imperturbable, and answered, " He may come
with Mr. Lester, Sir, but I can't be certain. I thought Miss
Mildred might have heard. I won't disturb you any more,
Sir, now. I wish you good morning." A respectful curtsey !
and Mrs. Robinson addressed Mildred, as though merely com-
pleting her sentence : " If you were coming into your bedroom,
Ma'am, I might show you the patterns of print for the school
children; I got them at Cleve yesterday. Mayn't I help
you?" Without waiting for an answer, she handed to 'Mil-
dred the crutches which were her support in walking, and
offered her arm.
Mildred turned to the General : " My dear father, I shall
CLEVE HALL. 395
be back again directly; you don't want anything before I go,
do you?"
"Nothing." The General looked as if he would have
said more, but Mrs. llobinson did not give him the oppor-
tunity. She fidgeted with Mildred's shawl, and talked about
the cold, and hurried her to the door. The General called
out, " Mildred, you must be back directly ; I want you to copy
a letter for me."
Mrs. llobinson answered for her, with another curtsey :
"I won't keep Miss Mildred five minutes, Sir;" and the
General, having no other excuse for detaining them, suffered
them to go.
"The General looks ill this morning, Ma'am," was Mrs.
Robinson's first remark, after the door closed behind them.
" He fainted last night," said Mildred.
" I heard so, Ma'am ; perhaps there wasn't so much harm
in that. He has kept clear of Master Clement."
Mildred stopped, and leaned against the door of her own
chamber, which she had just reached : " You are come to tell
me something about him, Granny."
"Just come in, my dear, and lie down for a moment. I'll
go presently and tell Greaves to take the General's lunch up,
and then he won't fuss so at your staying."
She led Mildred into the room, placed her on the sofa, and
continued, without requiring any questions to be asked ; " He's
off with the smugglers, Miss Mildred — certain ; and the Cap-
tain's in some way at the bottom of it."
Mildred caught her hand: "Quick, quick; how do you
know ?"
But Mrs. Robinson was not to be turned aside from her
own course : " One of our farm boys was coming over the hills
last night, behind Miss Campbell and the children. He saw
Master Clement stay behind, as they were near the village;
the Captain was close by— he'd been following them, lie
went up to Master Clement, and they talked a little, — the
boy saw him go off with the Captain to the Grange, for his
road lay the same way."
" We heard something of that last night," interrupted
Mildred.
" The Captain says he went home afterwards," continued
Mrs. Robinson; "but the boy declares that, as he was going
;m mss the Common an hour later, he heard voices off towards
the Point; and one he was 3ure was .Master Clement's. Ho
396 CLEVE HALL.
had a message to carry to Rock Farm, out by Cleve, and he
wen! ; and coming back, there was a light upon the Point, as
if men wore moving about with a lantern, when all of a sudden
it disappeared. Joe was going along the path near the edge
of the cliff then. He didn't like much, he says, to go and
put himself in the way of meeting them, for he knew they
must be folks that wouldn't fancy being interfered with; ami
so he kept quiet amongst the bushes and the furze for some
little time; and he declares that he quite plainly heard a party
of them scramble down. Master Clement was one, he's pretty
certain, but he thinks that he didn't much wish to go. The
boy didn't wait to see what became of them ; only be knows
all the boats along the beach, and he says that Mark Wood's
was there in the morning, and it's not there now. And Mark
himself isn't at home; and the child Barney's been ques-
tioned, and they've got out of him that his fatber had settled
beforehand to be away all night. Putting things together,
it's pretty clear, Ma'am, what the young gentleman's been
after."
No voice came. Mildred's hands were folded together, and
her countenance expressed the most intense dejection.
"I shall go and tell Greaves to take up the General's
luncheon ; and you'll have yours brought in here, my dear,"
continued Mrs. Robinson. " It was best for you to know the
worst at once." Not waiting for Mildred's assent, she departed
to give her orders.
Poor Mildred ! she did indeed feel crushed. Edward — ■
Mr. Lester — Bertha; none could help her now. Par better
than others did she know the fixed prejudice, the stern laws
which governed her father's conduct. Far more truly could
she read that martyr spirit of self-torture, which had shown
itself for years in General Vivian's every word and action.
If there had been a glimmering of hope before, it had faded
since the preceding evening, and now it was utterly quenched.
An offence deadly in the rigid judgment of General Vivian,
even if capable of extenuation in tbe eyes of the world, had
been laid to her brother's charge ; and when her last hope
was in the acknowledgment of his fault, and a final appeal tc
meicy, on tbe plea that its punishment bad been borne unmur-
muringly for eighteen years, a further excuse for severity w r as
to be found in the fact, that the sins of the father had descended
as an heirloom to the son — that Clement was what his father
bail been, when he brought sorrow and desolation to Cleve.
CLEYE HALL. o97
Mrs. Robinson returned. Greaves was gone up to the
General with his luncheon, and would take care that Miss
Mildred should not he wanted again just } T et; only she re-
marked that it would not do to stay away very long — people
might come upon business to see the General, and talk; and
the story was getting about fast.
" He must know it before long," replied Mildred, in a low
voice.
" It mayn't be till to-morrow, Ma'am ; and before that Mr.
Lester and Master Edward will be here, and it will be better
broken to him."
"And that unhappy boy! "What will become of him?"
said Mildred.
" My husband and two of the men will be down upon the
shore to-night waiting, if they should land again," replied
Mrs. Robinson. " But it's scarcely to be thought they'll be
back so soon. It's the spirit of a Campbell that's in him,"
she muttered to herself.
Mildred looked at her sadly and reproachfully : " A Vivian,
rather, Granny ; Edward might have done the same."
" Master Edward would never have taken to such a low
sot," exclaimed Mrs. Robinson, with sudden animation.
" 'When he consorted with the Captain, he was not at all the
man he is now. No, no, Miss Mildred; my dear, it's the
Campbell "blood; and when once it's in, there's no rooting it
out,"
Mildred would not argue the point, for Mrs. Robinson, like
the General, was strong in her prejudices. She could only
murmur, " What tidings for Edward and Mr. Lester !"
" I've been thinking of going on to Cleve to meet them,
continued Mrs. Robinson. " It would be better for Master
Edward to hear it from some one who is up to things, and can
help him to keep his own counsel. He was never to be trusted
when things took him by surprise."
Mildred took her hand affectionately. "Always kind and
thoughtful," she said. "Yes, it would be better; but, dear
jlranny, it is giving yourself a great deal of trouble."
Mrs. Robinson drew back her hand rather proudly. "I
was not one of the family for eight-and-twenty years for
nothing," she said. "Who should I take trouble for but
those who are like my own kin? Master Edward will be
wishing tc put himself foremost in the search; but he
mustn't."
808 CLEVE HALL.
"No, indeed. But, Granny, my fatter must know of his
being here before many days are over, lie lias been told now
that he is in England*"
"Know it? does he?" Almost for the first time Mrs.
Robinson's face changed color, and she spoke anxiously;
" Ah ! Miss Mildred, my dear, who had the courage to tell
him ?"
" I had, Granny; there was no one else."
Mrs. Robinson shook her head sorrowfully: "Ah! no
one. It has all come upon you. Strange that it hasn't car-
ried you to your grave. But he's softened ; surely he's soft-
ened ?"
" I fear not. You saw him just now. He has been like
that ever since — sharp in manner; and when he has spoken,
saying only a few words."
" Conscience troubles him," was Mrs. Robinson's comment.
" I knew he had a meaning in his questions."
" Yes, I knew it, too. He is full of suspicion. He thinks
we are all plotting. What will it be when he hears about
Clement?"
" He will say, as I do, that it is the Campbell blood, and
there's no hope for it. Oh ! Master Edward ! — the marriage
was the worst thing of all. But you mustn't stay here, my
dear. The General will be asking cpuestions, and it will never
do to let him know what's going on till Mr. Lester comes. Let
me help you back to him, and then I'll set off for Cleve."
Mildred could scarcely summon resolution sufficient to
move ; and said she dreaded encountering the General's ques-
tions, and felt she had a thousand other things to say to Mrs.
Bobinson.
" It won't do to wait, my dear, or; — hark ! There's a visi-
ter. 1 heard the bell." She kft Mildred, and went to the
head of the stairs to listen.
Her face was discomposed when she returned: "Miss
Campbell and Miss Rachel. Miss Campbell wants to see you.
We mustn't let the General know she is here. He is not in a
mood for that. Hadn't I better send Miss Ella to talk to him ?
and perhaps he will let her copy his letter."
Mildred smiled gratefully : " So like you, and the old
times, Granny; managing for every one. Perhaps it will be
best; and Miss Campbell can come and see me here. And
Rachel," — she considered a moment, — " Rachel must wait in
CLEVE HALL. 399
the morning-room. Thank you so much for arranging it," she
added, as she pressed Mrs. Robinson's hand affectionately.
" No thanks, rny dear; but God help you and all of us."
The prayer was needed, for Mildred's complexion was of a
livid paleness ; and even that one day of anxiety seemed to
have made her cheeks thinner, aud shrunk her slight frame.
-<•»-
CHAPTER XLIV.
BERTHA and Mildred met as old friends. The one com-
mon fear had melted away whatever remains of by gone
antipathy might have been lingering in their minds. Bertha
entered, tired with her walk and worn with suspense aud
watchfulness; but Mildred's hearty "Thank you for com-
ing; I have been hoping you would," cheered and encouraged
her; and when she unfastened her bonnet, and sat down
by the fire, they might have appeared to be even sisters in
cordiality.
Mildred began the conversation, for she had the most to
tell. Mrs. Robinson's intelligence had given a definite form
to her fears, and so, after the first startling announcement, had
iu a measure relieved her. She believed, she said, that Cle-
ment's absence was a boyish freak, — the love of adventure, —
that he had gone for a sail, and would return. She thought
they might expect him at any moment; and her mind did not
rest upon the thought of him with overwhelming uneasiness,
except so far as his -conduct might ultimately influence Ma
father's fortunes.
And Bertha sat still and listened, taking in what was said,
yet not able to receive comfort from the removal of suspense.
Clement was more, personally, to her than his father could be;
and Mrs. Robinson's intelligence confirmed the worst suspi-
cions which she had entertained. Mildred had lived in retire-
ment, hearing only of evil, never being brought iu contact with
it. Bertha had. from circumstances, learnt the real facts and
roughnesses of life; and the dangers which to the one were; a
dream of imagination, were to the other a vivid and terrible
reality. When .Mildred at length paused, Bertha sat for some
time in deep thought. She was pondering in her own mind
400 CLEVE HALL.
a question which had suggested itself whilst Mildred had been
speaking — the paper in her possession, should it be shown to
her? — or would it be a breach of confidence? She could not
decide, and the doubt made her reply in an abstracted tone to
Mildred's inquiry, whether she could think of anything
necessary to be done on Clement's account before Mr. Lester's
return.
" You are not satisfied with what Mrs. Robinson says ?" con-
tinued Mildred, anxiously.
" Not quite. Did you tell me, — did you say that the farm
people would be on the shore watching for him ?"
" Yes; it seemed all that could be done. And Mrs. Robin-
son herself is gone to Cleve to meet Mr. Lester. lie will be
here, if he comes at all, soon after five."
" There must be no if," murmured Bertha to herself. She
rose and looked out of the window; it commanded a distant
view of the sea.
Mildred followed her with her eye : " You don't see any-
thing?"
" Not close. There are several vessels far out in the horizon.
How the days close in !" — Bertha took out her watch : " five
and twenty minutes to four."
Mildred started : " And I have been away from my father
all this time; yet there seems a great deal to say still."
A quick step was heard along the passage, and Ella ran into
the room.
"Aunt Mildred, grandpapa wants you this minute — this
very minute ; let me help you ?" She gave Mildred her arm.
" Aunt Bertha, I will be back with you in a minute ; please
wait for me."
" And bring Rachel up," said Mildred ; " she must be
tired of being alone. I am afraid I shall not come back ; but
you will rest here without me," she added, addressing Bertha,
" Shan't you come back ?" said Bertha. " I wished "
"Grandpapa is in such a hurry," whispered Ella,
Yet Mildred lingered : " I don't think there is anything to
settle, or that we can do."
" Grandpapa wants you to help him to find a paper," con-
tinued Ella — ''one he has lost out of the box in his study.
He has had the box up, and has been looking for it."
Mildred turned pale, and sat down : " I don't feel very well,
Ella dear. Tell grandpapa I will come to him as soon as I
possibly can." Ella left the room.
CLEVE IIALL. 401
Bertha gave Mildred some water. " Thank you. I ought
not to be so silly ; but it brought back last night to me. I
thought I would not say anything till I had seen Mr. Lester ;
but I had better tell you now. There is no real hope for ■
Edward. He drew a bill for five thousand pounds, payable
after — after my father's death. That was his offence — you
understand now. But no, you can't — no one .-an understand
my father who has not lived with him."
Bertha put down the glass upon the table, and said, very
quietly, " I had heard of this."
" Aud I had not I" exclaimed Mildred. " Does Mr. Lester
know it V
" I don't know ; I think he must. I think General Vivian
must have given him the paper."
" He said it was mislaid. Last night he looked for it," said
Mildred, hurriedly. "Once" — and she sighed deeply — "I
fancied it was a mistake, and that his mind was wandering.
He didn't mention it again this morning; but then ho was not
up till late, and he has had business ever since he was dressed."
" Is this it V Bertha produced the paper from her pocket-
book, unfolded it, and gave it into Mildred's hands.
Tears, bitter, scalding tears of anguish coursed each other
down Mildred's worn face; less, perhaps, for the offence which
had been so deeply repented, than for the agonizing remem-
brance of the direful evils which had followed in the train of
that one act — death, desolation, exile ; and she laid her bead
upon Bertha's shoulder, and murmured, " Edith ! my sister !
if he had told her the truth, she would not have died."
She held the paper in her trembling hands, and tried to
read it.
Bertha bent her head down to examine it : " That is not
like Edward's signature now," and she pointed to a peculiar
turn in the letter V.
Mildred assented mechanically.
" It is a very careful signature, not such as a man would
write in a fit of desperation," continued Bertha.
Mildred looked at it now more closely: "Yes, it is very
careful ;" but it did not seem to strike her that it was in any
other way peculiar.
Bertha's heart sank. It would be too cruel to suggest the
possibility of forgery, if after all the idea were but the coinage
of her own imagination; and concealing her disappointment,
she said, (% I should scarcely have thought it an offence sc
402 CLEVE HALL.
unpardonable, after eighteen years of suffering and repent-
ance."
" It might not have been with any one but my father; but
— I can't talk of it — may I have it to take to hiiu V
Bertha hesitated, and said she had no right to give it up;
it was found in Mr. Lester's pocket-book, and she must return
it to him.
Mildred looked annoyed : " It is my father's/' she observed :
"he is inquiring for it."
" He must have given it himself to Mr. Lester," replied
Bertha.
•' I don't know — at any rate, it is his."
Just then Ella came back: "Aunt Mildred! Aunt Mil-
dred ! indeed you must come ! You can't think what a state
grandpapa is getting into."
Mildred turned to Bertha: "Trust me with it; I will keep
it for Mr. Lester if I can. My father may have forgotten that
he gave it, and it would work upon his mind terribly to think
he had lost it."
"You are at liberty to say' where it was found," replied
Bertha, rather proudly, "and to assure General Vivian that
immediately on Mr. Lester's return I will speak to him about
it. I can't possibly do more." She replaced the paper in the
pocket-book ; but seeing Mildred's face of vexation, she added,
" You must forgive me ; but it is against my conscience."
Mildred scarcely trusted herself with a reply. She merely
said, "I hope you are right; I cannot tell," and left the
room.
Bertha waited about ten minutes at the Hall after seeing
Mildred. Ella came back to her, and they went down stairs
and talked with Rachel. Ella was uneasy about Clement, yet
not so much so as Bertha expected, now that she knew what
had become of him. Hers was not an anxious nature; and
besides, she had often heard Clement boast of what he would
do some day, when he was his own master, and so it seemed
less strange to her that he should take the opportunity of Mr.
Lester's absence to indulge himself in an adventure ; and she
decided that he must be back either that evening or the next
morning. She seemed unable to understand the possibility
of danger, and her sense of duty and obedience was not yet
sufficiently strong to make her regard the offence in the same
light as Rachel.
It was very trying to Bertha to hear the kind of discussion
CLEVE HALL. 403
which went on, and to listen whilst Ella talked confidently of
things of which she knew nothing, and excused faults which
were likely to be of the utmost importance to so many m their
consequences. It was an exaggerated form of the trial which
all must be.ir who are in earnest in education, insisting upou
duties and habits which children will think trifles, because
they have not the understanding to see whitber they are tend-
ing. Often she was tempted to break in upon the conversa-
tion, and remind Ella that, whatever might happen, she must
be answerable for many of Clement's misdeeds, since it was
from her he had first imbibed the spirit of disobedience. But
Bertha's conscience was busy with herself also ; and besides,
she was learning to leave Ella for awhile to the nurture of
God's Providence — the clouds, and rain, and sunshine of life
— wbich, when the weeds have been taken from the soil, and
the heart is in consequence open to good impressions, will do
far more for its improvement than any direct culture.
Ella was unwilling to let them go. She prized their society
more now that she had so little of it; and since Mildred had
been so occupied with General Vivian, the hours had seemed
long and lonely. Bertha also waited in the vain expectation
that Mildred would return, and that she should hear the result
of the interview with the General. She was not thoroughly
satisfied with her own pertinacity — there had been some pride
in it; yet strict right was on her side — feeling on Mildred's.
She thought that, if Mildred came back, they would discuss
the point again ; but the clock in the hall striking a quarter
to four, and reminding her that if she lingered longer it would
be dark before they arrived at home, she set off with Rachel,
after giving a promise to Ella that the very earliest tidings of
Clement should be sent to the Hall.
There were two ways by which they might reach the
Lodge : one through the Cleve Woods and the village ; the
other across the Common and the cliffs. Bertha chose the
latter; she could then look over the sea, and watch for the
vessel-, which might be coming in. There were several in the
distance, and she was tempted to linger and observe them.
They walked near the edge of the cliff, and looked down upon
the shore. Raehel remarked that there were fewer boats than
usual on the beach. But there was one near the Point which
she thought looked like Mark Wood's. That seemed rather
to contradict the report brought by Mrs. Robinson j and Ber-
tha, uncomfortable at anything which disturbed what was now
•104 CLEVB HALL.
her settled impression as regarded Clement, .said they would
go nearer, and make certain of the fact.
"There are two men out there," said Rachel, pointing to
a spot where the Clcvc Plantations joined the open Common ;
11 perhaps they can tell us."
''I don't see them," replied Bertha. "Oh! yes, there
they are, keeping close by the hedge. I wonder whether they
belong to the Grange."
" If they do, they are smuggling people," said Rachel.
"And they will bo sure to be civil to us; they always are to
ladies and children."
" But not if we ask questions about their boats," replied
Bertha ; " they will think that interference."
" Will they?" and Rachel went nearer to the edge of the
tliff, and looked over it again. " Do come where I am, dear
Miss Campbell. Now that it is low tide, one can tell so well
how they get up to the cave. Don't you see the kind of steps
up the cliff?"
" Yes ;" but Bertha cared more for the boat than for tho
cave just then.
Rachel went on in rather an excited tone, keeping close to
Bertha as she spoke : " Shouldn't you like to go into the cave ?
Anne told me, a long time ago, it was such au odd place, and
that the preventive men never can find the smugglers when
they get in there ; they always escape. But I don't talk to
Anne now about such things," she added, seeing that Bertha's
countenance was grace. "I have never done it since papa
told me not."
Bertha was not grave on account of anything which Rachel
said, she was watching the men who had left the path by
the Plantations, and were coming towards them, across tha
Common.
"Isn't that Goff, Rachel?"
" Oh, no ; it's too tall." But Rachel looked a second time,
and changed her mind : "Yes, though, I think it must be;
he walks like him."
" Never mind the boat," said Bertha, turning quickly
homewards. "It is too late to wait."
" They are not coming this way, they are going towards
the Point," observed Rachel.
They went on a few paces further. Rachel looked back :
" How very strange ! He's gone, — one of them — all of a
sudden. There were two, Miss Campbell, weren't there ?"
CLEVE HALL. 40
c
" Never mind, my dear; come on. You can't see because
of the brushwood."
" Yes, I can indeed ;" and Rachel could not resist another
stealthy glance. " The brushwood couldn't possibly hide him.
Dear Miss Campbell, do you know, that is where Clement says
the smugglers get down in some way to the shore. We never
could find out how ; but he says they do. It has something
to do with the cave."
''Never mind, my dear, now; it doesn't concern us."
" I think the short man is coming behind us," said Rachel.
" Shall I look ?"
" No, don't look ; come on."
"Are you frightened, dear Miss Campbell, you fralk so
fast ?"
Bertha slackened her pace.
" The Common seems so long always," said Rachel, in a
timid voice.
" We should have done better to go by the village," ob-
served Bertha; but then she reproached herself for alarming
Rachel without cause, and added : " It is only that I dislike
meeting that man Goff, if it is he ; but we shall be near the
Cliff Cottages soon."
" No, indeed — not for a long time ; the nearest is half a
mile off. But there is the gamekeeper's cottage behind us.
The man won't do us any harm, will he ?"
" Oh ! no, of course not : what harm can he do us ?" yet
Bertha's trembling heart belied her brave words.
" If we could 2:0 across to the Plantation, we should be
near the gamekeeper's; and Hardman would walk home with
us," said Rachel.
Bertha thought for an instant; ''Perhaps it might be bet-
ter : we can get in at the little gate, and you can run on and
ask Hardman."
" And leave you ?"
"Yes — you will be back again directly; and he won't fol-
low us into the Plantation."
Again Rachel glanced round : " He is coming, but he is
not very near. We had better go this way ;" and she went
on in the most direct course, finding her path through the
furze, without considering the prickles, and not Stopping until,
nearly out of breath, they reached the Plantation-gate. It
Was locked.
"Get over it, and ran on to the cottage," said Bertha.
40G CLEVE HALL.
" And you will come, too ?"
" Yes, after you; only you will be quicker than I shall."
Rachel clambered over the gate, and wished to wait and
assist Bertha; but her help was refused, and she hurried on
through the Plantation, and was soon out of sight.
Bertha put her foot ou the first bar, but the gate was an
awkward oue to mount, and she slipped back, and nearly fell.
Looking back, she saw the man coming towards her. She
tried a second time — a bramble caught her dress and entan-
gled it. He was so close now that she could hear his foot-
steps, — nearer and nearer. She tore away her dress, — n.ado
a third attempt, — reached the second bar, and was upon the
point of jumping over, when a hand grasped her shoulder,
whilst another covered her mouth, and a harsh voice said,
" Silence ! as you value your life."
She turned. It was Groff.
Fear was gone then. She confronted him without shrink-
ing : " Your business with me 1"
" You have a paper signed by Edward Vivian : give it to
me."
" If I have, I will keep it ; you have no right to it."
" Power is right. I must have it ;" and he touched the
trigger of a pistol concealed under his coat, adding : " Take
care, this is no child's play."
" Let that come which God may appoint. I will not give
it," replied Bertha.
He again put his hand upon her mouth : " Attempt 'to
scream and you are a dead woman. Now let me see everything
you have in your possession."
Bertha threw her keys and handkerchief upon the ground.
"That's not all — -the pocket-book;" and seeing she hesi-
tated, he thrust his hand himself into her pocket, and drew
it out.
The first paper which presented itself was the old disco-
lored bill. Holding her very firmly with one hand, GofF un-
folded with the other; and then putting his face close to her's,
muttered: "The first word that whispers to man or woman
what has passed, your life is not worth an hour's purchase."
Still keeping the paper, he relaxed his grasp ; and Bertha,
with a speed which only extreme fear could have given,
climbed the gate, and ran towards the gamekeeper's cottage.
Goff carefully tore the paper to atoms, and scattered it
to the winds; and making his way across the Common to the
CLEVE HALL. 407
Headland, disappeared almost instantaneously amongst the
brushwood
**-
CHAPTER XLV.
fPIIE path which Rachel had taken towards the gamekeep-
er's cottage was not very well known to her. It was
seldom that she had occasion to go through that part of the
Plantation ; but it seemed direct enough, and she ran on with-
out fear till she came to a point where it branched off in two
opposite directions — one leading to the right, into the wood ;
the other to the left, keeping near the outer fence. She
paused for an instant, and then chose the latter, under the
impression that Hardman's cottage was near the Common.
On she went till she was out of breath ; but the cottage did
not appear ; and at length she became fully alive to the fact
of having missed her way. But she was not frightened for
herself, only worried for Bertha. She was safe within the
Plantation, and the cottage certainly could not be very far off,
and there must be some cross-paths leading to it. It would
be a very long way back ; and wishing to take a short cut, she
proceeded still a little further, and then saw, to her great
satisfaction, a chimney rising from amongst the trees to the
right. The sight gave her renewed vigor, and she ran for-
ward hopefully, until, turning an angle in the path, she disco-
vered that the cottage just seen was not in the Plantation, but
on the outskirts of the Common, and immediately in frout of
the Grange.
The dreary old house, which was full in her view as she
leaned for an instant over the fence, showed her how far she
had gone out of her way ; but the sight of the cottage was a
comfort. It was inhabited by a man and his wife, very civil,
respectable people, who would be as willing to render her any
assistance as the gamekeeper; and now that she had made
such a stupid blunder, it seemed wise to take advantage of
their help. And Rachel, trained to decision from infancy, lost
no time in thinking what she would or would not do, but
mounted the fence, tearing her dress and hurting her hand
in the act, and in another minute was at John Price's door.
A knock, but no answer — a second knock, equally unsuc-
40S CLEVE HALL.
cessful. The door was locked; and when Rachel peeped in
at the latticed window, she could see no symptoms of fire.
John Price and his wile had evidently gone out together.
Exceedingly vexatious that was; and something like fear did
then creep over Rachel's heart, for the light was growing faint,
and the Common looked interminably dreary; and she had a
notion, that if she were once to find herself again in the Planta-
tion alone, she would never be able to make her way out.
And what was that comiug across the Common, looking like
a speck, but certainly moving? Could it be Goff? Rachel
hid herself on the other side of the cottage, and did not venture
to peep round the corner for several seconds ; when she did,
the black speck was gone. But she was still fearful it might
be Goff; and how could she cross that piece of the Common
again to get into the Plantation, if he were lurking near.
A thought struck her — but not a very bright one — should
she go on to the Grange ? Perhaps Bonald would be there,
ami he would be sure to help her. But, no, it must not be;
her papa would not like it. Yet she looked with longing eyes
at the rough road, worn iuto ruts, which conducted to the farm
premises and the back of the house. Just then a man, whom
Bachel felt nearly sure was John Price, came from a paddock
behind the cottage, and turned into the road as if going up to
the house, llachel ran after him and called, but he did not
hear. The road terminated by a gate opening into the farm-
yard, which was heavy for her to open, and this trouble delayed
her a little ; and by the time she had managed to get through,
she had lost sight of the man. This could not well have
happened unless he was gone to the back of the house, for
Bachel must have seen him — at least, so she thought — if he
were crossing the yard ; and she passed through the gate which
separated the farm premises from the shrubbery, and found
herself in a small overgrown flower garden, completely screened
from the rest of the grounds and from the farm-yard by tall
trees rising up immediately in front of the high turret built at
one angle of the house. It was difficult to know what to do
next. She dared not go round to the front of the house and
ring at the bell, and run the chance of meeting Captain Vivian
— and she did not like the thought of skulking about at the
side; still less could she make up her mind to go all the way
back alone; and at last she ventured to call, "John! John
Price, is that you?"
An answer! — but not as Bachel had expected. A voice
CLEVE HALL. 400
came from above, from a -window high up in the turret •
" Rachel here ! What is the matter ?"
It was Ronald's voice, and Rachel actually screamed with
delight.
"Hush ! hush ! don't speak loud. "What is the matter?"
Rachel told her tale. She had been with Miss Campbell,
and they were late and frightened; and Goff had come in
their way, and they wanted some one to go home with them.
She had left Miss Campbell waiting at the Plantation gate.
" Please come, Ronald; be quick," was the end.
He spoke again, in a voice so low that sue could scarcely
catch his words : " Come near, Rachel — under the window, as
close as you can. I can't come to you, I am kept here as a
prisoner. They have fastened my door. 1 can't get away,
unless you will help me."
" Help you, oh ! yes; I will go round directly."
He stopped her with a voice agonizing in its eagerness :
"Stay, Rachel : be silent and listen. Don't be frightened, no
one will hurt you ; they may hurt me. Have you seen any
one here?"
Rachel's excitement was perfectly subdued now; she
answered, " No one, except one man ; I think it was John
Price."
" Where is he now ?"
" I can't tell. I think he went round at the back."
" Go to the corner of the house, and look if he is there
still : don't show yourself."
Rachel did as she was desired, and came back : " I can't
see any one."
" You are certain it was not Goff?"
"Quite, it was a taller man; and Goff is out upon the
Common."
"It was not — my father?" he uttered the name re-
luctantly.
"I don't think it could have been; it was not like him."
A pause. Rachel thought of Bertha, and said, " Can you
come with me, Ronald ?"
" If you will — Rachel, will you do as I bid you ?"
«Yes — that is, if I can;" and Rachel's voice trembled a
little.
" You must go round to the back door : don't be frightened.
Tf you meet any one, say what you said to me about wanting
help, but don't mention my name. In that case you must go
18
410 CLEVE HALL.
borne, for you won't be able to do anything for me. But tell
Miss Campbell from me tbat I am a prisoner bere ; that Cle-
ment is in great danger ; that if I could be set free I might
aid him ; but tbat, anyhow, there must be a watch kept upon
the shore, for Clement is with the smugglers, and there will
be a landing to-night, and a skirmish with the coast-guard. Do
you understand ?"
" Yes, quite."
" That is what you are to do if you do meet any one ; but
I don't think you will." He paused, as if hesitating whether
it would be right to say more : " What I am going to ask you
to do, Rachel, I would not ask only it may be a question of
Clement's safety, and of other things — more than I can tell
now. Will you do it V
" If papa would not mind — if there is nothing wrong."
" There can be no wrong, and — but you will be frightened."
" No, indeed, Ronald ; God will keep me from being
frightened."
" I would ask you to get me a ladder, but you couldn't
bring it ; and you might be seen by the farm people. I could
fasten the sheets and blankets of my bed together, and let
myself down, but the window is too high. I want more ; if
you could go into the house, you could give them to me."
" Yes, — how ?" Rachel's heart a little failed her.
" There is an attic over mine — you see the window ; — if
you were in that attic, you could let them down to me, and I
could catch them."
" Yes, I see; but I don't know the way — and I shall be
heard."
Ronald's heart smote him. It seemed putting the poor
child in such danger. And yet not really so; if she were dis-
covered, the punishment would fall upon him. Rut her fear
— no, it was cowardly to let her suffer for him ; and he looked
again out of the window, and calculated the possibility of
reaching the ground without more help. A broken leg, if not
a broken neck, seemed the best he could expect. And in the
meantime what might not be plotting against Clement ! Not
without a purpose, surely had he been detained a prisoner,
threatened with unknown danger if he attempted to obtain
help, kept hour after hour in expectation of Captain Vivan's
return ; and now, just when he was growing desperate with
anxiety and indignation, escape was within reach, yet in a
form in which he could not make up his mind to avail himself
CLEVE HALL. 411
of it. It wus a moment of cruel uncertainty, ended by
Rachel.
" Ronald, I have prayed to God to help me, and I will do
whatever you wish."
Still Ronald hesitated : " Are you sure you won't be
frightened ?"
" I will try not to be ; please tell me what I must do."
" Dear Rachel, I can never thank you enough."
"Let me do it, Ronald ; thank me afterwards. Must I go
into the house V
" Yes, at the back door ; it is almost always open. A long
passage leads from it straight into the hall; the kitchen is
away at the right. Old Mrs. Morris and the girl are not
likely to be in the passage. When you get into the hall, you
will see the staircase; and you must go up. There is a lobby
at the top. The farthest door on the right opens into a pas-
sage by the back staircase. Then you must go up the stairs,
up to the very top ; and just before you will be the door of
the attic above me."
" Stay, let me say that over again," said Rachel, speaking
firmly, though she trembled from head to foot. She repeated
the dii-ection correctly, and added : " What then ?"
" You must open the window, and let down the sheets; T
will catch them. After that you had better come back, and
wait for me here."
"Yes; is there anything else?"
" Nothing — except, if you meet any one in the passage,
give your message about wanting some one to go home with
you. If you meet any one on the stairs, or in the bedroom,
say it was -I who sent you ; and no harm will come to you,
whatever may to me."
Rachel moved away a few steps, but returned : " Are you
sure I shan't meet Captain Vivian?"
"Very nearly; I can't be quite sure. Dear Rachel, don't
go if you arc frightened."
" I won't be frightened. This way, isn't it ?"
" Yes, to the right — round the corner."
" Good-b'ye," and Rachel was gone.
The back door was soon reached. Rachel would not give
herself time for thought, and entered. The passage was very
long and dark, and she heard voices talking in the kitchen,
quite close, so it seemed, but no one came out. A heavy
Bwing door closed the passage; she pushed if open, feeling
412 CLEVE HALL.
almost sure that she should meet some one on the other side;
but there was no one, and her light footsteps sounded omi-
nously loud on the uneven stone floor of the large ball. On
one side of the hall were the doors opening to the other parts
of the house; on the other the wide shallow staircase. Rachel
touched the first step, and it creaked. She stood still, and
thought die heard a door slam — her heart heat so that she could
scarcely move; but on she went, and creak, creak went the
stairs, so loudly that it made her bold. She reached the lobby
in safety. Then her recollection became confused. Was she
to go straightforward or turn to the right? Straightforward
she thought, and she pushed open a door. A pair of man's
boots caught her eye, and she almost screamed, — happily not
quite, and recovering herself, went back again, seeit g that she
was wrong. The back staircase was before her, as she opened
the right hand door, a girl was singing below in the kitchen —
that was a great comfort. She almost ran up the stairs, but
they were steep and worn, — they grew worse and worse as she
went on ; and when she stood, as she thought, at the top, there
were others still above. Again she paused to take breath. A
door did slam then, — there was no doubt of it, — a door below;
and there was a footstep on the stairs, slow and heavy.
Rachel's knees tottered. She hurried on : the slow step came
behind, and stopped at the foot of the last flight. Was it
coming higher? No; to Rachel's inexpressible relief, old
Mrs. Morris, the housekeeper, slept in one of the lower rooms;
and she could hear her muttering to herself whilst wandering
about her chamber, and then descend again with the same
ponderous tread as before.
Rachel was now in the attic — a large, comfortless apart-
ment, with two beds, which seemed half buried under the
sloping roof. The window was high, and she had to climb a
chair to unfasten it ; and the chair was heavy, so that she
could not lift it, but was obliged to drag it along the floor.
A fearful noise that was ! But Mrs. Morris was by that
time in the kitchen again, and Rachel was grown desperate in
her boldness; and at length, after considerable difficulty, the
window was unfastened, a sheet dragged from the bed and let
down, and in a moment caught by Ronald from below.
" Any more? — do you want anymore?" she ventured to
say.
" Yes, one more. Stay; not till I put out my hand ;" and
Rachel, stationed at the attic window, looked down, and saw
CLEVE HALL. 413
the man whom she had fancied to be John Price, but whom
she recognised now as one of Gofl's constant companions, pass
through the farm -yard.
When he was out of sight, Ronald waved his hand from
the window: "Now, then."
The second sheet was let down,
"Is that all?"
"Yes; come down quickly."
Rachel left the window open, and went to the head of the
staircase. Her impulse was to rush. And she did rush, uot
heeding the creaking of stairs, or listening for the sounds of
doors, or voices, but going on blindly, desperately — by the
worn steps, across the lobby, flittering like a gust of wind
down the broad staircase, and across the hall, till she had
passed through the dark passage, and was again in the open
air, and under Ronald's window.
Ronald looked out : " Rachel, are you there ?"
" Yes, safe. Are you coming?"
" Directly. I am tying them together. Keep close under
the wall, — away to the left."
She waited, it seemed, an interminable time : she did not
understand what he meant to do.
The rope of sheets was fastened at the top, and was let
down.
" Now, Rachel, keep away ; don't be afraid, it will hold me."
She hid her face, and prayed.
"When she looked up, he was standing by her side : " Oh !
Ronald, I am so thankful !" Her voice was faint and
trembling.
He pressed her hand earnestly: " Thank God, first, Rachel,
— you afterwards;" and they went on together in silence.
Their steps were directed towards the gamekeeper's cottage.
There Ronald proposed, in case Bertha was gone, to give
Rachel in charge to some person who might accompany her
home, whilst he went in search of Mr. Lester or Mr. Vivian.
It w T as the only plan he could form on the spur of the moment ;
but as he went on it occasioned considerable misgiving, lie
was not able at first to think. Every dark object, every gate
post or trunk of a tree, Suggested the idea of some one track-
ing his footsteps, or stopping him on the way*; but when they
bad. crossed the Common, and were again within the shelter
pf the Plantation, he ventured to pause for a moment to con»
411 CLEVB HALL.
siilrr whether the course lie had determined upon would be the
best he could adopt.
So little knowledge had he of his father's movements, that
he was unable to tell to what degree the danger which he
supposed menaced ('lenient, might or might not implicate
Captain Vivian; and the doubt upon this point, so intensely
painful, pressed upon him overwhelmingly, at the very moment
when it was most necessary to act with decision.
True, Mr. Vivian had promised to take no idvantage, to
his father's injury, of any communication which he might
make. But this was not now the point. Whatever might be
his duty hereafter, as regarded the teirible secret which had
that day been confided to him, there was no time now to ponder
upon it, — Clement was his object. But in saving Clement he
might be brought into personal opposition with his father. If
Captain Vivian should, himself, join the smuggling party; by
aiding Mr. Vivian, Ronald might be forced to act against him.
The thought was horrible. But how could he leave Clement,
knowing that machinations were going on, having promised
again and again that he would watch over him ? It seemed
equally impossible; the sense of honor and gratitude, which
lay as a burden upon his conscience, forbade it. He stood for
a few moments irresolute, gazing upon the flag-staff on the
Headland, as it was seen through an opening in the trees.
Bachel drew near : " Look, Ronald ; there is a light on the
Point. Is it any one moving 1"
" It is a fire, not a lantern."
"A fire there! What for?"
" Never mind; there are often fires on the Point."
Rachel continued : " Some one said one day that thoy were
always lighted by smugglers; will it have anything to do with
Clement ?"
He made no reply.
"May we come on, Ronald? Miss Campbell will be so
tired and frightened."
"Yes; I had forgotten;" and he went on quickly, still,
however, looking towards the Point.
" Are you very much afraid for Clement, Ronald ?"
' I don't know ; I hope not. See, Rachel, there is the
cottage. Should you mind going to the door alone ?"
" I would rather not, if you don't care ;" and she drew
nearer to him. " If Hardinan should be out, or Miss Camp-
bell shouldn't be there, what should I do?"
CLEVE HALL. 415
" But I would wait for you here ; I would be within sight."
" Hark ! there is a voice — papa's voice ; and there he is at
the door, and Miss Campbell with him. He must have come
by the Cleve coach. Mrs. Robinson went to tell him about
Clement."
" Mrs. Robinson ! Did she know ?"
" Yes, about his having gone with the smugglers. I don't
know how she heard it. Please let me go;" and she would
have sprung forward, but Ronald kept her back.
" Listen, Rachel. I can't see Mr. Lester. Tell him what
I said. He must watch for Clement on the beach. Say to
him that I will watch too. Say to Miss Campbell that I re-
member my promise, and" — his voice failed him — " good-
by'e, Rachel. I shall never forget this evening."
" Good-by'e, and thank you so very, very much, Ronald."
She ran to the cottage, and Ronald turned into a narrow
track in the wood.
-*•*-
CHAPTER XLVI.
THE day closed ominously, though the upper part of the
sky was clear, for thick masses of vapor were collecting in
the horizon, and gusts of wind rushed threateningly over the
chafed waves.
Captain Vivian, wrapped in a rough seaman's coat, watched
the failing light from the shelter of the rocks gathered around
Dark Head Point. Immovable as he stood for a long time, he
could scarcely have been distinguished from them; yet, as the
glimmer became fainter and more faint, he might have been
seen slowly ascending the rough path cut in the cliffs, till he
stood before the passage entrance to the cave, in which he and
Ronald had met that morning. The light yet lingered within,
forcing its way through apertures in the rock; and flinging
himself upon the ground, so as to command the entrance,
Captain Vivian placed a pistol by his side, lighted his cigar,
and waited, as it appeared, with tolerable tranquillity the
course of coining events.
His watchfulness, however, was not chiefly directed to the
entrance of the cave; more frequently he turned his head
towards the large stone near the rough hearth, and several
110 CLEVE HALL.
tiinrs he took his ciirar from his mouth and listened. ITc
O
grew impatient at length, and rose and paced the cave ; and
once he touched the stone, ;is if to move it; but then some-
thing checked him, and he sat down again near, still listening.
The long, low whistle so familiar to him was heard at last,
very faint, coming, as it seemed, from within the rock. Cap-
tain Vivian answered it, and immediately pushed aside the
stone, rolling it from him with the strength of a giant. Be-
hind it only the side of the cave was discovered; but the sur-
face was uneven, and pieces of the rock had been detached
one from the other, and heaped together against it. Some of
these Captain Vivian removed carefully, and a small opening
was seen behind it. He put his head close to it : " Goff!"
" Ay, Captain !"
It was but the work of a minute to remove a few more of
the stones, and an opening was made large enough to admit
the body of a man; and through this opening crept Coif.
"Better close our door, only not too close," said Captain
Vivian. He pushed the stone against the opening, but with-
out building it up as before.
Goff sat down on the wooden bench without speaking.
"Successful?" said Captain Vivian.
He nodded his head.
" What ! in earnest ?" and a gleam of wild exultation
shot across Captain Vivian's face.
" What else should a man be but in earnest ! They may
search to the poles now for the bits of their precious paper."
Captain Vivian drew a deep breath : " One of ten thousand !
Did she give it ?"
" Give it ! she'd have fought single-handed first; but it's
quick work with a woman."
" You have done her no harm I" exclaimed Captain Vivian,
quickly.
Goff lauched : " Frightened her little wits out of her, no
more. You might have done the same if you'd had but a
grain more of pluck in you. But now to business."
Captain Vivian sat silent; and Golf spoke again: "The
work's not done, — remember that, Captain."
He started. The mood of thought had passed away, and
the first success had stimulated his longing for greater. " I'm
ready," he said; "the time draws near. Mr. Lester and
Edward Vivian are returned."
" You have seen them V
CLEVE HALL. 417
" I watched amongst tlie brushwood, after we parted, till
they were in sight. They came by the Gleve road, and went
straight to Hardman's cottage. I came off to the shore then.
If they had an inkling of the state of affairs, their object
must have been to get help."
"Then they will be here soon," said Goff.
" I care not," was the reply. " Edward Vivian is in my
power now. I will meet him, and make him yield to any
terms of silence as to the past."
" When and where ?"
" Here on the shore. I will watch for him. You have
Bent abroad the report of the landing ?"
" It's over the village by this time," replied Goff. " A
hint I gave to the boy Styles has set it going. The prevent-
ives are on the look-out ; and the woman at the Farm has
been spreading the tale at the Hall. I heard Bertha Camp-
bell and Rachel Lester talking of it, as I followed them when
they first came out of the Hall grounds. They little thought
I was so near."
" We light the beacon then, and the vessel makes to shore."
" Yes. " When the first fire burns, she tacks in ; at the
second, she sends off the boat with Clement on board. Be-
tween the two, therefore, is the time for Edward Vivian, if
you still keep your purpose."
" Keep to it ! It will be my triumph or my revenge."
" There might be a surer one," muttered Goff, handling
his pistol. " But as you will — safe's safe, all the world over.
But how if Edward Vivian refuses to give in ?"
" Then let the boy meet his fate; and for ourselves — there's
the boat and escape to the vessel, and a run on the coast oppo-
site till we see the turn things take. There's no fear."
" Fear !" and Goff laughed scornfully. " If I had feared,
I should never have ventured myself into the deep wafers
with you, Captain ; you are the last to lend a helping hand to
get one out. But it's settled, then."
" Yes, settled — certain. We keep near the boat, and can
be off at a moment's warning, if necessary. It's waiting by
the Bast bay; I took care it should be in readiness befor i 1
joined you just now on the Common."
" The beacon must, be lighted," said Goff, surlily.
Captain Vivian was silent.
"Do you repent, Captain? Will yotl have it to me to
settle '("
418 CLEVE HALL.
'• Repent! when we have triumphed!" There was scorn
but no triumph in Captain Vivian's tone; perhaps he thought
of Ronald.
(loff spoke more lightly: "Stop a minute then, whilst I
light the beacon which will bring the little craft to her duty ;
and we'll go along the beach towards the boat. We shall
have a watch over Edward Vivian at the same time, for he'll
be down before another half hour is over."
Goff left the cave as he had entered it, and in a few
minutes returned again. " It burns bravely," he said. " We'll
leave the passage open — with only the door shut, I mean. It
may be useful." He pushed the stone again into its place.
"Now for the boat."
They went down the cliff together; as they reached the
bottom, Captain Vivian approached his companion, and drew
him within the shadow of the rocks: " Hist ! hist ! d'ye see?"
Three men were walking at a little distance along the shore.
They exactly intercepted the course which must be taken to
reach the boat.
" Preventives !" whispered Captain Vivian. " They'll not
disturb us yet."
" I'm not sure; the middle one has something like Edward
Vivian's stalk."
The men drew nearer, then turned again : they were evi-
dently keeping watch.
" Risk it, and go by," muttered Captain Vivian.
" Not safe. We don't know what he may be up to; and
we must catch him alone for your purpose — and for mine too,"
was added in an under tone.
They stood still deliberating. Goff looked up at the cliff,
considering whether it were possible to scale it. It was
rugged, but not by any means inaccessible; yet he seemed
unwilling to attempt it. " It's safest where we are," he said :
" keep down amongst the rocks, and bide your time. He
must pass this way; if not, I'll give him a hint that will send
him. Leave me to look after the boat: when needed, it shall
be in the inner bay. Yet stay; — how is the second blaze to
be cared for? I said it should be lighted at the East Point."
" If Edward Vivian comes I will take him there. The
boat will then be below us, ready."
" Good ! Then you set the second light yourself."
"Ay, and Edward Vivian's obstinacy shall kindle it; and
when it blazes, it shall destroy his hopes for his boy for ever."
CLEVE IIALL. 419
An hour and a half later the moon had risen ; but her
light was obscured by passing clouds, and the wind was still
moaning sadly, and occasionally rising into shrill, prolonged
howls. But it was a land wind, and tbe sea was as yet suffi-
ciently calm to enable a boat to approach the shore.
The little smuggling vessel was riding at anchor at a con-
siderable distance to the west of the Headland. Tbe sands
were covered, for it was recently high tide ; and heavy waves
crashed upon the stones of the beach, and tossed themselves
against the sea-weed covered rocks.
There were no signs of any one upon the beach ; but once,
as the moon glided forth from the clouds, her light touched a
figure moving high up along the face of the cliff, to the east
of the Headland; and then, in a sudden lull of the wind,
came the rush of loose stones detached from their position.
The flash of a dark lantern was seen from behind the rocks
below the Smugglers' cave ; and two men in the dress of the
coast-guard advanced and looked up towards the cliff.
" They've not given us the slip, surely?"
"Not they; and if they have, there are enough waiting
for them. 'Twas but a fall after the rains."
The man who had spoken first stepped cautiously over the
rocks to a little distance, and then returned.
" They've help waiting for them, Ryan," he said : " I
heard a call above there, behind us."
" A call ! — for us, perhaps."
" No, no ; I saw them away to the right. Now look, they
are moving."
A very keen sight might perceive the objects pointed out,
but they were now stationary again. Ryan seemed certain
that they belonged to the coast-guard, - though he kept his
attention directed towards them.
"Why! Dennis, man," he said, "the landing was to be
made to the west, so their friends would be away beyond the
Point !"
" I don't hold all that for Gospel," replied Dennis. _ "Ten
to one bul the hint we had was putting out a false light; I
tli. in-lit so at the time. Now, don't you see? They're creep-
ing along again."
Four persons could now clearly be distinguished near the
edge of the cliff, but the dim light was not at all sufficient to
determine their dress; and a rather eager discussion began in
an under tone between Ryan and Dennis, — the latter insisting
420 CLEYE HALL.
thai they should move to the cast side of the Point, and keep
guard upon the movements of the suspicious individuals
above; Ryan as firmly holding to his determination to remain
where he had been placed, according to a hint given through
a hoy in the village, known to be connected with the smug-
glers, that the landing would be made, if possible, west of the
Headland.
" A few steps up the cliff would settle the matter quietly."
said Dennis, tired at length of endeavoring to persuade his
comrade of a fact of which he himself was firmly convinced.
" Keep your stand here, man, if you will; I shall be with you
in half a second, if there's need."
Without waiting for an assent, he climbed up several feet,
and threw himself with a spring upon a square projecting rock,
standing forth like a table, from which his eye could reach
any objects moving either to the right or left along the cliffs,
besides commanding an extensive reach of the coast.
Voices sounded above, but they were not distinguishable.
The cliff was in this place tolerably easy of asceut, for it was
worn into ledges; and the preventive man, accustomed to
scale it under all circumstances, found no difficulty in ap-
proaching still nearer, so as at length to be very near the
summit, yet not himself within view.
Mr. Lester's voice was the first recognised : " The coast-
guard fellows are away beyond the Point; that ought to be
our direction."
Hardman, the gamekeeper, answered : " They are all along,
Sir. Three of them have been upon the shore, near the boat-
house, for the last hour, so John Price here says. He saw
them as he came back, after taking Miss Campbell and Miss
Rachel home. We might ask them what they are after."
""No, no," interposed another voice, stopped suddenly by
Mr. Lester.
" Impossible to ask them, Hardman. They have their duty
to perform, without respect of persons. It must be our own
work."
A slide of stones, as Dennis retreated down the cliff to give
the information he had gained to his companion, startled the
little party into silence.
Mr. Lester drew Mr. Vivian aside: " Once more, Vivian.
think : this can be no work for you."
" If it is not mine it is no one's. I am resolved And I
can defend myself now : I am armed."
CLEVE HALL. 421
"No protection from a pistol bullet; but you are wilful;"
and Mr. Lester turned to Hardman. " We had better sepa-
rate ; the cliffs for you, the shore for us. If the landing is
made safely, and Clement is of the party, you have but to
meet him and force him to return with you ; if there should
be an affray, twenty pounds reward to each, if you succeed in
savins him from beinsr engaged in it."
" Twenty pounds ! Forty ! fifty ! a hundred i exclaimed
Mr. Vivian ; then seeing the men's start of surprise, he checked
himself, and added, "What sum could be too great to save
General Vivian's grandson from public disgrace 1"
The men touched their hats in silence, and moved on along
the cliffs. Mr. Vivian and Mr. Lester tcok a more difficult
path downwards.
The descent was about half made when Mr. Vivian stopped :
" I know a better road than the shore, Lester. The tide is
high, and we shall have hard work to get on. There is a ledge
along the cliff — or there used to be in the old days."
" It passes the cave ; I know it."
" Above or below, as we will. It will carry us round the
Point if needful, and if your head is firm; and we shall com-
mand the shore."
" My head will carry me wherever your heart carries you,
Vivian."
They moved on slowly for some distance. The ledge was
narrow and uneven — in some places the cliff sank perpendicu-
larly below them to the depth of a hundred and fifty feet ; in
others it was more a path over fallen rocks and projections.
" Look ! Lester" — Mr. Vivian delayed for an instant —
"one of the preventive men in his hiding-place." He pointed
to some large rocks, brought out into strong relief by the pass-
ing of the moon from amongst the clouds. It was just possi-
ble to distinguish a man crouching behind them.
" Yes ; that seems as if the landing would be on this side."
The figure below stood up in a listening attitude. " We had
better not make ourselves remarked," whispered Mr. Lester,
and they drew back from the edge; but Mr. Vivian seemed
inclined to pause.
"I might get something out of him," he said, "if I were
down on the beach alone. None of them know mo; and a
few chance questions might help us a good deal as to the point
at wnioh these fellows will land. Wait here, and I will sec
what I can do."
422 CLEVE HALL.
Mr. Lester demurred to the separation ; but Mr. Vivian's
eagerness would not stand opposition, and he immediately be-
gan the descent. It was much more difficult in this Bpot than
he had expected; and, in trying to find a safe footing, he was
led away from the place where he had, as he thought, seen the
preventive man hiding; and when at length he stood upon the
beach, the rocks appeared heaped one upon another in such con-
fusion that, without instituting a regular search, it would have
been impossible to discover him.
Feeling provoked with himself for his useless trouble, Mr.
Vivian walked along the shore to the East Point, under the
idea that he should probably meet the other preventive men
of whom Hardman had spoken. His thoughts were painfully
busy, and his attention in a measure withdrawn from the pur-
pose before him. That rolling, tossing sea was as the image
of a remorseless fate; its dark, green, glassy hollows were
types of the dangers which had opened in his own path, and
seemed now about to engulf his boy. And on it came, — piti-
less, irresistible, foaming in its mocking brightness, tossing
itself in the pride of its tremendous power. Could there be
the hope of success in struggling against it? Mr. Vivian's
heart failed him for the moment, for in the keenness of his
fears for his boy, he forgot that to the tide of life's dangers, as to
the flow of the great ocean, the decree has been pronounced,
" Hitherto shalt thou go, and no farther." He wandered on
to the East Point. A boat was lying close under the cliff,
upon a point of sand left by the tide, which had just begun
to ebb, but there were no signs of the preventive men ; and
it seemed better to make his way back to Mr. Lester. He
turned; but suddenly found himself confronted by a square-
built man, wearing a slouched hat very much drawn over his
face, and a shaggy sailor's coat. They stopped as by mutual
consent.
" Rather a rough evening/'' remarked Mr. Vivian.
" Rough now, and likely to be rougher before nightfall,"
was the reply. The words were uttered in a tone of careless
boldness, and they struck Mr. Vivian's ears with a painful
shock of recollection ; yet he was not certain, and he dreaded
to betray himself. The man placed himself directly in his
way, and continued, " Are you going farther V
" I thought of reaching Dark Head Point yonder. There
is no way of ascent here."
" An easier one than you think for;" and the man struck
CLEVE HALL. 423
his foot upon a little step cut in the cliff. " These steps will
carry you to the top direct, and from thence it's plain sailing
to the Point."
" Thank you, but I prefer the shore." Mr. Vivian would
have passed on.
" We don't part quite so quickly" — the slouched hat was
pushed back, and the speaker stood forth in the moonlight :
" Edward Vivian, there is no disguise from me ; I know you,
and I would have a word with you."
"John! — at last!" and Mr. Vivian instinctively looked
round to see if they were alone.
" At last met, and well met !"
" Well met — never ! There is that bctweon us which it
were wise the ocean should bury."
" Perhaps so ; yet Old Ocean herself cannot always keep
her secrets."
" I have business on my hands which cannot wait," said
Mr. Vivian. " Since you know me, you will know also that
I am likely to give you many more opportunities of explana-
tion."
" Were it the business of the united world, it must wait
my pleasure; and for once" — and Captain Vivian laughed
bitterly — " our interests are the same. I would speak to you
of Clement."
" Clement ! — my boy !" Mr. Vivian started forward, and
his voice was lowered with intense eagerness: "John! you
have done many a deadly deed to me and mine, but help me
to save him, and " he paused.
That very evening when he had met Bertha at the cottage,
he had heard, in hurried words, interrupted by anxiety tor
Clement, the suspicions, almost the certainty, of his cousin's
deep treachery. lie dared not promise to forgive.
" And what? — what offer of good will Edward Vivian make
to the man whom he basely deceived — whom he robbed of all
that his heart desired !"
" Deceived ! — robbed ! — but you have the strong hand
over me, John. Say what you will, we will seek another oc-
casion for that tale."
" This night's meeting is our first and last. Do you sup-
pose that I intend to wait tamely, and witness my enemy's
triumph? I must be a different man now from what I was
eighteen years ago for that to be !"
" The questions between yourself and me are too compli*
4lM CLEVE HALL.
dated, and lie too far back to be reached at a time like tliis,"
replied Mr. Yi\ Lan. " They concern not my present need ; and
be the consequences what they may, I will not enter upon
them." He would have passed on.
" The questions between yourself and me do indeed lie far
bach," replied Captain Vivian, placing himself again in his
way, and setting his teeth firmly together; "but if they are
not remedied now they will never be ; and, what is more, the
hour will come — yes, even before this night has passed over
your head — when you will wish that the sea had sunk you in
its depths, rather than you had refused to listen to me."
" If your words apply to my unhappy boy," replied Mr.
Vivian, " I say again you have the strong hand over me.
Speak your will."
"Not here; we may be interrupted. The preventive men
are on the look-out, and will be coming by."
" Here, or nowhere. From this point I keep watch over
the shore, and may aid my boy when he may not be able to
aid himself."
" Pshaw ! the boy's fate is in my hands. Till I lift my
finger, not a shadow of harm can happen to him."
" You I" Mr. Vivian drew back from him, and murmured,
" Can revenge be carried so far?"
" So far ! ay, and much farther ! Will you come V He
placed one foot upon the cliff.
Mr. Vivian hesitated.
" Trust me, or we part instantly, and Clement's fate is
fixed."
"I follow you;" but Mr. Vivian laid his hand upon his
pistols.
Captain Vivian saw the movement, and laughed: "Cow-
ard!" he exclaimed; "if I had willed you mischief, could 1
not carry out my purpose now, even here as we stand ? But
even in the days when you did me the deepest wrong, your life
was safe in my hands."
"You are right!" was Mr. Vivian's bitter reply; "the
life of the body was always safe; — it was the life of the heart
at which you aimed ! But go on ; we are at least equal in
power;" and silently and hastily he followed Captain Vivian
up the rugged steps.
They stood together on the top of a cliff which had a lower
elevation than Bark Head Point, yet, like it, commanded a
wide view over the sea. The little smuggling vessel was still
CLEVE HALL. 425
at anchor to the west of the point. There were no lights on
board, nor any signs of movement. On the summit of the
Headland several figures were indistinctly seen, and two were
pacing np and down at some distance from the East Point.
Captain Vivian cast a hasty glance around him, and then drew
near a pile of dried fern, furze, and brushwood, collected, as
it might have appeared, accidentally, or perhaps with the in-
tention of being carried away for fuel.
" We are safe from interruption here," he said. " The
preventives have gathered together after their prey yonder" —
and he pointed to the Headland. " They may wait to-night,
and to-morrow night, and the next, if I will it, — or rather if
you will it."
" Let us have few words, John : for what purpose have
you brought me here ?"
" To give you the opportunity of saving your boy from dis-
grace and deadly peril. He is on board that vessel yonder :
when I raise my signal he will come on shore. Would you
know who are after him ? Three men on the Headland — three
on the shore — others waiting within call. But the smugglers
are not men to give up their prize without a struggle. They
will put your boy first, thinking it for their safety, and that
the preventives will deal gently with him. Trust to that if
you will. His life is in danger; and should he escape, his
deeds will be blazoned over the country, as a disgrace to the
proud name he bears."
" Serpent I" exclaimed Mr. Vivian ; " and it is your doing."
" That matters not. If it has been mine, it will be yours.
Say but the word, and the smuggler lies quietly at her anchor-
age; the preventives are outwitted; and a boat brings your
boy on shore, with nothing against him but the rumor of his
frolic."
" Your price ? — name it !" The tone was agony but ill
concealed by a cold haughtiness.
" I might take you at your word and ruin you, but you arc
poor enough already" — and Captain Vivian laughed mock-
ingly. "I have no wish, to injure you; I require only that,
whatever your purpose may be iu returning to Encombe, there
shall be no raking up of the grievances of past days — a small
favor to demand for saving your son from disgrace and it may
be death."
"A small favor, indeed; too small if it had not a hidden
meaning. John ' — and all the bitterness of long-smothered
420 CLEVE IIALL.
enmity broke out in the words — "from my heart I distrust
you."
" 'From my heart I hate you,' might have been better/' was
the sarcastic reply.
"No; I may have had cause enough, but God knows T
have forgiven,' — I would forgive, if 1 dared. You have played
a desperate game against me. I see it now, for my eyes have
been opened. It was you who ruined me with my father."
" And you who ruined me with the woman who should
have been my wife." Then with a taunting sneer, which per-
haps concealed the pang of some painful memories, Captain
Vivian continued: " Let by-goues be by-goucs; it is all I
ask."
" And if it is only by recalling by-gones that I can explain
myself to my father, then to promise is my destruction."
" And not to promise, is your boy's."
Mr. Vivian turned away to control the agony of his feel-
ings. " We will endeavor to understand each other," he con-
tinued, after a moment's pause. " It is useless to endeavor to
persuade me that the stipulation you demand is of no conse-
quence. It is, and it must be of the very utmost consequence
to me; yet, do not think to deceive me, too well I know that
it is far more so to yoir."
" Prove it ! prove it !" exclaimed Captain Vivian, scorn-
fully. He clenched his hand, and muttered between his closed
teeth, " Would I have put myself in your power, if you could
prove it?"
" I care not for legal proof; but were the deed hidden in
the depths of the earth, it should come forth to clear me with
my father, and to be an eternal dishonor to you. I make no
stipulations with a forger."
" As you will." Captain Vivian slowly took a match box
from his pocket, and held it as if about to strike a light:
" The first blaze, and the boat makes for the shore."
" Stay ! stay !" exclaimed Mr. Vivian. " There may be a
compromise."
" No compromise ! Silence for ever with the General and
with the world upon all points — sworn for yourself, your sister,
Mr. Lester, and Bertha Campbell."
" My oath must be for myself; I cannot bind others."
" It must be given by them also, — and to-night, before two
more hours have passed."
CLEVE HALL. 427
" My father is generous; lie will never raise a word against
you when he finds that I am under a promise of secrecy."
<• General Vivian's generosity! Ask me rather to trust to
the mercy of the winds and of the waves. Silence or dis-
grace : make your choice between them."
He struck the light. Mr. Vivian caught him by the arm,
and the movement brought the burning match in contact with
o o
the light dry brushwood. The flame sprang into the air, and
fast and wide spread the rushing blaze, hissing and crackling
among the withered leaves and the broken twigs, — and far
away across the sea gleamed the cold light of the moon, — ■
darkened by one black speck, as the smuggling-boat made its
way over the surging waters to the shore
CHAPTER XLVII.
THE shore was safe, for it was deserted before the boat had
landed. The four men who rowed, had loaded themselves
with the tubs, and were making their way towards the cliff.
A fifth lingered behind, and with him came Clement Vivian.
He walked slowly and doubtfully, — not with the eager energy
of a boy in the height of his adventurous spirits. His step
was unequal ; his head turned quickly from one side to the
other. Perhaps he was planning an escape, but his companion
kept close by his side and urged him on.
They reached the foot of the cliffs, and the men paused and
gathered together. Mark Wood was foremost. They looked
up at the cliff, then took a survey of the shore.
" Safe ! now for it ; along the ledge to the cave ! Come,
youngster;" and the man who seemed to have charge of Cle-
ment stood back to put him first : " It's plain sailing."
Clement delayed: "I have had my frolic; I will go no
farther."
" What ! that's new talking ! — up, I say." He would have
pushed Clement forward, but the boy drew back indignantly :
''Touch me again, if you dare."
"On, young Master — on, for your life;" and Mark Wood
drew near, and pointed to a projecting angle of the cliff above
them, where a dark immovable spot was to be seen.
428 CLEVE HALL.
The men as with one consent began to scale the cliff, not
by the path, but by ledges, corners, shelving rucks, often with
a footing which a goat could scarcely have held; and not in
the direction of the cave, but away beyond the Headland, to a
point •which all seemed to know as by instinct. They reached
a smooth ledge, wide enough For them to stand together. The
cliff rose perpendicularly behind them; before them a huge
rock, which seemed about to precipitate itself into the sea,
threw a dark shadow on their resting-place. They waited to
take breath. Clement, who had followed them with difficulty,
approached Mark: "Is there danger? Are the preventives
abroad?"
" Above and around, that black head was on the look-out, —
now on."
ISefore Clement could ask another question, Mark was lead-
ing the way again, but now in a different direction, towards
the cave. He stopped after he had gone some paces, and
muttered a few words to Clement's first guide. The man evi-
dently differed from him, and Mark spoke angrily, and went
on by himself. The four who were left kept close to Clement.
A sound like a call, which might, however, have been nothing
more than the wind, fell on the ear, and it was answered by
Clement's guide. The others interchanged a few words : " The
cave's free for us !"
" Was that the cry ?"
"Yes; didn't you hear?"
" All right !" and they went on.
They were drawing near the cave. From the west side it
was difficult of approach — the ledge was narrow, and the angle
by which it was entered sharp. The men settled the tubs on
their shoulders, and seemed prepared for a false step. Mark
Wood, who had been considerably in advance, came back.
Clement heard him say : " I've a doubt that we're in for it,
Hale ; let him go."
" Go, and peach ?" was Hale's answer. "You arc a fool ;
on with you." He thrust Mark forward, and then looked
back to Clement: "Keep close, youngster. If I throw you
the tub, you'll know how to carry it;" and they moved for-
ward again, one by one, with slow and cautious steps, clinging
to the cliff, and once or twice sliding where the footing was
too unsteady for support.
Mark turned the corner first; Clement and Hale followed.
They were then before the entrance of the cave.
CLEVE HALL. 420
" Now, youngster! I must bo left free." Hale took the
tub from his shoulder.
" Best not," whispered Mark, drawing him within the
passage : " look below."
A body of the coast-guard were at the foot of the cliff; a
little behind lingered Mr. Vivian.
" In with you, man — in : clear the way;" and Hale forced
Mark into the cave, and tossed the tub upon the ground. The
others followed his example.
A shout rose from below, and the preventive men hurried
up the cliff, followed by Mr. Vivian.
" Stand to it boldly ! for your life." The smugglers placed
themselves before the cave, and Clement stood with them, —
his spirit excited by the danger.
" Clement ! Master Clement ! this way," shouted Mark
from within ; but Clement did not or would not hear. The
preventive men were nearly on a level with the Cave — Dennis
and Ryan foremost.
" A step nearer, and we fire !" shouted the smugglers, and
the preventive men drew back.
There was a mutual pause. Whilst the two parties con-
fronted each other, Mr. Vivian unperceived, scrambling,
clinging to the side of the cliff, advanced to the smugglers'
rear, and seized Hale's arm. The preventive men rushed
forward. Hale strove violently to extricate himself, and his
companions came to his rescue. A desperate, deadly struggle
began.
" Clement ! Clement !" called out a voice of thunder, in the
tumult, "up the cliff, — to the left ! for the sake of Heaven —
for your father's sake !" and the boy, terrified yet excited,
looked round him with the impulse to obey.
" Not to the cliffs — through tl.e cave ; Mark Wood waits
you there."
It was Ronald Vivian, who standing before the cave, spoke
hurriedly, yet in tones low, and deep, and clear.
Clement paused for one moment in indecision, and the
grasp of Dennis, the preventive man, was laid upon his collar.
"A prisoner! a prisoner!" he exclaimed; but a sudden
blow from Ronald felled him to the ground. He rose again
instantly, and tin 1 )' grappled together.
" Into the cave," shouted Ronald, turning Lis head fur a
second; and Clement waited no longer.
"Ronald Vivian to be dealt with at last!" burst from the
430 CLEVE HALL.
lips of Dennis, maddened at recognising the boy from whose
hands the blow had been received.
Mr. Vivian heard the call : " Save him ! — do him no injury ;
I will bear you free;'' but his call was in vain.
The contest with Hale and his comrades had ended in
Hale's capture. The other smugglers had escaped, but not
without pursuit from the preventive men. Ryan, however,
remained behind, and came to the assistance of Dennis.
" Yield, or we fire !" was the cry.
But Ronald fought desperately; for danger to him was
safety to Clement.
" Yield ! Ronald, yield !" called Mr. Vivian, and he
placed himself by his side.
A dark face, not till that moment seen, peered from behind
a rock, and a pistol was levelled at Mr. Vivian's head.
"Ha! Goff! the scoundrel I" shouted Ryan, catching the
outline of the well-known features. He moved aside, and a
bullet aimed at Mr. Vivian, whizzed past, and Ronald, struck
by it in the shoulder, fell to the ground.
" Murder!" The cry echoed wildly amongst the rocks, as
the men, catching a momentary glimpse of Goff, followed him
down the cliff and along the shore. It was a frantic chase,
over the loose shingles, and rough stones, with masses of
broken cliff impeding them. Goff kept close by the cliff, the
path most difficult of pursuit. On, with the speed of a maniac,
— for safety or for ruin ; on, to the East Point. Behind it, in
a little cove, lies a small boat; and there waits Captain Vivian,
ready, eager to carry him to the vessel which will be his har-
bor of safety.
He was close upon the Point; the path was difficult — the
moon had become darkened; he stumbled, and the delay
brought his pursuers near. Their voices were heard high
above the booming of the waves, and the increasing roar of the
wind. Concealment! no, it was impossible; the spot which
he had reached was bare of the sheltering rocks. Escape by
the cliffs ! impossible also ; they rose frowning above him, —
no longer easy of access. He turned towards the edge of the
shore, and shouted long and loud; and a little boat manned
by one person rounded the Point. It was lifted high by the
waves, then again it sank, — for a moment it might have been
thought engulfed, — it could not near the beach.
''Rascal! scoundrel!" shouted the preventive men. They
were rushing from the cliff; their feet were crashing the
CLEVE HALL. 431
pebbles. He almost felt their grasp ; — one plunge, and lie
was breasting the waves towards the boat. The foaming
water rose high, aud he was hidden ; — it broke upon the shore,
and his black, shaggy head was seen rising as a spot in the
moonlight.
Fierce and strong are the angry billows, — they are bearing
him away from the boat. He sees it, and one hand is uplifted,
and a howl of terror comes across the watery waste. He is
struggling, — his head is tossed as a plaything by the crested
waves. The boat is drawing near ; he will be saved, — yes, he
must be ; — his hand is actually touching the boat.
And the grasp is faint, and the waves are strong, and —
the wretched, guilty head moves with one agonizing effort,
and sinks, to be lost to sight for ever.
-4&-
CHAPTER XLVIII.
I) ONALD lay upon the ground, the blood oozing fast from
\ his shoulder ; by him knelt Mr. Vivian, vainly endeavor-
ing to stanch the wound. The shouts of the men, and the
cries of pursuit, reached them as distant echoes. Mr. Vivian
thought that Ronald had fainted, but he was still sensible, only
growing weaker and weaker — his sight becoming dim, his lips
refusing to utter a sound. Mr. Vivian made him rest against
his knee, and spoke to him. There was a feeble smile upon
the cold, white lips ; and Mr. Vivian took off his coat, and
making it into a pillow, laid Ronald's head gently upon it, and
leaving him for an instant, went a few steps forward and called,
but received no answer. The spot a few minutes before so
dizzy with tumult, was now utterly deserted.
He came back again, and groped his way into the cave. It
was quite dark; but something soft lay on the ground, — a
coat, and he took it up and felt in the pocket. It contained
a small flask. Mr. Vivian brought this out into the light, and
moistened Ronald's lips with the brandy which was in it, and
covered him with the coat. He was a little revived then, and
it seemed possible to move him within the shelter of the rock;
but the start when he was touched, showed that the attempt
would be agony.
In despair Mr. Vivian called again; and this time a voice
432 CLEVE HALL.
answered him, but from within the cave; and the rattle of
stones, accompanied by a few hasty ejaculations, was followed
by the appearance of Mark Wood.
He came forward with stealthy steps, glancing doubtfully
at Mr. Vivian; but the sight of Ronald's ghastly features
seemed to give him courage to draw near. " You called," he
said.
"Yes, I called." Mr. Vivian pointed to Ronald: "He
has been wounded in the skirmish, and we must move him."
"The sharks! Cowardly villains! Are they gone?"
Mark went a few steps down the cliff.
Mr. Vivian called him back : " Gone now, but they may
return. It was not they who did it."
"All safe now," muttered Mark. He put his arm under
Ronald tenderly.
" We must have more help," said Mr. Vivian.
"By-and-by; we'll take him inside first. Stay!" — he
lighted a match and set fire to a brand, which he thrust into a
crevice of the rock, — " that will do to show the way. Now
then;" and with Mr. Vivian's assistance he raised Ronald, and
disregarding the moaning which showed the Buffering he
caused, bore him into the cave.
"Some straw and dried fern leaves lay in a heap in one
corner, and over this Mr. Vivian stretched the coat with which
Ronald had been covered. He was then laid upon it ; and
Mark proceeded to collect together some dried sticks, which he
lighted.
Mr. Vivian looked at him with some surprise. " Is he
safe V he said. " The preventive men may be back."
" Safe enough, just now. We've left a couple of kegs in
their way at the foot of the cliff, which they'll seize, and then,
ten to one, be off. They've caught Hale, and are after the
others."
"But if they look for him?" and Mr. Vivian glanced at
Ronald.
" He's as safe here as elsewhere. If we tried to get him
home, we should meet them on the cliffs. An hour hence it
will all be right enough. Now, give him another taste of the
brandy-flask, and see if he'll come-to more."
The warmth of the fire, and the cordial, had the effect
desired for a few moments, but Ronald soon sank back again
into his former state; and Mr. Vivian, greatly alarmed, in-
CLEVE HALL. 433
sisted upon the necessity of summoning more aid. Mr. Les-
ter, he said, was certainly within reach.
" The Parson! He's off home with the young gentleman.
Twas he who met me, and bade me come back. I shouldn't
nave ventured myself so soon again within reach of the sharks,
f it hadn't been for him."
Ronald slowly opened his eyes, and by the lurid light of
the fire Mr. Vivian saw that his lips moved. He bent down,
wnd heard the word " Clement."
" Safe, thank God !"
Ronald smiled, and his head fell back.
They waited for nearly a quarter of an hour longer in
silence — Mark keeping up the tire, and occasionally watching
at the entrance of the cave ; whilst Mr. Vivian, supporting
Ronald, stanching his wound, and from time to time forcing
him to sip the flask of brandy, succeeded at length in restor-
ing him to some degree of strength.
His sufferings, however, became greater as his power in-
creased. A suppressed groan followed every attempt to move
him, and a clearer consciousness brought a look of anguish to
his face, which Mr. Vivian vainly endeavored to read.
" If we had another hand we might move him now," said
Mark, returning to Ronald's couch, after another survey of the
cliff.
Ronald raised his hand, as a sign against it.
Mr. Vivian replied to the gesture : " You must not remain
here, Ronald ; it will kill you. Mr. Lester will come, and we
will carry you very gently."
He looked impatient, and beckoned to Mark. Mr. Vivian
moved aside.
" Sad work, Master Ronald," said Mark, compassionately.
" What made you mix yourself up with us?"
" My father," murmured Ronald, taking no notice of the
question — " where is he ?"
Mark glanced at Mr. Vivian, who was, howc?or, too far off
to hear the answer.
"Gone on boaid, by this time. He was ^ to be off to the
vessel, so we were told, as soon as the second light flamed up."
" On board, — away !" A look of convulsive agony crossed
Ro aid's face.
" Not away, yet. She's off there still, I take it ; and pretty
close she was five minutes ago."
" I must see him."
19
4o4 CLBVE HALL.
" To be sure; lie'll be back, if not to-night, to-morrow."
"No, no; to-night, — now."
" Not so easy that — the Captain's not to be sent for in a
moment ; and he's gone for a purpose."
" It must be, — it must. Mark, who knows ? I may be
dying."
"Not so bad as that, Master Ronald. You've had a good
knock, hovoTDr it happened ; but you'll come round. Let me
just go and get a helping hand, and we'll have you at the
Grange before half an hour's over our heads."
The mention of the Grange renewed Ronald's excitement,
and he exclaimed vehemently, "Not there."
His accent caused Mr. Vivian to draw nearer. Ronald
raised his glassy eyes to his with a glance of mingled confi-
dence and despair; and as Mr. Vivian stooped to be nearer to
him, he took hold of his hand, and held it within his own, and
tried to speak, and then the words seemed to fail, and he mut-
tered something unintelligible.
" You have a wish, — let me hear it; it shall be granted."
" Let my father come now — safe."
" He shall come and be safe, if it is in my power to bring
him ; we will take you home, and you shall see him."
" Here ! here ! — not home."
Mark interposed, and drew Mr. Vivian aside. " It would
never do," he said, " to take Master llonald at his fancy; it
might be easy enough to get hold of the Captain, who was
sure to be on board the vessel, and within call ; — but to leave
him there on the ground, — he would be shot himself sooner."
"It frets him to insist upon moving him," replied Mr.
Vivian ; " and it will really make but little difference. Let
Captain Vivian come, if you know where to find him ; and
when he comes, let me go into the village for further help. I
will bring back a surgeon with me. There will be less dchry
then, and "
A faint call from Ronald summoned Mr. Vivian again to
his side. His face was bright with thankfulness : " Let
Mark tell him quickly. To-morrow" — and the light of his
eye became darkened, and his voice grew fainter — " I may
not need him."
Mr. Vivian pressed his hand affectionately, and repeated
the order.
Yet Mark still lingered. " 'Twas a mad errand," he said,
as lie once more appealed to Mr. Vivian ; " and likely to be
CLEYE HALL. 435
the boy's death — waiting there instead of being tended. And
if the Captain came, it might be sore work for them : no one
knew what he would be like when things went contrary. If
they might have taken Ronald to the Grange -" He stopped
suddenly, for a moan escaped from Ronald, drawn from him
by excessive pain. Yet even then he waved his hand for
Mark to leave him ; and Mr. Vivian seconding the entreaty,
the man departed.
The time of Mark's absence seemed hours to Mr. Vivian.
It would have been unendurable but for the thought of Cle-
ment's safety — that was comfort through everything; and
Ronald's wan face was a sufficient reproach, when impatience
was about to master him. Yet as the moments passed on,
many doubts as to the prudence of agreeing to his wish sug-
gested themselves : danger from the preventive men ; the pos-
sibility that Mark would not be able to manage his boat ; the
difficulty of landing again ; — obstacles which Mark had not
appeared to contemplate, but which seemed aggravated, as
Ronald's suffering evidently increased, and the necessity for
surgical aid became more and more urgent.
He scarcely thought of himself, his own fears and hopes,
and plans for the future. He could but look at the pale coun-
tenance of the noble boy, so suddenly struck down in the
pride of his strength, and thiuk of the short, stormy life, with
its strong impulses, its earnest resolve, and unflinching will —
and ponder upon the deep mystery that one so formed for good
should have been placed under the dominion of evil. It was
a thought only to be borne by the remembrance of that inscru-
table Wisdom which " searcheth the heart," and "knoweth
what is in man," and will require only what has been given.
And bitterly in contrast rose up before Mr. Vivian's memory
the recollections of his own boyhood — with virtuous examples,
the rules of strict rectitude, the support of an honoi'able name,
the prospect of a fair inheritance to lure him to good; yet all
deserted, and bringing upon him only a severer condemna-
tion. What we might have been! It is a terrible thought
to realize ?
"Mr. Vivian." — Ronald stretched out his hand and touch< d
him; "are they coming ?"
"I don't know; I think not; but I will see." lie went
out to look, and returned: " The boat has left the vessel; I
can't tell who is in it."
•• My fathi ;■ will be here — you musi go."
43G CLEVE HALL.
<• Not till he comes."
" Yes, before — now; raise me." And Mr. Vivian lifted
him up, and made him support himself against the wall, lie
spoke more easily then, and seemed relieved by the change of
position: "Now go, please; quickly." Yet as Mr. Vivian
looked towards the entrance of the cave, he held him back :
lt One word. I have done what I could ; you are satisfied?"
" Fully — entirely — thankfully; more than tongue can tell."
" But I have not done all. I will try."
" But not now. Oh ! Ronald, is it for my sake you would
see your father ?"
" I told Miss Campbell I would do the u'..most; if I am to
die, I must do it."
" You have done everything that could be required ; and
more, a thousand times. It is for Clement's sake that you are
here now."
" The utmost," repeated Ronald ; " it was my promise.
Tell her I kept it. And you will pardon him if the offence
were — " he stopped suddenly.
" I know what it was."
Ronald let Mr. Vivian's hand drop, and turned his face to
the wall.
Mr. Vivian continued, quietly, " I will not tell you now,
Ronald, how it was discovered. But one thing may satisfy
you, — there is no legal proof; I could not bring it home to
him, if I would."
Ronald turned slowly round and fixed his ghastly eyes upon
him : " Then the evil to you is done."
" Yes."
" And without remedy ?"
" Without remedy from him, except by his own confession :
that might indeed help me with my father."
u You shall have it. When it is in your hands, and I am
gone, Mr. Vivian, you will save his name from disgrace."
Mr. Vivian seized his hand : " Disgrace cannot attach to
the name you bear, Ronald : whatever your father may have
done to tarnish it, you have nobly redeemed it."
He did not smile nor answer, but a tear rolled down his
check, and his lip quivered with anguish. He recovered him-
self again quickly, and pointing towards the entrance, said :
" Look out ; when they are at the foot of the cliff, you must
go. Hark !"
CLEVE HALL. 437
"God bless you, and help you, Ronald;" and Mr. Vivian
held Ronald's hand with lingering affection.
"Go! go!"
Ronald's face grew troubled and eager; yet as Mr. Vivian
left the cave, his eye rested upon him with an expression that
would fain have asked him to return.
-9—
CHAPTER XLIX.
« ~g~l H • Ronald ! my lad ! in a scrape and calling for me to
Hi help you out ! That comes of not keeping to quarters.
How on earth you got loose passes me." Captain Vivian
entered the cave blusteringly. He would not listen to Mark's
request to tread with caution, and in the dim light of the dying
embers scarcely distinguished where his son lay stretched upon
his rough bed.
"No one here," said Mark groping around, and collecting
some more sticks. " You'll see, Captain, that it's as I said;
he's mortal bad" — and he held a lighted brand so as to cast a
gleam upon Ronald's face, and then walked away to the
entrance.
Captain Vivian snatched the brand from him, drew near,
looked, — then throwing the torch aside, staggered back against
the wall.
"Father!" Ronald's voice was hollow as a call from the
grave.
Captain Vivian threw himself on the ground beside him.
"Shot! my boy, my poor boy! The rascals! But we'll
be revenged. We'll get ycu on board, and look after you, and
you'll do well ; there's no doubt of that. Many's the ugly
touch I've had myself. Here ! Mark."
" Stay, Father. I must not go : listen."
" Listen ! to be sure. The rascals ! I'll be revenged."
" It was not they. It matters not who it was; I would for-
get revenge."
" Forget it : you may; but I tell you, Ronald, the reckoning
shall be kept till the last hour of my life— ay, and paid too."
"Then your reckoning must be with Goff. He raised the
pistol; I saw him. It was levelled at Mr. Vivian."
438 CLE YE HALL.
No answer came, only a quiet gasp of breathless horror.
11 It is for Mr. Vivian to revenge," continued Ronald.
• Father ! can you hear me? can you listen to me?" for Cap-
tain Vivian was kneeling upright, — his form rigid, his eyes
fixed.
" Revenge ! let liim seek it clown in the green ocean —
down, down; he will nut find it. Let him look for it, — it is
gone."
" Father! speak to me, — oh, horrible!" and Ronald raised
himself for a moment, and sank back shuddering and exhausted.
" He's gone, my boy; don't think of him, Ronald. Rouse
up — we'll forget. Where's Mark ?"
Mark came, and Ronald's lips were moistened with brandy,
and he found strength to utter, " Is he killed ?"
" Drowned, Master Ronald," said Mark, coolly. " T heard
it said as I came across the Common; but I don't understand
the rights of it all."
"Drowned, Ronald, my boy;" and Captain Vivian stood
up, and drew near to Mark with an air of restored confidence.
"But we won't talk of him, now. Mark and I will put you
into the boat, and be off to the vessel, and see to you to-night j
and to-morrow, if it's needed, we'll get more help — but I'm a
clever surgeon myself."
Ronald motioned Mark away : " Raise me, father. Drowned,
lost in the deep waters 1" He hid his face with his trembling
hand. "Oh, God ! have mercy ! it is Thy judgment."
" Cheer up, my boy; don't think."
" He is gone, Father. I may be going too. Where ? —
where?" he repeated, and he caught his father's hand, and
held it with all the little strength he retained.
" We can't think ; we don't know till the time comes. Why
trouble yourself, my poor lad ?"
'•Oh! it is time now; there is no other time. Father,
think, repent. God will hear now."
" Too late for me !" and Captain Vivian's voice slightly
trembled. " Well enough for you."
" His body lies beneath the waves, his soul is before God,"
murmured Ronald, shuddering; "and he had so many crimes
to burden it."
" May be so ; but none can tell what excuses may be at
band for him or for any one. There's no need to talk of
him."
"Father; yes, — let me but ppeak now. If only one sin
CLEVE HALL. 439
could be lightened, death would be less terrible. Is it not so 1
tell me; answer."
" If it could be, but past is past."
"No, no, it is present; it never dies; it will come full
again. But it may be repented of, then it cannot harm."
ik My poor lad ! He's wandering." Captain Vivian bent
down anxiously.
" Father, I speak truth; I know what I say. Oh ! by tbe
thought of that fearful death — that awful judgment, do not
turn from me."
" If sorrow's necessary, I'm sorry enough," was the moody
answer; "but I didn't come here to talk of it."
"Yes, indeed," and Ronald almost sat upright in his ea-
gerness. " It was for that I sent for you. I may be dying ;
God knows. I could not cai-ry the load to my grave. Father,
our name has been pledged to dishonor, — disgrace; it has
caused Mr. Vivian's ruin."
" Not caused it : it was his own doing. None could have
touched him if he hadn't dealt the first blow himself."
" But the work he began — it was completed by you."
" Then it's done, and it can't be undone."
" It may be. Oh ! indeed it may. It may be acknow-
ledged, and to the utmost extent of your means, the sum may
be restored."
" Acknowledge ! Restore ! Why, he knows all ; he would
pursue me to the last gasp to be revenged on me. He would
take from me every penny I possess, and leave me to beggary,
if it were possible."
" He has promised to forgive, and his word is honor. If
it were not, when we have injured others, God will never for-
give us, without confession and reparation."
" I don't know where you learnt your teaching ; it's not
my doing."
"I learnt it from my mother, when I said my prayers to
her. She talked of it when she was dying. She would repeai
it now. Father, your confession may replace Mr. Vivian at
once in his home."
" And balk me of the last hope of carrying out the revenge
for which alone I did the deed. Was it the paltry money,
boy, for which I hazarded ruin ? Would the miserable thou-
sands have tempted me? If they had been multiplied ten,
twenty, a hundred, a thousand-fold, I would have scorned
them all rather than lose my revenge."
4-10 CLBVJE HALL.
"God also can revenge," replied Ronald, faintly. " And
you are safe; he says himself there is no legal proof."
" If there had been would I have ventured myself within
his grasp ? No ; he has chosen his course, let him follow it
out."
" To-night will go against him," said Ronald.
" Of course ; I know it. I should never have troubled my-
self with the boy if I had not known it. lie may thank his
stars that it is no worse, — that the young scapegrace is not
now in the hands of the magistrates. Let him make his way
with the General as he can, with only his bare words to for-
tify him, and Clement's folly to stand against him."
" Mercy ! Father ! His life has been most miserable."
" He had no mercy on me," was the bitter reply.
Captain Vivian was about to rise, and again summon
Mark, but Ronald's feeble hand rested on his arm.
" Father ! if the gurgling waters were closing round you,
as they closed over that wretched man, would you not wish
that you had done it ?"
" I could never wish that I had disgraced myself."
" The disgrace was when the deed was done. God help us
to bear it."
" We will not bear it," exclaimed Captain Vivian. " We
will be off. We will set up our fortunes in another place."
" The future is with God," said Ronald. " May it please
Him to spare me that sorrow."
" What ! would you forsake me ?"
" I would die, if it be God's will, fur life without honour
is very terrible."
" Mad boy ! yet you wish me to disgrace myself."
" Because what you call disgrace is to me the only road to
honor. Father, grant my request, and, if God should spare;
me, I will follow you, labor with you, slave with you, die with
you, — so that the path you take is one in which there is no
sin. Refuse me, and there is another duty before me. The
debt to General Vivian shall be repaid, and by my hands. I
will travel the world over, but I will woi"k ; I will toil, if ne-
cessary, with the poorest; I will live the life of an anchorite,
and die the death of an outcast ; rather than he shall be de-
frauded of one penny of that which is his just due. We part
to-night for ever !"
The words might have seemed prophetie, for Ronald sank
CLEVE HALL. 441
back exhausted with his own energy, and pale and motionless
as in death.
" Ronald, nay boy, speak to me, only one word." Captain
Vivian bent over him in agony. He opened his eyes, and at
that moment Mark re-entered the cave.
", Quick, Captain, one way or t'other. They are coming
from the cliff. The strange gentleman, and the surgeon, and
Mr. Lester. If you've any reason for wishing to be off, you'd
best be quick."
Captain Vivian looked at Ronald. " We'll take him
with us."
" Can't he. He's too far gone. We may come for him
to-morrow. They'll take care of him to-night ; but you must
be quick," and Mark went out again to watch.
" Father !" Ronald held Captain Vivian's baud ; his
glassy eyes rested on him long and steadily.
The hand was withdrawn, and with the other Captain Vi-
vian roughly dashed away a tear.
"If I die, still think of me."
" Tbink of you ! Ronald, Ronald ! forgive what I have
done to you."
" Not mine, God's forgiveness. Oh ! if the truth were
told. It might be written, even now, before you go. Then I
should be at peace."
" There is no forgiveness for such as I, Ronald."
"Yes, Father, yes; one act; it maybe the entrance on
the right way. God grant us to meet at the end." He spoke
very feebly.
Captain Vivian pondered. " If it is done, I go disgraced
by my own word, never to be heard of again in England."
Ronald raised his band to his head : " My eyes are dizzy;
I can't sec 1 you. Will you do it ? Will you write ?"
Captain Vivian took a card from his pocket, wrote a few
words upon the back, and put it into Ronald's hands. " It is
done," he said; "your father is a lost man."
" Saved ! Saved I" exclaimed Ronald, and he fell back and
fainted.
442 CLKVE HALL.
CHAPTER L.
r pi I AT had been a long and intensely trying day to Mildred
Vhian. Wheu Bertha left her she had spent several
hours with her father, vainly endeavoring to persuade him to
dismiss the thought of the lost paper, until Mr. Lester could
appear himself, to account for it. But General Vivian was
not easily to be persuaded in any matter, least of all in the
control of his own mind, when he was touched upon one of
the tendercst points of honor.
His keen sense of justice was connected with the strong
feeling of personal claim to his property, and this had aggra-
vated his indignation, when his son's supposed misdeed was
first brought before him. But the offence had been punished,
as he said to himself, rightfully, and then he felt at liberty to
bury it from all knowledge but his own.
That Mr. Lester, Mildred, above all, Bertha, should be
acquainted with it, wounded him almost beyond endurance,
and the mind which had so long allowed itself to be warped
by a one-sided justice, was no longer proof against the preju-
dice which in any other case he would have despised.
He spoke to Mildred of plots and conspiracies; he ques-
tioned her as to the stranger whom Mrs. llobinson had received
at the farm, and who she imagined misiht return. He would
allow of no evasion, and drew from her at length, the confes-
sion that Edward was expected — that he might be at Encombc
that very night. He was satisfied then so far that he asked
no more questions ; but it was evident that his mind had taken
a wrong turn, and that the step his son had made in coming
back to England, unsummoned, was likely to prove a stumb-
ling-block, rather than an assistance, in the way of his resto-
ration to favor.
Mildred was very gentle and patient, but she could not
help being sad, and this irritated the General. It was a re-
proach to him. He said at last that he would be left alone,
and when Ella offered to read to him as usual, he refused ;
and then Mildred went back to her own room, to bear as best
she might the burden which had fallen upon her.
Night drew on, and still the General did not send for her.
She tried to work, and made Ella read aloud, but it was im-
possible to attend. She was thinking of her brother, and
CLEVE HALL. 443
longing for news of Clement. Greaves was on the watch, and
came in every now and then to tell her anything he had heard,
but it was all unsatisfactory. The smugglers were certain to
land ; they had a traitor amongst them, supposed to be Mrs.
Robinson's farm boy, Joe Styles, and he, it was said, had given
warning to the preventive men who were on the watch. No
doubt if they did land there would be a desperate struggle.
Then came a report from the gamekeepers. Mr. Lester
'and his friend had arrived ; they had walked over the cliffs
from Cleve to Encornbe, and had gone straight to Hardman's,
and from thence to the shore. Somebody declared that Miss
Campbell and Miss Lester had been very much frightened by
a smuggler on their way home, but it was thought that could
not be true, because the smugglers were proverbially civil to
ladies.
Eight o'clock came, and tea was brought. Mildred sent a
message to know if they might have it with the General, in
his room; but the answer was brought — No, the General
would drink tea alone; Miss Ella might go to him afterwards.
That was a little comfort, and when Ella was gone, Mildred
lay quietly on the sofa, feeling it a relief to be as anxious as
she pleased, without the fear of dispiriting Ella.
Nine o'clock ! Ella came down, and said, grandpapa was
tired. Greaves was to go to him in a quarter of an hour.
Tie would not have Mildred see him again, because it was such
a trouble to her, but he sent his love, and begged she would
take care he had his sleeping-draught.
"King the bell, Ella, and I will ask about it," said Mil-
dred. The bell was rung, but not answered directly.
"Ring again, my love, I can't think what the servants arc
doing."
They waited still some time.
" Just open the door a little, Ella; I am sure I hear a good
deal of talking."
Greaves was trying to silence some one who was speaking,
and he came himself to answer the bell.
"The Genera] will want you, Greaves, in a quarter of an
hour: he i^ going to bed. 1 rang to remind you of his sleep-
ing-draught."
•• Y<\-, Ma'am." Greaves looked at Ella, doubtfully.
"Go again, to grandpapa, Ella; tell him Greaves will bring
him his draught directly. I send him my very best love, and
' will have a good night. Greaves," — and Mildred
444 CLEVE HALL.
turned lu the butler almost before Ella was out of the room, —
" you have news."
"Not much, Ma'am; that is, — pray don't be frightened,
Miss Mildred ; it's better thau could have been thought. Mas-
ter Clement is safe."
" Thank God ! but he must have been with the smugglers "
" lie was with them and landed with them," replied Greaves,
rather sternly j " and the preventives were down upon them,
and there was a skirmish ; more than an hour ago that was.*
But Master Clement got away, I am told. Some say Mr. Bruce,,
that came with Mr. Lester, this evening, helped him ; others,
that it was the Captain's son; but any how, he got tree, and
Mr. Lester went home with him. One of the smugglers was
taken, and "
"Well? what?"
" It's an ugly story, the rest, Ma'am. I can't say how
much is true. But that wretched fellow, Goff, is put out of
the way."
" Killed ? By the preventive men ? How horrible !" and
Mildred turned very pale.
" Worse than that, if the tale's true. Ilardman, who was
watching about the cliffs with Mr. Lester, says that he had kept
himself hid when the skirmish began, and just at the end fired
deliberately at Mr. Bruce."
Mildred uttered a scream of horror.
Greaves paused for a moment : " The General's waiting,
Ma'am, I must not be long."
" But Mr. Bruce — Mr. Bruce !" faintly ejaculated Mildred.
"He escaped, Ma'am; which was all very well; though,
being a stranger in these parts, one doesn't seem to care so
much about him. But the poor young gentleman at the Grange
has been mortally wounded, and there's many a sad heart for
him. The preventives were after Goff in a moment, and, try-
ing to escape, he was drowned."
Even in his haste to go to the General, Greaves watched
Mildred's countenance narrowly; but she exercised immense
self-control, and, uttering inwardly her thankfulness for her
brother's safety, only said aloud : " Oh ! Greaves, how terrible !
So desperate — so unprepared. And the poor boy — what have
they clone with him V
"Carried him off to Mark Wood's cottage in the Gorge;
so I'm told, Ma'am ; though I can scarce believe it, with the
Grange so near at hand. But they say, too, that he insisted
CLEVE IIALL. 445
upon it, and that the Captain is off somewhere. People think
there must be something more in it than a mere smuggling
fray ; and why that fellow Goff should have had a spite against
Mr. Bruce no one can say."
" Yes, very strange ; very strange, indeed!" but Mildred
spoke wanderingly. " Was that the Hall bell ?" She raised
herself up, and listened.
Greaves listened too. " I think so, Ma'am ; I will see," and
he left the room.
Mildred's heart beat with painful rapidity; everything
seemed to swim before her ; her eyes were dim, and her knees
trembled. She tried to hearken, but could catch no sound.
The rush of roaring waves, the noise of tumultuous voices, the
phantom sounds of an excited imagination, were filling her
ears with their ghostly echoes ; and the undertone of vc:'ces
approaching, with the tread of footsteps across the stone hall
and alons; the corridor, mingled with her fancies, so that she
could scarcely distinguish their reality.
Yet the door opened, and two persons entered, Mr. Lester
first, and Mildred's exclamation of pleasure was changed into
a sharp cry of almost terrified delight, as the next moment her
brother knelt by her side.
She flung her arms round his neck ; her tears fell fast and
long. When she did speak it was to say, " I have prayed for
this, and God has heard me I"
Mr. Lester looked round and closed the door. " I sent
Greaves away, but he may come back. Remember, you are
still to be careful."
" Not after to-morrow," exclaimed Mr. Vivian. " All
must be decided then."
u So soon ! — My father must be prepared. Oh ! Edward,
you little know what you have to contend with. And it seems
— if I could but keep you here with me as you are," — and
again she clung to him as though fearing he wuuld escape
from her grasp.
"It is useless to delay," replied Mr. Lester; "and we
have arguments, .Mildred, which may work a great change in
General Vivian's feelings. You are ignorant of the charge
biought against your brother, and therefore you cannot hope,
as we do, that it may be refuted."
" I do know it," said Mildred; and turning to Mr. Vivian,
with a look of sad, yet tender reproach, she added : " When
i learnt the truth, I judged my father more reverently and
44 1 i CLEVE HALL.
charitably. He was wounded in the point on which his feel-
ings are the most, sensitive."
"Not by me!" and Mr. Vivian started to Ids feet. " As
there is truth in heaven, Mildred, it was a forgery j a base,
miserable forgery \"
" Tbe paper ! — the handwriting ! Is it passible ?"
" It was not mine. I would have died rather than do sndi
a deed. John Vivian is responsible for it. I have heard the
acknowledgment from his own lips."
" Oh, Edward ! God indeed be thanked !" She sat silent
for some seconds, then turned to Mr. Lester : " I can't under-
stand. The paper — did my father know about it? — did he
give it to you ? He says that he has forgotten it."
" There is a mystery about that," replied Mr.' Lester.
" Miss Campbell says it was found in my pocket-book. I had
not the most remote idea that it was in my possession. Yet I
can so far account for it, that on the day when I was here,
talking with General Vivian about Clement, a box of papers
was upset, and several were scattered. I picked up all, and
restored them, as I thought; but this I must have carried off
accidentally. Miss- Campbell says she recollects seeing it drop
out with my handkerchief, when she was conversing with me
the same evening, and that I took it up, without looking at it,
and put it in my pocket-book. Of course she did not know
then what it was."
" And you have it, and will return it, and it will all be
proved."
"Ah! Mildred, no," exclaimed Mr. Vivian ; "that is a
sore point ; it is gone. Almost the last act of that wretched
man Goff, who has to-night been summoned to his dread ac-
count, was to take it from Miss Campbell by force, and to
destroy it."
Mildred sank back on the sofa.
" I have nothing but my word to support me," continued
Mr. Vivian. "That, and Bertha Campbell's evidence that
the paper was taken from her. Yet what need is there of
more '(" And he drew himself up proudly.
" He does not know my father." Mildred spoke despond-
ingly to Mr. Lester.
" I hope he does. I can't imagine General Vivian's doubt-
ing him."
" Doubt me !" Mr. Vivian withdrew the hand which hat]
been clasped in Mildred's, and strode up and down the apart-
CLEVE HALL. 447
meat rapidly: "Let him breathe but the thought, and I will
go back to Jamaica — to India — 1 care not where. Doubt me?
— doubt his son ? — a Vivian !"
" Edward ! dearest, he is old ; his mind has lost its elasti-
city, and it has been warped by sorrow."
" Yes, through me, — my faults. Oh ! Mildred, Mildred,
help me to be patient !"
"God will help us all," replied Mildred; "only let us
trust Him. My father may believe, yet he may insist upon
proof. Is there no other to be brought forward V
•"None, at least forthcoming at present. John Vivian is
beyond our reach ; if he were not, I scarcely see how we could
substantiate our charge."
" And Clement's conduct will work against you," continued
Mildred. " He must, perhaps he ought, to hear of it."
"To condemn me for my boy's follies ! Mildred, is that
justice ?"
" It may be his justice," replied Mildred ; and a long pause
followed.
Mr. Vivian broke it : " It matters not, Mildred ; delay
cannot help us. If it would, I could not bear it. Even now,
the suspense of my position is often almost maddening. Let
my father reject, — let him even doubt my word, if he will ;
the honor of a Vivian rests not on words, but on the conscious-
ness of the inmost heart. One thing at least he cannot take
from me, — the comfort of having cleared myself in your dear
- ; of having seen you, — talked with you, — looked again
upon the oM familiar walls. Home ! my childhood's home !"
and his eye wandered round the well-known apartment ! "Docs
my father know what home is ?"
" Too well ! dearest Edward. If he had cared for it less,
he might have been less severe in his endeavor to uphold it."
" Rejected again ! Dishonored ! doubted !" murmured Mr.
Vivian. "Yet I have loved and reverenced him, oh! so
deeply. Mildred, he, must see me; he must give me his
blessing. I cannot die in peace without it."
"Hope, Edward. I have lived upon it for many years. It
may seem impossible," she added, speaking to Mr. Lester, '-to
reject such evidence; yet no one can calculate upon the turn
hi- feelinii's may take."
" He will not reject it," replied Mr. Lester. " 1 have no
fear upon that point; it would be an insult to his feelings as
a Qtleman. J have but one misgiving, that the old preju-
448 CLEVB HALL.
dice inn}- still linger so as to bias his mind, and that the ab-
sence of proof will, without bis being aware of it, rankle in
his breast. I believe he will grant Juhn Vivian's offence, and
yet L do not say that lie will forgive your brother, so as to
restore him to his inheritance."
" Then be it so," exclaimed Mr. Vivian. " Let the paltry
acres go; it was not for them that I grieved when he disin-
herited me, and it is not for them that I have soiurht him
now. Let him acknowledge that I am not the base wretch he
thought me, and admit me to intercourse with my home, and
I will be content. The labor of my own intellect shall, through
God's aid, support me for the future, as it has supported me
during the past, and when I die I shall have the satisfaction
of knowing that not even to my father was I indebted for my
own prosperity, or that of my children."
" Proud, dearest Edward, still," said Mildred, gently.
" Oh ! Mildred, does not this unjust world make one so ?"
" Yes," and Mildred sighed; " it is one's struggle."
"To bear punishment, and own it to be punishment, Mil-
dred, that is what I find so hard. Yet I have had many years
in which to learn the lesson."
" And many things to teach it you. I must hear all be-
fore long."
" Not till you have told me all. One question I must ask
now." His voice became tremulous, and sank, and Mr. Les-
ter withdrew himself, and walked to the other end of the
apartment. " Mildred, did Edith think of me as my father
did ?"
" Not as he did. He would not tell her what he thought
the truth."
" But she suspected me ?"
" She feared, and the fear "
" Killed her; I knew it. God forgive and aid me."
" She had been ill and anxious before," continued Mildred;
"the shock was very great, but it might only have aggravated,
not caused the evil. She had a brain fever at the time, but
she rallied from it, and lived many months afterwards."
" And did she speak of me ? Did you talk together ?"
" Alas ! no, that was my grief; but it was all pent up ; it
worked inwardly. It was very strange, she who had been so
unreserved before."
" John Vivian's doing," he murmured. " Can it be pos-
CLEVE HALL. 449
sible to forgive? And all that time she considered me a
wretch, Mildred; lost, — sunk."
" Forget it now, Edward. If the dead know the secrets
of the living, she has long since learnt that you were inno-
cent. If not, the day will come when she must know it. It
was God who appointed her trial and ours."
" She thought me guilty," he continued ; " and I was so,
though not as she believed. Oh ! Mildred, the indescribable
wretchedness of that time ! — but for my wife, I must have
been overwhelmed by it."
" And the years of misery that have followed !" continued
Mildred ; " when my father thinks of them, he must yield."
" You remember, Mildred, it must be to justice, not com-
passion. He did me wrong unknowingly; when he is con-
vinced of his error, he must do me right freely. 1 can accept
nothing but pardon for the oifence I did commit — restitution
for the sufferings borne for those which I did not commit."
" You are like him," said Mildred, smiling sadly.
" Then there is the more hope that we may understand each
other. For my own reputation's sake, — my character in the
sight of the world, — I must demand a full acknowledgment
that I have been wronged."
" And for his own reputation's sake, — his character in the
sight of the world, — he will demand a full proof that he has
wronged you."
Mr. Vivian was silent and very thoughtful.
The remembrance of Bertha's refusal to deliver up the
paper crossed Mildred's mind, but she would not speak of it;
her brother's countenance showed feelings which needed no
aggravation.
Mr. Lester came up to them : " We must go now, Vivian :
remember we have business on our hands, and explanation* to
be made to the preventive men, — possibly to the magistrates
also, if we wish to prevent inquiry as to Clement's share and
Ronald's, and your own, in this unhappy affair; and to-morrow
early I have promised to be at the Gorge."
" To see Ronald ?" inquired Mildred. " Is it not a mise-
rable place for him V
" Not miserable, but very uncomfortable. He insisted upon
being taken there, as well as he could insist upon anything,
yn utterly exhausted as he was. He dreaded the (J range evi-
dently."
" He will have no one to take care of him or nurse him."
450 CLEVE HALL.
"I said so. I urged Mark to carry him to the Rectory,
Dut his agony of distress at the idea was so great that we were
forced to give way. The old woman who has the charge of Bar-
ney is a tolerable nurse, and Mark has given him up his own
bed, and is off himself to get out of the way of observation.
Vivian and I went with Ronald, and saw that he was in no
want of anything for the present; and so we must leave it.
To-morrow he may rally, — and then we may bring him to
reason."
" You don't speak very anxiously," said Mildred.
" The medical opinion is favorable. A good deal of the
exhaustion we found proceeded from his having eaten nothing
for many hours. But I don't venture to say he will recover/'
Mr. Vivian had been standing by them in silence. lie
bent over his sister and kissed her: "My doing! Mildred;
the curse falls on all connected with me."
" Dearest Edward ! — the curse is taken away when there is
repentance."
" Not in this world, as regards temporal suffering," he
replied.
" Save that the suffering may be converted into blessing,"
observed Mr. Lester. " And for Ronald, sorrow would be
idle : should he live, he will live to redeem his name ; should
he die, who can doubt that mercy is in store for him ?"
-«+-
CHAPTER LT.
"TIM-IK General has had another attack of faintness, Sir,
J_ Miss Vivian is with him."
That was the information which greeted Mr. Lester when
he appeared at the Hall the following morning. Grpaves
looked uneasy, and spoke anxiously, but said that Dr. Lawes
assured them there was nothing to be alarmed at.
The intelligence was seconded by a note from Mildred,
written in pencil : " We must be patient. It is worry of
mind. Nothing can be said to him yet."
Patience was comparatively easy now — at least, for Mr
Vivian. He had taken up his abode at the Farm in prefer
ence to the Rectory; and thither Ella was sent to make what
CLE YE HALL. 451
might be called her first acquaintance with her father. Louisa
and Fanny also were with him ;. whilst Bertha was preparing
Mrs. Campbell's mind for his return. Only Clement was
absent.
Mr. Vivian's was one of those easily depressed, easily ex-
cited minds, which seem never entirely to lose their elasticity;
and now that personal danger was at an end, and he was
restored to the free companionship of his family, he would
scarcely allow the happiness of the present moment to be dis-
turbed by any fears for the future. He was charmed with
Ella's talents, Louisa's sense, and little Fanny's beauty, and
turned from any remembrance of Clement's misconduct; till
it was forced upon him at last, when Mr. Lester came and it
was necessary to make inquiry into all that had taken place.
Clement's story was short but full of warning. He had
not offended to the full extent intentionally — that was his
excuse ; and yet every word he spoke showed that most fatal
of all intentions, the determination to follow a weak self-will.
To do him justice, he did not for a moment endeavor to
evade blame by equivocation. The first most marked and
wilful wandering from the right path had beeu the conceal-
ment of his visit to the Grange. Had it been confessed, Mr.
Lester's strict injunctions would have supported his weakness,
and probably enabled him to withstand further temptations.
But once on the downward path, and the impetus of evil
carried him easily forward. His vanity had been excited by
the praises bestowed upon his quickness in figures; and under
the pretence of being further useful to Captain Vivian, he had
for the fourth time been enticed by him to the Grange, as he
was returning from the hills. Clement knew he was doing
wrong — he quite confessed it; but Captain Vivian, he said,
was pressing. In the course of conversation it was suggested
to him that Captain Vivian's vessel was at Encombe, and upon
the point of making a short sail of about an hour round by
Clevej if he would only go on board, he was to have a gum I
n in seamanship, and might return almost before he was
missed.
The offer, accompanied by flattering prophecies that he
would make a first-rate sailor, was too tempting to be refused.
And Clement went with Captain Vivian to the cliff; and then
finding it growing dusk, wished to return. But he was
laughed at, as being inclined to sneak oul of an adventure, and
told that the moon v.'onld be up directly; and so having, as he
452 CLEVE HALL.
fancied, qo g 1 excuse, he went. Captain Vivian lie thought
meant to accompany him, bnt at the last moment he put him
in charge <>t' Mark Wood.
From that time Clement's existence had been one almost
of terror. The vessel Bailed in the direction of the opposite
coast ; and he found himself in the hands of men who would
neither listen to him nor explain their intentions. They
treated him civilly, but were deaf to his remonstrances — except
that Mark Wood assured him, from time to time, that no
persona] injury was intended him.
If he had erred greatly, the agony of mind of that one
night had been a punishment in which seemed condensed the
lesson of a life. Of what went on in the vessel Clement was
very ignorant. They had met and spoken with another vessel,
and he imagined had received contraband goods on board ; but
he was kept close in the cabin, and, indeed, was too ill a great
part of the time to enter into anything but his own sufferings.
Mark Wood waited upon him, and told him when they
were about to return ; but as they neared the shore Mark left
him, and another man, Hale, took charge of him. He felt
himself then a prisoner; and from the casual observations
which were dropped before him, understood the nature of the
expedition in which the men were engaged, and resolved at
all hazards to leave them as soon as they touched the land.
But this he soon found to be impossible. Hale kept close
to him, and had even threatened to shoot him if he attempted
to escape. The result Mr. Lester and his father already
kuew.
It was all told concisely and abruptly, drawn from him in
a great measure by questions ; and when at last the history was
ended, Clement stood humbled and silent, not even venturing
to ask for forgiveness. His father pitied him — perhaps there
were too many and too keen recollections of his own follies to
condemn him. Mr. Lester pitied him also, yet his manner
was coldly stern. One comment only he made upon the facts
he had heard : " Absence of intention, Clement, will not save
us from the consequences of our faults. There is a straight
and narrow path to Heaven : no one who leaves it intends t(j
go to Hell."
"I have had a lesson for life, Sir; I don't mean to forget
it," replied Clement.
" A lesson for Eternity it ought to be, Clement. If small
disobediences will produce such terrible consequences on earth,
CLEYE IIALL. 453
we may be quite certain that they will, without repentance,
produce a thousand-fold more terrible consequences hereafter.
1 would say it to you and to Ella also. Neither of you have
as yet learnt what strict duty means ; and if you do not learn
it now, it will be taught you by the bitter experience of life."
Clement turned to his father. From him it seemed that
he expected greater palliation of his faults; but Mr. Vivian
sat with his forehead resting on his hands. Only once he
looked up for a moment, and said that he should like Ella to
be sent for.
She came, bright, excited, full of hope and happiness,
having only just begun to realize that the quiet, strange Mr.
Bruce could possibly be her own father. The sight of Clement,
and the grave countenances which she saw, awed and subdued
her. She sat down by her father; and he put his arm round
her, and looked at her tenderly, but his eyes were dimmed
with tears, and he did not speak.
" You have forgiven him, dear Papa," whispered Ella.
" Mr. Lester says he is not the only person to require for-
giveness," replied her father, evasively.
Ella looked up inquiringly.
" Am I very strict, Ella," observed Mr. Lester, " in saying
that, if your influence had always been exerted on the side of
obedience, last night's sufferings might have been spared us ?"
Ella's color rose. She could bear her Aunt Mildred's
gentle and sympathizing reproof, but Mr. Lester's cold, severe
tone touched her pride.
She was not aware, she said, that any influence of hers had
induced Clement to join the smugglers.
"I didn't join them, Ella!" exclaimed Clement; "J
wouldn't for the world have been mixed up with such a low
set. I was taken off against by will. But I was very wrong,"
he added, more gently.
Ella glanced at him in surprise.
" You will think me hard, I know, Ella," continued Mr.
Lester; " but I can easily make you see that I have reason on
my side. Who encouraged Clement to spend the time that
should have been devoted to study upon the shore, and so
gave him desultory habits'/"'
Ella blushed, and was silent.
"Who set him the example of disrespect, disobedience,
wilfulness, in small every-day matters; and so led him inio
the same in greater ones? Who aever would allow thai punc«
451 OLEVE HALL.
tuality to hours was a duty; and bo made him think it of little
consequence whether he stayed with those men or not? "Who
ased to excite him by talking of chivalry, and adventure, and
.hiring — and forgot that the noblest daring is that which shall
conquer self?"
No reply ; but Ella leant her head on her father's shoulder,
and burst into tears.
Clement was much distressed. " If you wouldn't be angry
with her, Sir. Indeed it was my own doing. I ought to have
known better; and I did, too."
"Ella won't be angry with mo by-and-by," said Mr. Les-
ter; " she would rather hear the truth-"
"I am not angry, now/' — and Ella looked up, and half
smiled through her tears ; — " Aunt Mildred has told me all
before."
" And Aunt Mildred has taught you to be a very different
person from what you were, Ella," replied Mr. Lester, kindly ;
" and if there had not been something of a sense of justice
in my mind, which made me feel that you could scarcely be
exonerated from a share in Clement's faults, I doubt if I
should have spoken to you as I have : certainly I should not
have chosen to do so the fii*st day of your father's being with
you."
" Mr. Lester has lectured me, too, very often," said Mr.
Vivian, kissing her fondly. " You know he was my tutor, so
he was accustomed to it years ago. God grant they may pro-
fit by it better than I did," be added, in a lower voice.
Clement came forward boldly : " I am willing to bear any
punishment, Sir, which my father or you may think right.
And I would rather/'
"You have had your punishment, Clement, from God; if
that should fail, nothing else will have any effect."
" And you won't trust me, Sir, again ?"
" Yes, you will ; it is impossible not to trust him," ex-
claimed Ella.
" I trust him entirely, implicitly — as a general trusts a pri-
soner on his parole," said Mr. Vivian, quickly.
31 r. Lester was silent.
Clement looked disheartened; Ella inclined to be angry.
" Shall I tell you, Clement, why I scarcely dare to say I
trust you?" replied Mr. Lester. "Not only because of that
one instance of deception, most grievous though it was, for I
believe you are heartily ashamed of it; but because your be-
CLEVE HALL. 455
setting sin — almost more fatal to a man than to a woman — is
vanity."
Clement "wiuced under the accusation.
" It is very painful, I know, to hear it. It is such a weak-
ness, so entirely opposed to a manly spirit, that we are apt to
give it any name rather than its true one. You think that
you like adventure — deeds of enterprise : what you really like
is admiration of any kind. Let it come from your father, from
me, from the fishermen on the shore — it matters not who or
what may be the source — if you are admired you are satisfied.
There, Clement, is your snare."
" Yes, Sir, I know it."
Mr. Lester's countenance brightened a little, and he laid
his hand affectionately on Clement's shoulder : " Remember
it as well as know it, and I shall be satisfied. Own that you
are vain; repeat it to yourself; think of it ; watch against it;
pray most earnestly that you may be saved from it, and you
wili, through God's mercy, be all that we most earnestly de-
sire ; for a man who is fighting against vanity posts a sentinel
upon eye, and ear, and tongue, and every imagination of the
heart : yield, and there is no surer way to mar success in this
world, or to destroy your hopes for another."
Clement stood silent ; and Ella, longing to withdraw atten-
tion from him, said, rather lightly: "You won't tell me my
great fault, Mr. Lester."
" Perhaps I don't know you as well as I do Clement," he
replied, coldly; " besides, I have said enough for one morning."
"But I should like to know; please tell me."
" Really ? — can you bear it ?"
" Clement can bear it, and so can I, I hope," replied Ella,
drawing herself up.
" I could see one great fault peeping out in the way you
spoke just then," replied Mr. Lester — " pride !"
" Yes, I know I am proud," said Ella.
" But you are not ashamed of it."
"It is very wrong, 1 am quite aware of that."
" But it doesn't lower you, you think, in the eyes of other's.
You wouldn't shrink from being called a proud person?"
"Not very much" — and Ella colored, though she almost
g nailed.
"No; and there is the great danger of pride; — persons
arc not ashamed of it. I have known many who rather pride
t .. . upon it. Rut, Ella, that is n t according to God'a
456 CLEVE HALL.
judgment; and it will be no satisfaction to us, when Heaven
is lost, to know that it was through a sin which we fancied was
a noble one."
" I don't know that I thought it noble exactly," observed
Ella, "only not so silly as some others."
" But even in that you are mistaken," replied Mr. Lester.
" Proud persons don't think they are ridiculous, but they are
so; and many times, when they imagine they have only been
upholding their dignity, they have actually made themselves
absurd."
Ella looked grave and uncomfortable, and said that it was
very difficult to know when she was proud.
" Of course it is," replied Mr. Lester. " You think that
pride is a family failing, and you admire it for its antiquity.
I can trace it back further than you do, Ella; it was Satan's
sin when he rebelled against God."
Elk looked towards her father, to hide from Mr. Lester the
blush which crimsoned her cheek.
" Pride and indolence," whispered Mr. Vivian — " these I
have always been told were my child's great faults."
" Yes, papa, indolence, I know ; but I never thought so
much about pride, and "
"And what?"
" It seems hard upon me."
" It is just what I used to say, Ella; he was so very unspar-
ing when he told me my faults."
" But I would rather know them ; I would rather he should
tell me of them. I don't want any one to think better of me
than I am ; only it always seemed that indolence was much
worse than pride."
" There is not much to choose between them, I am afraid,"
said Mr. Vivian.
" But pride ! — people would be nothing without pride,"
exclaimed Ella, and she sat up, and turned to Mr. Lester for
an answer.
" Nothing without self-respect," replied Mr. Lester ; " and
that must be founded upon truth, and those who see them-
selves truly can never be proud."
"I don't know what you mean by self-respect."
" A respect for ourselves as being God's creatures, re-
deemed and sanctified by him ; made the dwelling-place of
His Spirit, and destined to live with Him hereafter. That
respect will make us fear to do, cr say, or think anything
CLEVE HALL. 457
which may lower us in His eyes ; but when we have done, so,
it will force us at once to acknowledge our fault, because it is
only by that acknowledgment that we can be restored to His
favor."
" That scarcely meets Ella's notions," said Mr. Vivian, as
he watched his child's face; "she is thinking of this world."
" Well, then, as regards this world ; self-respect, Ella, is but
a phase of that foundation of all things, truth. Proud people
place themselves in false positions; persons with self-respect
see exactly what they have a claim to. No one calls a prince
proud because he requires to be honored as a prince ; self-
respect teaches him to claim such attention. But when he
forgets that other persons have their stations requiring honor
also, then pride begins, and self-respect ceases. In this point
of view, however, self-respect is only a natural virtue, and may
be possessed where there is no real religion. The genuine
feeling is that which I spoke of before, and which must always
go hand in hand with humility. But we have had enough
lecturing upon faults this morning," added Mr. Lester, sud-
denly stopping, and changing his tone. " I must go and see
after my other parishioners, and talk a little to Rachel. I only
saw her for a minute last night, and she had a wonderful story
to tell me of her adventures yesterday."
He held out his hand to Ella ; she took it shyly but cor-
dially and said, " Thank you." Her heart was quite full.
"Don't consider me very severe, dear child, if you can
help it ; I only want you to be perfect now papa is come."
He went up to Clement, who was standing in the back-
ground.
" It may be all forgotten," said Mr. Vivian, "may it not ?"
"Yes, indeed, as far as I am concerned. And one tinner,
Clement, I say from my heart : I trust yon now more than J
have ever done before. I am sure you are heartily sorry."
Clement's eyes sparkled through tears : " You shall have
cause, Sir; indeed I don't mean to forgi I."
"God bless yon, my dear boy, and give you strength to
keep your resolution."
Mr. Lester departed, and Clement threw himself into hi;j
father's arms, and sobbed.
20
458 OLEVE HALL.
CHAPTER LIT.
WEARY and anxious were the hours spent by Mildred
Vivian in her father's sick chamber. She was told
there was nothing to fear; she scarcely thought there was;
and yet the suspense and watching, the sense of personal
helplessness, the boding care for her brother, the longing to
search into the depths of her father's thoughts, aggravated
every symptom in her eyes. One fear after another presented
itself. He lay still and silent, and she thought that some sud-
den weakness had paralyzed his powers. He was restless, and
she fancied that fever was coming on. He looked flushed, and
she thought there was a rush of blood to the head. But the
fear which most haunted her was that of paralysis. Such an
attack, common at his age, might weaken his mental powers,
and render futile all endeavors to explain her brother's con-
duct. She was with him constantly, but he said very little to
her. He did not sleep, but his mind seemed absorbed with
thoughts which he would not communicate, but which seemed
working and goading him almost beyond endurance.
As he neither questioned her concerning Mr. Lester's re-
turn, nor referred to the missing paper, Mildred feared to
agitate him by bringing the subject before him. Yet it was
evident that such a state of things could not long continue.
The feelings preying upon him would inevitably work their
way fatally, if some stop were not put to them ; and on the
fourth day after the beginning of this miserable suspense,
Mildred ventured to mention Mr. Lester's name, and ask
whether her father would be willing to see him.
"If he will, he may come;" that was all the answer: but
it was sufficient for Mildred, and she despatched a messenger
to the Rectory, with the request that Mr. Lester would, if
possible, be at the Hall in the course of the afternoon.
The General insisted upon dressing and sitting up then,
though he had been told that to rise might bring back the
oiddiness and faintness. He was very weak, but he would
scarcely allow Greaves to wait upon him, and when he went
into his dressing-room, he ordered his books and papers to be
brought, and endeavored to write a letter; but his hand shook
.so much, that he was obliged to give up the attempt. Mil-
dred was sitting with him at the time, and offered to write for
CLEVE HALL. 459
him. He refused. " It was no matter of consequence," he
said, " and would do just as well another day. His hand was
a little shaky from lying in bed so long." ' It was evident that
he did not choose to be thought ill.
Luncheon came, and he made an effort to eat, but nothing
suited his taste. He was full of complaints, and at last took
only a little wine-and-water and a biscuit; even that he only
pretended to eat, and soon put it aside, and sent for the news-
paper.
Greaves brought the " Times."
" Not that ; the county paper. Where is it ?"
Greaves looked at Mildred.
" I thought you wouldn't care to read that, Sir, and I took
it to my room," replied Mildred.
" Bring it ;" and Greaves went unwillingly.
He came back : " I am very sorry, Ma'am, I have looked
everywhere in the morning-room, and can't find it."
Mildred regarded him scrutinizingly : "Are you sure it is
not there, Greaves ?"
" Very nearly, Ma'am. I will look again if you wish it."
"Ask Miss Ella; she may have it," said Mildred; but
Greaves showed no alacrity to obey.
"Ella! what has she to do with newspapers?" inquired
the General. " You don't let her read them, do you?"
"Not often, Sir; only "
The General interrupted her : " Go and ask Miss Ella for
the paper, Greaves. Tell her to bring it herself, if she has it."
He sat bending over the fire, and did not even look at
Mildred.
Ella came, the newspaper in her hand : "Do you want me,
Grandpapa ? Shall I read to you ?"
" What is there in the paper worth reading? Anything
particular?"
Ella became as pale as death, — then the blood crimsoned
her very temples.
The General repeated the question: "You have been
reading it yourself, child. What was there in it ?"
"Aunt Mildred let me see the account of the smuggling
fray," replied Ella.
"What smuggling fray ? At Encombe ? Let me see it ?"
He adjusted his spectacles, turned to the light, but could not
read, and gave the paper back to Ella. "It tires me, my
4G0 CLEVE HALL.
dear. Lying in bed so long makes one's eyes weak. Read
it out."
Ella -would fain have handed the paper to Mildred. The
General observed it.
" Read it yourself, my dear; don't trouble your aunt."
And Ella read a long, prolix account of the landing of the
smugglers, and the watchfulness of the coast-guard, with some
uncomfortable particulars of the struggle between them, and
the detail of Golf's death. Then she stopped.
"Is that all^ my dear?"
" Nearly all, Grandpapa."
" Well, make haste, finish it. Mr. Lester will be here."
"It isn't exactly about the smugglers, Grandpapa; it is
only "
" Read it, — read it, child."
Ella's voice shook so that her words were scarcely intelli-
gible : " We regret to say, that a rumor is abroad implicating
a young gentleman of honorable birth in this disgraceful
affair. The circumstances are very mysterious, but are said
to be connected with a train of unfortunate events by which
the succession to one of the finest estates in the county has
been alienated."
"What?" General Vivian caught the paper from her
hand and looked at it, though it was clear he could scarcely
distinguish the words. " Carry it to your aunt, Ella."
" I have read it, Sir, thank you. Ella, you may go."
The storm was about to burst when Ella closed the door.
Mildred said timidly, "I did not like to worry you, Sir, when
you were so unwell."
" Nothing worries me. When did it happen ?"
" Four nights ago, Sir : the evening you were taken ill the
second time."
" Where is the boy ?"
"At home, Sir, with Mrs. Campbell. But indeed the
papers are hard upon him."
" Of course, when they say disagreeable things. Does he
mean to take up smuggling as a profession ?"
" My dear Father ! indeed, indeed you are cruel upon him.
He did not join them, — at least not willingly; he was led
away."
u No doubt : all persons are who go wrong."
" I think, Sir, if you could hear him, — if you could see
CLEVE HALL. 461
him, you would judge him more gently. lie is so entirely
penitent for his folly."
"All persons are when they are suffering from the con -
qucnees."
"But he is so young," continued Mildred, — "such a more
buy: and he did not in the least intend to go with the smusc-
glers, — he was entrapped. It was Captain Vivian's doing."
"Doubtless; the same game which he played years ago."
" Mr. Lester will say more for poor Clement than I can,"
continued Mildred; "he has heard all the particulars, and he
is thoroughly convinced that Clement is deeply grieved for
what has happened, and is resolved to amend."
" I never said that Clement was not grieved. But since
Mr. Lester knows everything," — and there was a peculiar
stress upon the words, — "no doubt he can explain more of
the mysterious circumstances alluded to."
Mildred looked thoroughly disheartened : " I would rather
Mr. Lester should talk to you, my dear Father. I know all
so indistinctly, — by hearsay."
" Hearsay troubles itself with things which very little con-
cern it," observed the General, " when it remarks upon the
disposition which it may please me to make of my property.
Whoever wishes, however, to know my final and irrevocable
decision upon the subject, is perfectly welcome to do so. The
old lands of the Vivians shall never, with my consent, descend
to the hands of base swindlers, or be wasted by the companion
of smugglers."
" Edward a swindler ! My dear, dear Father, how little
you know !"
"What else is it but swindling," continued the General,
" to promise that which you have no power to pay ; to give
away that which is not your own; to mortgage an inheritance
which a single word may alienate ? Like father, like son.
Let them go. And for you, Mildred, and Mr. Lester," — he
paused — his words came thickly — "you may plot too deeply
for your own honor and for mine."
"Father, you mistake me; you do me wrong." Mildred's
voice was eager, and her cheek flushed with all the inherent
pride of her race; but in one moment it was checked. " 1 am
sorry, — forgive me — I will not speak of myself; but, indeed,
you are unjust to Mr. Lester. And for Edward, — Oh ! believe
me; there is indeed a mystery, but he never did the deed tbf
1(V2 CLEVE HALL.
which you disinherited him. The paper brought before you
was a base forgery ."
General Vivian's eye was stony and fixed, his face was
rigid. Mildred drew near, and sat down beside him. " J\Jy
dearest Father ! Sou hear it; it is truth. Edward himself
says it. May he not — will you not let him come to you and
tell you so?"
lie regarded her almost vacantly, yet he repeated the word
" forgery?"
" Yes, indeed," she continued; "you can't doubt him. It
was revenge, — Captain Vivian's revenge. It is certain."
" Let mc see the paper." The General paused his hand
across his forehead.
" Dearest Father ! will you listen to me? Shall we wait?
Mr. Lester is coming, and will explain."
" I must see it, — it was his handwriting — his own. Give
it me, — in the box; but it is gone, Mr. Lester took it. Oh,
Mildred ! my child ! plots, plots, everywhere !" and he turned
his head away from her and rested it in utter feebleness and
exhaustion against the back of his chair.
Mildred allowed him to remain thus without interruption
for some seconds; then she again said, very gently: "Mr.
Lester's coming will make all clear to you, Sir. He will be
here almost directly."
He kept her hand clasped in his, clutching it at times con-
vulsively. She thought he did not hear when the hall-door
bell rang; but he raised himself with a sudden effort, pushed
her aside, and tried to draw the table near to him, then sank
back again powerless.
M ildred watched him with anxiety. " If it is Mr. Lester,
dear Sir, will you see him ?"
He bent his head in assent, and again tried to sit up. Mil-
dred put a cushion behind him, and made him rest his feet on
a footstool. Even at that moment, it struck her how old and
worn he looked — much older than his age. " Shall I stay for
Mr. Lester, or will you see him alone?" she asked.
"Stay; put a chair; tell Greaves to bring me my draught
first,"
That caused a little delay, which Mildred did not regret,
earnestly though she longed for the interview to be over. It
was a breathing time; it gave her a moment for prayer.
Greaves bustled about in the room longer than seemed neccs-
Ba'.y ; but he did good ; he distracted the General's attention
CLEVE HALL. 403
and loosed him. He said, at last, "That will do; go." And
the irritable tone was a comfort to Mildred.
One glance interchanged between Mildred and Mr. Lester
told little to either of aught except suspense. Mr. Lester went
up to the general : " I am afraid I find you ill, Sir."
" Better, thank you; I am sitting up."
"Yes; he has kept his bed the last four days," observed
Mildred. " I don't exactly know what has been the matter."
" Gout hanging about. You have been to London, Mr.
Lester ?"
" For a day or two, Sir. I returned just before you were
taken ill, and should have called to see you if I had been
allowed, but they said you ought to be kept quiet."
" I have business with you."
" Have you, Sir ? Might it not be as well to delay it till
you are rather stronger ?"
"I am obliged to you, but I am the judge of my own
strength. You have a paper of mine. I gave it " He
stopped, and looked distressed, and turned with an appealing
glance to 3Iildred.
"No, dear Sir; if you recollect, you did not give it. It
was that which worried you. But Mr. Lester will tell } T ou
about it. He was telling me last night."
That acknowledgment was repented of as soon as made, for
a frown rested on the General's face.
" It must have been taken up by me accidentally," ob-
served Mr. Lester, "the day I was with you, Sir, looking over
your papers. That is the only way I can account for its hav-
ing come into my possession. Certainly I was not aware that
I had it, until Miss Campbell told me she had found it in my
pocket-book."
" Campbell ! Campbell !" muttered the General to himself.
" Is she in it V The mention of the name had evidently
awakened some old prejudice and dislike. He spoke more
distinctly, "I must have it back; it is important. Mildred
says "
"What is quite true, Sir, — 'that it is a forgery."
"I would look at it, — fetch it for me, Mildred. I beg
your pardon, Mr. Lester, I don't know who has it, — it has
been taken from me — I must see it." The tone became more
aud more excited.
Mildred and Mr. Lester glanced at each other in alarm.
" What makes you look so? Why don't you speak out?
464 CLEVE HALL.
It* it's u forgery, why isn't it proved? It shall be proved; I
will have it tried. The last penny 1 have shall he spent tc
try it."
" If you will see your son, Sir," said Mr. Lester, mildly,
" he will convince you. Had you not better see him ? lie is
at Encombe, longing to be admitted to you."
General Vivian turned round upon him sharply : " Is that
your object, Mr. Lester'/"
" My object is to see justice done, Sir."
" And mine — mine, too. I don't doubt you, Mr. Lester.
You are a gentleman. Where is the paper?"
" Destroyed, Sir;" — there was no escape from a direct
answer; — " by a most unhappy mischance. The villain Goff,
Captain Vivian's witness, and the sharer, I presume, in the
profits of his crime, took it by force from Miss Campbell, as
she was returning the other evening from the Hall, and tore
it to atoms. How he obtained the information that she had
it, I cannot tell."
The General was quite silent.
" I need not say, Sir, that Miss Campbell's word is above
suspicion."
"You saw the paper, Mr. Lester?"
"No, Sir; I knew nothing about it until my return from
Loudon."
" I saw it," exclaimed Mildred.
" Then you can tell ; yes, you must bo the best judge of
all. Was it your brother's handwriting?" and the General's
eye rested upon her with its cold, clear, scrutinizing glance.
♦ ' Mildred felt herself defeated by her own words. She could
only say that certainly it was very like it, but that of course
it would be, to be a successful forgery. She had not examined
it minutely.
" And Miss Campbell obtained possession of it," murmured
the General to himself.
" Accidentally, Sir. — She found it by mistake in my pocket-
book."
" Where it should have been left, Mr. Lester. It was not
Miss Campbell's business to pry into the concerns of anothei
family."
" She meant no harm, my dear father. It was very natu
ral ; she felt the paper to be of importance."
" Of the greatest importance. — So much so, Mildred, that
without it"— he stopped— 1 ' Mr. Lester, I don't doubt you."
CLEVE HALL. 405
"Then, Sir; you will see your son."
" My son, — tell him from me that I forgive him."
"My father! My dear, dear father, have pity upon him.
His heart yearns to see you," exclaimed Mildred.
" I have pity, I forgive him. Justice forbids me to do
more without proof. Mr. Lester, hid him look after his boy,
or there will yet be a further disgrace awaiting us. Mildred,
ring for Greaves, I would go to my room."
Mildred delayed, with her hand on the hell, and looked
entreatingly at Mr. Lester, then doubtfully on her father.
The General read their countenances.
" You think me hard. If you could stand in my place you
would judge me better." He tried to raise himself from his
chair, but he was too weak. And as he sat down again, and
leaned his head upon his hands, Mildred saw tears trickle
through them.
She kissed his forehead, and he did not repel Lsr, though
he would not notice her.
She whispered to him : " Is there not comfort in the
thought of his innocence ?" And then he dashed away the
hand which lay upon his, and told her to leave him.
Mr. Lester made one more effort. " General Vivian ! you
speak of justice. It is unjust to refuse to see your son, and
to hear what he can say in his own defence."
"Proof," murmured the General; "let him bring proof."
"But if he cannot, my dearest father; if you insist upon
that which it is impossible to obtain?"
The General shook his head, his clearness of intellect
seemed failing again.
"We must not urge it," whispered Mr. Lester to Mildred.
She rang the bell, and when Greaves came, Mr. Lester
left the room ; the General taking no notice of his departure.
•+-
CHAPTER LIII.
RONALD VIVIAN sat in a large arm-chair, by the side
of the low, open hearth in Mark W I's cottage. Bar-
ney's couch was opposite: the child was much attenuated,
dn'd his face expressed more constanl pain. In a distant corner.
400 CLEVE HALL.
Mother Brewer was busied in knitting a pair of small woollen
socks. The traces of what might have been years of sickness
and sorrow were visible in Ronald's worn countenance, yet still
more visibly was stamped upon it the energy which might still
Struggle and conquer, grounded upon the endurance which
might suffer but would never yield.
His wound was not deep, though it was very painful. He
spoke of it himself now as something light, scarcely worthy
of a thought. Yet it distressed him so much to move, that
it was clear that great care would be needful before it could
be expected to heal. Barney was trying to amuse himself
with cutting out figures, but it was an effort to him to hold
the scissors. From time to time he looked up wistfully at
Ronald, whose eyes were closed.
" He's asleep, isn't he?" said the old woman, laying down
her knitting.
"Not asleep, thank you, Mother;" and Ronald opened his
eyes and smiled.
" Why do you shut up your eyes if you ain't sleepy ?"
asked Barney, rather sharply.
" Because it rests them. When one's ill one's eyes ache."
" I'm ill, but my eyes don't ache. Is it 'cause they shot
you, that your eyes are bad ?"
"I suppose it is; but I dare say they won't ache long.
You know I'm getting well."
" Sooner talked of than done, — that," muttered Mother
Brewer from her corner; and Barney turned round and looked
at her, but did not trouble himself to ask what she said.
" I don't want you to get well, Ronald. I like you best to
be ill ; only you can't play so easy."
" I don't know that it's very kind of you, Barney, to wish
that I should always be ill ; but I suppose you mean it so."
" You'll be going off if you get well," said Barney; "and
Father said one day that if you didn't you'd go to Heaven
with me, and that's what I should like."
" But, Barney, you know we may travel the same way, and
meet at the end, though we don't go quite together. I've got
a good deal to do before I get to Heaven."
" I dare say you'd be let off, if you asked," said Barney;
" and you'd like best to go."
Ronald was silent.
" You would like it sure," continued the child ; " every-
body likes to go to Heaven, 'cause it's so beautiful. I want
CLEVE HALL. 4G7
to see the golden streets : Mother Brewer thinks that they
shine as bright as Miss Rachel's picture-frame yonder, when
the sun's ou it. Shouldn't you like to see them?''
llonald still delaying his answer, the question was repeated
again rather querulously. " Yes, by-and-by ; very much in-
deed," was the reply. But Ronald spoke as if his thoughts
were scarcely in his words.
" It's wicked of you if you don't wish it," continued Brr-
ney. " Parson Lester says, nobody ever speaks cross there, or
says bad words."
"No indeed, they don't," said Ronald, sadly.
" And there are beautiful angels all dressed in white, and
singing wonderful," continued Barney; "and a river so clear,
you can see quite through, and fine trees, and fruits. — Don't
you want to go ?"
" If God is pleased to take me, I hope I shaL be quite glad
to go," replied Ronald. " But, Barney, I don't think God
does wish me to go yet; and so I would rather stay and do
His work here."
" Work ! what work ? Captain John don't work."
" But I must."
" Fishing ?" asked Barney.
A smile came over Ronald's face ; but Barney looked at
him quite steadily and earnestly.
" Not that kind of work, but trying to make myself good ;
and others too," he added, in a lower voice.
"That's not work," said Barney; "that's praying."
" But praying is a kind of work, because sometimes it is a
trouble to say one's prayers."
" I don't like it, sometimes; but that's 'cause I'm not good.
When I get to Heaven I shan't say my prayers to Mother
Brewer ; and then I shall attend."
" Ah ! but, Barney, we must learn to attend before we get
to Heaven ; and we must do a great many other things be-
sides, which are hard to us, and we must try to set a good
example."
" What's 'sample?" asked Barney.
"Behaving well before others," replied Ronald, "and so
showing them how to do the same."
" Well, then, if you and I go to Heaven, we can set a good
'sample there."
"But people don't want to have any examples set them iu
• 4G8 CLEVE HALL.
Heaven, because they live with G-od and Jesus Christ, and so
they have the best example before them, and never do wrong."
Barney was thoughtful. Presently he said : u Father don'1
set me a good 'sample; he says bad words, and speaks out.
And Captain John don't set you one, does he V
" He speaks out sometimes," replied Ronald evasively.
" Then do you mean to set him a good 'sample instead ?"
« If I can."
"And that's why you want to stay," said Barney, still
looking as if ho were pondering deeply- In another moment
he turned his head aside and sobbed as if his little heart would
break.
"Barney! my poor child!" — Ronald was going to move
from his chair, but was stopped by the old woman, who put
down her knitting and went up to the ccach.
"What's the matter now? what's a crying for? Come,
stop; be a good boy, leave oft"," said Mother Brewer, alter-
nating between anger and coaxing.
" 1 want to be put next Ronald, in my chair," sobbed
Barney.
" You shall be put next me if you leave off crying; but I
can't let you come till you do," said Ronald.
The child exercised singular self-command. His tears
were swallowed almost instantaneously; but his neck still
heaved convulsively.
The old woman placed him in a high chair, propped him
up with pillows, and carried him to the opposite side of the
hearth.
He put his hand in Ronald's, but did not speak till Mother
Brewer had retired again to her corner; then he hid his face
on Ronald's shoulder, and whispered in a voice interrupted
by sobs: "I don't want to stay and set father a 'sample.
Must I ?"
Ronald passed his arm lovingly, for support, round the
poor, little skeleton-frame, and answered: '• I don't think
God wants you to stay, Barney; He only wants you to be
good whilst you are here."
" I'll be very good, — I won't cry once, and I won't look
about when I say my prayers, and I'll say all my hymns
through; only I don't want it to be long; it pains me so;"
and again he began to cry, but more gently, from weakness
nnd over excitement.
Ronald let him rest quietly, and hoped he might go to
CLEYE HALL. 4G9
sleep; and he did close his eyes for a few moments, but
opened them again to say, in a dreamy voice, " You'll come
too, Ronald ?"
And Ronald answered cheerfully, " Yes, soon ; by-and-
by;" and that seemed to satisfy him. At length he fell
asleep, and, Ronald motioning to the old woman, he was taken
back to his couch, and laid upon it.
Mr. Lester came whilst Barney was still asleep. He saw
Ronald regularly; and his visits were comforting, yet not to
himself quite satisfactory. Ronald was very reserved, and
seemed unwilling to say what was on his mind ; and though
Mr. Lester knew what had passed between him and Mr. A'i-
viau, and that he was fully acquainted with his father's con-
duct, he dared not bring forward a subject so full of pain.
Yet there were many allusions to it. Ronald's chief interest
was for Mr. Vivian, and the probability of his being admitted
to an interview with the General, and obtaining his pardon.
Almost the first question he asked when he saw Mr. Lester
the day after the smuggling skirmish, had reference to this
point ; and he was now frequently referring to it. It was in-
deed an engrossing subject of thought; for on the failure of
the meeting depended the necessity, so intensely painful, of
coming forward with his father's written confession. Mr.
Lester once proposed that Mr. Vivian should come and see
him, but Ronald seemed to dislike the idea. He had not even
as yet bcgeed to see Miss Campbell, though he always sent a
message to her. A spirit of torpor seemed, for the most part,
to have succeeded his natural daring excitement of tempera-
ment; and he was willing to sit for hours brooding over the
fire, now and then apparently asleep, but in reality alive to
everything which might take place around him.
lie was more like himself this day, for Barney had dono
him good by making him anxious, and when the old woman
had left him alone with Mr. Lester, there was a topic to enter
upon at once, without the preliminary questions as to his own
health, which were always irksome to him.
" lie is looking worse to-day," was his remark, made in a
1 - voice, as he pointed to the child.
.Mr. Lester went up to the couch, and stood I'm- a few mo-
mi nts, watching Barney's irregular breathing, ami the burn-
ing spot on his little thin cheek.
"Yes, he does look a good deal worse," he said, coming
470 CLEVE HALL.
back to Ronald's chair, and drawing his own near tlio fire
" Has the doctor seen him '("
"He is coming by-and-by; but no doctor will help him
now;" and Ronald brushed his hand across his eyes.
"One can't wish it; it would hi no good to him to keep
him."
" And it won't matter to me," said Ronald. " Anyhow I
shouldn't be here to see him; and I would rather think of
him as safe."
" And look forward to joining him," replied Mr. Lester.
" That may be before very long for any of us; though it may
seem long to you, Ronald, with life before you."
" I mustn't think of that yet," replied Ronald. Changing
the subject, he said quickly : " Is Mr. Vivian still at the
Farm ?"'
" Yes." Mr. Lester seemed doubtful what further to add.
"And the General is not better, then ?"
" Yes, he is better, in a way; though he looks ill."
"Then you have seen him, Sir?" and Ronald waited for
an answer, with evident anxiety.
" For a little while, just before I came here. He is a sin-
gular man, Ronald. The wall of prejudice and warped prin-
ciple is too strong for us."
Ronald leaned forward eagerly. " It mustn't be. Oh, Mr.
Lester," and his voice sank, " if he has dealt hardly uninten-
tionally, surely, surely he will make amends."
Mr. Lester's reply was delayed for a few seconds. Pre-
sently he said, not looking at Ronald, "He knows all, but I
can't say what impression it has made upon him; he demands
proof."
Ronald's face, before very pale, became quite colorless.
" Then he would have vengeance," he said.
" He would call it justice, not vengeance."
" And it would be justice," murmured Ronald.
"But he cannot have it; there can be no legal proof;
your father is safe. My poor boy !" and Mr. Lester laid his
hand upon Ronald's, "you mustn't think of that."
" I do ; I think of it always, and I try to feel the comfort."
"You will do so by-and-by. You are weak now; you can
scarcely realize it."
" But I do realize it. I know that some might say I
should be content. They would feel the outward, not the in-
ward, wound."
CLEVE HALL. 471
" Even that God can comfort, Ronald, and IIo will as years
go on."
" He is very merciful ; I pray to Him to help me ; but to
begin life with disgrace !" And be shuddered. The next
moment he turned from the thought, and asked, "Has the
General seen Mr. Vivian F"
" Not yet. There is an immense amount of hidden excite-
ment preying upon him, and I dread the consequences. It is
the strong-indulged will, and the warped spirit of manhood,
working upon the enfeebled body of age, and becoming its
torture. No one has, and no one, I believe, ever will, influence
him."
A loner silence followed. Mr. Lester again went to Bar-
ney's couch, and looked at him attentively. When he came
back, Ronald was seated more upright, his face and attitude
expressive of some strong self-control.
He returned to the subject without any preface, and said :
'' Then there is no hope?"
" I don't allow myself to think so ; it is too hard and un-
natural. I must, to-morrow, speak to him myself, alone — as
Only a minister of God can speak. He has no right to de-
mand proof against his son's word."
" He shall have proof, to-morrow," repeated Ronald quietly.
Mr. Lester looked at him, doubting whether his ears had
rightly caught the words.
" He shall have it, to-morrow," repeated Ronald. " If Mr.
Vivian will meet me at the Hall, we will see the General to-
gether."
Mr. Lester felt uneasy. Ronald's voice was so changed
and hollow, and his eye had a fixed glare. "You could not
go with him, my dear boy, even if you wished it," he said 3
gently ; " remember how weak you are."
" .Mark Wood will help me. To-morrow, at three."
"My dear Ronald, this will not do; you are dreaming of
what it is impossible you should perform. And your notions
are wrong. You can't think that you are bound to come for-
ward in this sad business. It is a feverish fancy."
Ronald touched his pulse. " Feel it, Sir, I am quite calm.
Say to Mr. Vivian that I rely upon the promise solemnly
made, when I had aided in saving his child's life. Now, will
you read to mc ? It will do me good."
Mr. Lester paused, but there was that in Ronald's counte-
nance which made him shrink from pursuing the subject, 01
472 CLEVE HALL.
attempting to gainsay his will, at least without consultatiot
with .Mr. Vivian. He read to him and prayed, and Ronald
thanked him gratefully and affectionately, but he made no more
reference to his determination, except by repeating when they
parted, "To-morrow, at three."
The remainder of that afternoon llonald spent in sitting
by Barney's couch, holding the child's hand, smoothing his
pillow, repeating verses of hymns, — trying, in every way that
lie could think of, to soothe his pain. And from time to time
the little fellow dozed for a few moments, and then woke again
to ask that llonald would please to say the prayer for God to
make him patient, for he was very tired of the ache. The
other children returned from school, and were taken into the
back room by Mother Brewer, and kept quiet with playthings ;
and about six o'clock Mark Wood, who, finding that he was
likely to escape detection, had ventured back to his cottage,
came in and had tea with them ; but Barney was in a great,
deal of pain just then, and llonald had no heart to join them,
though he was very weary.
The old woman put the little ones to bed early; and Mark
said he would go into Cleve to set something from the doctor
to make his boy sleep ; but Mother Brewer muttered that there
was no need for that; he'd sleep sound enough before many
hours were over; and Mark gave up his intention, and sat
down moodily by the fire.
So they went on till about eight o'clock; about that time
the pain ceased entirely, but Barney was almost too exhausted
to speak. He asked llonald once to move, that father might
kiss him, and bade Mother Brewer say " Good-night" to little
brothers and sisters, aud tell them to be good; and after that
he went to sleep, and they thought he would wake refreshed,
as he bad often done before after similar attacks. He was
quiet for more than two hours; then he roused himself, and
Mark gave him a little water. The child looked at him
intently for an instant, and said, " Thank you, father. Please
say prayers." And Mark knelt by the side of the little bed,
and buried his face in the coverlet.
Barney felt feebly for Ronald's hand: "You'll set the
'sample, llonald, and then you'll come." And the light grasp
relaxed, and Barney fell asleep, to wake to the sight of the
golden streets, and the river of pure water, and the fruits of
the trees of everlasting life.
CLEVE HALL. 173
CHAPTER LIV.
BRIGHT were the gleams of the December sun, although
it had already passed its low meridian height, as Edward
Vivian and Mr. Lester walked slowly through the Cleve Woods
on their way to the Hall. They spoke of many things ; the
past perhaps more than the present or the future. It was a
natural feeling, which would fain linger over the recollections
connected with those scenes of happier days now, before the
sentence might again be spoken which was to be the decree
of separation from them for ever.
Mr. Vivian was greatly depressed, yet a tone of only par-
tially subdued indignation occasionally escaped him. He felt
bitterly the doubt which had been cast upon his word, and
would with difficulty listen to Mr. Lester's explanation. It
was useless, he said, to tell him that he was not doubted. If
it were so, why was he not received, and the wrong acknow-
ledged? There could be no alternative in such a case. Even
duty to his father seemed scarcely to call upon him to enter
into more detailed explanations.
" Years ago it might have been so," was Mr. Lester's reply.
" But you are fightiug against a feeling first fostered as a duty,
and encouraged the more since it has been against natural
inclination. General Vivian fears himself. He has rested
upon his sense of justice, and made an idol of it; and now,
conscious of his own weakness — such, at least, he would call
it, — he dreads being betrayed into an offence against it. He
thinks himself bound to treat you as he would a stranger.
There is prejudice in this, the rankling of former grievances,
but he does not see it. His is the spirit of the old Roman
who would sit in judgment upon his children, and condemn
them."
" I don't understand it," exclaimed Mr. Vivian, hastily
" We are Christians, not heathens."
"Even so. But General Vivian's principles are — I sa;/
the word in all reverence, and, of course, with great limitatioa
— heathen. I mean that he has formed his own standard of
right, without looking at that given in the Bible. If justice
were the one virtue alone to be upheld, where should we, all
be?"
Mr. Vivian stopped suddenly. "It goads me," he said;
474 CLEVE HALL.
11 it makes me feel that I would give up everything and go.
If it were not for my children I think I could."
" My dear Vivian, that would be an action which you
would repent for ever. You have no right to act upon pride
Remember — forgive me for saying it — that your own conduct
was the first cause of offence. If it has since been exagge-
rated and misconstrued, yet the original evil lies at your own
door."
" You are right, Lester. I must bear all. And if I could
see him — Oh! were he ever so stern — ever so cruel — all an-
gry feelings would go. I could throw myself at his feet and
ask for pardon, as in my childish days. But he will not see
me ; there is no hope of it."
Mr. Lester, without answering, opened the little gate which
led into Mildred's flower-garden. From thence a private door
admitted them into the morning-room. It was empty. Mil-
dred was with the General ; but her work-basket and books
were lying about ; she had been there only lately.
" Eighteen years !" murmured Mr. Vivian. " It seems but
yesterday." He went to the lower end of the room, and drew
aside the curtain from the picture hanging there ; looked at it
for several minutes, then covered it again, and sat down with-
out making any comment.
" If Ronald should come, as he said, he must wait here,"
observed Mr. Lester.
" Yes." But Mr. Vivian would take no comfort from the
thought of Ronald's promise. " My father wants proof; and
words are no proofs to him," he said indignantly. " And the
boy will not speak to his father's prejudice. Who could ask
it of him? I would not accept restoration on such terms."
" He was bent upon being here," observed Mr. Lester.
" He was feverish and excited yesterday, no doubt. If he
had anything that would really help us, he would have come
forward before."
" He was not in a state to do so," remarked Mr. Lester.
" I can't hope, Lester. I would rather fear the worst.''
And 31 r. Lester was silent, and rang the bell.
" Will the General see me, Greaves?"
Greaves, now fully aware of the interests at stake in the
family, looked important, and was doubtful. The General
had slept badly, and was, he thought, inclined to doze : but
he would see.
Ella and Rachel appeared at the window, and drew back,
CLEYE HALL. 475
startled at seeing gentlemen; but they soon came forward
again, laughing. Rachel's bright eyes were raised lovingly to
her father, as she exclaimed, " We didn't know you were
here, Papa. Ella had been at the farm, and was coming back,
and I said I would walk with her. Mrs. llobinson was com-
ing too, and said she would so back with me. There wasn't
any harm, was there?"
" None at all, my child ; but you mustn't disturb us now."
" Let them come in," said Mr. Vivian. He seemed glad
of anything which would distract his thoughts ; and Ella and
Rachel were admitted.
" We saw Mark Wood, Papa, as we were coming," said
Rachel; " he looked so very sad; he was driving Hardman's
little cart, and said he was going to take Ronald out. I didn't
like to ask if Barney was worse."
" He died last night, Rachel. I was going to tell you."
Rachel walked away to the window. Her father followed
her. " We mustn't grieve for him, Rachel."
"No, Papa, only — I will try not;" and she struggled
against her tears, and smiled, and then gave way again, and
cried bitterly. " I don't want him back, but I loved him so."
Ella looked very grave and sorrowful, yet she could not
quite feel with Rachel. She began telling her father about
Barney, and Mr. Vivian was interested, and made her repeat
to him what Ronald had done for the child ; and when Greaves
returned and said that the General was ready, and would see
Mr. Lester, if he would walk up stairs, though he turned pale
for the instant, yet he went on talking to Ella, whilst Rachel
sat down on a stool in the recess of the window, gazing at the
pale sunlight which still flickered upon the lawn.
Mr. Lester passed through the dressing-room, and found
Mildred there. The door into the bed-room was open, so that
he could only press her hand kindly, and ask a few ordinary
questions. The General's hearing was wonderfully quick for
his age, and he dared not stay to talk with her.
" You will find him very weak," she said, in an under-
tone, when he asked what she thought of her father; " but he
has referred to nothing; only he has been trying to write this
morning, sitting up in bed. Now he is dressed, and in his
ann-chair."
The General looked at least eighty, but that might have
been his position, supported by pillows, ami with only a par*
tial light falling upon him through the half-closed curtains.
47G CLEVE HALL.
lie spoke with tolerable firmness, and thanked Mr. Lester fur
coming, and accepted his offer of reading to him.
" Mildred is not strong enough to read much to me/' he
Baidj "and Ella has heen out, they say, this morning. 1
should like to hear the Morning Lessons for the day." [Ie
spoke decidedly, as if he did not choose any other suhject to
be discussed.
Mr. Lester turned over the pages of his Bible slowly, and
remarked that in another week it would be Christmas Day.
" Yes ; 1 forgot it was so near, till Mildred reminded me.
She will receive your lists of the poor, as usual."
" You are very kind, Sir. The poor people ■\rc extremely
grateful."
"It is no kindness, Mr. Lester; it is their right. I am
their steward."
"I wish all persons with property would think the same,
Sir; but it is in many cases a difficult lesson to teach."
"I learnt it in my childhood, from warning. When I
came into posession of my property, I vowed that the poor
should never be defrauded."
" It is a happy thought for old age, General, that the vow
has been kept; and yet "
" Well, Sir, have you any fault to find with it ?" and the
General turned his keen eyes upon Mr. Lester.
" I was thinking of the completeness of God's demands
upon us," replied Mr. Lester; "that one good deed will not
stand in the stead of another."
The General was silent, but there was an uncomfortable,
nervous twitching about his mouth.
Mr. Lester again turned to the Bible, and opened it, not
at the lesson for the day, but at the Epistle of St. James :
" Whosoever shall keep the whole law, and yet offend in one
point, he is guilty of all." " That has always struck me as
one of the most fearful texts in the Bible," he said. " It strikes
at the root of such a common error. May I say to you, dear
Sir, that it has been upon my mind very much since our part-
ing yesterday?"
It was an immense effort to him, and he watched the
General's countenance with an anxiety which made his voice
tremble.
" You mean rightly, Mr. Lester ; go on."
" You are most kind, most thoughtful, and considerate for
CLEVE HALL. 477
your poor neighbors, Sir. It seems strange to beg that you
will be equally so toward ycur son."
"My conscience is clear upon that point," replied the
General, " and my judgment, Mr. Lester, lies with God. If I
have wronged my son, I will repair the wrong."
" And see him, Sir ; hear his confession ; restore him to
your love; that is what he asks?"
The General tried to take up a paper which lay upon the
table, but his hand trembled too much. " I have tried to
write it," he murmured to himself.
Mr. Lester interrupted him. " But will you not tell me,
dear Sir? Speaking is better than writing; there is more
truth in it."
"No, Sir, no; I can't. Mr. Lester, you mustn't urge
it. I am old — God knows I have been tried — you must
leave me."
" I would speak to you, Sir, because you are old. Life
may be very short. I would not have you go, unforgiving, to
your grave."
"I do forgive — all. I did him wrong, perchance. He
mayn't have done what I thought. He says it ; Miss Camp-
bell says it. Let it be tried and pi*oved; but, let me rest, let
me rest, for my days are few."
" There will be rest in mercy," replied Mr. Lester,
solemnly; "for so only can we hope for mercy. General
Vivian, at whatever risk, I must speak to you as God's minister.
Whilst you thought your son had dishonored your name, there
was doubtless an excuse for the severity with which he was
treated. Whether it was right to cast off his children also,
need not now be discussed. But you have at length the
proof that you suspected him wrongly. Not the proof which
would stand, it may be, in a court of justice, but the word of
an honorable man, and the corresponding testimony of a lady,
who, whatever may be your prejudice against her family, lays
claim to universal respect. If you still persist iu your suspi-
cions, if 'judgment without mercy' is still to be your motto,
think what will be your condition when you are summoned to
that awful account, at, which our oidy hope must be in the
'mercy that rejoiceth against judgment.' "
The General's countenance underwent many changes
during this speech, — surprise, anger, — then a more chastened,
Solemnized feeling; hut it would have seemed that the
indomitable will remained unshaken. '-.Mi'. Lester, I asked
478 CLEVE HALL.
you to read to mo," he said, his voice sounding hollow and
tremulous.
And Mr. Lester read, and when he had finished reading,
he knelt in prayer; and the General's voice was heard in the
confession, that he was a miserable sinner, that he had erred
and strayed from God's ways like a lost sheep. At the close
Mr. Lester paused, remained for a lew moments in silent
petition, and rose.
The General turned to him hastily : " Your prayers are
short, Sir," he said.
"I leave it to yourself, General, to pray; 'Forgive us our
trespasses as we forgive them that trespass against us.' "
The old man turned away his head, and wept.
A knock was heard at the door; it was Mildred. She
came in and stood by the General's chair.
He gave her his hand without looking up : " Mildred,
child, your father is very weak."
" You have been tried, dear Sir, very much. It is no
wonder."
" Mr. Lester would have me see him, Mildred. I would
do it, if it were right, — if it were good ; but it mustn't be, —
there is no proof. My people would be sacrificed ; and tha
Campbells, — they are not to be depended on. Years ago they
defrauded and ruined us. He married a Campbell, and they
uphold him. The boy, too, — it would all be ruin." He
spoke with difficulty ; his eyes were dulled, and his voice was
weak. Old feelings of dislike and prejudice were working
together, with more newly-excited mistrust, to cloud a mind
already, in a degree, enfeebled by illness.
" Don't think of the future, my dearest Father; let it be
as you will. See him, that is all we ask, — all he would ask
either."
" But Mildred, if I see him, — help me, — I said I wouldn't,
— I must keep my vow. I mustn't yield."
" You said it when you thought him guilty of a grievous
offence, dearest Father; he comes now to prove his innocence."
"Proof! proof!" The General repeated the words to
himself, again and again. Then he said suddenly, " Is he
changed?"
"Not as much as I expected; he looks older, of course.
But he is changed in mind wonderfully."
The General shook his head, and motioned her from
CLEVE HALL. 479
him : " You tempt me, — go." His complexion became of a
livid paleness.
Mr. Lester gave him some water, aud he recovered a little,
and murmured " To-morrow."
Poor Mildred looked at Mr. Lester in despair: "And
Ronald Vivian is here," she said, " on business."
The General caught at the word as a relief: "Business!
let me hear it? I am well enough now."
" Impossible !" whispered Mildred to Mr. Lester.
To her surprise Mr. Lester answered quietly also, " I will
go to him ; perhaps it may be as well."
He left the room. The General leaned back in his chair,
perfectly still. Mildred sat down by him. The minutes were
very long. She dared not speak to him again. Steps were
heard along the corridor, — in the dressing-room. The General
moved, and pushed away the footstool, and placed his writing-
case before him.
" May we come in ?" Mr. Lester entered, Ronald with
him : another shadow darkened the doorway.
The General bent his head stiffly, with all his former pre-
cision of manner. Ronald scarcely returned the greeting.
His eye took a rapid survey of the room, and rested on Mildred.
She moved to go.
" If it is private business, Mildred, you can leave us," said
the General. " Young gentleman, you look ill ; you had better
sit down."
" Miss Vivian, pray stay." Ronald drew near the table,
and rested one hand upon it ; his countenance, naturally pale
from illness, was ghastly in its expression, but his eye was calm
and cold. " I have intruded upon you, General Vivian," he
began, —
"No intrusion, young gentleman. I have had a slight ill-
ness, but I am recovering. Can I, in any way, help you?"
" I have no claim upon you, Sir. I am the son oi — Captain
Vivian."
Mildred's eye glanced uneasily at her father; the nervous
motion of his mouth was visible again.
"Captain Vivian may have done my family injury; yet I
would not visit the injury upon his son. What do you ask
of me?"
Ronald paused.
"I beg you to explain yourself quickly," repeated the
General, rather sternly. " What do you need ?"
4S0 CLEVE HALL.
Ronald approached nearer. His figure was erect, whilst
pride was giving its impress to his countenance.
" Speak, Sir," exclaimed the General.
And the tall form bent as though crushed by a mighty
load, and the agony of humiliation convulsed every feature, as,
laying a paper upon the table, Ronald said, " You require proof
of your son's innocence, General Vivian; you have it.''
Mr. Lester pushed a chair towards him, but he still stood.
"Read it, Mildred/' said the General; and Mildred read
tremblingly : —
"I forged the bill. They can take all I have to repay
themselves.
"John Vivian."
The General caught the paper from her hand, and there
was a long, death-like silence. He looked at the words fear-
fully, — doubtfully.
The shadow passed from the doorway, and Edward Vivian
knelt by his side. " Father, forgive, — forgive me !"
The General sat as one paralyzed; but his hand rested,
with a tremulous touch, on his son's head.
" Pardon me, Father ! Speak to me !"
The white lips moved, and the glassy eyes became dim ;
and, leaning forward, the old man threw his arm round his
son's neck and kissed him.
He looked up again, and his eye wandered for an instant
round the room, as if in search of Ronald ; but even in that
moment he had left the apartment, unnoticed by all save Mr.
Lester ; and the General, worn and exhausted, could only say,
" I was so wrong, Edward, so wrong. God forgive me ! I
D
was so wrong."
The bells rang merrily from the tower of Encombe church,
on Christmas morning; cheerful were the greetings, hearty
the good wishes, which met at the entrance of the old Norman
porch ; and fervently went up thanksgivings to Heaven, whilst
the notes of the Angels' hymn rose and echoed, and died away
amidst the arches. Eighteen years before, Mr. Vivian had
knelt in that church, proud in self-reliance, a young man ; with
the hopes, the fears, the follies, the offences of youth upon him.
He knelt there now, humbled, chastened, penitent, yet unutter-
ably thankful, with one prayer, earnest above all others, that
CLE YE IIALL. 481
his children might never learn the same lesson at the same
price of sin and suffering.
That day was the first of Christmas-days spent as in tho
olden time at Cleve Hall, since sorrow and death had laid
their chill grasp upon it, and rendered it desolate.
The General, infirm and shaken though he was, sat at the
head of his table, and told of his plans for the poor, and dis-
cussed alterations in his farm, and seemed to forget that the
lapse of years could be a difficulty in the way of his son's un-
derstanding anything which he wished him to undertake; and
Mildred, smiling as she had never smiled before since her
sister's death, talked with Ella of what must be done to make
the old home happy in its new character, and devised schemes
by which they might do all she needed in the village ; aad
read with her, and have lessons, and be constantly with her ;
helping her, as she said, to grow old without feeling it.
Mr. Vivian's feelings were mixed. Moments there were
when he paused in the midst of his children's merriment, to
think anxiously of Clement's future course, and watch the
impression which he made upon his grandfather; or to recur
to the memories of the past, and dwell upon the joys which
could never come again. But the sadness was transient, the
brightness lasting; and when the recollections of those bygone
days most oppressed him, he could think upon the inercy
vouchsafed to the repentant on earth as the type of the free
and perfect pardon of Heaven.
It was a glad day of hope, a second spring in winter, the
beQ-inninj; of the sunshine which was to aild the old General's
pathway, for the few remaining years of his earthly existence.
Mrs. Robinson, when she came in the evening to drink
Master Edward's health, in the dining-room, was heard to say,
as she went back to the servants' hall, that it did one's heart
good to see the General taking, as it were, a new lease of life ;
and Greaves, as partial to the old master as Mrs. Robinson
was to the young one, insisted that it was trouble which had
furrowed the General's cheek, and made him feeble before his
time; and now that trouble was gone, who was to say that the
best landlord, and the kindest master in England, was not to
outlive the halest and heartiest among them.
And there was gladness at the Rectory, quieter, yet perhaps,
with Mr. Lester and Rachel, even fuller. Mrs. Campbell and
Bertha were with them, and although missing the children's
mirth, it was impossible to feel othi rwise than grateful and
21
482 CLEVE IIALL.
happy at the load of anxiety and responsibility which had been
removed. The object desired for years had been attained, and
if, as is the case in the attainment of all human wishes, success
was accompanied by alloy, it seemed unthankful to allow the
mind to vest upon it. Bertha's energy already made her turn
to the thought of being useful to Rachel, and finding employ-
ment amongst the poor, more congenial than that training of
the mind which she had yet to practise successfully for herself;
and but for one thought, she could have called it the happiest
Christmas Day that had been granted her for many a year.
There was an evening service ; the church was full. Bertha
sat near the cast end with Rachel, and was amongst the last to
depart. Mr. Lester was detained in the ^estry, and they waited
for him, until all the lights were extinguished, except those in
the chancel.
They walked to the lower end of the church, and looked
back. " Passing from darkness to light, like it will be from
earth to Heaven," whispered Rachel.
A sigh answered her, but it did not come from Bertha.
Some one passed her quickly, from the side aisle, and went out
into the porch.
A minute afterwards Mr. Lester joined them, and they left
the church. The moon was shining on the tombstones, and a
long line of pale light was traced upon the distant sea.
" Papa," said Rachel, " should you mind ? I should to see
where Barney is buried." Mr. Lester took her hand, and they
went on together. Bertha lingered behind.
" Miss Campbell I" She started; though the voice was well
known, it was very changed.
" Ronald ! here ! That ought not to be ; it is very impru-
dent."
He tried to laugh. " Mrs. Robinson allowed me. I am
at the Farm now, and well."
" Yes, 1 heard that. Mr. Lester told me; I had hoped to
see you, to thank you."
lie would not hear her gratitude. "1 go to-morrow," he
said : "you will still think of and pray for me."
"Go? Where? So soon ? Surely General Vivian, Mr.
Lester "
He interrupted her : "They have done all, and more than
all, I could have dared to expect. They would do far more
than I could allow."
" That may be pride, Ronald."
CLEVE HALL. 483
" Pride ! Miss Campbell !" lie repeated the word bitterly ;
" pride for me ! yet it may be so. If it is, I pray God to
make me bumble. But I do not feel that it is. They wo^Id pro-
vide for me. I would accept their help but only to provide
for myself. My father's property is heavily mortgaged. When
the debt to General Vivian is paid, if anything should remain
of the little that I might once have expected to inherit, it must
of course be appropriated for my father's comfort. I go to
make my own way in the world."
"Alone?"
" Where my father is, there is my duty, and there will be
my home."
" Oh, Ronald, what a sacrifice !"
"You would not wish it to be otherwise; you, who first
taught me the claims of duty."
"No, I cannot, and yet the example may be terrible."
" I do hot fear it," he said, meekly : " God who saved me
from it, before I sought Him, will strengthen me to withstand
it when I have learnt to seek Him."
Bertha gave him her hand, — but her voice failed her.
" From darkness to light, from earth to Heaven," said Ro-
nald, thoughtfully. "I shall not forget it." He looked to-
wards the little new-made grave, beside which Rachel and Mr.
Lester were standing.
They drew near it. Rachel was the first to see Ronald.
She ran up to him directly. "I didn't know it was you, Ro-
nald ; but you don't mind our coming, do you ? I asked papa
if I might."
She felt instinctively that the little grave was his charge.
" Who could mind Rachel ? No one has more claim to be
here than you, who made him happy."
" He doesn't suffer now," said Rachel. " I think of that."
" I try to think of it too," said Ronald. " I shall more,
bv-and by. When I am gone, Rachel, perhaps Mr. Lester
will let you plant some flowers here. I should like that."
" Yes, of course ; indeed I will ;" but Rachel was per-
plexed; she could not understand what he meant by going,
and was too shy to ask. She turned to her father, who had
been talking with Bertha.
" You must go home, my child," said Mr. Lester, " it is
too cold for yon, — and for Miss Campbell, — and, Ronald, for
you too;" and he kindly touched Ronald's shoulder.
484 CLEVE HALL.
"Good night, Ronald. Hid yon understand? I promise,
if papa doesn't mind," said Rachel.
" Good b'ye, Rachel." He kept her hand for a moment,
then let it fall suddenly j "your word needs no promise."
He watched her, so did Mr. Lester, as she walked with
Bertha through the churchyard, till the gate closed behind
them.
Then Mr. Lester said : " You go to-morrow, Ronald ?"
" To-morrow, Sir. The vessel is even now ready, and my
father waits for me. "When my way for the future is clear, 1
will write."
" May God guard you, Ronald, hitherto, as He has guarded
you before. You have no wishes that I can fulfil ?"
"I had one, Sir, but it has been told to Rachel. I have
no other, but — that my name may be forgotten."
Mr. Lester's voice faltered : " That should not be the wish
at your age. Life is before you to redeem it."
" In another country, in another home ; but never here,"
replied Ronald.
Mr. Lester was silent.
" I am not desponding," continued Ronald ; " the load is
taken from me ; I can breathe freely. Mr. Lester, I would
not have you think of me as weak."
" "Weak ! oh no, Ronald, — most strong. 1 only pray you
may feel that there is hope always on earth."
" I have a work to do," replied Ronald, "therefore I must
have hope."
" And it will be accomplished," replied Mr. Lester. " The
prayers and the labors of such a son will surely be answered.
God bless you I" He wrung Ronald's hand and left him.
And Ronald, kneeling by Barney's grave, prayed fervently ;
and rose strengthened and comforted, whilst still the little
voice seemed sounding in his ear, " You'll set the 'sample,
Ronald, and then you'll come."
Cleve Hall yet stands, gray and stern as him who was once
its master; the sea washes the sandy beach round the dark
Headland ; the Encombe Hills frown over the deep ravine.
And, whilst changes of joy and sorrow, of life and death, have
passed over the human hearts which sought their resting-place
amidst those scenes of beauty, the name of Vivian Uveal
associated with them, as in bygone years; the heirloom de-
scending from generation to generation.
CLEVE HALL. 485
Its echo has been heard even in distant lands. There is a
tale told of one — an exile, lonely, unaided, exposed to many
and dread temptations — who entered upon life with the
inheritance of a stained named and a ruined fortune, and looked
back upon it with a conscience which angels might approve,
and a reputation which princes might have envied. It is said
that be labored, — and successfully, — for one object; the
restoration of a father who had sunk, it might have seemed,
beyond hope; and tbat, in the progress of that work, — spent
for the most part in tbe drudgery of a merchant's office — he
gathered round him, by the force of an intense earnestness,
young and old, the cultivated and the ignorant, — warning,
guiding, aiding them on their path to Heaven.
They tell of him, that he dwelt apart, mingling little with
tbe gayeties of life ; a man of quiet exterior, gentle and reserved,
and with the deep traces of early suffering stamped upon his
brow. The happiness of a loving home was never his, the
voices of childhood never gladdened his hearth, — it may be
that he dreaded to transmit the stain which he himself had
felt so deeply. But the widow and the orphan were his
family ; the desolate, the poor, the tempted were his friends :
and when the honored Vivians of Cleve Hall recount the
histories of their race, the name of the exiled Ronald stands
first in the list of those who have been prized on earth because
they sought their inheritance in Heaven.
the r.ND.
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