m 
 
 ■ - 
 
 
 
 
 
 * 
 
M 
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 GIFT OF 
 
 Yfilliam Stock 
 
WORKS PUBLISHED IN 
 
 APPLETON'S 
 
 TALES FOR THE PEOPLE AND THEIR CHILDREN. 
 
 The greatest care is taken in selecting the works of which the 
 collection is composed, so that nothing either mediocre in talent, 
 or immoral in tendency, is admitted. Each volume is printed 
 on the finest paper, is illustrated with an elegant frontispiece, 
 and is bound in a superior manner, tastefully ornamented. 
 The following have already appeareduniform with this volume : 
 
 WHO SHALL BE GREATEST P A Tale: by Mary How- 
 itt. 1 voL lSmo., plates. 
 
 " The great moral lesson inculcated by this book ii indicated by its title ; and 
 while it m prominent enough through the whole volume, it comes out at the 
 close with most impressive effect. We need not say it is a lesson which every 
 human being is the wiser and the better for learning. We cordially recom- 
 mend the work to all who would desire to form a sober and rational estimate 
 of the world's en joyment*. "—Albany Evening Journal. 
 
 SOWING AND REAPING: or What will Come of It? by 
 Mary Howitt. 1 vol. 18mo., plates, 
 
 "We commenced it with the intention of just looking it ov»r for the pur- 
 pose of writing a cursory notice ; but we began to read, and so we went on 
 to the finis. It is very interesting : the characters ^.re full of individuality. "— 
 New-Bedford Mercury. 
 
 STRIVE AND THRIVE: a Tale by Mary Howitt. 1 vol. 
 18mo., plates. 
 
 "The mere announcement of the name of the authoress, will doubflew 
 bring any of her productions to the immediate notice of the public ; but 
 Strive and Thrive is not a book for children only, but can be read with 
 pleasure and advantage by those of a more mature age. It fully sustains the 
 reputation of its predecessors. The style is easy and flowing, the language 
 chaste and beautiful, and the incidents of the tale calculated to keep up the 
 interest to the end.— New-York Courier If Enquirer. 
 
 HOPE ON, HOPE EVER: or the Boyhood of Felix Law: by 
 Mary Howitt. 1 vol. I8mo. 
 
 "A very neat volume with the above title, and .the farther annunciation 
 that it may be called Tales for the People and their Children, has been written 
 by Mary Howitt, whose name is so favourably known to the reading com- 
 munity." 
 
 " This volume like all others that emanate from the pen of this lady, is ex. 
 tremely interesting ; the characters are naturally drawn, while the feeling and 
 
 K union displayed, jrive the work a higher rank than is usually allotted to 
 unery Taka. ,1 <— Commercial Advertiser. 
 
TALES FOX THE PEOPLE AND THEIR CHILDREN: 
 
 THE LOOKING GLASS FOR THE M I N D : or Intellectu- 
 al Mirror, being an elegant collection of the most delightful 
 little stories and interesting tales : chiefly translated from that 
 much admired work L'ami des Enfans ; with numerous wood 
 cuts— the twentieth edition. 1 vol. 18mo. 
 
 The stories he* collected are of a most interesting character, since virtue is 
 constantly reprinted as the fountain of happiness, and vice as the source of 
 every evil— as a useful and instructive Looking Glass, we recommend it for the 
 instruction of every youth, whether Miss or Master ; it is a mirror that will 
 not flatter them or lead them into error ; it displays the follies and improper 
 pursuits of youthful hearts, points out the dangerous paths they sowetimei 
 tread, and cicars the way to the temple of honour and fame. 
 
 THE SETTLERS AT HOME: by Harriet Martineau 
 1 vol. 18mo. 
 
 " The circumstances under which this little volume, for the amusement of 
 children, ' as been produced, give an additions! charm to its truth, simplicity, 
 and feeling. The tale, though in one passage sorrowful enough to moisten 
 many a pair of eyes, is full of interest and -.haracter. The latter, we may 
 add . is as much appreciated by children as the former : and they will take as 
 lively an interest inAilwin's ignorant and unselfish fidelity and her stalwart 
 arms, and in Roger Redfurn the gipsy boy's glea'is of better nature, as in the 
 developemeni of the main incident of the book, a disastrous flood which 
 spread devastation over the Isle of Axholme two hundrii years ago." — Athe~ 
 
 " The early tales of Miss Martiu-au, written to inculcate and illustrate, by 
 practical examples, the truths of political economy, will survive her later 
 and more controversial works. So in this little story of the History and ill- 
 treatment of some Dutch settlers, in the fens of Lincolnshire— during the ware 
 of the Parliament because they were strangers, and because, moreover, they 
 interfered with the wild and ague-shaken gunners and fishermen of the fens, — 
 we see again the same shrewdness of observation — the same real interest in the 
 welfare of the humble classes— the same sagacity, and occasional natural pa- 
 thos, which rendered the politico-economical tracts so attractive, in despiteof 
 their name and subject"— New- York American. 
 
 EARLY FRIENDSHIP: a Tale by Mrs Copley lvol.l8mo. 
 plates. 
 
 In introducing the name of a new writer to this series of 
 popular works, the publishers cannot but express their desire 
 that all who have purchased previous valines, will buy this, 
 being assured it will commend itself to the reader so that the 
 name of Mrs. Copley will soon, like the name of Howitt, 
 be a passport to the notice and favour of the whole reading 
 community. 
 
 FAMILY SECRETS : or Hints to those who would make 
 Home Happy, by Mrs. Ellis, author of "The Women of 
 England," " Poetry of Life," etc. 
 
 " The tendency of this book is one of the best and noblest The scenes and 
 characters are, it is believed, portraits. Aiming as it does at the correc- 
 tion of a too prevalent vice — it is expected that the Family Secrets will cou*. 
 niand amongst the serious and dunking part of the community as exteiiMveS 
 
 popularity as Nicholas Nickleby does in JU peculiar circle-" 
 
TALES 
 
 THE PEOPLE AND THEIR CHILDREN. 
 
 BY MARY HOWITT. 
 
 (SOWING AND REAPING.) 
 
i 
 

 ^■©AS^-ifi 
 
 w@ 
 
 fcTAftt, 
 
SOWING AND REAPING; 
 
 OR, 
 
 WHAT WILL COME OF IT. 
 
 BY MARY HOWITT, 
 
 AUTHOR OB " STRIVE AND THRIVE," "HOPE ON I HOPE EVERl* 
 ETC. ETC. 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 D. APPLETON AND CO. 200, BROADWAY. 
 
 1841. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAP. PAGE. 
 
 I. A Character ; . . . 1 
 
 II. A Removal # , 8 
 
 III. Stanton- Combe and its Inhabitants » . . 16 
 
 IV. Sowing 32 
 
 V. A Chapter of Troubles 41 
 
 VI. Threatened Ejectment 49 
 
 VII. A Real Ejectment 60 
 
 VIII. Family Affairs 67 
 
 IX. The Funeral 83 
 
 X. The Breaking up of a Family 102 
 
 XI. The Great Sale by Auction 108 
 
 XII. An Unlooked for Event 117 
 
 XIII. Life in London 123 
 
 XIV. Reaping 136 
 
 XV. Reaping, Continued 157 
 
 Conclusion . ••••••••••• 169 
 

SOWING AND REAPING; 
 
 WHAT WILL COME OF IT. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 A CHARACTER. 
 
 Sixty years ago, a tall, gloomy house, of a very 
 dingy, unpromising aspect, in Lincoln's Inn Fields, 
 was inhabited by Thomas Durant, one of the most 
 sagacious lawyers of the day. 
 
 By birth he was a gentleman, the younger son 
 of the Durants of Stanton-Combe, an old, though 
 decayed family, in the county of Durham. The 
 family estate was greatly encumbered by debts 
 and mortgages, and, owing to the sudden death of 
 his father, he was left unprovided for. Edward, 
 the elder son, took all, excepting the mother's 
 jointure of three thousand pounds. The younger 
 son was pennyless; and, as if to increase his dif- 
 ficulties, had been bred to no profession. 
 
 In talents and temper the young men were as 
 different as in fortune. The elder brother was of 
 weak mind, and with that pliant, easy temper 
 
2 A CHARACTER. 
 
 which is frequently its accompaniment ; the 
 younger was active and enterprising in mind, 
 subtle in intellect, and by temper, resentful and 
 implacable. He seemed naturally made to rule, 
 and the other to submit; and such might have 
 been their fate, had not the elder, to the amaze- 
 ment of every one, when the period of mourning 
 for the father had just passed, brought home a 
 bride — a haughty country beauty, without fortune, 
 but impatient of any restraint, and perfectly ca- 
 pable, and very willing, to take the place of go- 
 vernor. 
 
 The first act of her supremacy was to hint that 
 the absence of the mother was desired by her, and 
 that her jointure was sufficient for a widow to live 
 retiredly upon ; and, furthermore, that it was her 
 will that the brother should choose his profession; 
 to enable him to do which, she presented him with 
 a few hundred pounds. To live upon her join- 
 ture is what a widow looks forward to, therefore 
 the mother said little : she acquiesced patiently. 
 Not so the younger son. He flung back the 
 money with ineffable disdain, and vowed to raise 
 himself to wealth and power by his own unassisted 
 efforts ; assuring his sister-in-law, at the same time, 
 that she should live to repent the day in which she 
 forced him thus from the home of his ancestors. 
 It is, as everybody knows, the commonest thing 
 in the world for angry people to utter threats; 
 therefore, when Mr. Thomas Durant said further, 
 that his children should live under that roof when 
 hers were beggars, she only laughed, and thought 
 no more of it. 
 
A CHARACTER. 3 
 
 Thomas Durant went straight to London, and 
 commenced his career by writing for lawyers. 
 To London his mother followed him, and besought 
 him earnestly to share the home she was still 
 enabled to enjoy. He, however, was of that 
 resolute temper which, when once fairly in the 
 strife against difficulty, has a pride in the combat: 
 lie repulsed every offer of assistance, and even 
 every expression of sympathy. The mother, 
 nevertheless, established herself near him, and, 
 unable to force assistance upon him, or to wring 
 from him either affection or complaint, satisfied 
 herself by knowing that he was not only alive, 
 but able to keep himself above want. What, 
 therefore, he would not receive from her in her 
 lifetime, she resolved to accumulate for him at 
 her death ; and she lived long enough, practising 
 every possible self-denial, for accumulation to 
 become the pleasure of her life. She lived a 
 female miser, and at her death bequeathed him 
 near five thousand pounds. With this sum he 
 took chambers, and commenced the study of the 
 law, under more prosperous circumstances than 
 he had known before. 
 
 It would be needless to go through the suc- 
 cession of years in which he worked his upward 
 way in society, extending his personal ambition 
 as he acquired reputation in his profession. 
 
 In his fortieth year he married, and his mar- 
 riage was one of those riddles which now and 
 then occur in social life, and would defy an 
 Edipus to solve. His wife was a fair young 
 creature with a few thousands to her fortune, 
 
4 A CHARACTER. 
 
 who married, as many another woman marries, 
 for a home, and purchased, in so doing, certain 
 misery for herself. She, and one sister, were the 
 children of a gentleman who died young in India. 
 They were brought up by one of Mr. Durant's 
 clients, in whose house lie first made his wife's 
 acquaintance. In two years' time the other sister 
 married also, but both marriages were unfortunate ; 
 the sister's husband dying in the West Indies, of 
 the yellow fever, within the first twelve months 
 of their marriage. The only consolation in Mrs. 
 Durant's case was, that her unhappiness was of 
 short duration. In three years' time Mr. Thomas 
 Durant was left a widower, with a little son. The 
 first evidences of human kindness were given 
 towards this child; and it is but justice to the 
 father to say, that every possible care was taken 
 of his early youth. The first eight years of his 
 life were passed in the country, under the most 
 experienced and judicious care. When his father 
 brought him home, it seemed requisite to have 
 some superior female in the family, who might 
 undertake the charge of the child, and also make 
 the home more comfortable for his sake. 
 
 Mr. Thomas Durant looked round upon his 
 female acquaintance to find such a one as he re- 
 quired ; the choice seemed as difficult to make as 
 if matrimony had again been his object. At 
 length he bethought himself of his late wife's 
 sister. He had proved the meekness and patience 
 of his wife's temper ; he had seen enough of her 
 sister to believe she was not dissimilar ; besides 
 this, she had been unfortunate. When she lost her 
 
A CHARACTER. & 
 
 husband she lost also the bulk of her property, 
 and was reduced now to a meagre income, in the 
 midst of heartless relations, whom he knew would 
 but little relish having to contribute to her sup- 
 port. She would not be over nice, nay, he thought 
 she would be humbly thankful, to have a home 
 offered to her. He was right. Some things the 
 widow wished different; but, wearing weeds for her 
 husband, a little daughter to provide for, and re- 
 lations, cold-visaged as creditors, around her, she 
 scarcely hesitated. Besides, her sister's child was 
 dear to her, and for his sake she was willing to 
 concede many things. Beyond all this, Mr. 
 Thomas Durant offered a remuneration which 
 would not only make her independent, but enable 
 her to make yearly savings. Mrs. Franklin, 
 however, for such was her name, was decided at 
 that moment by a letter she received from one of 
 her kinsfolk, a cold prudential man, who had been 
 solicited by a third party, unknown to her, for 
 assistance. She undertook the charge of her 
 brother-in-law's family on one condition, that her 
 little daughter resided with her. Mr. Thomas 
 Durant thought, as the child was a girl, she would 
 be easily managed, and as she grew up might be 
 useful in the house — perhaps save the wages of a 
 female servant ; and he consented. 
 
 It was, as we have said, a dreary house in 
 which he lived ; but his hard, habitually cold 
 manners, were even more dreary and discourag- 
 ing than his habitation. Still he had the power 
 of assuming a smile to strangers, with a plausibility 
 of manner, and smoothness of voice, that made 
 b2 
 
6 A CHARACTER. 
 
 many a one say he was not as bad as his charac- 
 ter. But to those from whom he had nothing to 
 gain, or whom he wished to keep at a distance, the 
 insensibility of his eye, and the cold indifference 
 of his voice, was chilling as possible; nay, he 
 absolutely seemed to shut his senses from such, as 
 if he could neither hear nor see them, nor could 
 they become palpable to him. 
 
 Towards Mrs. Franklin his manners were as 
 cold as they could be, within the verge of civility. 
 Still he permitted her to make some little altera- 
 tion in his domestic establishment, and by degrees 
 the general aspect of the place was made more 
 cheerful and comfortable. His own tastes and 
 desires in return were studied and gratified. His 
 chair was placed to an inch where he liked it best 
 his slippers and gown were ready for him before he 
 called for them; but he repaid none of these little 
 attentions either by a gratified look, or an ac- 
 knowledgment of satisfaction ; he was aware of 
 them, however, and found the comfort of them, and 
 if they had been withheld he would have resented 
 it. He was one of the unamiable, with whom 
 there can be no interchange of good offices. 
 
 To Alice, Mrs. Franklin's daughter, it was not 
 known that he had ever spoken a word. His 
 manners had repelled her as a child. She sat 
 with him and her mother at meals; she accom- 
 panied them in his coach twice every Sunday to 
 church ; for he made great profession of religion, 
 was a regular attendant on its ordinances, and 
 rigorously required the same from all those about 
 him. She had sat with him in his pew, and, as 
 
A CHARACTER. 7 
 
 she grew up, had taken the sacrament at the same 
 time with himself, yet he no more appeared to 
 see her than if he had been blind. To him she 
 was a nonentity — at least seemed so. She tried 
 to persuade herself that he had forgotten her. 
 She wished she could forget him, for his presence 
 acted like a torpedo to her spirit. 
 
 Thus years went on ; and Mr. Thomas Du- 
 rant's professional prospects became brighter and 
 brighter ; and almost to his own surprise he found 
 himself one of the first lawyers in London. The 
 fairest honours of the profession lay before him. 
 He was honoured by the Crown with a baronetcy, 
 and was, it was expected, in the direct road to 
 the bench. 
 
 Of Sir Thomas Durant's son we have but little 
 at present to say.* At twenty he promised, in 
 process of time, to make a lawyer as sagacious as 
 his father ; for no expense had been spared in his 
 professional education, and at that age he left home 
 for three years' travel and study on the continent. 
 
 Sir Thomas Durant, full of schemes for his own 
 advantage, always suspected others of the same 
 thing. We will open our next chapter with a 
 proof of this fact. 
 
 * The reader will become acquainted with him, as well 
 as with some of our other cnaraccers, more fully, in the 
 second part of this story. 
 
CHAPTER II. 
 
 A REMOVAL. 
 
 " Sister Franklin," said Sir Thomas Durant, 
 settling himself one evening in his easy chair; 
 " Sister Franklin, your daughter is a very pretty 
 young woman." 
 
 There were two things in these few words that 
 terrified Mrs. Franklin — the subject of them, and 
 the kindness of his address : they could portend 
 no good. 
 
 " Your daughter is a well-grown, and passingly 
 handsome young woman, sister Franklin. What is 
 her name?" 
 
 " Alice," replied she. 
 
 " A good name too," remarked he. " I used 
 to be partial to the name of Alice. But I know 
 not, sister Franklin, why she should avoid me." 
 
 " She is timid," replied she ; " but I am glad 
 you like her." 
 
 " Oh ! no, no !" said he, " I have no particular 
 reason to like her." 
 
 " I beg your pardon," observed the mother ; 
 " I misunderstood you." 
 
 " No offence, at all, sister Franklin. The girl, 
 I say, is modest — has a neat way of walking. I 
 used to think a deal of a woman's gait. She is 
 modest, too : how old may she be ?" 
 
 " Eighteen, last January," replied her mother. 
 
 "Eighteen!" returned he; "upon my word, 
 and a fine young woman too. You are looking 
 
A REMOVAL. 9 
 
 out for a husband, I suppose ?" and Sir Thomas 
 smiled. 
 
 Mrs. Franklin laid down her work and looked 
 at him, wondering what all this tended to. 
 
 " You are thinking of getting her married," 
 replied he. 
 
 " My good sir," said she, " how can you be so 
 absurd ?" 
 
 " Absurd!" he replied; "pray, Mrs. Franklin, 
 what was your sister s age when I married her." 
 
 " Eighteen," replied she, and again took up her 
 work. 
 
 " But sister Franklin," continued he, after a 
 few moments' pause, " I am serious about your 
 daughter ; young women are never so well off as 
 when they are married ; do you deny that ?" 
 
 " By no means," was her reply. " A woman's 
 greatest happiness is to be well married — but to 
 be well married implies a great deal, Sir Thomas." 
 
 " A fine young fellow, with seven or eight 
 hundred a-year, you would call a good match for 
 your daughter." 
 
 " As far as money went," replied Mrs. Franklin ; 
 "but I consider other qualifications even more 
 important than money." 
 
 " And pray," asked he, " what other qualifica- 
 tions might you require?" 
 
 " High moral principle," said she, " a deep 
 sense of religion ; and I should like to know what 
 had been his conduct as a son and a brother. A 
 man's character, or a woman's either, is only truly 
 known at home." 
 
 " Humph !" said Sir Thomas, and then, after a 
 
10 A REMOVAL. 
 
 pause, he added, " I should not object to give 
 your daughter a couple of hundreds or so, to buy 
 wedding-clothes/' 
 
 Mrs. Franklin looked him full in the face, for 
 she was greatly surprised. 
 
 " I would not object, I say, to furnish her ward- 
 robe, provided she married to please me. You 
 would trust me, sister Franklin, to choose her a 
 husband?" 
 
 Mrs. Franklin could not divine his meaning; 
 he could not intend to recommend his own son. 
 She was puzzled. " I owe you, Sir Thomas," 
 she said, " my sincerest thanks; but, indeed, 
 I have no thought of marrying my daughter at 
 present." 
 
 " Then pray, Mrs. Franklin," asked he, " what 
 do you mean to do with her ?" 
 
 " Upon my word," she replied, " I had no 
 thought but of her remaining with me as hereto- 
 fore. Am I to understand that you do not wish 
 it?" 
 
 " To be sure not !" was the reply. 
 
 " Will you explain yourself fully ?" said Mrs. 
 Franklin. 
 
 " Am I, Mrs. Franklin," said he, in great 
 anger, " to keep a girl in my house who will be 
 plotting and scheming how she may marry my 
 son ? I want my son at home," he added, " but, 
 so long as that girl is in the house, he shall not 
 enter it !" 
 
 * I will answer for it," said the mother, " that 
 she will not entertain such an idea." 
 
 " She will!" replied he, raising his voice in 
 
A REMOVAL. 11 
 
 extreme anger ; "and I tell you, once for all, 
 Mrs. Franklin, that my son shall not return while 
 that girl is in the house !" 
 
 " But," replied she, u if my daughter goes, I 
 go also." 
 
 " Sister Franklin," resumed Sir Thomas, in a 
 voice of the most oily placidity, " you are over 
 hasty — it is the way with women. I would fain 
 see your daughter well married." 
 
 * My daughter," returned she, " will not marry 
 at present." 
 
 " Again, my dear madam," said he, " you are 
 over hasty. You know Mr. Sharpie — my friend 
 as I may say — Mr. Anthony Sharpie ?" 
 
 Mrs. Franklin lifted up her hand involuntarily, 
 and made no reply ; and Sir Thomas went on — 
 " Mr. Sharpie is an excellent, and an amazingly 
 clever young man." 
 
 " Young!" said she; " Mr. Sharpie must be 
 forty at least ; my daughter is but eighteen." 
 
 " Mr. Sharpie," pursued Sir Thomas, without 
 noticing her observation, " is not as disagreeable 
 to your daughter as I am. She gives him her 
 company occasionally, Mrs. Franklin." 
 
 " Such a thing shall never be !" exclaimed she, 
 with indignation ; " my daughter shall maintain 
 herself by her own hard labour — shall die unmar- 
 ried, before I will sacrifice her to that man !" 
 
 " Hoity, toity !" interrupted he ; " for what 
 shall she not marry Mr. Sharpie ?" 
 
 " Mr Sharpie," replied she, with perfect calm- 
 ness, " is a man for whom I entertain utter con- 
 
12 A REMOVAL. 
 
 tempt. He is a sharper in practice, a libertine in 
 morals, an infidel in religion !" 
 
 Sir Thomas grew pale with anger. " I know 
 what you aim at," said he, between his teeth. " I 
 understand you ; and I know too what that meek- 
 faced girl aims at ! Out of my house, and see 
 what beggary will bring you to !" 
 
 " Sir Thomas," said Mrs. Franklin, with an 
 unruffled voice, " we will go I" 
 
 '< Begone !" returned he, striking his fist on the 
 table. 
 
 Sir Thomas Durant had quite overshot his 
 mark ; for to part with Mrs. Franklin, his well- 
 managing house-keeper, was the last thought he 
 would have had. But it was too late to undo 
 what was done ; and the mother and daughter left 
 the house that very night, and were received with 
 kind welcome under the roof of a humble friend. 
 Here, however, they did not remain many days. 
 But we must be permitted a momentary digres- 
 sion. 
 
 In a small house at Richmond, with one man 
 and maid servant, lived Mr. Nehemiah Netley, a 
 retired tradesman. He was a remarkably small 
 man, and had been a dealer in gloves, ribbons, 
 lace, and ladies' bonnets, and was as dapper 
 and precise in his person as if he had just stepped 
 out of a bandbox. He had a pink complexion, 
 and hair perfectly white; was the uncle of Mrs. 
 Franklin, and an old bachelor, of course. 
 
 Mr. Netley was not more singular in appearance 
 than in opinion, always contriving to think differ- 
 
A REMOVAL. 13 
 
 ently to everybody else. How, or whether, he had 
 maintained the integrity of his opinions with equal 
 pertinacity when he had a multitude of fair cus- 
 tomers to please, we know not ; perhaps he was 
 now indemnifying himself for former self-denial. 
 However that might be, he had quarrelled with a 
 large circle of nephews and nieces, and first and 
 second cousins ; yet for all this he neglected none 
 of theim but looked in upon all of them occasion- 
 ally, as he passed their doors in his walks; though 
 he declared he liked none of them. 
 
 When his nephew, the Imsband of Mrs. Frank- 
 lin, died of the yellow fever, he persisted that he 
 must have been imprudent ; when her relations 
 talked of assisting the widow and her child, he 
 opposed the project, saying, " they had much 
 better assist themselves." When everybody 
 censured Mrs. Franklin for managing the esta- 
 blishment of Sir Thomas Durant, he said she had 
 done right; and yet when he met her he up- 
 braided her for so doing. Accordingly, when he 
 heard, one morning, at the house of one of his 
 nieces, that she had suddenly left, and was now 
 without a home, nor would, said they, ever get 
 the arrears of money Sir Thomas owed her, he 
 called them " a set of cold-hearted wretches,'' 
 and said " she was wortn them all put together !" 
 and as he repeated this to himself for the fourth 
 time, he Gripped lightly out of the house, and 
 walked more briskly than common on his way 
 home.- 
 
 That same evening a hackney coach stopped at 
 the house where Mrs. Franklin and her daughter 
 c 
 
14 A REMOVAL. 
 
 were then staying, and Mr. Netley, scarcely 
 treading heavier than a child, entered the room 
 where they sate. 
 
 " Cousin Franklin," he began, without further 
 salutation, " you see what you have brought 
 yourself to by looking for wheaten loaves on a 
 burdock-bush !" 
 
 " I am not surprised by my situation," said she. 
 
 " But you ought to be surprised," returned he ; 
 "I should have been much better pleased if you 
 had been surprised, tor then you would have been 
 deceived, and I should have pitied you ! And 
 pray what do you mean to do now ?" 
 
 " As yet I have not decided," she said. 
 
 " And so this is your daughter," said he, look- 
 ing towards Alice; "pray, whom may you reckon 
 her like?" 
 
 " I think her like what her poor, dear father 
 was," returned Mrs. Franklin, with a sigh. 
 
 " Nonsense !" said the old man, " not a bit. 
 He was a dark man — black hair, and dark eyes ; 
 she is very like me !" 
 
 Alice coloured to the roots of her^liair, and 
 certainly increased the likeness* if there were any, 
 and her mother smiled. 
 
 " Well, you know, Mrs. Franklin," again began 
 Mr. Netley, after a minute's pause, " at least a 
 Woman of your good sense ought to know, that 
 everybody should maintain themselves; — you need 
 not answer; — and that they should be as little 
 chargeable to their acquaintances as may be." 
 
 " Mrs. Franklin looked distressed, and the old 
 gentleman continued — " I don't often invite my 
 
A REMOVAL. 15 
 
 relations to my house — it is a bad habit — but still 
 I choose to invite you. I can find you something 
 to do." 
 
 Mrs. Franklin felt, that under her relation's 
 pertinacity there was kindness, and she accepted 
 his invitation. They were soon, therefore, esta- 
 blished at Richmond ; and Alice * found, that 
 under his roof she could give way to the buoyant 
 gladness of her heart without dread. The spring- 
 time of her life seemed now to have come; and 
 while she diffused gladness through the quiet 
 house, she every day became more dear to its 
 master. 
 
 Before we close this chapter we must say a word 
 or two respecting Mr. Anthony Sharpie. He was 
 the son of a John Sharpie, who held the steward- 
 ship of Stanton-Combe, in the days of Sir 
 Thomas's father. When the masculine and ma- 
 naging lady, who had dismissed Sir Thomas, took 
 upon herself the conduct of affairs, she and her 
 steward quarrelled. He made his complaint to 
 the exiled brother in London, who advised him 
 to send his son to London to study law, and 
 to go himself back to Stanton-Combe, and 
 humble himself to the reigning powers. He did 
 so, and was reinstated ; maintaining, unknown to 
 his mistress, a good understanding ever after with 
 1Sir Thomas. In process of time he died, but no 
 second steward filled his place, and his son An- 
 thony, then a growing solicitor in London, was 
 made legal adviser and confidant of the lady of 
 Stanton-Combe. He was the devoted creature of 
 his patron, and not only by possessing the con- 
 
16 STANTON-COMBE 
 
 fidence of Mrs. Durant, but through his yearly 
 visits to the hall, could impart to Sir Thomas 
 whatever information he required. We shall see 
 hereafter how the colleaguing of these two affected 
 the interests of the family at Stanton-Combe. 
 
 Such was the Anthony Sharpie whom Sir 
 Thomas Dtrrant designed for the husband of the 
 fair Alice Franklin. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 STANTON-COMBE AND ITS INHABITANTS. 
 
 The house and manor of Stanton-Combe had 
 been in the family of the Durants from the time 
 of the seventh Henry. The acme of the family 
 splendour was in the reign of William and Mary, 
 when a marriage with a rich city heiress enabled 
 the then possessor, Richard, to assume a greater 
 style of living. The pictures of all the family, by 
 Sir Godfrey Kneller and Wissing, bore testimony to 
 the liberal expenditure of the house, as well from 
 the value of the paintings themselves, as from the 
 splendour of the dress and jewels both of men and 
 women. Many were the traditions of the honour 
 and glory of those days, which descended like rays 
 of light through the darker times that succeeded. 
 
 From those splendid days, in which it was said 
 that the very stone balustrades of the garden- 
 terrace were gilded — no sign of good taste cer- 
 tainly — the troubles and embarrassments of the 
 house commenced. The city heiress left five sons 
 
AND ITS INHABITANTS. 17 
 
 and nine daughters to be provided for ; three of 
 whom marrying into noble families of small estate, 
 were a drain upon the parent-wealth ; while all 
 the others, living to a good old age, kept up, as 
 annuitants, an inexhaustible claim. At the end of 
 that generation they were but little the better for 
 the two hundred thousand pounds of the fair Kitty 
 Perkins ; nay, they were so much the worse, for 
 they had acquired habits of expensive living. 
 From that time each succeeding generation 
 found itself in narrower and narrower circum- 
 stances. The family lived upon the glory that 
 had been. The furniture of the house grew dim- 
 mer and dimmer; the family jewels fewer and 
 fewer; woods were felled, and farms sold, till at 
 length nothing remained which was not strictly 
 entailed — the house itself, and the home farm — 
 and even upon this, the father of Edward and 
 Thomas Durant had taken up money. It was 
 said that his embarrassed circumstances shortened 
 his days. 
 
 Edward Durant, as we have said, married a 
 domineering, high-spirited dame. She had been 
 the tyrant of her father's house ; and the mild, 
 pliant temper of her husband yielded to her with- 
 out a struggle. The first six months of her wed- 
 lock left her undivided sovereign over house and 
 land, man-servant and maid-servant, ox and ass, 
 and everything that the place contained. Her 
 husband wept when his mother and brother were 
 so summarily dismissed ; but he kept his tears 
 from his wife's knowledge. He also sent sundry 
 presents of game and fish to them in London, for 
 c2 
 
18 STANTON-COMBE 
 
 these were things he could obtain with his own 
 hand. They were always unacknowledged, it is 
 true, but his kind heart was not discouraged, and 
 at length he unfortunately ventured to put in a 
 turkey also. In three weeks' time this hamper 
 was returned with its unaccepted contents, and a 
 large amount of carriage to pay. Mrs. Durant 
 thus discovered her husband's offence — and more, 
 that the favourite turkey, which was supposed 
 to have been worried, had been offered to his 
 brother, and was now sent back with a cost of ten 
 shillings ! Poor man ! he never sent turkeys and 
 game again to London. 
 
 Mrs. Durant was not only masculine in her 
 temper, but in her tastes and manners also. She 
 could rein in a fiery horse whose mettle defied 
 the skill of a groom ; she saddled her own steed, 
 and mounted it with the agility of a man, and 
 scoured over the country in the chase, or on 
 business, with a speed and horsemanship that 
 equalled the most experienced riders of the other 
 sex. She invariably drove the carriage in which 
 her husband rode, after the first two months of their 
 marriage ; for at that time, as they were passing 
 one evening through a wood, they were beset by 
 robbers, and he, it was said, prayed her to take 
 the reins. The lady fired off her pistols, reloaded 
 them in an instant, did as he desired her, and 
 never afteiwards resigned the reins into his hands ; 
 he, good, easy man, sitting by her side, willingly 
 committing himself to the guidance of an arm as 
 strong as his own, and to a mind much stronger. 
 The carriage, however, soon ceased to be used at 
 
AND ITS INHABITANTS. 19 
 
 all ; horseback was much more suited to the lady's 
 taste, and Mr. Durant himself walked on foot 
 The style of Mrs. Durant's person was in perfect 
 accordance with her habits; somewhat above the 
 middle-size, with considerable pretensions to 
 beautj-, even when her youth was passed. Her 
 features were masculine, but finely formed; dark, 
 keen eyes ; a mouth indicative of strong charac- 
 ter, with teeth rather large, but beautifully white 
 and regular; a clear, but dark complexion, well- 
 pencilled brows, and hair black and glossy as the 
 wing of the eagle. She was unquestionably a 
 fine woman. Her dress was peculiar, but in 
 character: she wore her hair confined in a black 
 silk net, with short ringlets on her temples, small 
 gold rings in her ears, to which, when in high 
 costume, were suspended immense gold pendants; 
 invariably a blue riding-habit, worn at home of a 
 walking length. When she went out, she merely 
 added a long blue cloth riding-skirt, with a black 
 beaver hat, belted with a gold buckle, to which, 
 when intending to make a better appearance than 
 ordinary, she added a small black feather. Her 
 feet were invariably cased in strong leather boots; 
 and she was known, the whole country over, as 
 " Jack Durant." 
 
 Of course, such a person as we have described 
 her to be, did not hold much intercourse with the 
 ladies of her neighbourhood; they regarded her 
 as hardly respectable ; while she thought of them 
 as inferior creatures — a kind of dolls of larger 
 growth. She had, however, one female friend, 
 
20 STANTON-COMBE 
 
 the widow of Sir Sampson Thicknisse, of Starkey, 
 in Northumberland. Lady Thicknisse was a stout, 
 stately, and most important personage, whose hus- 
 band, a vehement fox-hunter, had been, in his 
 life-time, a great admirer of Mrs. Durant and her 
 spirited horsemanship. About the time of her 
 marriage, Sir Sampson was thrown from his horse 
 in a steeple-chase, and broke his neck. He left 
 no children, and the estate would have passed to 
 a collateral branch, had not Lady Thicknisse, who 
 reckoned herself skilled in law, and was deep-read 
 in wills, deeds, and settlements, luckily discovered 
 certain flaws in some deed or title, by which she 
 held the next heir in terrorem, and purchased, 
 by her silence, possession of the estate during 
 her life. Such was Mrs. Durant's sole female 
 friend. 
 
 A very different person to her was the smally 
 portioned maiden sister of Sir Sampson, Mrs. 
 Betty Thicknisse, several years the senior both of 
 her brother and sister-in-law. Where Lady 
 Thicknisse wore lace, Mrs. Betty wore lawn. 
 The satins, and gold and silver brocades of Lady 
 Thicknisse, were tabinets and ducapes with Mrs. 
 B,etty : Mrs. Betty arranged the dinners which 
 the other ate, and got up her lace ruffles* and 
 made up her lace caps : Mrs. Betty visited the 
 poor — Lady Thicknisse gave away beef at Christ- 
 mas : Mrs. Betty read her Bible in her closet, 
 and Lady Thicknisse always kept hers open on a 
 stand beside her : Lady Thicknisse was the dear 
 friejid and honoured confident and councillor of 
 
AND ITS INHABITANTS. 21 
 
 Mrs. Durant ; Mrs. Betty was the respected ac- 
 quaintance of Mrs. Durant's husband. That 
 alone implied a great difference. 
 
 For many years Mrs. Durant did not seem 
 likely to become the mother of a living child ; an 
 event which, unmatronly as were her temper and 
 character, caused her much grief. At length, 
 however, a son was born, who, unlike his little 
 predecessors, came to live. Many were the letters 
 which the lady of Starkey wrote on this occasion, 
 and abundantly splendid were the offerings of 
 silver panakin, boat, and spoon for the child, and 
 a silver-gilt caudle-cup fbr the mother. Lady 
 Thicknisse was, of course, solicited to be god- 
 mother ; and accordingly she came in her heavy 
 coach-and-four, bringing with her the christening 
 cap of point-lace, and the mantle of white satin 
 sprigged with silver, together with a hundred 
 pounds, in an embroidered purse, which was put 
 into the child's little hands with his god-mother's 
 blessing. It was a grand christening. Such a chris- 
 tening-feast as that had never been held at Stan- 
 ton-Combe before — not even in the days of Kitty 
 Perkins and her fourteen children. The boy was 
 named Richard, after that fortunate ancestor ; and 
 when the god-mother had showered her bounty on 
 priest and nurse likewise, she departed, in her 
 heavy coach-and-four, leaving a long and bright 
 memory, like a streaming glory, behind her. 
 
 Mrs. Durant's heart was capable of the most 
 intense affection, as was proved by her love, and 
 her unwearied care and attention to the child. 
 Nothing less than such care as she bestowed upon 
 
22 STANTON-COMBE 
 
 him could have kept him alive ; for the first many 
 months of his existence were marked by extreme 
 feebleness. Night and day she watched over him, 
 getting such snatches of sleep as she could, and 
 seeming incapable of fatigue while caring for this 
 beloved being. Her affection was like the animal's 
 passion for its young — an absorbing sentiment; 
 and she, who beforetime had appeared the most 
 unfemlnine of women, showed tenderness and 
 patience, and such unwearying devotion, as more 
 gentle or sentimental mothers could form no 
 idea of. As months went on, and the little crea- 
 ture began to outgrow the early debility of his 
 constitution, his mother resumed her former occu- 
 pations — making everything, however, subservient 
 to this master affection ; and she might be seen 
 looking after her grooms, or her dogs, with the 
 child in her arms. His education began early ; 
 he was indulged in every wish, and whoever had 
 dared to cross his desires or temper, would have 
 received the severest reproofs from his mother. 
 He grew strong, and hale, and rosy ; and before 
 he could walk he learned to ride. His mother 
 carried him on horseback before her, and he sat 
 on her knee when she drove. He was the idol of 
 her soul. People wondered that she had so faith- 
 fully enacted the nurse ; but had he required ten 
 times the care, ten times the anxiety, she would 
 have been capable of all. Well indeed did she 
 think herself repaid as the brave little fellow, 
 at two years old, followed her about with the 
 dogs ; and though at four he was wild and wilful, 
 and unmanageable as an unbroken colt, she saw 
 
AND ITS INHABITANTS. 23 
 
 in it nothing but evidence of a fine manly spirit. 
 Whatever he did was right in her eyes. 
 
 At six years old they might be met on 
 their morning's ride, twenty miles from home, he 
 on his little horse, oooted and spurred, belted, 
 and clad in scarlet, the most accomplished of little 
 horsemen in three counties. It would have been 
 also impossible to have found a child more at- 
 tractive in appearance than he. His complexion 
 glowed with life, health, and buoyant spirits ; his 
 eyes sparkled; and his long, curling, dark hair, 
 which, according to the fashion of the time, was 
 worn long, fell on his shoulders. Wherever he 
 went, admiring eyes followed him, filling the heart 
 of his mother with undisguised pride. 
 
 At ten, his mother had him no longer under 
 control ; and in order to obtain the slightest sub- 
 mission, she resorted to bribes and flattery. He 
 should have the pony, for which he had been teaz- 
 ing her, if he would learn his lessons ; he should 
 have the gilt spurs, if he would go to church ; or 
 he should go to the races, if he would give up some 
 fancy, injurious or inconvenient, no doubt, upon 
 which he was bent. Thus he soon learned to take 
 advantage of his mother's affection, and every duty 
 was soon bargained for by him. 
 
 But we have gone on too fast. We must return 
 now to the time when Dick was three years old. 
 At that time Mrs. Durant became the mother of 
 another child — a daughter. Had it been a boy, 
 she could not have had the same & Section for it as 
 for the elder; but for a girl she had almost a 
 contempt. The infant was given over to the care 
 
24 STANTON-COMBE 
 
 of its nurse ; but the heart of the father yearned 
 towards this little neglected one. He visited her 
 nursery daily ; took her in his arms ; hushed her 
 to sleep, and placed her tenderly in her cradle. 
 When her mother had been asked, at the time of 
 baptism, what name she wished the child to bear, 
 she answered carelessly, that it was indifferent to 
 her. Her father, therefore, who in his own mind 
 fixed upon his friend Mrs. Betty Thicknisse for 
 the god-mother, suggested her name, and she was 
 baptized Elizabeth. 
 
 Mrs. Betty was no traveller, and yet on this 
 interesting occasion she came to Stanton-Combe. 
 She could not command a coach-and-four ; she 
 therefore came riding double — it was a common 
 style then, even for a gentlewoman — behind an 
 ancient serving-man. Her offerings to the child 
 she brought in a curiously carved ivory box, an 
 old heir-loom, which she carried on her knee ; a 
 delicate cap of her own needlework ; a cambric 
 cloak trimed with fine old lace — it was fortunately 
 summer — and a pair of diamond ear-rings. Be- 
 sides these was a small packet, which the good 
 lady seemed to think the most important of all ; 
 it contained a penny loaf, a hard-boiled egg, and 
 a bunch of matches. These she placed upon the 
 lap of the child, making her receive each sepa- 
 rately into her little hands, and with each she gave 
 a kiss and a blessing, with the wish that she might 
 never know the want of bread, have gold and 
 silver in plenty, and make a happy marriage. 
 
 Mrs. Betty Thicknisse was greatly pleased with 
 her god-child, and Mr. Durant was the most at- 
 
AND ITS INHABITANTS. 25 
 
 tentive of hosts. She pronounced her visit, at 
 parting, to have been one of unmixed satisfaction, 
 and Mr. Durant himself escorted her the first 
 stages of her homeward journey. 
 
 Although there was neither pomp nor ceremony 
 about the birth or christening of the little Eliza- 
 both, her infancy was not neglected. In the same 
 degree in which the mother gave up her whole 
 soul to her son, the weak-minded but amiable 
 father took his younger child to his bosom, and 
 she became to him more than a daughter. It was 
 a pleasant thing to see the old man — for age had 
 come upon him before his years — directing the 
 steps of the little fairy along the garden-paths, 
 gathering flowers for her, showing her birds and 
 butterflies, making her familiar with the beautiful 
 tints of skies and leaves, and pouring into her 
 spirit all the sweetness, and purity, and freshness 
 of nature. In return, she gave him the most 
 entire affection ; and if the childhood of the little 
 Elizabeth was less animated and varied than that 
 of her brother, it was not less happy. Yet the 
 children were never playfellows — at least soon 
 ceased to be so ; for Dick's animal spirits were so 
 vehement that his sport was like that of a young 
 lion, and his sister was saluted with kicks and 
 cuffs, bites and scratches. His tokens of good- 
 will were such as he bestowed upon his young 
 dogs ; but then his sister, unlike a dog, could not 
 bark and bite again, and her cries for help only 
 brought down upon her the contemptuous anger 
 of her njother, who, with upbraidings for her 
 D 
 
26 STANTON-COMBE 
 
 cowardice and feebleness, sent her off to keep 
 company with her father. Children, we know, 
 are imitative creatures; and the boy not only 
 imitated his mother's indifference, but saw fine 
 diversion in the little girl's terror, and very soon 
 menaced her with a doubled fist and a wag of the 
 head, whenever they chanced to meet; and this, 
 as the best means of defence, she took care should 
 be as seldom as possible. 
 
 As she grew up, her father taught her to read 
 and write, and, in fact, imparted to her all the 
 knowledge needful for her years. He no longer 
 seemed melancholy and forlorn ; his heart was 
 sustained by the affectionate duty of this beloved 
 child* who never was absent from his mind. " I 
 must tell Lizzy this," or, " show her that," was 
 his perpetual thought, and a kind smile or 
 greeting always welcomed her back jto his side. 
 Poor old man ! he was one of those with whom 
 small pleasures, and trivial wants, make up 
 the sum of life ; an affectionate child was his 
 fittest companion. She combed out his long white 
 locks every day, for that was one of his quiet 
 luxuries ; she presented his night-cap for his after- 
 dinner nap ; and then always awaited his waking 
 with his cup of chocolate and the newspaper in 
 her hand. " Bless you, my dear," was his in- 
 variable acknowledgment, " but I wish you a 
 better office !" 
 
 Many were the traditions both of his own 
 family, and of the country round, with which the 
 innocent old man's memory was stored, and 
 
AND ITS INHABITANTS. 27 
 
 nothing gave him greater pleasure than to relate 
 them over and over to his daughter; and many a 
 winter's day would they go slowly through the 
 feiately half-shut-up rooms of the mansion, that he 
 might relate the histories of the ancestors whose 
 portraits hung on the walls. This was the viscount, 
 the great man of the family, who fought in the 
 thirty years' war, and was honoured by Elizabeth 
 of Bohemia, from whom he received a valuable 
 ring. " I will ask your^ mother to show it you, 
 if she is not tired, to-night," he would say. Here 
 was the the portrait of old Madam Durant, of 
 whom such wonderful stories were current; she 
 was skilled in the black art, and had a brownie in 
 her service, who spun at night, when the family 
 was in bed, all that fine old linen which was con- 
 tained in a certain carved chest, and with which, 
 it was believed, the fortunes of the house were 
 woven. As long as that web lasted, the family 
 fortunes were not to decay : " for this reason," said 
 he to his little daughter, " that damask is never 
 worn: we will ask your mother for the key; for it 
 is mighty curious linen." 
 
 Many a time, too, while his wife and son were 
 careering over the country at the head of the 
 hunt, or were betting at races, or attending a 
 horse-fair, Elizabeth and her father were wander- 
 ing away into the far-off fields, through woods, 
 and by old wells, tracing out again the same 
 legendary histories. Here was the Hunter's Linn, 
 where the young heir of a noble house had pe- 
 rished in the fog, of a November day, when he had 
 gone forth 
 
28 STANTON-COMBE 
 
 With his good hound the deer to follow; 
 The large red deer at break of day, 
 
 O'er many a moss and moorland hollow. 
 
 And here too was the Lady's Well, of which also 
 spoke its particular legend : — 
 
 White as is the white hoar frost, 
 
 And white as is the snow, 
 The lady from the water clear 
 
 At full moon rises slow ; 
 And she who sees her smiling face. 
 
 Shall happy pass through life ; 
 But she who sees her when she weeps 
 
 Shall be a weeping wife. 
 
 " And is it true, father ?" the little girl would 
 inquire. 
 
 " Oh yes; no doubt of it!" the good old man 
 would say, for he himself believed it. " When I 
 was a boy it was a regular thing for young maidens 
 to watch the well. I have heard of many a one 
 who has seen her. But I would not, Lizzy love, 
 that you ever watched ; it is a sort of mistrusting 
 of Providence." 
 
 " No, father," she would reply ; " and besides 
 it is a dismal place." 
 
 Then again, they would ascend some particular 
 eminence. 
 
 " From this spot," said he one day, pointing all 
 round over a fair, broad landscape of green hills 
 and wooded hollows, " may be seen what once 
 was the inheritance of our house : a horseman, 
 well mounted, on a summer's day might have rid- 
 den round it." 
 
 " But what is the grey hall among yon wood?* 
 asked she. 
 
AND ITS INHABITANTS. 29 
 
 " That hall, with its seven farms," replied the 
 father, " came into our house with the heiress of 
 Denning Fells: her wedding-dress was worth as 
 many merks as she had acres." 
 
 " And yon ruined square tower?" asked Eliza- 
 beth. 
 
 " That mass of old masonry," replied he, " was 
 the dwelling of John of Hartlebury, the great 
 rival of our house. Our first ancestor and he 
 fought hand to hand seven times, and neither got 
 the better of the other. His lands became forfeit 
 to the crown in the reign of Edward the Sixth, 
 and were bestowed upon our house." 
 
 " I should like to go there, father," said she. 
 
 " It is too far, Lizzy, love, for your little feet," 
 returned he, kissing her ; " but, oh dear, what 
 old memories come over my mind as I think of 
 Hartlebury Tower ! I am but a fool for an old 
 man," said he, wiping his eyes — " but a sorry old 
 fool ! — but we used to go to Hartlebury Tower for 
 owls' nests." 
 
 " What, you and uncle Tom ?" asked the little 
 girl; for her father's boyhood and uncle Tom 
 were not unfrequently the subject of their talk ; 
 and she was used to see her father shed tears when 
 he spoke of those times. 
 
 " Ay, ay," replied he, " uncle Tom, for sure ! 
 He was a high-spirited lad, as bold as Dick, but 
 not half so boisterous ; Dick's too noisy for you 
 and me, dear — yes, yes — and he was fonder of 
 books than of out-of-door sports ; r.nd yet he never 
 could bear that I should outdo him, even in the 
 taking of an owl's nest ! Poor Tom ! he wondered 
 d2 
 
30 STANTON-COMBE 
 
 how it was that I could climb Hartlebury Tower 
 so much better than he, and he the better 
 scholar!" 
 
 " Why did uncle Tom go ?" asked the child. 
 
 " Bless you !" said he, pressing her little hand 
 in the glow of affection that for the moment inter- 
 rupted the current of his thoughts, " Why did 
 he go ? Oh, he was high-spirited, you see, and 
 took offence when I meant none. He left me 
 without so much as a c God bless you.' " 
 
 " It was very unkind," said she. " And did he 
 make you afraid of him, father?" asked she, a few 
 moments after; for from her experience of her 
 own brother she imagined so. 
 
 " I could always manage Tom," replied her fa- 
 ther, " clever as he was, and headstrong too, 
 when I was left to myself. He could never bear 
 to be beaten at anything — not even at climbing 
 Hartlebury Tower, nor in catching a minnow; 
 and, speaking of minnows, I had just one way of 
 managing him. Tom was no angler — he had no 
 patience for angling — and yet he could not bear that 
 I should beat him even in angling. Well, you see 
 that little brook all fringed with alders — a mighty 
 pleasant brook — and it was our favourite, for there 
 are deep, still hollows in it, where the fish lie. 
 Now Dick is no angler, or he might have good 
 sport there: but, bless me! I forgot that we" 
 have not the fishing of that brook now ! Well, 
 we had it then ; and as Tom was always out of 
 humour when he could not be first and best at 
 everything, I used to manage thus : while he sat 
 poring over his book, a good way from his line, I 
 
AND ITS INHABITANTS. 81 
 
 used to steal down to it, and hook him on a fine 
 fish, and then bid him keep an eye on his line , 
 and he, seeing there was something upon it, would 
 come up eagerly, and, never suspecting me, be in 
 good humour the rest of the day. Poor Tom ! I 
 had twenty ways of managing him !" 
 
 44 I wonder," said the little girl, " whether he 
 ever thinks of you, father?" 
 
 44 I hope he does," replied he: " and I am sure 
 he will remember nothing but what's good of me," 
 added he, with the single-mindedness and simpli- 
 city of his character. 
 
 44 But look, father, look !" exclaimed Elizabeth, 
 pointing to the meadows below ; " there's Dick 
 and my mother riding home. 
 
 44 Let us hasten too," said her father, 4< or we 
 shall be too late for dinner: they come home so 
 hungry after their rides, they never think of wait- 
 ing for us !" 
 
 44 It must be a fine thing to ride as well as Dick 
 does," said his sister. " Do you not think him 
 handsome, father? But I wish he were not so rude ; 
 he does talk so very loud I" 
 
 44 Dick will be just like his mother," replied he; 
 44 she was reckoned a great beauty when I mar- 
 ried her. But come along, Lizzy, love, or we 
 shall be too late !" 
 
 And ten to one, after all, they would be too 
 late, and only come in when Dick and his mother, 
 having dined, were regaling their dogs. 
 
32 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 SOWING. 
 
 Mrs. Durant could not bear to part with her 
 darling for school ; he was therefore taught as 
 chance directed, in such odds and ends of time 
 as could be spared from his multifarious occupa- 
 tions of huntsman, sportsman, groom, and jockey. 
 From his mother he learned the various arts, 
 crafts, and accomplishments which fitted him for 
 these characters ; riding, driving, firing at a mark, 
 knowing the points of a horse, betting with good 
 luck ; training horses and dogs, physicking them,, 
 and, if need were, even shoeing the former. There 
 was no lack of employment for every day, and all 
 day long. 
 
 By the time he was twelve, Dick Durant was 
 the glory of a horse-fair, and the admiration of the 
 race-course. Mrs. Durant was a proud woman, 
 and would not contradict, nor otherwise, as she 
 said, take down the spirit of a lad of his mettle. 
 
 A youth, such as we have described him, could 
 have neither time nor inclination for much learning. 
 The parish-clerk, however, " a desperate scholar," 
 as the village averred, was hired to teach him his 
 humanities ; yet so many were his occupations, in- 
 doors and out, that it was marvellous how he ever 
 learned to read and write. What Dick, however, 
 disregarded, his sister made great proficiency in. 
 Her father, as we have said, was her earliest in- 
 structor, and at five she knew more of primers 
 
SOWING. S3 
 
 and pot-hooks than he did at ten ; but as she had 
 a great desire for instruction, and the worthy 
 schoolmaster took a vast fancy to so teachable a 
 scholar, he filled up the time when Dick kept him 
 waiting, or altogether absented himself, by gra- 
 dually sliding her into the various branches in which 
 he was hired to instruct " Master Richard." 
 
 But the learning which Elizabeth gained from 
 this professor of the sciences was not at the sug- 
 gestion of her mother; for whenever she saw her 
 so employed, she sent her off with a reprimand, 
 and fetched in her son from the stable or kennel, 
 " that he might attend to his books as became a 
 gentleman." 
 
 At fifteen, his mother began to have some un- 
 pleasant misgivings as to her system of education. 
 The curate of the neighbouring parish was then 
 engaged as his tutor, and Dick was ordered to 
 ride over three times a-week, with all his lessons 
 prepared. The only rides that Dick ever objected 
 to were these ; and numerous and most ingenious 
 were the devices and excuses he had recourse to, 
 to avoid them ; he was even known to have lamed 
 his horse, as a reason for staying at home. His 
 mother coaxed, and threatened, and bribed ; and 
 at length he was so completely the master, that 
 he did not learn even a Latin verb without a re- 
 ward. All this suited him extremely well ; he 
 had no love for learning, and spite of the bribe he 
 had received for preparing his lessons, he played 
 truant whenever he could, that he might not have 
 the trouble of learning lessons for the next time. 
 Dick's conscience was not at all a sensitive one ; 
 
34 SOWING. 
 
 and he thought it a capital joke to cheat both his 
 mother and. his master. 
 
 At length the time came when he must go to 
 college. It was a hard thing for his mother to 
 part with him — the hardest trial she had known 
 for many years ; but to him it was pleasant enough. 
 Dick Durant gained great celebrity at Oxford, 
 but it was not of a creditable kind ; and from 
 time to time rumours reached Stan ton-Combe, 
 which troubled and displeased even his mother. 
 
 We have spoken about money difficulties which 
 weighed heavily upon the estate. The advances 
 which were made to Dick, during his college life, 
 added greatly to them. He had never been taught 
 the value of money, nor, what is even more im- 
 portant, the necessity of curbing his desires. It 
 was enough for his mother that he expressed a 
 wish; that wish w r as gratified, even at the cost of 
 others' comfort. When Dick, therefore, w r ent from 
 home, at the most inconsiderate and self-indulgent 
 time of life, he had no desire to study economy, 
 although his mother had often declared herself 
 " hard set to obtain even a pound." 
 
 The truth was, that by this time Anthony 
 Sharpie, of whom we before spoke, had assisted 
 Mrs. Durant to involve herself completely in 
 difficulties of all kinds. For many years, Sir 
 Thomas Durant, his patron, who, as our readers 
 are aware, had kept his eye upon his sister-in-law 
 and the family estate, had through Sharpie sup- 
 plied her with money on every emergency, until 
 the very amount of interest swallowed up all the 
 rent. The family, thriftless as it was, had to b' 
 
SOWING. 85 
 
 maintained, and year after year the interest of 
 Sharpies' s — or rather Sir Thomas's — money re- 
 mained unpaid till it became a mountain of debt. 
 Mrs. Durant kept hoping and hoping to clear off 
 something ; but every succeeding year found the 
 family expenses greater ; and Dick went to 
 college at the time when Mrs. Durant had almost 
 began to despair of things ever getting straight 
 again — at least before Dick married. Dick 
 was very handsome, and after he had .sown his 
 wild oats at college he would come back, she 
 hoped, marry some rich heiress, and clear off 
 all encumbrances at once. There was no end 
 to Mrs. Durant's hopfulness, when her son was 
 the subject. " Young men," she said, " must 
 not be too much controlled ; they were not like 
 women ; and it was a clear impossibility that they 
 could live without money ; they had a figure to 
 maintain in the world ; and Dick had always the 
 spirit of a gentleman. It was money," she said, 
 " that was well laid out. What signified a little 
 trifling difficulty now, there were only herself, 
 Lizzy, and the old man at home ? They would live 
 on bread and water, rather than that Richard should 
 deprive himself of what his standing in society 
 required ; she never thought mufch of a young 
 man being headstrong and extravagant; it was 
 natural, and was the sign of a fine spirit; Richard 
 would be the making of his family, as much as his 
 great ancestor Richard had been such before him." 
 So argued Mrs. Durant ; and never failed to have 
 arguments and reasons ready to excuse the dis- 
 orderly conduct for which he received public 
 
86 SOWING. 
 
 reprimands at college. At length she was in- 
 formed by the heads of his college, that his mis- 
 deeds could not longer be tolerated. Reproof 
 and disgrace produced no amendment upon him, 
 and Richard Durant was expelled. He returned 
 home, not ashamed, but enraged ; he made, of 
 course, his own statement to his mother, and she 
 declared he was infamously used. 
 
 Stanton-Cornbe was a dreary solitude to Dick, 
 after his return from his wild college life. He 
 got into divers scrapes ; made friends of poachers, 
 and went out with them at night ; joined strolling 
 players, and frequented fairs and wakes, where he 
 got into all kind of low-lived troubles ; till at 
 length, tired of this, his fancy took a wider range, 
 and he announced his intention of going to Lon- 
 don. His mother made no objection to this, for 
 she thought it would do him good to see the world. 
 Accordingly she sold her own blood horse, and 
 put sixty guineas into his purse, with a letter re- 
 commending him to the friendly care of Anthony 
 Sharpie ; and having seen him mounted on the 
 driving-box of the York mail, returned home with 
 a sense of loueliness at her heart ; for there was no 
 life nor joy to her where her son was not. 
 
 Nothing could have pleased Anthony Sharpie 
 and Sir Thomas Durant better than to have him 
 in London. His sixty guineas were soon spent 
 — all the sooner because Sharpie, who was his fre- 
 quent companion, had given him a hint, that if he 
 wanted money he had only to speak to him. 
 When was such a hint ever lost upon a thriftless 
 young man ? Money was had for the asking, and 
 
SOWING. 87 
 
 Richard led a merry life for three months. At 
 that time he attained his majority. It had been 
 .he anxious and fond wish of his mother, that this 
 birth-day, the happiest, as she thought, of all, 
 should be kept at home; and she had already laid 
 out the scheme of the day's festivity: but he knew 
 that London was gayer than Stanton-Combe, even 
 in its best days; and he laughed at the idea of 
 going down there, just to please an old woman, 
 who had set her heart on eating plum-pudding 
 with him, and drinking his health in old ale!" 
 
 By degrees unpleasant apprehensions stole into 
 Mrs. Durant's mind, and she wrote to Sharpie to 
 urge her son's return, and also to request that 
 money might not be advanced ; " although," said 
 she, " he is now his own master. But you know, 
 my good sir," she added, " the state of my affairs 
 as well as I do; and I do not wish my son to in- 
 volve himself in difficulties before he takes the 
 management into his own hands. He has but 
 one fault — a fault, I apprehend, common to most 
 young men — disinclination for business. I have 
 been unwilling, heretofore, to urge business upon 
 him ; but the time is now come when his good 
 sense will be stronger than my persuasions." 
 
 Anthony Sharpie smiled one of his most sinister 
 smiles as he read the letter, and saw the mother 
 was trying to impose upon her own judgment. 
 He, however, informed Richard of his mother's 
 wish for his return. Richard was angry that 
 u she should set Sharpie to meddle in his affairs," 
 and vowed " that he would not go back for all the 
 mothers in the world." Sharpie urged him no 
 
88 SOWING. 
 
 more ; and Sir Thomas was quite as well pleased 
 that he staid yet longer, and involved himself in 
 debts on his own account. At length, Richard 
 himself began to talk of returning ; and, as a yet 
 further step towards it, fixed upon a day. Sharpie 
 desired an interview with him on business. He 
 then made him listen to a long detail of money 
 matters, arrears of interest, and transfers of mort- 
 gages, through a period of ten or twelve years. 
 Had Sharpie spoken in the language of Tadmor 
 he could not have been more unintelligible. One 
 thing only could Dick understand — that no more 
 money could be advanced, either to him or to his 
 mother. Abundant were the apologies which 
 Sharpie made; and, so far he explained himself as 
 to confess, that he was but the agent of another 
 person — of the money-lender, in fact, who was 
 " now determined to put things on another foot- 
 ing !" He wished it were in his power to accom- 
 modate them with money, " but he himself," he 
 said, " was poor." Dick would have laughed at 
 such an assertion, at any other time, but the law- 
 yer's countenance had made him grave too. In- 
 stead, however, of seeing folly in his own reckless 
 extravagance, he only was angry with his mother, 
 M who had let his affairs," he said, "get into such 
 a ravel ! Was there no way," Richard asked, 
 " by which they could get out of the mess?" 
 Sharpie appeared to demur, and then suggested 
 that there was. " If the entail were annulled, 
 and sale of the land effected, all borrowed monies 
 might be cleared off." Dick did not like the idea 
 of parting with his partrimony, and refused. 
 
SOWING. 39 
 
 " We part then," said Sharpie; "and I must pre- 
 sent you with this small piece of paper, which, 
 you will see, demands, within six months, the re- 
 payment of all money lent, with legal interest 
 thereon." " It is impossible !" said Richard, 
 looking with horror at the long array of figures ; 
 " you know it to be impossible as well as I do I" 
 Sharpie did not deny that, and again mentioned 
 sale. Richard swore that sale should never be ; 
 and, desiring Sharpie to turn it over in his head, 
 took coach home ; " being determined," he said, 
 " to give the old woman a regular blowing up !" 
 
 Mrs. Durant was overjoyed to see her son, but 
 lie met her with reproaches; money quarrels are 
 always bitter ones; and a scene of altercation 
 followed, in which Richard out-stormed his mo- 
 ther, and she went to bed with a sore feeling at 
 her heart, that her son treated her with great un- 
 kindness. 
 
 There was nothing which Sir Thomas Durant 
 so much desired as, that the want of money should 
 be severely felt at Stanton-Combe. The time 
 which he desired was now come. In vain had 
 Mrs. Durant, foreseeing coming troubles, reduced 
 her own and the family's expenditure to the lowest 
 scale. She had parted, as we have seen, with her 
 own expensive horse ; she no longer allowed her- 
 self a new broad-cloth habit each season; she 
 attended no races, nor county balls, as she had 
 formerly done. She parted with every extra ser- 
 vant who contributed merely to her own, or her 
 husband's, or daughter's comfort. Richard only 
 retrenched nothing — nor, certainly, did his mother 
 
40 SOWING. 
 
 urge it upon him. " Poor follow !" said she, 
 u why should he?" So Richard kept his blood 
 horse still, with his groom, and a horse for his 
 groom. He had his roistering companions about 
 him, and plenty of old wine to drink. He had 
 his three or four suits a-year; his riding, his 
 shooting, his hunting, and his dress suits; his boots, 
 his hats, his whips, his spurs, his saddles; he saved 
 in nothing : even his gloves alone cost nearly as 
 much as his sister's clothes. 
 
 Mrs. Durant oftentimes, in the depths «f her 
 own mind, thought, though she never gave the 
 thought words, that Richard might have more 
 consideration than to spend so much upon himself; 
 yet at that very time she was making him Holland 
 shirts with cambric ruffles, each of which cost 
 above a pound ; and if any one — Anthony Sharpie, 
 or Lady Thicknisse — censured the young man's 
 extravagance, she not only stoutly defended him, 
 but resolutely took his part. " He was moderate 
 in all things," she said; " for a gentleman must 
 have his indulgences ; it mattered nothing to 
 women — they stayed at home, and nobody saw 
 them ; but as long as there was a stone about the 
 place, Dick should never go penny-lacking !" 
 
 If Mrs. Durant at any time remonstrated with 
 him, or spoke of the desperate state of affairs, 
 Dick, if he were in a bad humour, quarrelled with 
 her ; or, if otherwise, turned it off by declaring 
 that he would marry and retrieve all. 
 
 " I will marry," he said, " our neighbour, Miss 
 Letty Barham. She has twenty thousand pounds 
 — and that will do something; or, if she will 
 
A CHAPTER OF TROUBLES. 41 
 
 not have me, I'll have Nelly Nicholson: she's 
 older than you, mother, and never was so hand- 
 some; but Nelly would clear off all our incum- 
 brances at a stroke of her pen, and leave plenty 
 behind!" 
 
 At such sallies as these his mother laughed, and 
 called him a wag. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 A CHAPTER OF TROUBLES. 
 
 Twelve months after Richard's return from Lon- 
 don, the crisis, which had been so long approach- 
 ing, was at hand. Sharpie had refused further 
 advances, and again demanded payment of prin- 
 cipal and interest; and, more than that, Richard 
 was arrested for debt. Again, in desperation, 
 they applied to Sharpie. In return he sent the 
 draft of a deed for cutting off the entail, and a 
 letter recommending such a step. 
 
 " What!" exclaimed Mrs. Durant, when she 
 had hastily glanced over his letter, " that we 
 should make ourselves the derision of the country ; 
 that we should give every petty upstart in the 
 neighbourhood the opportunity of picking and 
 choosing this field or that! No, no, Richard, I 
 have not toiled night and day for that! I have not 
 seen to the tilling of the land, like the commonest 
 farmer, and attended markets and fairs, as no 
 other gentlewoman ever did before me, only to 
 e2 
 
42 A CHAPTER OF TROUBLES. 
 
 see your patrimony go from you, and you made 
 a beggar!" 
 
 She wept ; and he was troubled by her emotion. 
 For the first time in his life, Dick thought he had 
 done wrong ; so he gathered the papers together, 
 and said they would think about it again on the 
 morrow. Dick thought it over all night, and also 
 read the whole of Mr. Anthony Sharpie's letter, 
 postscript and all. The proposal did not ap- 
 pear quite so bad as at first it appeared. The 
 letter declared u the cutting off of the entail to 
 be merely a provisional step to satisfy the prin- 
 cipal creditor." Little did they think that was Sir 
 Thomas Durant. " That there would be no neces- 
 sity for public sale ; but it would merely pass 
 quietly into other hands: and, moreover, they 
 should remain as tenants in the place, until Mr. 
 Richard Durant's marriage, or some other means, 
 might enable them to repurchase the estate into 
 their own hands. They would merely have to 
 pay rent instead of interest; and besides, if, as 
 was most likely to be the case, the estate, on 
 fair valuation, was found to be worth more than 
 the amount of money borrowed, and the arrears 
 of interest due thereon, such money would enable 
 Richard to stock his farms, and would, in fact, 
 furnish a new capital — the very ready money of 
 which he now stood in need." 
 
 To Mrs. Durant's amazement, Dick came 
 down next morning dressed in his best. He was 
 going, he said, to ask the hand of Nelly Nichol- 
 son ; and if he had no luck there, he would e'en 
 do as Sharpie advised. 
 
A CHAPTER OF TROUBLES. 43 
 
 Before noon Richard returned from his wooing, 
 but with a dark cloud on his brow, that told how 
 he had sped. His mother made no inquiries. 
 It was enough that he had been rejected; her 
 heart bled for him, and she redoubled her kind- 
 ness. 
 
 He was disappointed and angry, and it was in 
 vain that she besought him to return a negative ' 
 to Sharpie — at all events to pause, or try his luck 
 elsewhere. He was, however, the wilful man that 
 would have his own way. - 
 
 In two months' time the whole estate had been 
 valued, the important documents drawn, and 
 Sharpie and another lawyer came down to Stan- 
 ton-Combe, to see them properly signed. 
 
 There was a deal of signing of names to trans- 
 fers of mortgages, and purchase deeds, and no- 
 body knows what. The poor old father, now sunk 
 into premature superannuation, signed his name 
 whenever he was desired to do so, yet forgot the 
 fact the moment afterwards. 
 
 We have said nothing of Elizabeth, of late, but, 
 of course, she had now grown to womanhood. She 
 was gentle and kind as the promise of her youth, 
 but a cipher in the family. She was fully aware 
 that all this signing of parchments had some deep 
 meaning; but though she ventured to inquire 
 what it might be, she was not favoured with any 
 satisfactory answer ; and when she suggested th.it 
 her father, in his present state, was not responsible 
 for his actions, and, therefore, his signatures could 
 not be valid, she was sharply reprimanded for her 
 interference; for although Mrs. Durant had sted- 
 
44 A CHAPTER OF TROUBLES. 
 
 fastly opposed the scheme at first, now that her 
 son was bent upon adopting it, she not only ac- 
 ceded, but felt bound to vindicate it also. 
 
 In three days' time Anthony Sharpie laid all 
 the deeds, properly signed and witnessed, before 
 Sir Thomas Durant. 
 
 " The bait has taken," said he; " they are fairly 
 hooked now." 
 
 " That is right !" ejaculated Sir Thomas. 
 
 " Stanton- Combe is now b ana fide yours, to 
 have and to hold for ever," said Sharpie; and 
 he pointed to the different places in which the 
 names of Edward and Richard Durant were 
 signed. 
 
 Sir Thomas glanced through the parchments, 
 and his eyes twinkled with satisfaction, and then 
 fixed intently on the signatures. If there had 
 been any goodness in his heart, it must have been 
 touched by those signatures. The feeble, totter- 
 ing handwriting of the old man, who had thus 
 made away with his birthright, not knowing what 
 he did ; and the hurried scrawl of the son, who had 
 done it as a man might take a fearful leap in the 
 dark, with temerity, and yet with dread. He, how- 
 ever, only remarked, in a cold voice, that they both 
 wrote very bad hands. The parchments were as 
 precious to his soul as gold, and he grasped them 
 tight, as he drove home in his coach. 
 
 Stanton-Combe had passed into other hands: 
 into those, Anthony Sharpie said, of the friendly 
 money-lender, whose agent he was, and he had 
 given his written assurance that the family should 
 remain on the estate. These words, however, 
 
A CHAPTER OF TROUBLES. 45 
 
 had another meaning than what Mrs. Durant and 
 her son understood; and nothing was further from 
 her ideas than that Anthony Sharpie was playing 
 them false. 
 
 Richard Durant received between seven and 
 eight thousand pounds, as the balance due to him 
 on the purchase of the estate. " A miserable 
 sum," said poor Mrs. Durant; and her heart sick- 
 ened when she thought of it as the sole inheritance 
 of that darling son for whom, in her eyes, the 
 crown and sceptre themselves would not have 
 been too costly a possession. However, they were 
 still tenants of the land, still inhabitants of the 
 house; and they had not only the assurance that 
 the family should always remain in " possession 
 as long as themselves desired it, but also that if 
 Richard, by marriage or otherwise, were enabled 
 to repurchase, he should do so;" and she tried to 
 be satisfied. She had urged upon Sharpie the 
 most profound secrecy ; and, being assured of this, 
 she most resolutely set about retrieving the for- 
 tunes of her son. " I shall not rest in my grave," 
 said she to herself, " unless I leavenim the un- 
 conditional master and heritor of the home of his 
 ancestors !" And, with an energy which her 
 strong, masculine character, as well as her. strong 
 affections prompted, she commenced, the accom- 
 plishment of her object. 
 
 Again retrenchment of all supernumerary Com- 
 forts and indulgence was the order of the da*y. 
 Still Richard's horse was continued, and Richard's 
 groom; and he, who had his pockets better filled 
 than they had been of late, with some portion of 
 
46 A CHAPTER OP TROUBLES 
 
 the seven thousand pounds, led a jovial life. He 
 rode in his scarlet coat to the hunt, attended races, 
 and dinners, and balls; his poor mother flattering 
 herself the while, that this was good policy; it was 
 keeping the knowledge of their affairs from their 
 neighbours ; and besides this, that in some of 
 these gaieties and goings abroad, Richard would 
 meet with the rich heiress whose gold was to re- 
 trieve his ruin. 
 
 Mrs. Durant with renewed energy saw to the 
 ploughing and the sowing of the land; she visited 
 the cribs of the cattle in the farrn-yard, and busied 
 herself all the winter with her farming occupations. 
 One trouble, however, haunted her — the indif- 
 ference, it not neglect, of her son. She would 
 not have permitted him, it is true, to have taken 
 any servile part upon himself; she only wanted his 
 sympathy — some evidence of his affection upon 
 which her heart might gladden. But she had 
 sown to the whirlwind, and she had to reap of the 
 blast. 
 
 It was a melancholy winter; and what made it 
 worse wavxhat she could complain to no one. 
 She had enough to do to screen her son from the 
 world's censure, without becoming his accuser. 
 
 In the spring, when Mrs. Durant was blessing 
 herself with the promising appearance of her 
 winter s crops, and had finished sowing her spring- 
 wheat, and began to count the profits of the next 
 harvest, she received a letter from Anthony 
 Sharpie, informing her that the former mortgagee 
 and money-lender, now possessor of Stanton- 
 Combe, was their near kinsman Sir Thomas 
 
A CHAPTER OF TROUBLES. 47 
 
 Durant; adding, that to his infinite regret, and 
 contrary to his expectations, she and her family 
 must remove from the place. And further, to 
 enforce that purpose, a letter to the same effect 
 was enclosed for her son, containing a legal notice 
 to quit on or before the twenty-ninth of Septem- 
 ber next ensuing. 
 
 Nothing could equal her consternation on read- 
 ing this epistle. No suspicion of double-dealing 
 on the part of Sharpie had ever crossed her mind 
 before. She knew not what to do. Richard was 
 gone to York assizes, and, as he had many ac- 
 quaintances up and down, it was uncertain where 
 to find him. She was quite adrift in her judg- 
 ment. Sometimes she thought of making the 
 whole affair known to her neighbours; but then 
 the bitter secret of Stanton-Combe having gone 
 from them would transpire. It never entered her 
 head to do the thing which, of all others, would 
 have been most natural and wise — to counsel with 
 her daughter. That daughter, it is true, had 
 gradually been permitted to take upon herself 
 some share of the domestic management, and her 
 mother had received from her consideration and 
 kindness which, had they been shown by her 
 brother would have made her the happiest of 
 women: still she never made a confidant of her 
 daughter; it would have been her last thought. 
 
 Mrs. Durant wrote to Sharpie in the height of 
 her indignation, and declared she would keep him 
 to his promise; and that she valued his notice- 
 paper no more than a straw ; and that, while there 
 remained a single tile upon the roof, no power on 
 
48 A CHAPTER OF TROUBLES. 
 
 earth should force her to leave its shelter. Hav- 
 ing taken this resolution, she determined to say 
 nothing whatever to her son on the subject ; more 
 especially as he was then paying court to the 
 daughter of a rich baronet, whose fortune was but 
 little inferior to the fair Kitty Perkins's. " I will 
 never cross his love with ill tidings," said she. 
 
 The summer went on without any further com- 
 munication with London. The harvests ripened, 
 and were well got in, and the twenty-ninth of 
 September passed without interruption. Very 
 glad indeed was Mrs. Durant, now that she had 
 kept all that vexation to herself. She thought it 
 was merely a threat by which the unkind kinsman 
 would fain distress and annoy them; and as 
 Richard was again unsuccessful in his wooing, she 
 doubly rejoiced that he had been ignorant of it. 
 
 She however waited with painful apprehension 
 the coming of any letters or packets; but none, 
 either from Sharpie or Sir Thomas, arrived. She 
 paid the first half-year's rent: a galling thing; 
 but she called it interest; and under that head 
 she entered it in her ledger. 
 
 October passed on, and no tidings reached them, 
 and in November Mrs. Durant remembered that 
 one day passed in which she had forgotten hex 
 apprehensions. But the time of trouble was ap- 
 proaching. 
 
49 
 
 CHAPTER VI. v 
 
 THREATENED EJECTMENT. 
 
 On the last day of November, a dark, heavy 
 coach-and-four, with two out-riders, arrived in the 
 afternoon at the D want Arms in the village of 
 Stanton. 
 
 Two gentlemen, one elderly though still active, 
 descended from the coach, desiring rooms for the 
 night, and it might be for several nights. Nothing 
 could exceed the bustle and excitement which this 
 arrival produced. The bunch of dead michael- 
 mas-daisies, a month old, was taken from the 
 grate of the large, damp, best parlour of the inn ; 
 the shutters were closed, and a fire laid, lit, and 
 coaxed into burning with all possible despatch. 
 The landlord bustled about, in doors and out; the 
 landlady looked important; a sound of frying, and 
 savoury smells, went forth from the kitchen ; and 
 the curious villagers, who peeped in through the 
 window-shutters, as the evening closed in, were 
 able to announce that mutton chops and roast 
 pullets were being served for the travellers' dinner. 
 In the inn-yard, others found the lame ostler and 
 the postillions, busy as possible, rubbing down the 
 hprses, while equal care seemed to have been 
 taken to accommodate the large and handsome 
 coach. This coach was soon perceived to be 
 much grander and newer than the one at Stanton- 
 Combe, which, however, had not now been seen 
 
 F 
 
50 THREATENED EJECTMENT. 
 
 for many a day ; the arms, nevertheless, were the 
 same ; and then it was discovered that this was no 
 other than Sir Thomas Durant, the great lawyer, 
 from London: " own brother," said the villagers, 
 " to our Mr. Durant, come on a visit to his rela- 
 tions, no doubt on't." All this furnished a rich 
 topic of conversation, not only in the bar of the 
 Durant Arms, but in the kitchen of the Seven 
 Stars, the inferor public-house, and by the black- 
 smith's forge also. The Durants had never been 
 so much talked over before, not even when, five- 
 and-thirty .years before, " the new lady" had 
 sent the younger son into the world; nor yet in 
 later years, when the growing difficulties of the 
 family, and Dick's wild pranks, furnished subject 
 for wonder and speculation. 
 
 While u all the world" of Stanton was talking 
 over these things, Sir Thomas and his companion, 
 Anthony Sharpie, accompanied by a third person, 
 who walked considerably in the rear, were wend- 
 ing their way up to the Hall. 
 
 It was a damp and cheerless evening — a true 
 November night — although the moon was about 
 the full. The trees were nearly stripped of their 
 leaves, which lay matted and wet below, and clogged 
 the feet of the passenger as he trod among them. 
 The wind was not loud nor strong, but was heard 
 in the bare tree-tops sending forth long and deep 
 soughs like the sobbing of a child. It was one of 
 those evenings which would diffuse a pleasant 
 melancholy over a mind at ease; but a troubled 
 spirit would have been oppressed with its gloomy 
 
THREATENED EJECTMENT. 51 
 
 character, especially if felt amid such desolate 
 gardens, and such old neglected avenues as those 
 of Stanton-Combe. 
 
 Even on a summer's day the aspect of the place 
 might have saddened a common beholder, from 
 the sense it gave of the decay of an old family. 
 For while money yet was plentiful, and expendi- 
 ture lavish, the place had been suffered to go to 
 decay, because for several generations its income 
 had been below its demands. Its garden-walls 
 were now grey and mossy ; its steps and terraces 
 thrown down or broken, and from their chinks 
 and among their ruins, snap-dragons, wall-flowers, 
 and dandelions grew abundantly. In one corner 
 stood a summer-house with leaded roof and fine 
 carved stone front, but the wood-work was 
 weather-worn and fallen to decay, the windows 
 taken out, and one of them used as the sub- 
 stitute for the glass of a hot-bed frame. The 
 grass of the broad lawns was untrimmed, and had 
 encroached upon the unweeded gravel. The long 
 lines of low balustraded wall, which bounded the 
 sunny side of the flower-garden and shrubbery, was 
 in some places mouldering brick by brick, in others 
 cracked and bulging outward, and propped by 
 stout pieces of timber; while one of the richly 
 carved urns which surmounted its pillared ex- 
 tremities, was broken by the fall of a strong tree- 
 branch, and the other thrown to the ground and 
 half buried by tali weeds. Nor was this charac- 
 ter of desolation and unthrift confined alone to the 
 out-buildings and gardens; it extended itself also to 
 the house, which never, of late years, had ap- 
 
52 THREATENED EJECTMENT. 
 
 peared to be wholly inhabited. Smoke rose, but 
 from very few of its many chimneys, and the in- 
 side shutters of its windows were either half or 
 entirely closed from year's end to year's end. 
 
 All this could be seen only in part by Sir 
 Thomas Durant, as he neared the place: he, how- 
 ever, could not help feeling and remarking to his 
 companion as they walked on, that, as far as he 
 could judge, everything seemed shockingly ne- 
 glected. As they came within view of the house, 
 a dim light, as of a fire, showed itself through two 
 of the windows of the first floor — the windows of 
 that very room, Sir Thomas knew, where he had 
 parted from his family — the familiar old dining- 
 room. 
 
 On this particular evening, the old man, Sir 
 Thomas's brother, sat asleep in his chair; Eliza- 
 beth was seated on a low stool, reading by fire- 
 light, and Mrs. Durant and Richard were playing 
 at billiards at a small table which was placed in a 
 large recess, or small ante-room, at the bottom of 
 the apartment, lighted by a lamp suspended from 
 the ceiling. All was profoundly still, except the 
 crackling of the wood in the large low grate, and . 
 the striking of the balls in the little billiard-room. 
 
 A sharp pang went through the soul of Mrs. 
 Durant as she heard the undoing of the iron 
 fastenings of the large wrought-iron gate which 
 terminated the fifty yards of flagged walk thai led 
 from the principal entrance. It was not often 
 that that gate was opened, and who could this be 
 that seemed familiar with it ? The chain dropped 
 upon the flags, and the hoarse creak of the iron 
 
THREATENED EJECTMENT. 53 
 
 hinge in its socket was heard. She, however, 
 only heard it — Dick was eager in his game, and 
 Elizabeth was engrossed by her book. The next 
 moment footsteps ascended to the door, and a 
 thundering knock was heard. She needed not to 
 be told what it meant; but a moment sufficed for 
 her alarm, and then she stood calm and nerved 
 for whatever might happen. Richard threw down 
 his cue and hastily took a light, while Elizabeth 
 sprung to her feet, less alarmed than apprehensive 
 that sounds so strange and unaccustomed might 
 terrify her father. " Who can this be ? what can 
 it mean?" broke from both Elizabeth and her 
 brother, as the knock, which had not been 
 answered by any servant, sounded again with in- 
 creased violence. 
 
 Richard thought it was some of his roistering 
 friends in a drunken frolic, and he smiled when he 
 saw his mother, with her countenance compressed 
 into unusual firmness, go to the door; for he 
 thought there would-be some sport. 
 
 A servant, who half an hour ^before had re- 
 turned from plough, and whose dress — a carter's 
 frock and livery breeches — was a comment on the 
 history of the latter days of the family, was, with 
 the greatest possible attempt at haste, puzzling 
 himself to undo the door. At another time the 
 lady would have impatiently thrust the awkward 
 servant aside, and have applied her equally strong 
 arm and better skill, to have undone the fasten- 
 ings ; but she let him take his time now, and even 
 admonished him to silence when he shouted to the 
 strangers outside, that he was doing Lis best to 
 F 2 
 
54 THREATENED EJECTMENT. 
 
 admit them, for she tolerably well divined that 
 their errand was for no good. 
 
 At length the door flew open, and she received 
 Sir Thomas Durant, followed by Mr. Anthony 
 Sharpie, and the third party of whom we spoke. 
 
 Sharpie made an attempt at introducing his 
 patron, but he was not regarded, and Mrs. Durant 
 haughtily inquired from Sir Thomas, to what they 
 owed the honour of his visit? He demanded, 
 in reply, why he was kept out of his own house ? 
 
 Sir Thomas, to whom the place was familiar, 
 regardless of his sister-in-law's opposition, passed 
 on to the room in which he had seen the light. 
 Mrs. Durant followed him as quickly as possible, 
 wishing to enter first, Sharpie endeavouring in 
 vain to detain her, speaking of " infinite regret, 
 greatest possible esteem, and absolute necessity ." 
 She, however, with the utmost contempt, flung 
 him from her, and entered the door with Sir 
 Thomas. 
 
 The uncle had never seen his nephew, but he 
 recognised the relationship instantly that Richard 
 stood before him, and demanded from him, in a 
 tone of anger and authority, " why so much 
 trouble was given him ?" and then, motioning to 
 that third person in the rear, a paper of ejectment 
 was put into Richard's hand, requiring him to 
 remove from the dwelling-house of Stanton- 
 Combe, with all his goods, chattels, and other 
 effects, within the next four-and-twenty hours. 
 Richard stared in utter amazement — for it must 
 be remembered that the probability of this had 
 been kept from him. His mother, however, per- 
 
THREATENED EJECTMENT. 55 
 
 fectly understood it, and, snatching the paper from 
 her son, tore it into shreds, and faced the kins- 
 man. 
 
 " Mr. Thomas Durant," she began. 
 
 " Sir Thomas, if you please," interrupted 
 Sharpie, rubbing his hands. 
 
 " Be still, cockatrice !" shouted she, and again 
 turned to her kinsman. " Mr. Thomas Durant," 
 said she, " do your worst ! Turn your poor 
 superannuated brother into the open fields, and 
 thank God that it is winter, that he may die of 
 cold ! Turn his children out into the wide world, 
 and thank God that you first made them beggars! 
 Do your worst !" 
 
 " Madam," began Sir Thomas. 
 
 " Yes, do your worst!" repeated she; "if you 
 can do worse than make them homeless and 
 pennyless !" 
 
 " Mrs. Durant," said Sir Thomas, with a de- 
 liberation and coolness of voice that elicited 
 attention even from her, "there was a time when 
 I was sent hence as an intruder-^a pennyless ad- 
 venturer into the world ! Do you remember that ? 
 — most likely not — for the memory of an injury 
 done, is like an impression upon water, soon 
 effaced; but an injury received, is like a stone 
 thrown against a mirror — the impression is retained 
 for ever! Do you remember, I say, my going 
 pennyless out of this very door? No, no, you 
 don't remember it," said he with a bitter sneer; 
 " but I do !" 
 
 " Tom ! Tom !" screamed the feeble tenor of 
 the old man's voice; " I know that is Tom speak- 
 
56 THREATENED EJECTMENT. 
 
 ing! What does he say? Pennyless! — is he 
 pennyless? Give me your hand, Tom !" said he, 
 rising, spite of the efforts of his daughter to sooth 
 him and keep him back. " Shake hands with me, 
 Tom ! shake hands, for it is twenty — twenty — 
 ay, it must be twenty years since I saw ye ! 
 Shake hands, Tom !" and his daughter supported 
 his feeble steps along the floor. 
 
 " Keep him back!" said Sir Thomas to his 
 niece. 
 
 " Did he say, * keep me back/ Lizzy, love ?" 
 inquired he, looking into her face with the sim- 
 plicity of a child. " Nay, nay ! I will not be 
 kept back; am not I glad to see him? and I 
 could always manage him, let him be ever so 
 angry ! Give me your hand — speak to me, bro- 
 ther!" said he, putting forth his thin, feeble hand. 
 
 " You did not tell me of his state; you should 
 not have suffered this !" said Sir Thomas, in an 
 under tone, to Sharpie. 
 
 " Brother !" said the poor old man, weeping like 
 a child; "and you have been away so long, and 
 yet come back again angry I Dear, dear ! I 
 could not have thought that ! But, Tom, I once 
 saved your life, when you fell into the mill-dam; 
 are you still angry ? You beat me, but I forgave 
 you; you told lies of me, but I forgave you: I 
 always loved you; and yet you come back again 
 and are angry !" 
 
 The hard features of Sir Thomas relaxed ; and, 
 for the moment, he made no attempt to withdraw 
 the hand which the other held; and he again went 
 on. 
 
THREATENED EJECTMENT. 57 
 
 " Did you say you were poor, Tom ? Oh, if 
 you are poor we will give you money; my wife 
 will give you money, for we have plenty. Are 
 you hungry ? We have plenty of meat here ! 
 Speak only one word to me, Tom. I am an old 
 man !" and he sobbed again like a child. 
 
 Elizabeth wept too. Mrs. Durant stood un- 
 moved, so did Richard; and Sir Thomas begin- 
 ing to think there had been too much of this scene, 
 cast angry glances on his sister-in-law, and bade 
 her remove her husband. 
 
 " Brother !" again said he, resisting the efforts 
 Elizabeth made to remove him; " Brother, we 
 are all glad to see you ! Mrs. Durant," said he, 
 turning to his wife, " you are heartily glad to see 
 him — tell him so ! Dick, make your duty to your 
 uncle ! Lizzy, love, this is your uncle Tom. I 
 have often told you about him; you must love 
 him, Lizzy!" 
 
 "Father, father! say no more!" whispered 
 his daughter, seeing plainly that her uncle's visit 
 was anything but one of friendship. " Come with 
 me, dearest father !" and- unloosing his hands from 
 their hold upon his brother, she endeavoured to 
 lead him away. 
 
 " Husband!" said Mrs. Durant, seeing him 
 turn to go away with his daughter, " this is your 
 brother, come to rob your children of their patri- 
 mony ; come to turn you and them out of doors ! 
 To drive them," she continued, with hysterical 
 energy, " from house and from home, from bed, 
 board, arid fireside !" 
 
 The old man turned back again, and, lifting up 
 
58 THREATENED EJECTMENT. 
 
 his feeble arms, exclaimed, " In the face of 
 Heaven, tell me, Tom, is it so ?" 
 
 Sir Thomas Durant was pale, both with emo- 
 tion and anger. " What I have paid for," said 
 he, " is it not mine own ? Did not thine own 
 hand sign the deed by which this inheritance be- 
 came mine?" 
 
 " No ! no ! never !" screamed the old man. 
 " Never ! I will die rather than sell my birth- 
 right ! Thou shalt not have it — I tell thee thou 
 shalt not ! I will not sell my children's inheri- 
 tance ! I will not ! By Heaven, I will not !' 
 
 " You have done it already !" replied his brother. 
 
 " Have I ?" exclaimed the poor old man. " No, 
 I think not ! I love my children too well. I am 
 a feeble old man, I know; but I should never do 
 that; and I never will!" exclaimed he; "and, 
 clever as you are, Tom, you shall never persuade 
 me to it ! No, no ! I will not make my children 
 beggars ! and may him that counsels it, and he 
 that does it, perish in the ruin it will bring !" At 
 this moment, exhausted by the violence of his ex- 
 citement, he sunk back, and would have fallen, 
 had not Richard supported him, and showed then 
 more kindness to his father than he had ever done 
 before. 
 
 Sir Thomas Durant was affected by this inter- 
 view; but he was accustomed to control his feel- 
 ings. As soon, therefore, as his brother was 
 removed, vehement words passed between him 
 and his nephew, who had known nothing of his 
 part in the transaction, nor of the legal notice 
 which had been sent to them, till that very evening, 
 
THREATENED EJECTMENT. 59 
 
 when Sharpie, drawing him aside, had hastily made 
 him acquainted with these facts. He felt as if 
 he were standing upon a gulf which was widening 
 below his feet; but whether he was more angry 
 with his mother, who had concealed these later 
 facts, or with his uncle, who had thus treacherously 
 entrapped them, it is impossible to tell. All was 
 uproar and confusion ; and Sir Thomas at length 
 made a hasty exit, glad to feel himself safe on the 
 outside that house which he had been so eager to 
 enter scarcely an hour before. The two had not, 
 however, reached the door-steps when Sharpie 
 returned to say that he and Sir Thomas should 
 remain at the Durant Arms for the next four-and- 
 twenty hours. 
 
 Poor Mrs. Durant thought now indeed that the 
 cup of her troubles was full to overflowing, and 
 especially as her son would not appreciate the 
 motives of kindness which had kept these threat- 
 ened evils from his knowledge. It was in vain 
 that she protested that no power on earth should 
 compel them to leave; that they would go to law 
 about it; that she would spend the last farthing 
 she could raise in defending her son's right. 
 Richard was at first pale with passion, and cast 
 upon her the most unkind upbraidings, and then 
 sunk into sullen anger, and paced about the room 
 till past midnight, without vouchsafing her either 
 word or look. 
 
 " Oh," said the unhappy woman, when she was 
 left alone, " I can bear all but this. To be re- 
 proached by him! — by him for whom I have 
 
60 A REAL EJECTMENT 
 
 done so much! — between whom and trouble I 
 have always stood ! This is, indeed, the bitterest 
 of my sorrows !" 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 A REAL EJECTMENT. 
 
 Mr. Durant was put to bed in a state of in- 
 sensibility; and Elizabeth, not choosing to leave 
 his apartment, sat down by the fire. She was 
 oppressed by the saddest feelings — anxiety for her 
 father, and an imperfect comprehension of the 
 nature of her uncle's visit. Some great sorrow 
 she was sure hung over them, which was even 
 more apparent from the mystery that involved it. 
 
 The most profound silence reigned in the house 
 for some time after Sir Thomas's departure, in 
 which the sound of her mother and brother's 
 voices, in angry disputation, reached even that 
 remote chamber. From time to time she stole to 
 the bedside to see how it fared with her father; 
 but though he was evidently ill, from the excite- 
 ment of the evening, he appeared to sleep calmly. 
 
 She sat by the fire, hoping that before long her 
 mother, whose chamber adjoined her father's, 
 would look in upon them before she retired for 
 the night. But the hour of her usual bed-time 
 passed, and no one came. Poor Mrs. Durant 
 never thought of sleep that night ; and still Eliza- 
 beth sat alone, listening in that state of intense 
 
A REAL EJECTMENT. 61 
 
 excitement, when the watcher seems to become all 
 nerve, alive to every sound, and when the vision 
 swarms with fantastic images. 
 
 At length the voices of contention had ceased; 
 all was profoundly still; then steps seemed passing 
 about hurriedly below; doors opened and shut 
 hastily; occasionally voices were heard, and then 
 all again sank into the same dead stillness. 
 
 Again and again Elizabeth stole to the bed; 
 turned the curtain slowly aside, and looked in upon 
 him, but he still slept. In that deep silence the 
 great clock of the cupola tolled one, with a solemn, 
 startling sound that seemed appalling; it was like a 
 knell, and it flung upon her soul an awful sense 
 of death, and solitude, and desertion. She com- 
 mended herself to Heaven, and tried to reassure 
 herself that, let human fortune gloom as it may, 
 all are still in the hands of the Eternal Father. 
 " God is about us," said she, " when we are most 
 forlorn I" and falling on her knees at her father's 
 bedside, besought the protection of Heaven for 
 them both. 
 
 She arose strengthened and assured, and began 
 to think of settling herself for the night in the 
 large easy chair which stood upon the hearth, 
 when Bridget, an old servant, entered. There 
 was a curious mixture of trouble, indignation, and 
 important business in her countenance. She sat 
 down on a low seat opposite to Elizabeth, and> 
 placing her palms flat upon her knees, leaned for- 
 ward, with her elbows projecting outward, in her 
 attitude of interminable talk. 
 
 "Lord, Miss!" she began, "and all this to 
 
 G 
 
62 A REAL EJECTMENT. 
 
 happen of a Monday night ! If it had been a 
 Friday, no wonder. Fridays are always unlucky ! 
 And so we are all to go afore morning ! Chris- 
 tians and brutes; live stock and dead; furniture, 
 linen, and plate; beds, bedding, china, and glass; 
 and no thought taken for the breakage and the 
 smashery ! Lauk, Miss ! it would take a month to 
 pack them as they ought to be packed. And the 
 pictures, and the books, and the looking-glasses," 
 continued she, as if she had been reading from a 
 catalogue; " and the harpsichord, and the knick- 
 knackery, and the stone-ware figures (statues,) 
 as came out o' foreign parts, how are they all 
 to be got away in four-aj*d-twenty hours ? that's 
 what I should like to know I But no, thank ye, 
 there's no thought taken for nothing ! Out all 
 must be turned, and leave nothing but bare 
 walls !" 
 
 " You must be mistaken, Bridget," said Eliza- 
 beth. 
 
 " Not I !" replied she. " Not I, indeed, Miss 
 Elizabeth. And if master should die, as like 
 enough he will, for we have had winding-sheets 
 in candles, and a matter of ten death-watches in 
 the house all within the last month; why, then, I 
 should like to know who has been the death of 
 him ?" 
 
 " My poor father !" sighed Elizabeth. 
 
 " And only to think," said Bridget, " that it 
 was his own brother — them that were children 
 together in this very house — little innocent child- 
 ren ! And now here he comes cursing and swear- 
 ing! I wonder he warn't ashamed, and he the 
 
A REAL EJECTMENT. 63 
 
 younger brother ! Lord help us ! and they say 
 as how he has got all made over to himself, and 
 that neither Mr. Richard nor the master there 
 can touch a penny ! Nothing is theirs, say they, 
 but what the house holds; and I should like to 
 know what household stuff is good ftfr when there's 
 no longer a house to hold it ! Bless me ! and 
 what is to become of all — live stock and dead ! 
 say nothing of the family, nor any of us that have 
 spent our lives in its service, and have neither 
 kin to welcome us, nor house to cover us? I 
 should like to know what's to become of us, Miss 
 Elizabeth ! 
 
 " Alas !" said Elizabeth, with a deep sigh, and 
 eyes full of tears. 
 
 " Why, now," said Bridget, " what an old fool 
 I am to come here troubling you; for, Heaven 
 knows, there never was a kinder heart than your's: 
 that there never was !" 
 
 " But will not my brother resist this aggression 
 of my uncle's ?" asked Elizabeth, " and my mo- 
 ther, too?" 
 
 " Lord, Miss !" replied Bridget, " things seem 
 to me to have ta'en a turn quite right about, for 
 there's been Madam and Mr. Richard at high 
 words for these hours." 
 
 "It is very strange !" said Elizabeth, scarcely 
 knowing what to say. 
 
 " Strange enough," said Bridget; " but I've 
 that to tell which is strangest of all. The piece of 
 armour that belonged to my Lord Viscount, and 
 stood in the gallery, has fallen to the ground I It 
 fell from its place as Mr. Thomas — Sir Thomas 
 
64 A REAL EJECTMENT. 
 
 they call him — slammed the hall-door in going 
 out Every soul in the house, except Madam 
 and Mr. Richard, has been to see it; and, what 
 makes it more stranger still, this very piece of 
 armour fell down, the very night, may be, five- 
 and-twenty years since; nay, more than five-and- 
 twenty — likelier thirty years since — when this 
 same Sir Thomas, a young man then, quarrelled 
 with the master that lies in his bed there, and set 
 off, Heaven knows where, and never entered the 
 place till this night, when he is come to bring 
 ruin and trouble to every one. It is a strange 
 thing, Miss Elizabeth, a mighty strange thing V 
 
 "It is," said Elizabeth, " a strange and melan- 
 choly thing altogether. My heart aches with ap- 
 prehension !" * 
 
 " No wonder, poor dear !" said the old woman, 
 " no wonder! And if we are all to be turned 
 out of house and home, I should like to know 
 where we are all to go. Times are not what 
 they used to be, when there was money for the 
 asking ! I warrant me, Madam never thought 
 to see the day when we might want a mouthful of 
 bread!" 
 
 Elizabeth made no reply, for then a deep sigh, 
 and the feeble voice of her father, arrested her 
 attention. She stood beside him instantly, and 
 bent over his pillow. 
 
 " God bless you, Lizzy love!" said he, " you 
 are my only comfort !" 
 
 " My dearest father !" replied she, deeply 
 affected by the solemnity of his manner. 
 
 " You never grieved me 1 You are all the 
 
A REAL EJECTMENT. 65 
 
 comfort I ever had," repeated he, " and may God 
 Almighty bless you !" 
 
 These consoling but solemn words overcame her 
 already excited feelings, and she wept while she 
 affectionately kissed his hand. 
 
 " Thank God !" she at length said, " you are 
 better !" 
 
 Again and again she spoke; but, though her 
 father's eye appeared fixed on her countenance, she 
 received no answer. Bridget brought the lamp 
 to the bedside, and they saw that, though still 
 alive, a great change had passed over him: he 
 was speechless. 
 
 " Call mother!" whispered Elizabeth, alarmed 
 and distressed, " and bid her come instantly !" 
 
 The old woman obeyed, and presently returned. 
 
 " Lord love you !" said she, " Madam is crying 
 by herself, in the great parlour. I never saw such 
 a sight before. I spoke twice before she heard 
 me, and then she was mighty angry. ' And can't 
 you give him a drop of wine,' says she, ' without 
 disturbing me ?' " 
 
 " My poor, dear father ! my beloved father !" 
 sobbed Elizabeth, and turned away from the bed. 
 The old man's eyes followed her, and an indistinct 
 sound was heard, as of an attempt to speak. 
 Again she bent over him; and the old woman 
 prepared such stimulants as were at their com- 
 mand. Elizabeth took the cold, feeble hands and 
 rubbed them in hers; she laid her warm cheek to 
 his; and Bridget, the forty years' nurse of the 
 family, employed all her skill to recover him. 
 But it was too late. Life was no further ex- 
 G2 
 
66 A REAL EJECTMENT. 
 
 hibited than by the lingering and affectionate 
 expression of the eyes. The last sentiment of the 
 dying man was grateful affection to the dutiful 
 daughter, who had been a joy to him through the 
 whole of her life, and who now was the comfort 
 of his death-bed. 
 
 It was not till three o'clock in the morning that 
 Elizabeth could indeed believe her father to be 
 dead; but then the pallid and fallen countenance, 
 and the glazed eye, forced the melancholy truth 
 upon her. She burst forth into no loud lamenta- 
 tion, and yet her desolate situation, her friendless 
 and forlorn state, the one who had loved her most 
 lying dead before her, all fell upon her spirit with 
 a chill that almost overwhelmed her. 
 
 When Bridget went down to communicate the 
 death of Mr. Durant to his wife, she found her 
 still sitting where she had left her, not weeping; the 
 agony of her grief had subsided, for it was only the 
 moment of extremest suffering that could wring 
 tears from Mrs. Durant; but she sat pale, and as 
 if stupified by deep thought. 
 
 " Master is dead !" said Bridget, without pre- 
 face of any kind. 
 
 " Dead !" repeated the lady, with something like 
 a shudder. " God rest his soul !" and, putting her 
 hands before her face, Bridget declared that she 
 wept; that Madam Durant had wept twice in one 
 night ! 
 
 " Dead !" repeated Mrs. Durant to herself, soon 
 after Bridget was gone; " then, at least, we must 
 have time to bury him I With a corpse in the 
 house we may defy his ejectment. We will have 
 
FAMILY AFFAIRS. 67 
 
 time for the burial; and I will have a funeral 
 which shall collect about us all our friends and 
 neighbours. I'll make .the country cry shame on 
 the man who oppressed the family of his dead 
 brother I" 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 FAMILY AFFAIRS. 
 
 At day break the tolling of the church-bell an- 
 nounced to the villagers the death of Mr. Durant; 
 and Anthony Sharpie, who was stirring early, 
 carried up the tidings of this unlooked-for event 
 to Sir Thomas in his bed. 
 
 " It is a device of that artful woman's," said he; 
 " the old man is alive : as much alive as I am," 
 continued he, rising in his bed. 
 
 " I dare swear it !" returned the acquiescent 
 Sharpie. 
 
 " But I will not be defeated ! I will not be 
 played with ! and without bona fide evidence of 
 his natural death, the ejectment shall be enforced ! 
 I'll not be made a fool of!" said Sir Thomas: 
 " send me my valet instantly ; I will rise !" 
 
 Sharpie did as he was ordered; and, while his 
 patron dressed, walked into the village to gather 
 up opinions as to the supposed death of the master 
 of Stanton-Combe. 
 
 Everywhere he found people engaged in talk- 
 ing over the strange events of the night preced- 
 ing, rumours of which had come down from the 
 
68 FAMILY AFFAIRS. 
 
 hall to the village. Old men and women were 
 relating anecdotes of the boyhood of the two 
 brothers. " Ay, he was a fiery, hot-headed man, 
 that Thomas Durant I" " Desperate clever," said 
 another, " but desperate proud, and loved by no- 
 body !" 
 
 " Now, him as is dead," said a third, " had a 
 right kind heart of his own, though his head was 
 none of the strongest. He'd have given a poor 
 man the last shilling he had in the world !" 
 
 " I mind me when he was a boy," said a very 
 old man, with thin, white hair, and who leaned on 
 two sticks; " I mind me when he was as pretty 
 a boy as you'd see on a summer's day! He 
 gathered nettle-tops and green yarbs (herbs) for 
 my Sammy, as died of a waste ! Lord-a-me ! 
 and he's dead, ye say !" 
 
 " Ay, Neddy," said another, " dead, sure 
 enough ! and his own brother, as one may say, 
 the death of him !" 
 
 " Hey ! hey !" returned the older man, " it's 
 a wicked world we live in, a very wicked world !" 
 
 " And say ye," asked a woman, " that this 
 London lawyer, this Sir Thomas, is come to take 
 possession of Stanton-Combe, in his own right?" 
 
 " Never, never ;" returned the very old man, 
 putting his two sticks into one hand, and turning 
 his other on his hip, to enable him the better to 
 look the speaker in the face; " never, I say; for 
 it was all tied upon heirs male. But he's a bad 
 man, that Thomas, as I've heard say, without 
 conscience; and Anthony Sharpie's no better!" 
 
 At that moment Sharpie was seen amongst 
 
FAMILY AFFAIRS. 69 
 
 chem; and those who thought he had not heard 
 made their bow, as to the satellite of the rising 
 sun; and they who believed the contrary, made the 
 best of their way off, shrugging their shoulders. 
 Presently alter this encounter, Sharpie found old 
 Bridget, who had volunteered to Mrs. Durant the 
 carrying of a message to the undertaker and 
 • coffin-maker, in order that she might unburden 
 herself of the news she was able to tell. Through 
 her Sharpie learned how Madam Durant and the 
 young master had quarrelled; not that Bridget had 
 any direct communication with him, but as he 
 stood within the inn yard, he listened to the gossip 
 she held with a couple of old crones. 
 
 " Misfortune's a-corning !" said Bridget; "we've 
 had nought but signs of late — coffins, and winding- 
 sheets; and such a croaking oi ravens, and screech- 
 ing of owls ! Such things never bode good I 
 Lauk-a-me ! such a night as I have had !" 
 
 " And so, the old master is dead !" said one of 
 the gossips. 
 
 " Sure, is he ! replied Bridget, " and no won- 
 der neither, so as he was turmoiled over night I" 
 
 " Well, but Mrs. Bridget," asked the other, 
 is it true you're going away at a minute's warn- 
 ing ?" 
 
 " There is neither law nor justice in it !" said 
 the other. 
 
 " Neither is there !" said Bridget; " and a team 
 of horses won't move Madam, if it be not her will. 
 But ye see, the old master has died lucky just 
 now; there must be time to bury him. Madam 
 
70 FAMILY AFFAIKS. 
 
 would raise heaven and earth, but she would have 
 a burying; and a grand funeral we shall have !" 
 
 " What ! the body laid in state, like the old 
 Durantsof former times ?" asked one old woman. 
 
 " Sure," said Bridget; " they were getting the 
 state-room ready when I left; and I have sent 
 Thomas Doleman and all his people up, to take 
 measure for the coffin, and to see to the hanging 
 the walls. It will be a fine sight, I promise ye !" 
 
 u Yes, yes," replied her companion ; " I re- 
 member, more nor forty years ago, how a body 
 lay in state there; all hung with black cloth was 
 the room, at seven shillings by the yard ; and the 
 funeral train reached from the Hall to the church; 
 there were seven-and-fifty blood-relations, all on 
 horseback, in black cloaks and hat-bands !" 
 
 "Forty years ago!" interrupted the other; 
 " that was seventy years ago ! It was the grand- 
 father of him that is now dead, Walter Durant; 
 him as the king sent into Germany : I was a 
 young lass then I" 
 
 " Oh, well !" returned the other, " but there 
 will be no such funeral now. Things ar'n't as they 
 were then !" 
 
 " Lord bless you ! but it will be a handsome 
 funeral, though," said Bridget, alarmed for the 
 honour of the house ; " Madam will have it hand- 
 some, were it only to spite 'em. There'll be the 
 lying in state seven days, wax-lights burning, all 
 the country bid; gloves, and scarfs, and hat- 
 bands; burying-cake, and plenty of cold meat 
 and drink ! What more would ye have ?" 
 
FAMILY AFFAIRS, 71 
 
 All this Anthony Sharpie heard, and was con- 
 vinced by it that the death was real; but as he 
 was not in the habit of contradicting his patron, 
 and Sir Thomas chose to believe it only a pre- 
 tence in order to gain time, or to throw odium 
 upon him, Sharpie likewise pretended to acquiesce, 
 and promised to ascertain the fact, even by ob- 
 taining, if needful, a sight of the body, dead or 
 alive. 
 
 After Richard Durant and his mother had 
 parted in anger, as we related in our last chapter, 
 he went to bed, and while there began to revolve 
 various plans for his own conduct, independent of 
 his mother. Sharpie and he had been boon com- 
 panions in London, and he flattered himself that 
 he possessed influence with him, through which 
 the orignal promise of his remaining on the estate 
 might be secured. He determined also to try his 
 influence with his uncle, especially as his resent- 
 ment was strong against his mother; and he blamed 
 her as the cause of all their troubles. " It was 
 all the consequence," reasoned he, " of trusting 
 important affairs to a woman; he would, he de- 
 termined, take the management of everything into 
 his own hands." His groom had brought him the 
 news of his father's death, and that strengthened 
 his determination still further. They could not 
 be ejected from the premises while the corpse 
 remained uninterred, and this would give him 
 time; besides, by his death, he was legally master 
 of all; no longer Mr. Richard, but Mr. Durant. 
 
 Richard's plans were undefined, but all his 
 wishes tended towards conciliation ; when, an hour 
 
72 FAMILY AFFAIRS. 
 
 after breakfast, he set out on his way to the 
 Durant Arms. Midway, however, between the 
 village and the Hall, he* met Sharpie, who, as we 
 have seen, had been despatched by Sir Thomas to 
 ascertain the truth respecting the death of his 
 brother. 
 
 When Anthony Sharpie saw Richard approach- 
 ing, he put on a solemn countenance, and affected 
 a tone of condolence, saying that he was extremely 
 sorry to hear of the event of the night; " but," 
 added he, " the gentleman was old; the shock 
 could not have been great to his family, though 
 the time, certainly, was unlucky." 
 
 Richard in his turn assumed an air of distance, 
 and, with a voice much more subdued than com- 
 mon, and which might have imposed upon one 
 less skilled in worldly knowledge than Sharpie, 
 said he was penetrated with sorrow for the loss of 
 his father. " His father's death," he said, " had 
 no doubt been caused by the violence of the last 
 night; that he himself was overwhelmed by it; 
 that his was a hard case, a cruel case; and that 
 he was a very ill-used man; especially as his 
 mother had kept all latter transactions from his 
 knowledge; but that he hoped he and his uncle 
 might eome to terms; that he did! And for his 
 part, he would be glad to leave all in his uncle's 
 hands, who was, he was sure, a man of honour." 
 
 Sharpie looked into Richard's face with some 
 curiosity; and he wondered how much of all this 
 was really true. But Richard seemed to wait for 
 Sharpie's answer, and he therefore spoke. 
 
 " He had been sent up by Sir Thomas," he 
 
FAMILY AFFAIRS. 73 
 
 said, to ascertain if the report were true; not 
 that he himself doubted it for a moment, but Sir 
 Thomas was supicious:" and Sharpie shrug- 
 ged his shoulders, as much as to say, he did not 
 approve of suspicion ; " but, such being the case,'' 
 he continued, " it would be extremely satisfactory 
 if he could have a sight of the body." 
 
 Richard f-lt half disposed to resent this as an 
 insult; but as he was hoping to gain his own ad- 
 vantage, he merely replied that Sharpie might 
 see the body, and welcome, if it could do him any 
 good; and led the way back to the house. 
 
 Richard marshalled him up the grand stair-case 
 to the state-room, for he had heard of his mother's 
 design of the grand funeral, and knew the body 
 to be there. The house was profoundly still, like 
 the house of death ; no servants met them on the 
 stairs, and even the hard nature of Sharpie felt as 
 if his were a sacrilegious visit. The solitude and 
 silence, however, of the house was not peculiar to 
 this day: we know what a deserted place it was: 
 but at this particular time the few inhabitants, 
 with the exception of Elizabeth, were all met in 
 one room, as we shall presently see. 
 
 Mrs. Durant having conceived the idea of the 
 lying in state, immediately set about preparations 
 for it with all the energy of her character. Bridget 
 and old Simon, and the two other servants, were 
 ordered to attend her in the state-room, upon the 
 lofty bed of which the corpse had just been laid, 
 Stretched on a board and covered with a sheet 
 Thomas Doleman, the undertaker, had been down; 
 and, as Mrs. Durant wished to practise economy 
 
 H 
 
74 FAMILY AFFAIRS. 
 
 at the same time that she made an imposing show, 
 she determined to make use of every available 
 article that the house contained, on the occasion. 
 Nowithappened, # that on some former occasion of 
 a costly funeral, a quantity of black cloth had 
 been put by, as also a velvet pall, black plumes, 
 and various other paraphernalia of costly mourn- 
 ing. Thomas Doleman had engaged to do all 
 that was requisite, and had returned to his own 
 house for the purpose of preparation ; in the mean 
 time the lady and her attendants had ransacked 
 the ancient stores of the family. In this room, 
 and about this business, accordingly they were 
 busied, when Richard and Anthony Sharpie 
 entered. There were all lengths and breadths of 
 cloth, dusty and moth-eaten, scattered about; and 
 already had a hanging of black, in which three 
 ominous rents were conspicuous, been fastened to 
 the wall, as if in trial of its effect. The chairs 
 were burdened with various articles of female 
 mourning, part of the wardrobe of some grand- 
 mother, or great-aunt, which this funeral search had 
 now only brought to light There was something 
 ludicrous, and yet melancholy, in all these forlorn 
 efforts at miserable grandeur, in the very presence 
 of the senseless dead. There was a strange con- 
 trast, too, in the eager business-like faces of the 
 living, and the strong rigidity of the corpse, the 
 outline of whose figure was visible under its linen 
 covering. 
 
 Had that body risen up and spoken, the con- 
 sternation could not have been greater to the living, 
 than that caused by the entrance of Richard and 
 
FAMILY AFFAIRS. 75 
 
 his companion. Mrs. Durant dropped the plumes 
 she had been shaking, and experienced such a 
 pang at her heart as a dagger's point might have 
 occasioned, in the anguish of seeing her son violate 
 the privacy of that chamber, ifi friendly alliance 
 with their cunning enemy ; and, with a countenance 
 in which surprise and anger were about equally 
 blended, she advanced three steps to meet them. 
 
 " Is it for your pleasure, Mr. Durant," said she, 
 addressing her son, " that this man comes here ? 
 If it be, I have but one word for both of ye — 
 begone !" 
 
 " Mr. Sharpie would know of a certainty," said 
 Richard, " that my father is dead. The body is 
 here," said he to Sharpie, pointing to the bed, and 
 going forward as if about to raise the covering. 
 
 " Touch it at your peril ! lay finger on the 
 dead man, an' you dare !" exclaimed she, furiously. 
 
 "What am I to infer?" asked Sharpie, turning 
 towards Richard : *' that it is a mere feint ?" 
 
 " Suppose what you list!" replied the lady; 
 " but be sure of one thing — in three seconds you 
 shall be pitched from the window. Simon ! clear 
 the room of this fellow !" said she to the strong 
 old man, who, with nails and a hammer in his 
 hand, stood by in gaping wonder. 
 
 " Madam !" said Richard, taking hold of her, 
 " stand by, and let Mr. Sharpie see the body; 
 stand by, or worse may come of it!" 
 
 But Anthony Sharpie had seen enough; and, 
 fearing that some violence might be done to his 
 person, was already outside the door; and Richard, 
 seeing him gone, followed also. 
 
T6 FAMILY AFFAIRS. 
 
 Sharpie waited for no apology, no explanation, 
 but, hearing a step behind him, and not knowing 
 exactly whether Richard was friendly or no, and 
 apprehensive lest the lady's threat was about to 
 be enforced, made his escape at full speed down 
 the stairs, nor would have been overtaken at all, 
 but at length he became bewildered with turnings 
 to the right and to the left, and, between con- 
 fusion and despair, faced about to see who pur- 
 sued. Richard was half ready to laugh ; for while 
 Sharpie assumed a tone of offended dignity, it was 
 plain that he was almost frightened to death. He 
 looked grave, however, and, remembering he had 
 yet his own turn to serve, offered some apology 
 for his mother's vehemence, gave the most solemn 
 assurance of his father's death, which the other, 
 however, was not at all inclined to doubt, and said 
 he would accompany him to the inn, in order that 
 he might have an interview with his uncle. 
 
 The attendants wondered that no outbreak of 
 indignation, or threat of vengeance, followed the 
 departure of the intruders; but Mrs. Durant was 
 suffering more intense agony of spirit than could 
 vent itself in words. She mechanically took up 
 the plumes she had thrown down, shook the dust 
 from them, and went through the examination of 
 cloth and velvet, but her head was no longer in 
 the work; her earnestness and vivacity were gone. 
 Insult and defiance had been thrown in her very 
 teeth by the idolized being for whom she had 
 cared, and toiled, and suffered, and for whom she 
 could do even more than this yet ! Her very 
 goul seemed sick within her. She gave her orders 
 
FAMILY AFFAIRS. 77 
 
 at random ; one moment a thing was to be done, 
 the next to be undone, till, perplexed and be- 
 wildered, the servants talked to each other, won- 
 dering what it meant. 
 
 " Leave it, Simon, for the present," at length 
 said the unhappy lady ; " close the shutters, and 
 let the black candles be lighted !" 
 
 " With your leave, madam," remarked Bridget, 
 " common candles will do till the room is hung; 
 no one will be admitted till all is finished." 
 
 " Leave it," she replied, " leave it altogether, 
 for the present. I will ring for you when I want 
 you." 
 
 The servants left her; and the strong woman, 
 whose frame was like that of a man, and whose 
 courage, and decision, and fortitude, could have 
 borne her through any other trial and privation, 
 wrung her hands and wept passionately, 
 
 " Oh, my son !" she exclaimed, " how have I 
 been deceived ! how have I been wounded by 
 you ? I never thought to see this day, when I 
 nursed you on my knees, when I carried you in 
 my arms ! Oh, my little curly-headed Dick ! 
 my beautiful boy, whom I loved so dearly, and 
 watched over night and day, and toiled for as 
 never mother did before ! Now I know what it 
 is to be unfortunate ! now I know what it is to be 
 wretched, and poor; for the loss of affection is 
 worse than the loss of houses and land !" And 
 again she wept, and even groaned aloud in the 
 agony of her spirit. 
 
 The singular demeanour of Mrs. Durant had 
 excited the notice of her servants, and Bridget 
 h2 
 
78 FAMILY AFFAIRS. 
 
 hobbled into the parlour to relate it to Eliza- 
 beth. 
 
 " Lord, Miss !" began she, " something strange 
 has happened to Madam !" 
 
 " How ! what ?" exclaimed Elizabeth, terrified 
 with a hundred fears. 
 
 " Why, there is she taking on so in the state- 
 room, where the master lies, as though her heart 
 would break. I have been to the door three 
 times, and you may hear her groaning outside; 
 but it's all along of Mr. Richard!" 
 
 " Poor mother ! " said Elizabeth, " I will go to her." 
 
 Elizabeth paused a moment ere she entered; 
 and, as Bridget had said, the sounds of her mo- 
 ther's grief were audible, and the kind-hearted 
 girl rushed in, eager to comfort or aid her. Mrs. 
 Durant sat on a couch in the room, with her face 
 buried in her hands, and sending forth low -groans 
 which expressed deeper anguish than words. 
 Elizabeth closed the door after her, but the sound 
 did not rouse her; and, fearing that her mother 
 might be displeased to have any witness of her 
 emotion, she hastened to make her aware of her 
 presence. 
 
 " Dearest mother !" said she, touching her 
 shoulder lightly, " dearest mother ! what ails 
 you ? what can I do to comfort you ?" 
 
 Mrs. Durant looked at her daughter like one 
 roused from a lethargy, and inquired, in a stern 
 voice, " Who sent for you, child ?" 
 
 " I feared you were ill; I see you are unhappy: 
 what can I do for you ?" asked her daughter, with 
 the utmost kindness of manner. 
 
FAMILY AFFAIRS. 79 
 
 " What business have you, child, to think me 
 unhappy?" demanded the mother; "when I want 
 you, I shall send for you." 
 
 " Oh !" exclaimed Elizabeth, unappalled by her 
 mother's anger, and excited to the deepest sym- 
 pathy by her pale and sorrow-marked counte- 
 nance, " oh ! that you would let me be with you I 
 that you would receive kindness from me !" 
 
 " When I want kindness from you," still re- 
 turned her mother, " I will send for you : what I 
 want now is to be alone." 
 
 " May I send Richard to you ?" persisted 
 Elizabeth. 
 
 Mrs. Durant fixed her eyes sternly on her 
 daughter, and replied, " I want neither one nor 
 other of you. Have I not trouble and sorrow 
 enough, without your adding to it?" 
 
 " You have, dear mother!" returned Elizabeth, 
 tears starting into her eyes; " you have! indeed, 
 you have ! and God knows, I would fain lessen it 
 if I could." 
 
 For one moment Mrs. Durant seemed touched 
 by her daughter's tenderness, and mild tears filled 
 her eyes; but the next, as if surprised at her own 
 weakness, she repelled them, and replied coldly, 
 " You cannot, child, you cannot do me the least 
 good. Leave me, and send Bridget, and Simon, 
 and the rest of them." 
 
 Elizabeth obeyed; and Mrs. Durant, with 
 wonderful self-command, collected herself, and 
 stood again arniJ the paraphernalia of mourning. 
 She gave her orders with precision; tatters in the 
 cloth were mended, moth-eaten parts cut out, and, 
 
80 FAMILY AFFAIRS. 
 
 with the help of Thomas Doleman, before even- 
 ing the walls had assumed their hangings of 
 black. 
 
 By the next night, black plumes nodded over 
 the canopy of the bed, and the arms, properly 
 emblazoned on a hanging of black velvet, adorned 
 the bed's head; the bed itself was converted into 
 a kind of throne, on which the coffin, covered with 
 black, was placed, and all around black drapery 
 hung in sweeping folds to the floor; four tail 
 black wax tapers stood at the four corners of the 
 bed, ready to be lighted, and which were designed 
 to cast a sombre illumination over the bed, leaving 
 the rest of the apartment in stately and solemn 
 gloom. 
 
 All this occupied two whole days in the doing, 
 but it wonderfully diverted Mrs. Durant's mind 
 from its more immediate troubles; and, as during 
 that time she never saw her son, she kept her 
 heart with all its griefs locked up like a misers 
 treasure. 
 
 We left Richard last on his way to the Durant 
 Arms, to have an interview with his uncle. 
 
 The interview was, of course, not satisfactory. 
 It was in vain that he endeavoured to throw all 
 the blame, and mismanagement, and misunder- 
 standing, on his mother, or to obtain for himself 
 either concession or good-will. Sir Thomas con- 
 descended to no explanations, further than what 
 Sharpie had given. He conceded only one iota 
 in his nephew's favour, granting him one calendar 
 month, until new-year's day, to bury his father, 
 and to make sale of his effects. In vain poor 
 
FAMILY AFFAIRS. 81 
 
 Richard pleaded, threatened, stormed, and even 
 tried to coax and flatter; Sir Thomas was im- 
 moveable; aiid his nephew was unpleasantly sen- 
 sible that he stood before him as an inferior in 
 intellect. " Oh," thought the unfortunate young 
 man, " if I could but have him up to fight it out 
 with me, I could do; but, hang it, I am no hand 
 at talking !" and, vexed and mortified, he was 
 almost ready to cry. 
 
 " On new-year's day," replied Sir Thomas, 
 with the most provoking coolness, "I, or Mr. 
 Sharpie, or both of us, will be down to take pos- 
 session. I am not to be played with, young man; 
 and now, as my carriage is at the door, I must 
 beg you to detain me no longer." 
 
 Richard walked out of the inn, and with his 
 hands in his pockets stood to watch the departure 
 of his uncle. His old friends of the village kept 
 aloof from him, although they had often acknow- 
 ledged him to be " a good sort of fellow, who never 
 grudged a crown to make a man drunk !" But it 
 had now got abroad that things were going wrong 
 at the hall, and that crowns would not be so 
 plentiful as they had been; therefore they were 
 less solicitous for his notice. 
 
 Sir Thomas was seen at the upper window of 
 the inn, fur-coated up to the chin, and drawing 
 on his gloves preparatory to descending to his 
 carriage, which was now drawn up close to the 
 door-stone. Richard beckoned one of his old 
 cronies up to him. 
 
 " Here, Timson," said he, taking half a guinea 
 
82 FAMILY AFFAIRS. 
 
 out of his pocket, "give the old wolf a parting 
 salute." 
 
 Having said this, he walked deliberately up the 
 church-yard side, still taking care not to lose sight 
 of the Durant Arms. Timson perfectly under- 
 stood what he was expected to do; and, just as Sir 
 Thomas issued from the inn-door, and was about 
 to seat himself in his carriage, a volley of stones 
 thundered about, shivered the glass of one of the 
 carriage-windows, and even threatened the demo- 
 lition of Sir Thomas's person. He seated himself, 
 however, and Sharpie, having jumped in after him, 
 the door was hastily closed, and the postillions, 
 putting spurs to their horses, posted away, the out- 
 riders coming after with equal speed. Shouts 
 and hooting*, the eloquence of the mob, pursued 
 them down the street; proving, at all events, that 
 Richard had stout partisans who, for money, if 
 not for love, would take his part. 
 
 He did not return home till late that night. 
 He was so well pleased with the zeal of Timson 
 and his other friends, that he determined to give 
 them a day's drinking. All the village was, of 
 course, agog about the strange things that had 
 happened, and were about to happen, at the Hall; 
 and as it was soon noised about that " Mr. 
 Richard" was at the Durant Arms, everybody 
 flocked there. 
 
 Richard was that day very popular; and before 
 night, everybody had sworn " to side with him 
 through thick and thin," and to give Sir Thomas, 
 let him come when he would, such a reception as 
 
THE FUNERAL. 83 
 
 should make him remember Stanton- Combe to the 
 latest day of his life. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 THE FUNERAL. 
 
 After Elizabeth had been repulsed in her at- 
 tempt to comfort her mother, she anxiously wished 
 for her brother's return, in the belief that what- 
 ever disunion there had been between them, it 
 would soon be made up, and that he, in fact, was 
 the only person who could allay her natural anxiety 
 and distress of mind. But Richard came not 
 through that day, and it was with great satisfac- 
 tion that she saw, before evening, her mother had 
 regained her usual equanimity, and appeared so 
 completely absorbed by the funeral preparations, 
 as to have forgotten, at least in appearance, not 
 only her own individual griefs, but the alarming 
 crisis which was approaching in their worldly 
 affairs. 
 
 All this preparation for a costly funeral, for one 
 who, in his lifetime, was so little regarded by the 
 principal members of the family, seemed to her 
 the height of folly, nay, almost like a mockery of 
 the old man's memory. She ventured even to 
 question her mother on the Subject. " Was it," 
 she asked, " what her father himself would have 
 wished? And furthermore, as it was known to the 
 whole country round what a quiet retired life he 
 had led for years, nobody would expect to see 
 
84 THE FUNERAL. 
 
 him buried like the old Durants, who had held 
 important offices in the county, and had been 
 well known to everybody. She feared, , ' she said, 
 " they might look ridiculous in the eyes of their 
 neighbours; and though that was a reason of 
 small weight, when duty or moral principle were 
 opposed to it, she, for her part, felt keenly now 
 and she thought Richard would feel it too." 
 
 " Child I" replied the mother, with a counte- 
 nance almost of disdain, " you talk like your 
 father ! Is this a time, I pray you, to stoop down 
 that we may be trodden on ! that we should let 
 our enemies know the extent of their power to 
 humble us ! No, no ; we will at least preserve 
 our own self-respect I" 
 
 " But," replied Elizabeth, " we cannot be 
 showing self-respect by making ourselves ridicu- 
 lous. God knows that I loved and honoured my 
 father, but I would beg for him only a quiet 
 burial. We never consulted him, in his latter 
 years, how a single pound should be spent; and 
 had we done so, he could have given us no counsel ; 
 it is unseemly then, I think, to make for such a 
 one a pompous funeral; especially," she added, 
 after a pause, " when money is like to be short 
 enough with us." 
 
 " I will have a funeral," returned her mother, 
 without noticing her arguments, "which shall. not 
 disgrace a Durant ! *What ! shall it be said that 
 we have not the means to bury our dead ?" 
 
 " Never mind what is said," replied Elizabeth, 
 amazed at herself for arguing, and at her mother 
 for permitting it; " let him be buried decently 
 
THE FUNERAL. 85 
 
 and quietly — that at least we owe him ; but we 
 can show him no reverence by impoverishing the 
 living, merely for senseless cost over his dead 
 body." 
 
 " You know nothing of what befits the credit 
 of a family," returned her mother, who had only 
 allowed her to argue, because she had no regard 
 for her opinion ; " how should you ?" 
 
 " I do not think Richard would advise this ex- 
 pensive funeral, nor Lady Thicknisse, either," said 
 Elizabeth. 
 
 " Do not worry me to death !" returned Mrs. 
 Durant, impatiently; "surely, I know what is 
 right! I will have, I say, a noble funeral, if I 
 melt down the family plate, bit by bit ! I will 
 bury my dead as a Durant ought to be buried, 
 and I will gather about us our neighbours and 
 connexions, and know at least who are our 
 friends?" 
 
 Elizabeth opposed her mother no farther, but 
 she sincerely hoped that something would occur 
 to prevent a thing so absurd as this pompous 
 funeral. 
 
 Richard, as we have said, did not see his mother 
 that day ; and the next, attended by his groom, he 
 set off for Darlington, to consult a lawyer and to 
 order his own mourning. 
 
 In the meantime, although Mrs. Durant was 
 engaged so much by her funeral preparations, and 
 although she had been so seriously displeased and 
 grieved by her son's apparently friendly alliance 
 with Sharpie, still she was full of thought and 
 anxiety about him. She feared he had withdrawn 
 I 
 
C6 THE FUNERAL. 
 
 his confidence from her: the very idea of neglect 
 and unkindness from him tilled her soul with 
 anguish. Then she excited herself by fears 
 respecting him — vague apprehensions of she knew 
 not what; and many times in the course of the 
 day she exclaimed — " Oh, that he would but 
 come! that I did but know where he was! that 
 he was only safe from danger!" And many a 
 time she went to the window, to see if he were 
 visible in his homeward way. 
 
 It was not till the third day that she heard he was 
 gone to Darlington. " It was unkind," she said to 
 herself; "heat least might have told me of his 
 journey, had it only been to spare my anxiety !" 
 
 Alas ! poor woman ! her son had never been 
 taught to spare her anxiety; how then should he 
 have thought of it at this moment? 
 
 But spite of the many causes of uneasiness, the 
 preparations for the funeral went on. Letters of 
 invitation to all the kith and kin, even to the 
 remotest connexion, were written and sent; the 
 same likewise to all their ne%hbours, till the 
 burial of Mr. Durant came as much to be talked 
 of, far and near, as an election itself. The under- 
 taker was very well pleased with the job, for it 
 was many a long year since the Durants had made 
 a great funeral, and the traditions of his family 
 told of famous doings in this way; and good 
 Thomas Doleman, be it known, was not remark- 
 able for worldly wisdom, and overlooked the very 
 important fact, that the Durants had sorely gone 
 down in the world since then. 
 
 The old state apartments, by Mrs. Durant's 
 
THE FUNERAL. 87 
 
 orders, were again opened and aired for use; fires 
 were burning in every room, and three or four 
 village women were employed to polish up the 
 ancient furniture. To see all that was going on, 
 it would have been imagined that the family had 
 a life-long residence before them, instead of being 
 on the sorrowful eve of departure for ever. 
 
 " But it all will be right I" she would argue 
 with herself; " for if it^ comes to a sale, thing* 
 will only look all the better ! But it never will 
 come to that ! they shall drag me out by force, 
 before I leave !" 
 
 For the twentieth time Mrs. Durant reckoned 
 up who of her relations and her husband's — with 
 all of whom, however, for these twenty years, 
 there had been no intercourse — she might expect 
 to honour the funeral. Somehow or other she 
 persuaded herself that everybody would come; 
 and she gratified herself by the vision of a nume- 
 rously attended funeral, a stately procession of 
 hearse and mourning coaches, friends' and neigh- 
 bours' carriages, and half the country on horse- 
 back, winding down the hilly park-road to the 
 village church. 
 
 " It will show them" she said, f that we are 
 respected, and have those who will do us honour I" 
 — the them always meaning Sir Thomas Durant 
 and Anthony Sharpie. 
 
 On the fourth day after the death of Mr. 
 Durant, Richard, who had heard at Darlington 
 of the grand funeral and the proposed lying in- 
 state, although certainly he was not unaware of his 
 mother's intention when he left home, wrote to 
 
88 THE FUNERAL. 
 
 her, decidedly forbidding it. " It was the most 
 absurd thing she had ever done," he said, " and 
 he now saw that it was high time he took the 
 management of his affairs into his own hands, 
 for that she was, like all other women, unacquainted 
 with business, and quite unfit to be trusted with 
 money." 
 
 As a postscript to this dutiful letter he also 
 added, " that he should not hold himself re- 
 sponsible for any debts which might be contracted 
 on this occasion." 
 
 This was indeed a cruel blow; but another 
 letter also arrived nearly at the same moment. 
 
 We have not yet mentioned what, however, was 
 the fact, that both Mrs. Durant and her daughter 
 had written to Starkey, throne to Lady Thick- 
 nisse, the other to her frUmd, Mrs. Betty, inform- 
 ing them of the late melancholy and perplexing 
 events. At the very moment, therefore, in which 
 Mrs. Durant was reading her son's letter, she was 
 informed that a messenger had arrived express 
 from Starkey with letters. Mrs. Betty's was full 
 of kindness and sympathy; a comfortable letter, 
 that did Elizabeth good, although it occasioned her 
 many tears. Lady Thicknisse's, however, was the 
 epistle of importance. Mrs. Durant, hurt and 
 offended by the one she had received from Richard, 
 tore open the one from her friend, hoping to find 
 consolation and assurance in it. The letter was 
 as follows : — 
 
 " Starkey, December 4. 
 
 " Dear Madam — Your letter has excited the 
 most lively concern. I hope it is needless to say 
 
THE FUNERAL. 89 
 
 how deeply I sympathize with you. The loss of 
 my esteemed friend, your husband, I trust, is his 
 gain. God's will be done ! 
 
 " What, however, is at this present moment of 
 importance for you to know, I hasten to commu- 
 nicate. Fortunately, my lawyer, Mr. Twisledon, 
 was with me when your's arrived, which I laid 
 before him; and now enclose his opinion on the 
 state of your affairs. I fear from this, that you 
 have no chance against Sir Thomas Durant: you 
 will see that he knows that gentleman well: what- 
 ever he has done, he says, the law will bear him 
 out in. I fear the law sanctions much that is 
 unjust; and, moreover, which I greatly regret, he 
 declares that you cannot resist the ejectment, hav- 
 ing had legal notice to quit. 
 
 " I need not say the regret I feel that your and 
 my godson's affairs have fallen into such con- 
 fusion. I fear, however, that my godson has not 
 always been as discreet in his expenditure as he 
 ought: I have heard of him both at York and 
 Doncaster, which I regret. 
 
 " What has urged me more especially to send 
 off to you express is regarding the funeral. Con- 
 sidering the private manner in which your good 
 husband lived, I think a public funeral unadvised. 
 Nothing, I believe, but the present agitation of 
 your mind could have induced you to sanction such 
 a proceeding. If it is my godson's doing, I can- 
 not think highly of his judgment. All ueedless 
 cost, in the present state of his affairs, should 
 be avoided: very few, and those only your im- 
 mediate neighbours, need be invited, and for these 
 I 2 
 
90 THE FUNERAL. 
 
 the expense would be moderate. But by no 
 means let the body lie in state. Your doors are 
 thus thrown open, and some of that lawyer's 
 creatures will be getting in, whom you will find 
 trouble in getting rid of again. 
 
 " The urgency of the occasion must excuse my 
 plain speaking. 
 
 " I am, dear Madam, 
 
 " Your friend and well-wisher, 
 " Susannah Thicknisse." 
 
 The postscript to this letter ran thus : " Should 
 there be a sale of the effects at Stanton-Combe, I 
 should like that the pair of ebony cabinets, which 
 stand in the great drawing-room, be purchased for 
 me. Of course, they will be appraised; 1 do not 
 wish to give more than their value; but as I have 
 an old friendship for the family, I may as well 
 possess them as a stranger." 
 
 Mrs. Durant was staggered in her own opinion. 
 Formerly, not heaven nor earth could have in- 
 duced her to change a favourite opinion ; but she 
 was not the woman she had been, and the very 
 wavering of her judgment produced a depress- 
 ing sensation. She felt like one at sea, without 
 rudder or compass, and for the moment, forgetting 
 Richard's letter, she wished he were there to 
 counsel with her. 
 
 Great was the amazement of the house when 
 Mrs. Durant announced that the lying-in-state 
 was not to be made public; and that no one was 
 to be admitted to the house without her knowledge. 
 The preparation for the funeral feast, however, 
 
THE FUNERAL. 91 
 
 went on as before; "for," said Mrs. Durant, 
 " they who are bid to the funeral must, of course, 
 be received. But why cannot Dick come and 
 look after these things himself, seeing that now I 
 cannot do ought to please him ?" 
 
 " What is come over Madam ?" said Bridget to 
 "Simon, who was major-domo. 
 
 " A sad waste of nails has there been," returned 
 Simon, " to put up those black hangings ; seven- 
 and-twenty score of ten-penny nails, and all of 
 my own driving; and, after all, nobody coming to 
 see it !" 
 
 " And the candles that have been burning ever 
 since," said Bridget. 
 
 " And the wax-lights that were had for the 
 show, and them never to be used," said Simon ; 
 " and I warrant, Thomas Doleman won't take 'em 
 back again !" 
 
 " And all this scrubbing and rubbing, this 
 mending and airing," enumerated Bridget ; " Lord- 
 a-me ! and all to no purpose !" 
 
 " Madam has never been herself since that 
 night," remarked Simon, shaking his head ; it's a 
 sore thing losing of house and home !" 
 
 " And the quarrel with Mr. Richard," re- 
 turned Bridget ; a that cuts her up worse than 
 aught else !" 
 
 The eighth day after Mr. Durant's death was 
 appointed for his funeral, and Richard returned 
 on the evening of the sixth. Mrs. Durant had 
 been consumed by the most painful anxiety dur- 
 ing his absence, and the moment she heard his 
 voice her heart leapt with inexpressible affection ; 
 
92 THE FUNERAL. 
 
 yet, as he entered the room she assumed an air 01 
 displeasure, greeting him with unusual coldness : 
 for it was but right, she thought, to make him 
 sensible of the respect he owed her; and his 
 letter, certainly, had shown no regard to her feel- 
 ings or her peace of mind. 
 
 But Richard came in no mood to humble him- 
 self. The lawyer whom he consulted at Darling- 
 ton, and who was to follow him the next day, had 
 assured him that his mother was the mainspring 
 of all their troubles. So, in fact, she was, for she 
 had sacrificed everything to Richard's supposed 
 interest, and his reckless self-will ; but that was 
 not the way they reasoned. And he had assured 
 him also, as Mr. Twisledon had assured his mo- 
 ther, that opposition to Sir Thomas Durant would 
 produce no other effect than involving them in 
 law, and swallowing up every sixpence they pos- 
 sessed. He returned home, therefore, in the full 
 spirit of his letter, resolved to be henceforth master 
 of his own affairs, and full of contempt for women 
 as managers of business. 
 
 The first glance of his sullen countenance con- 
 vinced his mother, that whatever might be the 
 state of her wounded feelings, the present was not 
 the moment to upbraid him. A complete reaction 
 took place in her mind; and, not having been of 
 late in his confidence, and knowing neither the 
 state of his feelings, nor the cause of his present 
 ill humour, she feared to say one word that might 
 either wound or annoy him. A flood of affection 
 passed over her soul, effacing every late vexation; 
 and, with unwise zealousness to win his confidence, 
 
THE. FUNERAL 93 
 
 hhe now overwhelmed him with little well-meant 
 acts of kindness, every one of which operated as. 
 a goad to his excited temper. 
 
 " Bless my soul, madam !" said he at length, as 
 she urged him to the enjoyment of some ac» 
 customed luxury, which he had refused with pet- 
 tishness, " will you take from me the indulgence 
 of my own freewill ?" 
 
 A few minutes afterwards, with a countenance 
 full of contrite affection, she made another effort 
 to oblige her wayward son. " I'll tell you what," 
 said he, starting up and pushing her aside, " if you 
 will not let me take my own course, in small 
 things as well as great, I will leave this house, and 
 you shall never see my face again !" 
 
 Bitter tears were in Mrs. Durant's eyes, but 
 she forcibly repressed them ; bitter words, too, 
 sprung to her lips, but she would not utter them, 
 determined that nothing on her part should widen 
 the breach between them. 
 
 " Have patience with her, dearest brother !" 
 said Elizabeth, starting up the moment he had 
 spoken ; " say not anything, I beseech you, that 
 you may afterwards repent of!" 
 
 Poor Mrs. Durant sank into her chair and wept, 
 for her daughter's words overcame her. 
 
 " I am not likely to repent of what I do," said 
 Richard. " It is women that do silly things ; 
 and why does she pester me ? I'm sure I would 
 not have come back at all, if I'd known there 
 would have been such a fuss !" 
 
 " Speak kindly, Richard," whispered she, see- 
 
94 THE FUNERAL. 
 
 ing her mother's unwonted emotion, " for she has 
 many troubles to bear I" 
 
 " So have I !" exclaimed he aloud, determined 
 that his mother should hear all, " and troubles, 
 too, of her bringing on I" 
 
 " Richard ! Richard !" exclaimed his mother, 
 starting up, and dashing aside the tears that blinded 
 her eyes, " this I have not deserved ! God knows, 
 if I could have died to save you I would ! and I 
 wish I was now lying beside the corspe in yonder 
 room, rather than have heard the words you have 
 spoken !" 
 
 " It would have been better if you had lain 
 there," remarked Richard, coldly. 
 
 " Just Heaven V* exclaimed the unhappy mo- 
 ther, dropping into her chair, and wringing her 
 hands, " what have I done to deserve this ?" 
 
 Elizabeth stood beside her, without speaking, 
 and Richard sat down to finish the supper which 
 this dialogue had interrupted. 
 
 An hour afterwards Richard seemed still to 
 prolong his meal, and his mother still was seated 
 ID her chair ; not a word had been spoken. Eliza- 
 beth felt as if she were an intruder, as if she per- 
 haps prevented a reconciliation, or prevented her 
 brother's offering atonement for his cruel words, 
 and she retired to her own room. 
 
 No sooner was she gone than Mrs. Durant 
 again made an attempt to establish peace between 
 them. 
 
 But we will spare ourselves and our readers 
 a relation of what followed. High words and 
 
THE FUNERAL. 95 
 
 hysterical sobs were heard by old Bridget outside 
 the door, and she also averred that Richard had 
 struck his mother. 
 
 Elizabeth, whose heart was depressed by the 
 scene she had just witnessed, and by her own 
 forlorn and melancholy prospects, although she 
 retired to her own room, did not retire to bed. 
 Long past midnight she heard her brother ascend 
 hurriedly to his own chamber, the door of which 
 he closed with violence. She listened to discover 
 whether her mother also retired for the night; but 
 as all remained still, and she well knew that only 
 some deep cause would keep her up when Richard 
 had left her, she stole softly down stairs to learn if 
 she could render duty or service. 
 
 She entered the room. Her mother sat with 
 clenched hands, and countenance of concentrated 
 misery, but there was neither tear in her eye, nor 
 trace of tear on her cheek. 
 
 " Mother ! dearest mother !" said Elizabeth. 
 
 Mrs. Durant did not hear the words. 
 
 " Dearest mother ! speak to me I" exclaimed 
 she, falling on her knees before her, and terrified 
 by her immobility. * Speak!" and she caught 
 hold of her hands. 
 
 u Serpent I viper !" exclaimed Mrs. Durant, 
 catching away her hands, and starting up. 
 
 " Mother !" repeated Elizabeth, rising from her 
 knees. 
 
 " Go, child !" said she, fixing her eyes on her 
 daughter with great severity, " go, I say I" 
 
 " I will not go," replied Elizabeth, with ten- 
 
derness, and yet with firmness; " not till I know 
 that it is not in a daughter's power to render 
 service to a mother. It is the privilege of this 
 most holy and tender of relationships to perform 
 such a duty, and I demand this privilege from 
 you ! Before Heaven, I demand it I" said Eliza- 
 beth, again sinking upon her knees before her 
 mother, and kissing her hand. " Grant it me, 
 beloved mother !" she continued ; "confide in me; 
 let me know your sorrows, that I may know how 
 to comfort them." 
 
 " You cannot, you cannot, child I" returned her 
 mother. " It is not in mortal power to comfort 
 me ! I have suffered that which is without 
 remedy !" 
 
 " Say not so ; think not so !" exclaimed her 
 daughter. " You know how my father loved me ! 
 Let me be to you what I was to him ! I should 
 never be weary of pe; forming my duty." 
 
 " Rise, child, rise V said Mrs. Durant; "urge 
 nothing now; I am not in a state to bear it. 
 Show your duty at least by leaving me ! God 
 knows, I am a mother to be pitied !" 
 
 *' May He bless you and comfort you !" said 
 the affectionate girl, weeping tears of sincerest 
 sympathy ; " and, please Heaven ! the time will 
 come in which you shall receive my affectionate 
 service I" 
 
 She retired again to her chamber, and, m its 
 silence and solitude, poured out her full heart to 
 God. 
 
 Mrs. Durant did not leave her own room 
 
THE FUNERAL. 97 
 
 through the whole of the next day, and Richard 
 was busied with the Darlington lawyer, who had 
 arrived that morning. 
 
 The morrow was that on which the interment 
 was to take place. What a relief poor Mrs. 
 Durant found it, in the present state of her feel- 
 ings, that some part of the funeral ceremony had 
 been dispensed with ; and now even she wished it 
 could have been altogether private. She was not 
 in spirits to encounter the bustle of many guests, 
 and those family connexions with whom intimacy 
 had now ceased. She felt as if she had, indeed, 
 done a great folly ; she feared that her son might 
 betray want of respect, or want of confidence to- 
 wards her before the funeral company. 
 
 Elizabeth divined what her mother's feelings 
 would be, and, greatly as she disliked the publicity 
 of the funeral, determined to spare her as much as 
 possible. Old Bridget, and Simon, and Thomas 
 Doleman, wondered at her activity and fore- 
 thought. 
 
 " So as she fretted about him!" said Bridget; 
 " who'd have looked for her to take thought about 
 everything !" 
 
 " She's better notions of things even than 
 Madam," said Thomas Doleman, " and a very 
 pretty way of speaking to a body I" 
 
 " Well," said Simon, " I never saw Madam give 
 in so afore ! but we shall have her in her tantrums 
 when all's over I" 
 
 The next morning Mrs. Durant roused herself 
 with a desperate effort, to do all that might be 
 needful on that trying day. She had not seen her 
 
 K 
 
98 THE FUNERAL. 
 
 son since the night of his return; what, therefore, 
 were his sentiments towards her, she knew not. 
 She wished she could but catch a glimpse of his 
 countenance, for on the first token of submission 
 or contrition, on his part, she was prepared to 
 receive him again into her soul. It was not, she 
 felt, a time for disunion, and she listened, there- 
 fore, for the sound of his footsteps, as he left his 
 chamber, eager that, spite of what was past, she 
 might make the first advance towards reconcilia- 
 tion. But she listened in vain; and then, as the 
 time went on, hoping that he was already down 
 stairs, she went herself to the breakfast parlour. 
 
 The undertaker had already arrived; and as 
 she had a glimpse of the mutes standing outside 
 the door, and perceived what an unusual stir and 
 ceremony there was throughout the house, her 
 very soul loathed it. When Elizabeth met her 
 mother that morning, she was shocked at the 
 alteration in her appearance. It was not alone 
 the straight hair, and the widow's cap, but a 
 change much more affecting even than that. The 
 bright complexion was gone, and she looked pale, 
 as if from the effects of severe illness; and there 
 was an uneasy tremour about the mouth, that told of 
 suffering of the heart. It seemed as if a ?e\v hours 
 had done the work of years. " Surely," thought 
 she, as she glanced at her mother, " surely, when 
 he sees that face, he will be excited to kindness." 
 
 Mrs. Durant sat, all ear and attention, secretly 
 hoping, spite of all the means she had taken to 
 secure a large attendance, that no one would 
 come. It would be far better, she thought, to 
 
THE FUNERAL. 99 
 
 bear a slight from people, that in truth she cared 
 nothing about, than be humiliated by her son 
 before them. As to appealing to the congregated 
 guests, even if half the country had assembled, 
 against the aggressions of their kinsman, that was 
 an idea that was quite gone. It all seemed like a 
 chimera, and she wondered how so short a time 
 had so completely changed not only her feelings 
 but her power of action. 
 
 At nine o'clock a dozen of neighbours, farmers 
 and small landed proprietors, had arrived on their 
 stout horses, to attend the body to the church. 
 They had come partly out of curiosity, and were 
 now drinking ale and eating cold beef in the 
 steward's room, while the undertaker's men were 
 busied with their scarfs and hatbands. 
 
 In the meantime, innumerable were the notes 
 of condolence and apology which had been sent 
 in to excuse the non-attendance of all the various 
 branches and connexions of the family, near and 
 remote. There seemed no prospect, indeed, but 
 of a small funeral. Poor Mrs. Durant ! she 
 wished again that nobody had been asked ; felt 
 very angry with them all, and thought, with a 
 sigh, of all the funeral baked meats which nobody 
 would come to eat. 
 
 The slow tolling of the church-bell had been 
 sounding all the morning, and groups of villagers 
 stood at the corner of the road, by the church- 
 yard wall, and about the Durant Arms, to witness 
 the show. 
 
 It was now two o'clock, the time fixed for the 
 moving off of the funeral procession. Elizabeth 
 
100 THE FUNERAL. 
 
 and her mother, both apparelled in their deep 
 mourning, sat together in their morning room, 
 but Richard, the chief mourner, had been seen 
 by no one. The most intense anxiety filled Mrs. 
 Durant's heart. She never felt so unfitted to 
 combat difficulties before. Richard filled her with 
 the deepest perplexity, yet she would not for the 
 world, that any one should imagine it to be so; 
 she even tried to think nothing of his absence. 
 
 u He is busy," she said, " with his lawyer; he 
 thinks nothing of time. Simon, tell your master 
 what is the time; let him know that our good 
 neighbours have arrived." 
 
 The anxious face of Thomas Doleman next 
 presented itself, to say that all was ready. 
 
 Mrs. Durant herself knew it; for she herself 
 had seen the coffin carried into the hearse, and 
 the mourning coach drawn up to the door, and 
 the dozen neighbours, hat-banded and scarfed, 
 mounted upon their long-tailed horses. But she 
 now saw far more than this : there were no less than 
 eight carriages ready to take rank in the proces- 
 sion; there was the Dickon's and the Prescott's 
 Sir Thomas Wodom's, old General Merton's, and 
 the Wilbore's ; Squire Waddifield's, and Sir 
 Charles Blackiston's; and, besides these, a caval- 
 cade of gentlemen, all men of reverence, hat- 
 banded and scarfed ! She had no idea of all this ! 
 It was really gratifying — it was kind ! and poor 
 Mrs. Durant felt as if good days were returning, 
 as she eyed this honourable array. 
 
 The truth was, the death of poor old Mr, 
 Durant, at the very moment of the deepest family 
 
THE FUNERAL. 101 
 
 troubles, had filled all hearts with sympathy. He 
 had always been respected, and people would not, 
 at such a time, withhold this small token of regard 
 to his memory, particularly when it must be con- 
 soling to the ruined family. On the contrary, 
 those very persons, connexions of the family, 
 upon whom Mrs. Durant had calculated most, 
 were unwilling to show countenance to the dis- 
 honoured and fallen branch, when, perhaps, they 
 themselves might be helped to advance by the 
 new branch, which was so greatly in the as- 
 cendant. 
 
 When Mrs. Durant saw that this funeral, after 
 all, was likely to turn out an important affair, it 
 roused her up at once to her usual energy. 
 
 " What does the foolish man mean ?" said she ; 
 " are we to be disgraced in the face of half the 
 country ?" and, rushing out, she hasted to her son's 
 room, and presented herself before him." 
 
 u Dick !" said she, her eye flashing as she spoke, 
 " am I to attend as chief mourner, or you ? 
 
 The bewildered undertaker followed, with 
 Richard's crape-bound hat in his hand, which 
 he presented. 
 
 " Pray-ye, Mr. Richard," said he, " do not 
 keep 'em waiting ; there's every look of rain com- 
 ing on; and it makes such work with things !" 
 
 Richard muttered something about the money 
 that was spent, yet he put on his hat, and took up 
 his new black gloves ; and then, taking the arm of 
 his friend, the lawyer, who met him at the door, 
 without vouchsafing the slightest regard to his 
 mother, they walked deliberately down the great 
 k2 
 
102 THE BREAKING UP 
 
 stair-case, mounted the mourning-coach, and the 
 funeral procession was put in motion. 
 
 Mrs. Durant had the pleasure of witnessing 
 such a funeral procession as would not have dis- 
 graced the head of the family in its better days. 
 It made, certainly, a very imposing appearance; 
 and she sat down to pen a paragraph for the 
 county papers, whereby she hoped to make it 
 evident to Sir Thomas, in London, that they were 
 not without honour among even their more in- 
 fluential neighbours. 
 
 The farmers, and the undertaker's people, alone 
 returned to dinner, and a jolly carouse was made, 
 for there was no lack of eatables or drinkables, 
 As the important business of the day was now 
 over, Mrs. Durant, finding that Richard was 
 engrossed with his law friend, retired to her own 
 room, and was seen of none of the household again 
 that day. She had a new, although a petty source 
 of annoyance — her new costume. The widow's 
 cap and the bombazine very little suited one who 
 had worn a riding-habit and a black silk caul for 
 thirty years. She was almost disposed to forswear 
 the new costume for the old. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 THE BREAKING UP OF A FAMILY. 
 
 Elizabeth felt that nothing could be worse for 
 them, a broken household as they were, with a 
 gloomy and uncertain future before them, than 
 
OP A FAMILY. 103 
 
 the present want of unanimity. She despaired of 
 gaining, all at once, the confidence of her mother; 
 she resolved, therefore, to try what influence she 
 had with Richard, and she anxiously wished for 
 some favourable opportunity. 
 
 The next morning, however, Richard himself 
 opened the communication by telling her that she 
 and her mother must look out for some place for 
 themsejves; for that, on the twentieth, the sale 
 would commence, and he should want the house 
 free of all encumbrance. 
 
 Elizabeth was shocked at the unfeeling tone 
 in which this communication was made, and 
 she inquired if he had thought of any plan for 
 them. 
 
 His answer was simply, " No." 
 
 " Remember, Richard," she replied, " that we 
 are all fellow-sufferers; we must assist each other 
 with counsel." 
 
 Richard replied, that he had enough to do to 
 think for himself. 
 
 " Let us retain," said Elizabeth, " this com- 
 fortable reflection, that through all our troubles 
 we have acted with kindness and confidence one 
 to another." 
 
 " My patience ! v exclaimed Richard, " and 
 what good will that do !" 
 
 " All," replied his sister; " for without affec- 
 tion one for another, how tenfold forlorn are our 
 prospects ! I am sure if we would be happy, we 
 must cultivate a spirit of love and good under* 
 standing amongst ourselves." 
 
104 THE BREAKING UP 
 
 Richard said he wanted nothing but a good 
 understanding with them. 
 
 " Then," replied his sister, " let your mother at 
 least know what you are intending to do. We 
 are in the most trying circumstances !" 
 
 " The deuce we are !" was the reply. 
 
 " And now, brother," said she, " I mysell 
 will act according to what I recommend. I ask, 
 earnestly and affectionately, of you my own bro- 
 ther, what step do you counsel me to take ? I 
 have had many little schemes for myself, but none 
 exactly please me." 
 
 " Oh! how should I know?" answered he; for 
 he had never been taught to think for any one but 
 himself. 
 
 " Richard!" said his sister, the tears starting to 
 her eyes, " I am the most forlorn of us all; you 
 and my mother were always dear friends to each 
 other; she loved you as she never loved me. I 
 have lost my friend. Oh, brother! that you 
 would but fill his place; that you would but let us 
 love one another, and act in unison ! We are 
 young," she continued, " and I think we might 
 defy our troubles, if we loved each other; if we 
 were a united family." 
 
 Richard's silence showed that he was not pre- 
 pared with an answer, and she asked — 
 
 " Have you seen my mother to-day ?" 
 
 "No!" he answered abruptly; "nor do I 
 want !" 
 
 " Will you give me then some message to carry 
 to her ? some kind word or two ?" demanded his 
 
OP A FAMILY. 105 
 
 sister. " She looks ill, Richard, and I am sure 
 she is unhappy! Just say three or four kind 
 words; — that you are busy or you would go and 
 talk with her, or that you send your love to her." 
 
 " Stuff!" returned Richard. " But now, do 
 you understand me," resumed he; " did you under- 
 stand what I said about having the house clear of 
 you? I shall have the sale on the twentieth." 
 
 Elizabeth sighed deeply, and then replied, "Yes, 
 indeed, I understand you, and that again brings 
 me to my argument; think for us, dearest brother; 
 where shall we go? We have no home; that 
 you know as well as I do !" 
 
 " Oh ! I'm sure I don't know !" returned he ; 
 but the tone in which these words were spoken 
 seemed kind, and she pressed his hand to her lips. 
 
 " I have thought sometimes," said she, " that I 
 would go to the old school-master's till all this 
 bustle is over; for then I should be at hand if I 
 should be wanted, or if I could be of service either 
 to you or mother. What a privilege it is," said 
 the poor girl, with tears in her eyes, "to be of 
 value and of use to somebody !" 
 
 " Heaven knows !" she again resumed, " what 
 a bitter thing it will be to me to leave this dear 
 old house ! Oh, Richard, it is a hard case ! it is 
 a cruel, cruel case ! and I do not wonder at your 
 anger ! I and mother, however much we loved 
 it, might naturally look to leave it sometime, but 
 you never ! I love the house, and the old, deso- 
 late gardens ; for, in my quiet way, I have had my 
 pleasures, all the deeper, perhaps, for being quiet; 
 and, thank Heaven ! come what will, I shall think 
 
106 THE BREAKING UP 
 
 of this sweet old home, and my poor, dear father, 
 as Adam and Eve must have thought of the gar- 
 den of Eden, and the angels that visited them 
 there!" 
 
 " It is a burning shame !" said Richard, " that 
 I am to be driven away thus from my own place !" 
 
 " As a matter of law," said she, " I know no- 
 thing about it; but I suppose it is quite gone from 
 us." 
 
 " The old rascal!" exclaimed Richard, grind- 
 ing his teeth ; " but — " and he shook his head 
 without finishing his sentence. 
 
 " I think," resumed Elizabeth, " it will be the 
 death of mother !" 
 
 " Pooh !" said Richard, " old women don't die 
 so easily !" 
 
 " Do not speak of her in this way," said his 
 sister; " she has been a most devoted mother to 
 you. You know not how much keener is an 
 unkind word even than a sword's point ! and the 
 present is not the time when we should increase 
 our sorrows by unkindness to each other !" 
 
 At that moment Mrs. Durant entered the room. 
 Elizabeth wondered whether Richard noticed the 
 change in her countenance; but he said nothing; 
 "he only looked doggedly into the fire. 
 
 Elizabeth rose from her brother's side, and, 
 offering a morning salutation, placed a chair for 
 her mother. Mrs. Durant paid no regard what- 
 ever to her daughter, but, going straight up to her 
 son, presented her hand. 
 
 The young man neither rose nor seemed dis- 
 posed to obey. 
 
OF A FAMILY. 107 
 
 " I insist upon it !" said Mrs. Durant. " I ask 
 it as no favour; I insist upon it! Foolish boy, 
 I say, give me your hand ! I command you to 
 let us be friends ! Far better would it have been 
 for you to have gone down on your bended knees 
 to me, than have thus compelled me to seek you ! 
 Troubles have brought down my pride; and I, 
 your mother, say to you, we will be friends !" 
 
 Richard placed his hand ungraciously in his 
 mother's, and she then sat down beside him. 
 
 From this time there was an appearance, at 
 least, of terms being kept between them. On 
 one point, however, they differed. She wished to 
 contest the case with Sir Thomas at law, believing 
 that Sharpie's promise to them was binding; or at 
 least to oblige him to enforce the ejectment, 
 which she thought would bring odium upon him. 
 Richard's policy, however, was different; he had 
 his law friend's opinion that it was vain to oppose 
 Sir Thomas; Stanton-Combe had fairly passed 
 into his hands; and with his money he had the 
 means of bribing public opinion. Everything was 
 in his favour, and Richard seemed willing likewise 
 to go with the tide. He said, " he would sell 
 all, stick and stone; turn everything into money; 
 and, as to revenge, he would take it in another 
 way !" Neither his mother nor his sister inquired 
 in what way ; and, as he did not tell them, neither 
 will we confide it to our readers. 
 
108 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 THE GREAT SALE BY AUCTION. 
 
 Stanton-Com^e was a fine old place. It was 
 full of stately rooms, finished with carved wood- 
 works, rich ceilings, and ornamental gilding, and 
 filled with furniture of the most costly description; 
 everything, it is true, was dimmed with neglect 
 and disuse, but all were* faithful and affecting 
 chronicles of splendour and prosperity that had 
 been. 
 
 It was a melancholy thing to see the cold, 
 hard-visaged men of business prying through their 
 ancient rooms, and bringing, with unhallowed 
 hands, as it seemed, all their secrets to light; ran- 
 sacking cabinets, and diving into curiously inlaid 
 presses, which had held, in trusty ward, the 
 brocades, and the lavendered linen, and the rich 
 lace of many a now forgotten lady. It was sor- 
 rowful to see strangers, whose only object was 
 " to turn a penny," examining old portraits of 
 handsome men, graceful women, and round-faced 
 merry children, the once happy and hopeful 
 dwellers of the mansion, and rating them by their 
 value as mere canvass and paint; to see curious 
 and costly old relics, and works of art, which had 
 once been the treasured possessions of some now 
 forgotten master of the house, about to be dis- 
 persed into a hundred different hands ! 
 
 Elizabeth hardly ventured to think of what was 
 going on, or of what lay before her, even in the 
 
THE GREAT SALE BY AUCTION. 109 
 
 near future. The revealing to vulgar and money- 
 making people the secrets of the house; the throw- 
 ing open of those disused chambers, which had 
 been full of mystery to her childhood, and of 
 melancholy interest to her more thoughtful years, 
 seemed like the first act of a tragedy, in which 
 preparation was made for all the dark work that 
 was to follow — the final desolation and ruin of an 
 old family. 
 
 Little as the principal members of the family 
 had of late years been held in esteem by their 
 wealthier neighbours, a sentiment of pity filled 
 the hearts of the kind, at legist, and Elizabeth and 
 her mother received < unexpected and cordial In- 
 vitations to partake the hospitalities and shelter of 
 their roof, until the present season of trouble was 
 over, and their plans for the future were matured. 
 There is a general sentiment of kindness and pity 
 in human nature, let misanthropes say what they 
 will; and the fountain in the arid desert is not 
 more blessed and welcome, than such evidences 
 of good feeling to the unfortunate and the un- 
 happy. 
 
 Mrs. Durant, however, adhered to her first 
 avowal, that nothing less than absolute force 
 should remove her from the place ; — in her own 
 words, which she invariably used, " she would 
 remain there while the roof stood 1" Elizabeth 
 would gladly have availed herself of the good-will 
 of her neighbours, had not the necessity for her 
 so doing been prevented by a letter from Mrs. 
 Betty Thicknisse. This good lady had obtained 
 
110 THE GREAT SALE BY AUCTION. 
 
 from her sister-in-law the favour of an invitation 
 for her god-daughter. 
 
 No sooner was the letter received than she began 
 to make preparations for her journey, or, more 
 properly, for her final departure. It was indeed 
 a sorrowful task, but necessity in this case, as in 
 many others, was a kind task-master: there was 
 no time allowed for her to think; nor was it till 
 she took her seat in the carriage, which had been 
 thoughtfully sent for her, and drove down the 
 avenue, and past the broken and decaying wall of 
 the pleasance, that the full sense of its being a last 
 departure came upon her. 
 
 Who does not know, that has the least spark of 
 segment in his soul, the melancholy import of 
 those words — " for the last time !" Elizabeth 
 felt them at that moment in their full force; she 
 was leaving the home of her childhood, the grave 
 of her father, for poverty and an uncertain dwell- 
 ing among strangers. 
 
 At the Urn of the road, the fine old hoi""'* 
 with its many details of ornamented gables, r«assy 
 chimneys, and large bay windows, stood before 
 her, at the head of its avenue. It had never 
 looked so stately ; it had never felt so dear to her 
 heart before; and the last view of the home of 
 her fathers was taken through blinding tears. 
 
 All was a scene of bustle and preparation. 
 Richard and his man of business seemed to enter, 
 body and soul, into the arrangements for the com- 
 ing sale. Everywhere they might be met, with 
 important faces and dusty coats, and with nvn at 
 
THE GREAT SALE BY AUCTION. Ill 
 
 their heels, hastening to take down and to put up, 
 and to present everything with its best face to the 
 public; or, with writing materials in their hands, 
 assisting others in preparing catalogues. 
 
 The auctioneer, a sort of George Robins of 
 those days, was now down; catalogues were 
 printed, and the 
 
 GREAT SALE BY AUCTION, 
 
 of furniture, pictures, books, musical instruments, 
 old china, wine, family-plate, and linen ; works of 
 art, cabinets, inlaid wardrobes, splendid pier- 
 glasses, &c. &c. &c. ; besides farming stock and 
 cattle, a valuable hunter and other horses, hounds, 
 pointers, and other dogs, &c. &c. &c; all the pro- 
 perty of the late Edward Durant, Esquire, of Stan- 
 ton-Combe, in the county of Durham, was duly 
 advertised in all the London and provincial 
 journals. 
 
 Then came down London picture-dealers, al- 
 though it was mid-winter, and travelling was not so 
 easy a thing in those days ; but down they came 
 by coach, and mail, and post-chaise; picture- 
 dealers, second-hand book buyers, amateur col- 
 lectors of all kinds ; furniture-brokers, and all the 
 neighbourhood beside, poor and rich ; for the 
 great sale at Stanton-Combe had attractions for 
 everybody. 
 
 In one respect Richard had shown attention and 
 care for his mother; he had been just to her. 
 Everything that was hers, or which she could lay 
 the remotest claim to, even down to a china tea- 
 cup, he ordered to be removed to whatever place 
 
112 THE GREAT SALE BY AUCTION. 
 
 of security she chose. All this, and it was neither 
 inconsiderable in quantity nor value, she declared 
 should never leave the house; it was therefore 
 stowed into those rooms which she appropriated 
 to herself and old Bridget, whose services she 
 retained. Among the valuables which she secured 
 was the carved oaken chest containing the linen 
 said to have been spun by the brownie of the 
 house, and with which superstition connected the 
 fortunes of the family. 
 
 " This," said Mrs. Durant, " is my son's pro- 
 perty, but I will be its warder; and, let poverty 
 come upon me and grind me to the very dust, 
 this precious heir-loom I will not part with even 
 for bread." 
 
 It was stowed in a safe place, and Mrs. Durant 
 would not trust Bridget with the key. 
 
 It was now the twentieth of the month, and no- 
 thing was talked of far and near, but the great 
 sale, and what was reported of the place and all 
 that it held, by those who had been there. Peo- 
 ple who were ill in bed thought themselves espe- 
 cially unlucky, not because they were ill, so much 
 as because they could not go to the sale ; and so 
 great was the concourse of people, and their 
 horses and vehicles, at the Durant Armsj and the 
 Seven Stars, that the landlords declared " they 
 should lose their senses," and the ostlers and 
 waiters, that u they were fairly run off their legs !" 
 
 It had been suggested by Richard's lawyer, 
 that Sir Thomas would have his agents at the sale, 
 to purchase up everything connected with, or 
 commemorative of the family; and, therefore, 
 
THE GREAT SALE BY AUCTION. 113 l 
 
 these bidders must be strung* up to the very highest . 
 prices. All fell out as they had foreseen; Sir 
 Thomas was resolved that nothing of interest to 
 the family should go into othep hands, and Richard 
 had the greatest satisfaction in seeing that his 
 uncle would not have one cheap bargain. 
 
 " Upon my word," said he, as he heard the 
 price at which the family pictures were being 
 knocked down, " I shall get more good out of my 
 ancestors thus, than I ever looked for !" 
 
 He was abundantly satisfied with the result of 
 every day's sale ; and every night he and his law 
 friend sat down to a good supper, and drank suc- 
 cess to the next day. 
 
 So ended the six days of the sale ; and for three 
 days more the place was thronged with people, 
 packing and sending off their purchases. On 
 the evening of the third day, the last waggon drove 
 off, and Richard's man of business shook hands 
 with him on the steps of the principal entrance, 
 mounted his phaeton, and drove off also. 
 
 Everybody was gone; even horses and dogs 
 were removed — all excepting the large yard-dog in 
 his kennel ; but he had changed masters — he be- 
 longed now to Sir Thomas Durant. 
 
 It wanted now but two days to the end of the 
 year, and a rumour was in the village that Sharpie 
 had arrived in the neighbourhood. But he had 
 not yet been seen at the Durant Arms. The 
 thirtieth day of December was Sunday ; a cold, 
 comfortless winter Sunday — a Suudaj T , too, in the 
 Christmas week; but so occupied had the mind of 
 both Mrs. Durant and her son been of late, that, 
 l2 
 
114 THE GREAT SALE BY AUCTION. 
 
 excepting for Christmas-day making a one day's 
 pause in the sale, the time would have been for- 
 gotten by them. Any uninterested spectator 
 might have moralized upon the changes in human 
 fortune, when he had thought of the Christmas 
 that had been kept there, with spits turning, and 
 spigots running, and guests in hall and chamber ; 
 and the solitude, and silence, and ruin that had 
 now fallen upon everything; — the chimneys cold, 
 the larder empty, and the inhabitants a broken 
 household, about to leave it for ever. But no- 
 body moralized on these things ; and poor Mrs. 
 Durant ! — how changed from the high-spirited 
 dame of the early part of our story ! — sat in her 
 small chamber, reading the service of the day to 
 Bridget, who was now the sole remaining domestic. 
 It was such a thing as Mrs. Durant had never 
 done before; but in times of affliction, or of deep 
 excitement, people naturally resort to a form, at 
 least, of religion. Scarcely was this little rite 
 finished, and Bridget retired to the room which 
 served for kitchen, when Richard entered his 
 mother's chamber and sat down beside her. 
 There was something very peculiar in his manner; 
 he seemed full of thought, and softened down into 
 unusual quietness. Nothing could be more affect- 
 ing than their meeting: his mother kissed his 
 forehead and cheek, and stroked his hair as she 
 used to do when a boy. 
 
 " Mother," he at length said, " I am about to 
 leave this place; I am about to leave you — you 
 must now grant me one request." 
 
 " What is it, dear?" asked she. 
 
THE GREAT SALE BY AUCTION. 115 
 
 " Leave it too !" he answered. 
 
 " Never !" was her firm reply. 
 
 " What is the sense of your stopping here by 
 yourself?" he asked. 
 
 " If that is your request," said his mother, 
 " spare your asking; I would not grant it even 
 on your death-bed ! I know what is due to our- 
 selves. They shall turn me from the place, before 
 I go!" 
 
 " For this one night, then/' said Richard, 
 " sleep at the Durant Arms, or anywhere, rather 
 than here. This is a great ghastly house; it looks 
 desolate and dreary; I would not sleep in it my- 
 self!" 
 
 " Foolish boy !" returned his mother ; " I 
 have no fears ; fire-arms I have, if need be. I 
 am not afraid," said she, laughing. " No, no," 
 added she, as Richard remained silent, " I will 
 not voluntarily pass the threshold; if I did, they 
 would enter and forcibly keep me out. Surely," 
 said she, eyeing him with suspicion, " you are not 
 leagued with them against me ?" 
 
 " No, upon my soul !" exclaimed Richard. 
 " My care is only about your own comfort — your 
 own safety !" 
 
 " It is dutiful, very dutiful of you !" she said, 
 " and I ask your pardon even for a suspicion ; but 
 my mind is made up." 
 
 " It is getting late," said he, after a pause of 
 some seconds; " it is now dark. I sleep at the 
 Durant Arms, and shall go by the mail to Starkly. 
 I will wait for you there; for they will soon dis- 
 
116 THE GREAT SALE BY AUCTION. 
 
 lodge you," said he with a smile; "very soon dis- 
 lodge you !" 
 
 " And your money," asked Mrs. Durant, " is 
 that safe ?" 
 
 " I have it with me," replied he, slapping his 
 hand on his pocket ; " I shall put it in the Darling- 
 ton Bank." 
 
 " Well, Heaven bless you, my own son !" said 
 Mrs. Durant, embracing him ; " Heaven bless 
 you ! — you have made me happier than I have 
 been for many years; for oh, Richard! remember 
 this — my happiness or my misery is in your hands!" 
 
 Richard kissed her and muttered something 
 about his duty. 
 
 " Yes, Dick," she said, as she held his hand in 
 both of hers, " I know you will do your duty. 
 And as for me, I care not what I suffer, so that 
 you prosper and are happy !" 
 
 Mrs. Durant wept; and Richard, again urging 
 her to go, but being refused, he turned to the 
 door to leave her: she went down stairs with him, 
 to secure the outer door after his departure. 
 
 " I knew he had a good heart ! I knew he 
 loved me !" exclaimed the mother, with the most 
 inexpressible satisfaction, as she again sat alone 
 in her chamber. 
 
 Before Mrs. Durant retired for the night, Bridget 
 informed her that Richard was not gone; he had 
 returned, and had been re-admitted; that he de- 
 sired her to go to bed, and said he should remain 
 in the house all night. It was ar new proof, Mrs. 
 Durant thought, of his affectionate care for her; 
 
AN UNLOOKED FOR EVENT. 117 
 
 and, at that moment, she did not seem to herself 
 to have one sorrow on earth. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 AN UNLOOKED FOR EVENT. 
 
 It was a little past midnight when Bridget raised 
 her head from her pillow, to listen to certain 
 sounds that had startled her in her sleep. 
 
 " Yes !" said she, " there it is again !" and, 
 terrified almost beyond endurance, she went from 
 the dressing-room, where she slept, to the adjoin- 
 ing chamber. 
 
 Mrs. Durant, who had had many uneasy, sleep- 
 less nights of late, had been so solaced by the 
 parting interview with her son, that she had this 
 night slept unusually soundly. 
 
 " Lord, madam !" said the woman, shaking her 
 in her bed; " do, pray ye, wake !" 
 
 Mrs. Durant started up, wide awake, in an 
 instant. " What is it, Bridget?" asked she. 
 
 *• Lord, madam ! I don't know ! but have you 
 heard nothing ?" 
 
 Mrs. Durant listened, but all was still as death. 
 
 " You'll hear it in an instant," said Bridget ; 
 " to my thinking, they're breaking in !" 
 
 Mrs. Durant now heard the sounds Bridget 
 had spoken of, and sprung from her bed; she in- 
 creased the light of the night-lamp, and, without 
 replying, began to dress herself hastily. 
 
 " Oh, Lord, madam ! there it is again !" ex- 
 
118 AN UNLOOKED FOR EVENT. 
 
 claimed Bridget, " like breaking sticks or rotten 
 wood ! 1 wish I had my clothes here !" 
 
 Mrs. Durant still spoke not a word, and, fixing 
 one loaded pistol in her belt, with the other in her 
 hand she took up the lamp and undid the fasten- 
 ings of her chamber door, Bridget this while 
 clinging to her in the infirmity of fear. 
 
 " Let go my skirts, woman !" said her mistress. 
 
 Bridget obeyed, and Mrs. Durant advanced 
 along the narrow passage which led from her 
 chamber to the head of the stairs, the old attend- 
 ant following in her night-gown. 
 
 When Mrs. Durant reached the open stair-case, 
 the sounds not only became fearfully audible, but 
 the cause intelligible also. The place was on fire ! 
 The doors of the principal apartments all opened 
 upon the large lobby at the stairs head, and the 
 first door that she operied showed at once the 
 terrible extent of the fire, although as yet the 
 flames had not burst into the apartment; but 
 smoke was issuing through crevices of the wainscot, 
 and even through the floor, while all around was a 
 low roar, as of a furnace. On opening a second 
 door, which led to a private stair-case, the flames at 
 once burst upward&with the force of the increased 
 draft, like immense tongues sent forth from fiery 
 jaws, licking along the walls, and everywhere 
 spreading into furious burning. Not one word 
 did the strong-hearted woman utter; but, remem- 
 bering that her son's chamber lay above the very 
 rooms in which the fire was making such fearful 
 speed, she reproached herself mentally for having 
 been the cause of his remaining there that night. 
 
AN UNLOOKED FOR EVENT. 119 
 
 and rushed Mr the stairs with the desperation of a 
 tigress about to be robbed of her young. 
 
 Richard's door was fastened within, as she sup- 
 posed; she knocked, and called frantically upon 
 him : her voice echoed through the desolate 
 chambers, but she received no reply: the next 
 moment a horrible crash was heard, and the 
 flames seemed to burst through the floor into that 
 very chamber: it was all at once in a blaze, which 
 shone horribly through the chinks of the door. 
 The door, which had hitherto resisted her efforts, 
 gave way before her desperation, and she rushed 
 into the burning room: her feet were scorched 
 through the soles of her shoes, and the atmo- 
 sphere was stiffling. In a moment, however, she 
 saw that the room was empty : she had forgotten 
 that the furniture had been removed for sale. 
 
 Frantic with fear of his danger, she rushed again 
 to the stair-case, but that was all now enveloped in 
 flame. She did not, however, pause to think of 
 peril, but rushed down, although the flames left 
 the smell of fire on her woollen garments. 
 
 " Oh, Madam ! Madam !" exclaimed Bridget, 
 meeting her below, " here's all Stanton, and that 
 fellow, Sharpie, swearing it's ail Mr. Richard's 
 doing ! and there are constables to take him !" 
 
 The alarum-bell was ringing violently; stormy 
 voices of angry men were sounding amid the roar- 
 ing of the flames, the cracking of windows, and 
 the crashing of falling walls and floors. The 
 pitch- blackness of the night was illuminated 
 for miles round ; but nothing of this reached the 
 senses of poor Mrs. Durant : she was distracted 
 
120 AN UNLOOKED FOR EVENT. 
 
 to obtain intelligence of her son. It would have 
 been consolation to have seen him in the hands of 
 the constables even, but he was nowhere to be 
 found. Sharpie promised the most liberal reward 
 to whoever might discover him, but all search was 
 fruitless. At length, it was suggested by some 
 one, that he might be buried under the ruins of the 
 southern extremity of the mansion, which, with its 
 immense stack of chimneys, had fallen to the 
 ground. 
 
 A more terrible and determined fire never was 
 witnessed. It was in vain that engines spouted 
 their streams upon it. The seeds of fire seemed 
 to hitijte been sown over the whole place, and it 
 was soon discovered that any attempt to arrest the 
 conflagration would be fruitless. No attempt at 
 rescuing the furniture and paintings could be 
 made, so completely was the interior one mass of 
 fire when the people arrived. Nothing was saved 
 but the furniture in Mrs. Durant's rooms: this 
 was removed with great speed to one of the out- 
 buildings, which appeared beyond the reach of 
 the fire ; Anthony Sharpie thinking that he was 
 thus serving his patron. 
 
 It was a night never to be forgotten. Half the 
 county was roused by the distant effect of the 
 conflagration, as it was witnessed in the fearfully 
 illuminated atmosphere. Before morning, that 
 stately and ancient pile was merely bare and 
 burning walls, which, in the course of the day, 
 fell to the ground, heaping up below a pile 01 
 smoking ruins. 
 
 An express reached London that morning, with 
 
AN UNLOOKED FOR EVENT. 121 
 
 the tidings, for Sir Thomas Durant. And in 
 three days more, in every post-office, coach-office, 
 and ship-office, were bills posted, offering " 5001. 
 reward to any one who would apprehend Richard 
 Durant, late possessor of Stanton-Combe, who was 
 supposed to have been instrumental in the de- 
 struction of that mansion by fire, or give infor- 
 mation so that he might be apprehended: or 200/. 
 reward to any one who would ascertain that he 
 had perished in the flames, as some supposed." 
 
 We have said, this while, nothing whatever of 
 Mrs. Durant. What can we say more than our 
 readers may imagine ? Her distress was of the most 
 distracting nature: the efforts made in her own 
 person to assist her son's deliverance, supposing he 
 were in the burning rooms, were incredible. She 
 ascended ladders and entered furnace-like cham- 
 bers, where the stoutest-hearted men could not 
 bear the excessive heat. And when at length no 
 hope remained for her, although fearfully scorched 
 in her own person, she appeared unaware of her 
 bodily suffering, the anguish of her mind was so 
 much greater. She was conveyed to the Durant 
 Arms, and placed in bed. 
 
 By degrees her reason gained the mastery over 
 her despair, and then she began to gather assur- 
 ance of her son's safety. She could now under- 
 stand his anxiety to remove her from the place 
 that night. She would have died by torture, 
 rather than have avowed the part she believed 
 him to have had in the fire; but she began to 
 take consolation. Anthony Sharpie had declared, 
 on oath, that he himself saw Richard Durant pass 
 M 
 
122 AN UNLOOSED FOR EVENT. 
 
 from the southern wing of the building to that 
 which contained his mother's apartments; and 
 though others swore too, that they had seen him, 
 but in the burning rooms, and that the moment 
 before the chimneys had fallen, which made 
 escape impossible, she yet took hope. There 
 was no necessity, she knew, for him to remain 
 there, unless it had been to remove her, or to 
 assure her of his safety ; she did not doubt but 
 that, when he had seen Sharpie and his myrmidons 
 at hand, he had fled from the place, and was now 
 in temporary concealment. This opinion was 
 strengthened by the deposition of the landlord of 
 the Durant Arms, who stated that Richard had 
 left his house by mail, for the north, that very 
 night at twelve o'clock, before the fire had burst 
 out. The driver of the mail declared, on oath, 
 that he had dropped the gentleman who had 
 mounted the box that night at Stanton, at Kil- 
 hope Cross, which was the point at which a 
 person going to Starkey would turn off from the, 
 main-road; but, being new to that line of road a* 
 driver of the mail, he could not swear to the per- 
 son of Richard Durant. All this corresponded 
 with what Richard had told his mother of hid 
 intentions; and although neither Lady Thicknisse, 
 nor his sister, nor any person of Starkey whatever, 
 had seen him, or had intelligence of or from him, 
 no doubt remained in his mother's mind respect- 
 ing his security. 
 
 One circumstance, however, occurred soon after, 
 which threw all again into doubt, and filled the 
 poor mother's heart with despair. The very ring 
 
LIFE IN LONDON.' 123 
 
 which Richard had worn that day, as not only his 
 mother, but many others, could testify, was found 
 among the ruins of that southern wing where he 
 was stated to have been seen by so many. 
 It was all doubt and dreadful uncertainty. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 LIFE IN LONDON. 
 
 Six months afterwards, Mrs. Durant, now to all 
 appearance an aged, heart-broken woman, with 
 the scars of the fearful fire upon her countenance, 
 and her hair, which had been black as the raven's 
 wing, now thickly sprinkled with white, was sit- 
 ting in the library at Starkey. Elizabeth was 
 beside her, her eyes fixed affectionately on her 
 mother's countenance; she was evidently waiting 
 for an answer, which the other was slow to give. 
 
 " Well," at length, she said, " it may be kind 
 of Lady Thicknisse to offer me the fifty pounds a 
 year; we have been old friends, and it is nothing 
 to her, with her fine income; and I am brought 
 very low by many things, but — " 
 
 " Have no anxiety about me, dear mother," 
 said Elizabeth, fearing she was experiencing the 
 same painful anxiety which tortured her own 
 breast. " I shall do very well: Mrs. Betty as- 
 sures me of the kindness of Mrs. Franklin, and I 
 have seen her letter myself. I shall do very 
 well !" 
 
 " Oh no ! child, no ! I was not thinking of 
 
124 LIFE IN LONDON. 
 
 you !" returned her mother; " though I must say 
 you have shown no lack of affection to me since I 
 have been here. I dare say you will do very well. 
 But I was thinking, that, if my poor lad had been 
 alive, he would never have let me be dependent 
 on anybody !" And with this thought poor Mrs. 
 Durant burst into tears. " No, no ! he would 
 never have let me want; so kind as he was ! so 
 affectionate as he was on that awful night !" 
 
 Elizabeth doubted, in her own mind, whether 
 Richard really would have remained as dutiful 
 and as affectionate as he appeared to have been 
 on that particular evening to which his mother so 
 perpetually recurred, but she would not for the 
 world have shaken the pleasing belief. 
 
 " Oh !" said Mrs. Durant, again rousing her- 
 self from that stupor of grief into which such 
 allusions to her son invariably threw her, " I can 
 endure it no longer I This uncertainty will be 
 the death of me !" 
 
 A sudden idea the next moment occurred to 
 her, and, snatching up pen and paper, she wrote 
 one such advertisement as the London journals 
 contain almost daily — tell-tales of home-desola- 
 tion, and of the misery of trusting and breaking 
 hearts. In the course of the next week all Eng- 
 land might have read the following : — 
 
 " JR. D. is earnestly requested to communicate 
 with her who loves him more than life' 1 
 
 For a whole week this advertisement appeared. 
 The first thing every morning, poor Mrs. Durant, 
 with eager eyes, and hope thrilling her heart to 
 violent palpitation, turned to the columns of the 
 
LIFE IN LONDON. 125 
 
 paper. The appeal was still there, but there was 
 no reply. 
 
 After an interval of a week or two, the heart- 
 broken mother made another attempt to obtain 
 intelligence. 
 
 " If R. D. is still alive, let him answer! As 
 he values his souPs peace, let him answer/" 
 
 Still her appeal was vain. It was like striking 
 the rock with a feather. Oh, how blind and 
 pitiless seemed that to which she was calling — 
 like eternity and the grave 1 It was as if she 
 sent the cries of her anguish into voiceless depths ! 
 
 For three months, at distant intervals, Mrs. 
 Durant's appeals to her son, if still living, were 
 read in the columns of the morning papers, varied 
 from time to time, but each one like the groans 
 of anguish and affection. Many and many a one 
 read those brief effusions with tearful eyes, and 
 looked, each returning day, with tender sympathy, 
 to recognise, if they could, some response or ac- 
 knowledgment. But there was none ! 
 
 At length, after three months of frightful 
 anxiety, a post-letter was given to her. The 
 handwriting was unknown, but the few words it 
 contained filled her with inexpressible joy. 
 
 " R. D. is in London, and is well. Do not 
 seek to know more." 
 
 He was, then, living ! For a few moments it 
 seemed as if this brief assurance restored the hap- 
 piness of life. He was in London, and well ! 
 She fell upon her knees and returned thanks to 
 Heaven; she called herself happy and fortunate, 
 and, for the moment, forgot even the misery of the 
 M 2 
 
126 LIFE IN LONDON. 
 
 hour before. Great, however, as was the worth of 
 the assurance that he lived, much still remained 
 behind; and, scarcely had an hour elapsed, after 
 the receipt of the letter, than she was as restless 
 and unsatisfied as formerly. Of his prosperity or 
 happiness she knew nothing. He might be in 
 prison; he might be in distress many ways, and 
 yet be well in health. She was told to inquire no 
 further. How little did he know of the insatiable 
 yearning of a mother's heart, who could address to 
 her these words ! 
 
 London was now the goal of her desires, and 
 she declared that if she had to seek, day by day, 
 through the streets and alleys of that mighty city, 
 nothing but death should stop her. 
 
 It had been decided, some months before, as we 
 have already hinted, that Elizabeth should go to 
 London. Good Mrs. Betty Thicknisse had writ- 
 ten on the subject to an early friend of hers, even 
 to our Mrs. Franklin, of whose connexion with 
 Sir Thomas Durant she was unaware. She merely 
 knew, that at that period of her friend's life she 
 had taken a situation, which had proved an un- 
 happy one; and, as the two ladies' friendship was 
 kept up only by letters, at uncertain intervals of 
 time, Mrs. Betty had, from feelings of delicacy, 
 forborne to question on a subject which her friend 
 had not voluntarily introduced. 
 
 But knowing the kindness of her heart, and 
 firmly relying on the correctness of her principles, 
 Mrs. Betty, who was most anxious to befriend 
 Elizabeth, and to assist her praiseworthy efforts 
 at independence, wrote to her, and besought her 
 
LIFE IN LONDON. 127 
 
 advice and co-operation. Mrs. Franklin im- 
 mediately sympathized with the young lady re- 
 commended to her, not only as the god-daughter 
 of her friend, but as the victim of her old per- 
 secutor, Sir Thomas Durant, and promised to 
 withhold no effort in her behalf. 
 
 The journey had only been delayed in con- 
 sequence of Mrs. Durant's health, and state of 
 mind; now, however, not a moment was to be 
 lost : she was in the utmost trepidation to be away, 
 and, in two days, all was in readiness for their de- 
 parture. 
 
 But we must not leave Starkey without men- 
 tioning one instance of good Mrs. Betty's affection 
 and consideration. When the two ebony cabinets, 
 which Lady Tnicknisse had bespoken, arrived 
 from Stanton- Combe, after the sale, there came 
 also an oil painting with them. This was a pre- 
 sent for Elizabeth, from her considerate god- 
 mother, who, out of her small income, had ordered 
 this purchase to be made, even at the exorbitant 
 rate Sir Thomas's agents were ready to pay. It 
 was a fine painting of Elizabeth's father, and to 
 her was an invaluable gift. 
 
 We may as well also mention now, what portion 
 of Mrs. Durant's possessions, which had been 
 rescued from the fire, ever came to her hands; — 
 merely that which Bridget herself had saved; but 
 that portion happened to be the most valuable — 
 the plate and jewels, together with a chest of linen, 
 and her mistress's clothes; — the rest fell into the 
 clutches of Sharpie, and was held securely. 
 That oaken chest, however, which contained the 
 
128 LIFE IN LONDON. 
 
 " brownie's webs," and about which poor Mrs. 
 Durant, even in her distress for her son's life, did 
 not lose thought, perished in the flames. The 
 after belief of Richard's death made this appear 
 of less importance to his mother; nay, the very 
 fact of its having been destroyed seemed an as- 
 surance, almost, that his life was gone too. When 
 she discovered that this belief was happily un- 
 founded, a momentary pang crossed her heart, 
 lest it indicated that fortune had deserted her. 
 " But no ! no !" reasoned she, giving the old tra- 
 dition that second meaning which so many an 
 augury is capable of; " the fortune of the house 
 clearly will not abide by the intruder !" 
 
 Mrs. Franklin did not fall short of the character 
 given of her by Mrs. Betty. Nothing could be 
 kinder and more considerate than she was; but 
 she herself was, to a certain degree, dependent 
 upon her relative, Mr. Netley, and she could not 
 do more than offer a temporary asylum to Eliza- 
 beth and her mother. But she could give sym- 
 pathy and advice, and that was much to Elizabeth ; 
 for, strange as it may seem, her mother was so 
 completely absorbed by one thought — the discover- 
 ing and allying herself again to her son, that she 
 seemed to become incapable of another idea. 
 Mrs. Franklin's countenance and experience were 
 therefore invaluable to her. There was another 
 source of comfort, too — the companionship of Alice 
 Franklin, the only young female companion Eliza- 
 beth had ever had — and that of itself was a de- 
 lightful source of happiness. Alice had profited 
 by every circumstance, favourable and unfavour- 
 
LIFE IN LONDON. 129 
 
 able, and the two girls formed a friendship which 
 was productive of benefit and happy consequences 
 to them both. Excepting for the Franklins, the 
 situation of both Mrs. Durant and her daughter 
 must have been pitiable and forlorn in the extreme. 
 Although poor Mrs. Durant had said, when at a 
 distance, that she would soon discover her son in 
 London, the vastness of that mighty city, with 
 all its stir and life, and its imposing circumstances 
 both of splendour and utter wretchedness, sunk 
 even her heart. In vain she walked the busiest 
 streets, and threaded the densest crowds; in vain 
 she went into resorts of the gay and happy, glanc- 
 ing her restless and anxious eyes over fair and 
 noble forms: he for whom she sought was not 
 there. Nor was he to be met with in the dens 
 and alleys where she penetrated, fearless of injury 
 or insult. It was a hopeless quest ! She felt as 
 if she were now too near — as if she wanted a dis- 
 tance and space to look around in; and again she 
 had recourse to her correspondence through the 
 columns of the papers. 
 
 "Richard" said her advertisement "your mo- 
 ther is near you. You are earnestly requested to 
 communicate with her. Write to A. B., General 
 Post-office" 
 
 The most unsympathizing clerks at the General 
 Post-office learned to know the anxious and hag- 
 gard countenance of the poor lady in black, who, 
 day after day, and even twice in the day, pre- 
 sented herself to make inquiries. 
 
 After a week or two, the advertisement took 
 another form. " Has R. D, no regard for his 
 
130 LIFE IN LONDON. 
 
 anxious mother ? From her he has nothing to 
 fear. She cannot much longer sustain this 
 suspense. Qommunicate through General Post' 
 office, addressed Y. Z." 
 
 She little thought, as she presented herself 
 again and again, with her anxious melancholy 
 countenance, to inquire for the much-desired 
 letter, how a hundred eyes were compassionately 
 fixed upon her; nor how she came to be known 
 to the common hackney-coachmen on the stand 
 near, who pitied her as she retired each day, yet 
 more dejected. 
 
 Elizabeth's attention and kindness to her mother 
 were unbounded, but her mother noticed it not. 
 Her anxiety absorbed every faculty; and, had it 
 remained much longer to the same extent, must 
 have ended in madness. 
 
 . Mrs. Durant had accepted the offered 50/. a 
 year from Lady Thicknisse, " until she was pro- 
 vided for by her son;" for she persisted in the 
 happy belief that Richard would joyfully find her 
 a home and means of support. Besides this, she 
 had only her plate and jewels, which she could 
 not think of turning into money — they were des- 
 tined for her son, for him for whom they and all 
 her other wealth had been preserved. It was 
 necessary, therefore, that Elizabeth did something, 
 not only to maintain herself, but to help also to 
 maintain her mother. What could she do? She 
 thought of the degraded steward in the gospel, 
 who could not dig, and was ashamed to beg, and 
 she thought herself like him. She thought first — 
 as all educated women who must earn their own 
 
LIFE IN LONDON. 131 
 
 bread seem naturally to think of that first — that 
 she would employ herself in education. But then, 
 several insuperable objections stood in the way. 
 Her education was not fashionable, nor could 
 her accomplishments recommend her either to 
 " mammas," or to ladies keeping schools; nor, 
 again, could she leave her mother in her present 
 unhappy state: needlework she thought of too, 
 but that she abandoned for another occupation — 
 for one that had beguiled many a weary hour 
 even at home — the making artificial flowers. For 
 ten hours, therefore, each day, she sat in their 
 small room, closely occupied, the monotony of her 
 life diversified only by occasional walks with 
 Alice Franklin, or by the pleasant hours which 
 that kind-hearted girl spent beside her work-table. 
 Mrs. Franklin, who had known hardships herself, 
 and could therefore sympathize in those of others, 
 took the sincerest interest in the elegant labours 
 of their young friend. So did Nehemiah Netley: 
 he himself had dealt in her wares, and he was a 
 connoisseur in such things, and used not unfre- 
 quently to look in upon her. 
 
 " You are perfectly absurd, cousin Franklin,'' 
 said he, one day, when he returned to his house 
 at Richmond ; " quite absurd about that young 
 lady, Miss Durant !" 
 
 " How so ?" asked Mrs. Franklin. 
 
 " Why, giving her advice about the sale of 
 her flowers. How should you know anything 
 about it? But people, really, are so absurd !" 
 
 Mrs. Franklin smiled, and wished he would 
 give his advice. 
 
132 LIFE IN LONDON. 
 
 "Why, so I have," replied he; "I looked in 
 this morning : beautiful notion she has about her 
 art; for I can assure you there is as much art and 
 science, ay, and genius, too, required in the mak- 
 ing an artificial flower, as in painting a picture ! 
 — and she is quite a gentlewoman too ! Give my 
 advice, did you say? what good would merely 
 giving my advice do, cousin Franklin ? But I did 
 what was the right thing to do; I took a coach and 
 a box of her flowers to my friend Horobin — capital 
 notion has he of a flower, and the first trade in 
 London! I had nothing to do but open my box. 
 It was settled in a moment : she was taken into 
 his employ in an instant, with good pay, and safe 
 into the bargain I That's what I call doing a 
 thing well, cousin Franklin !" 
 
 Mrs. Franklin held out her hand to her worthy 
 old relative, and shook his cordially, telling him 
 that she thanked him heartily, for that Miss 
 Durant was deserving of the zeal of all her 
 friends. 
 
 It was in this way that, for the first six months 
 of their London sojourn, Elizabeth laboured tor 
 her own and her mother's support. 
 
 Poor Mrs. Durant's attempts to discover her 
 son had hitherto been unsuccessful, and she had 
 again recourse to the newspapers, in the following 
 advertisement. 
 
 " O ; ce more a heart-broken mother appeals 
 to her son. Let her at least know that he lives. 
 Communicate through General Post-office, ad- 
 dressed to A. It." 
 
 The very evening on which this advertisement 
 
LIFE IN LONDON. 133 
 
 appeared, the woman of the house where they 
 lodged informed them that an old gentleman 
 wished to speak a few words with them. Sup- 
 posing it to be Mr. Netley, Elizabeth went out to 
 receive him. It was an entire stranger: he wished 
 to see her mother. 
 
 " It is my Richard's voice I" exclaimed the 
 mother, dashing forward, and sank at his feet, 
 overcome by emotion. 
 
 "It is a mistake!" said Elizabeth; and the 
 stranger repeated her words. 
 
 The door was closed, and Mrs. Durant was 
 supported to a chair. She opened her eyes, and 
 by a strong effort overcame the hysterical con- 
 vulsion that oppressed her. " I will not be kept 
 from him !" exclaimed she, rising and putting 
 aside her daughter's hand; " I will not be kept 
 back, for I know it is he !" 
 
 The stranger again protested that it was a mis- 
 take; that he merely brought a message from 
 another party. 
 
 " Leave us together!'* said Mrs. Durant to her 
 daughter, in the old tone of command which she 
 had so long used at Stanton-Combe, but which 
 had of late been a stranger to her lips. 
 
 Elizabeth, who had been accustomed of old to 
 her mother's jealous affection for her son, instantly 
 obeyed, and MrS. Durant not only closed but 
 locked the door after her. 
 
 " Richard," she said, " it is vain to attempt an 
 
 imposition on your mother ! Thank Heaven, I 
 
 see you once more !" And, spite of his disguise, she 
 
 kissed his hands, and cheek, and forehead. " Oh, 
 
 K 
 
134 LIFE IN LONDON. 
 
 my son 1 my beloved son !" she exclaimed, "why 
 have you separated yourself from me ? Speak, 
 and conceal nothing. I will not ask what you 
 .have done, nor where you have been; it is enough 
 for me that I set my eyes once more upon you !" 
 
 Richard made no other answer to these pas- 
 sionate appeals than by coldly remarking that, 
 if other people's eyes had been as sharp as hers, 
 he should not have been where he then was. 
 
 Although in the bitterness of her grief Mrs. 
 Durant thought, many a time, of the reproaches 
 she should heap upon him when they met, she 
 was now too happy for reproaches; she could only 
 lavish upon him the most affectionate of caresses, 
 and the most cordial of welcomes. She felt hap- 
 pier than she had done, even in her best days, at 
 Stanton-Combe. 
 
 If she, however, could not upbraid him, he had 
 not equal consideration for her. 
 
 " Those advertisements of her's," he said, with 
 a bitter oath, " had been all but the cause of his 
 detection." It was in vain that she argued of her 
 cruel anxiety, of her intense affection ; he only 
 replied by charging her with folly, and by pro- 
 testing that he would never reply to such appeals 
 again. There was harshness, and the most cold 
 selfishness in all that he said; but his mother 
 could not feel it as such ; she only thought that 
 he was restored to her, and she was satisfied. 
 
 When he rose to depart, she rose also and be- 
 gan to put on her bonnet and cloak. 
 
 " Where are you going?" asked he. 
 
 " With you ! — with my own son I" said she: 
 
LIFE IN LONDON. 135 
 
 " where else should I go ? I will not lose you 
 again : henceforward we will not be parted !" 
 
 Richard dashed his hat upon the table, and 
 swore that she was a fool. 
 
 " Heaven knows," said his mother, " that my 
 life is worthless without you !" 
 
 " You cannot — you shall not go with me !" he 
 replied vehemently. 
 
 " Listen I" exclaimed she ; " I sWear to you, 
 that I will ask nothing of your way of life. I will 
 reveal nothing you would have concealed ! I 
 will not be a burden upon you ! and — for a mo- 
 ther's eye can see it, though it were hidden from 
 all the world beside — Richard, you are poor ! 
 nay, start not, my poor, dear boy ! I know it, I 
 see it ! There is want in your eye ! Ay, ay, 
 perhaps you sought your mother when you wanted 
 help — when you were come to your last groat ! 
 Well, never mind ! by-gones shall be by-gones ! 
 It is enough for me that I have found you ; and 
 while I have a crust of bread I will divide it with 
 you V 9 
 
 Richard appeared affected by his mother's 
 words. He sat down again beside her, and told 
 her a long history. On the night of the fire, he 
 said, he had taken his place by the north mail, 
 but being detained longer than he expected at 
 Stanton-Combe, he had sent his groom in his 
 place, the man wearing his travelling dress as a 
 disguise; when the fire had gained a head, he 
 had, he said, hasted to his mother's rooms, intend- 
 ing to remove her, but she was not there; by that 
 time Sharpie and his people were all on the spot ; 
 
136 REAPING. 
 
 and the word being given that he must be seized 
 as the incendiary, he had kept carefully out of 
 their view, which his perfect knowledge of the 
 place enabled him to do. He made his escape, 
 he said, in the early morning, to the house of 
 Timson, with whom he had left his ring; and that, 
 instead of going to Starkey, as he had intended, 
 he had come to London. In London, he said, he 
 had all kinds of misfortunes, sickness, and falling 
 into the hands of thieves. His mother could feel 
 nothing but compassion and love. She gave him 
 her purse, containing five guineas — all the money 
 she had in the world, and prayed Heaven to bless 
 him ! He then went on to tell of imprisonment 
 in France, and escape there for his life; and 
 excused his long inattention to her, on the plea of 
 being abroad. He appeared ingenuous and candid, 
 and his mother believed and pitied him. One 
 only request, he said, he would make from her, 
 that she would not seek to know where he was 
 concealed; but he promised most solemnly never 
 again to absent himself long from her; and, in the 
 faith of his promise, she suffered him to depart. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 REAPING. 
 
 But our readers have a right to question how 
 much of Richard's story was true. They shall 
 know. As he stated, he had done what was in 
 his power to remove his mother from the burning 
 
REAPING. 137 
 
 house of Stanton-Combe ; he entered her apart- 
 ments at the very time when she was forcing her 
 way through fire and danger to his chamber. The 
 arrival of Sharpie and the constables prevented 
 his making further search after her, or even com- 
 municating with Bridget. He made his escape to 
 the house of Timson, before day-break, where he 
 remained concealed for several days, no way dis- 
 pleased to find the idea prevalent of his having 
 perished in the fire. He submitted the ring he 
 was in the daily habit of wearing to the action of 
 fire, which he ordered Timson to bury among the 
 ruins, and afterwards produce as found. Timson 
 did so, and received, in process of time, the 200/. 
 reward from Sir Thomas Durant. 
 
 After Richard had been concealed with Timson 
 for nearly a week, he assumed the disguise of a 
 countryman, and set out for London. The greatest 
 precaution, however, was needful, for at that time 
 the country was all alive in search of him, 500/. 
 being offered, as we before stated, for his appre- 
 hension, supposing him still alive. The hardships 
 of this journey were great, for it was in the winter 
 season, and he was afraid of entering large towns, 
 or almost of travelling by day -light; but his life 
 was in his hand, and there was no alternative. 
 
 Spite of his apparent poverty, he entered Lon- 
 don with fifteen thousand pounds in his pocket. 
 This money caused him no inconsiderable dif- 
 ficulty: he dared not put it in any bank, lest it 
 should lead to the natural inquiry, how a person of 
 his appearance had become possessed of so large 
 a sum; and at the same time he was afraid to 
 n 2 
 
138 REAPING. 
 
 carry it about him, lest he should be robbed or 
 lose it. Never was money a burden to him be- 
 fore; he longed, even at the risk of detection, 
 to assume his own character, and to spend freely. 
 At length, tired out with concealment and unwil- 
 ling thrift in London, he went to Paris. Paris 
 was then all alive with her growing liberalism, and 
 the English were among her most honoured 
 citizens. Richard Durant, however, had not gone 
 to Paris for the indulgence of free opinions, either 
 in religion or politics — but that he might freely 
 spend his money. He assumed the name of Col- 
 ville, established himself in one of the principal 
 hotels, hired servants in plenty, dressed handsomely, 
 and enjoyed himself to his heart's content. Ere 
 long, the politics of Paris took a turn, and that 
 edict was published which required all foreigners, 
 and the English especially, to leave France. It 
 was vain to think of remaining longer in Paris; he 
 could not speak a word of French, and his ap- 
 pearance was not only English, but anti-demo- 
 cratic in the extreme; he had too much money, 
 which he wanted to spend, to be contented with 
 the plain hair and shoe-ties of the Rolands. It 
 was dangerous at that moment to be rich in Paris; 
 an arrest was signed, and the gensd'armes waited 
 outside his door, to drag him before the most 
 bloody of tribunals. 
 
 But good fortune befriended him. An old 
 French waiter at the hotel apprised him of his 
 danger, lent him a suit of clothes, and concealed 
 him for two days in the cupboard of a larder, 
 assisting him afterwards to make his final escape. 
 
REAPING. 139 
 
 Richard saved his money, but his personal pro- 
 perty, to a considerable amount, was confiscated 
 to the national use. He escaped to Boulogne, 
 and thence to England. Here his life was again 
 in danger; but, as he had supported the character 
 of an old man with great success, he determined 
 to maintain it still, as producing the most com- 
 plete disguise. Hundreds of English had fled, 
 like himself, from Paris; therefore, this circum- 
 stance excited no surprise. He exchanged at 
 Dover the dress of the old French waiter for that 
 of an old English gentleman. He wore a powdered 
 wig, shaved off his bushy whiskers, assumed a 
 slouching gait and stooping shoulders, and had 
 the satisfaction of imposing even upon his tailor; 
 he dropped also the more remarkable name of 
 Colville, and adopted that of Simpson., as suit- 
 able to his new character. He laughed heartily, 
 as he surveyed himself in a large mirror, to see 
 the complete metamorphosis : he thought he 
 might defy Sir Thomas Durant and Sharpie 
 himself. 
 
 By degrees he ventured out of his London 
 lodgings by day-light, and then to public places; 
 at length, in the wantonness of complete success 
 he seated himself by Sharpie in a box at the 
 theatre, nor was even suspected. 
 
 In the meantime Mrs. Durant's advertisements 
 after him had given him the most serious cause of 
 apprehension. True, the promised reward- had 
 been given to Timson, on the discovery of the 
 ring; and the opinion of his having perished was 
 generally entertained; and so long as people 
 
140 REAPING. 
 
 adopted that belief, he was safe. Nothing, therefore, 
 could be more appalling to him than his mother's 
 repeated appeals to him ; and, for a long time, he 
 determined not to reply — which was but to her 
 the confirmation of the general belief. At length, 
 however, partly through pity of her undoubted 
 distress on his account, and partly to silence her, 
 that the subject at least might die in the public 
 mind, he wrote that letter to his mother which she 
 received at Starkey, and which had an effect con- 
 trary to what he intended. It brought her to 
 London. 
 
 Richard, in the character of Mr. Simpson, had 
 become fearless of detection ; he had accordingly 
 taken a house in Abingdon-street, Westminster, 
 which he had furnished handsomely, and where 
 he lived in a manner much more accordant with 
 the age and temper of Richard Durant, than of 
 old Mr. Simpson. He had his acquaintance, male 
 and female, and drove in his handsome phaeton 
 to the parks, and to Epsom and Ascot races; for 
 the old spirit was not dead in him. Yet all this 
 while he never forgot that his life depended on 
 his prudence; and while he spent freely, and lived 
 indulgently, he maintained his incognito with the 
 utmost care. No one individual was made party 
 to his secret; and he often was greatly amused by 
 the discussion which his own exploits, character, 
 and supposed death, occasioned among his friends, 
 and even at his own table. 
 
 The first intimation he had of his mother's 
 arrival in London was from the newspaper adver- 
 tisements, and it caused him infinite chagrin. 
 
REAPING. 141 
 
 He swore that she would be his ruin; and he 
 vowed with himself, that, although he had as- 
 sured her of his being alive, he would now sink 
 his identity as much as if he were indeed dead, in 
 the hope that after a few months' unsuccessful 
 sojourn in London, she would again return, to 
 Starkey. For several months he persevered in 
 his silence, and would, no doubt, have persisted 
 in it much longer, but for an unexpected circum- 
 stance. He was robbed to a large amount by his 
 valet, whom he dared not prosecute, lest it should 
 lead to his own detection. He had, moreover, 
 lived with the most reckless disregard of conse- 
 quences; had frequented gaming-houses, and 
 been fleeced by sharpers more cunning than him- 
 self. To use a homely phrase, Richard was 
 " bringing his ninepence to a groat." 
 
 Anxieties for the future now, for the first time, 
 took hold of him; he would fain have disentangled 
 himself of his growing difficulties, but forethought 
 and economy had never been habits of his mind. 
 It was but little more than twelve months since 
 the burning of Stanton-Combe; he had then 
 nearly fifteen thousand pounds; now there re- 
 mained scarcely one. The money had vanished 
 like smoke; it had run through his hands like 
 water, and he cursed himself as the most unlucky 
 of men. 
 
 It was at this moment that he cast his eye on 
 his mother's last advertisement. He had now less 
 objection than formerly to make himself known 
 to her; for when poverty came upon hirn, as an 
 armed man, as it seemed likely enough soon to 
 
142 REAPING. 
 
 do, he knew that his mother would not let him be 
 reduced to extremity. Some little he thought of 
 what account he must render of the spending of 
 his money; that, however, was easy; he told his 
 story in brief, as we have heard, and his mother 
 did not reproach him, but was filled with com- 
 passion. Of his home, in Westminster, he said 
 nothing, and bound his mother also by a solemn 
 promise, not to inquire after his residence. 
 
 After having made himself known to his mother 
 and sister, he paid them repeated visits, always, 
 however, in the evening, and with great precau- 
 tion. Mrs. Durant, who was possessed with the 
 idea of his suffering from want, supplied him from 
 time to time with the money which she received 
 from Lady Thicknisse; and even when that 
 failed, with jewels and plate, which she besought 
 him to turn into money. Elizabeth, too, out of 
 her small earnings, bestowed upon him the oc- 
 casional guinea which otherwise would have helped 
 to replenish her scanty wardrobe. 
 
 Mrs. Durant had kept her promise to him re- 
 ligiously; she had neither inquired from him, nor 
 used any means to learn where his residence might 
 be : it came, however, to her knowledge one day 
 most unexpectedly. Elizabeth had made a small 
 spray of summer flowers for a lady in West- 
 minster, and, as the evenings were then long and 
 fine, she had invited her mother to walk with her 
 to take them home. She consented. On their 
 way they met the Franklins, who were going to 
 hear evening service in the Abbey, and invited 
 Elizabeth and her mother to accompany them. 
 
REAPING. 143 
 
 Mrs. Durant declined, but offered to leave the 
 spray of flowers for her daughter, that she might 
 not be deprived of a pleasure — for pleasure to her 
 was indeed a rarity, as her mother acknowledged. 
 Greatly must Mrs. Durant have been changed 
 and humbled, since her proud days at Stanton- 
 Combe, to make such an offer as this to her 
 daughter; but she was changed. Sorrow changes 
 us even more than time. 
 
 On her return she happened to lose her way, and 
 got into Abingdon-street. But the street she knew 
 not, nor inquired after at the moment, for she saw 
 an object that sunk all other thoughts and cares — - 
 her own son, in his usual dress as Mr. Simpson, 
 standing on the steps of a house, where he rang, 
 and familiarly entered as at his own home. " Who 
 lives at No. — ?" asked she, with scarcely articu- 
 late voice, from the sweeper of a crossing hard by; 
 the man replied that it was " one Mr. Simpson, 
 an old man, but a gay one !" "A lodger, he is, 
 I suppose ?" said she, willing to hope the deceit 
 less than she at first imagined. " Oh, no !" said 
 the man, " he has the whole house to himself!" 
 
 Mrs. Durant at the moment felt that she would 
 rather have found her son asking alms in the street, 
 than thus enjoying luxury and comfort which was 
 only evidence of the selfish imposition he had 
 practised on her. An indignant sense of having 
 been a dupe stung her to the heart, and she de- 
 termined at once to present herself before him in 
 that very house, the knowledge of which he had 
 so carefully kept from her. She knocked at the 
 
144 KKAPING. 
 
 door, and was informed by the servant who had 
 just before admitted her son, that " Mr. Simpson 
 was not at home." 
 
 " Mr. Simpson," returned she peremptorily, 
 " has but this moment entered." 
 
 The servant persisted that she was mistaken : 
 "his master," he said, " would notreturn that night." 
 
 " Tell me no lies, sirrah I" said she, assuming 
 at once the stern authority of the mistress of 
 Stanton-Combe; "I have seen your master within 
 these three minutes admitted by yourself." 
 
 The servant did not reply, but looked puzzled. 
 " Give him this ring," she continued, drawing one 
 well known to her son from her hand, " and bid 
 him admit me !" 
 
 The servant received the ring, but hesitated. 
 
 " I wait here," said she, entering the hall, and 
 seating herself; " you go and do my bidding!" 
 
 Full of curiosity, and wondering what all this 
 meant, the servant carried the ring to his master. 
 Richard was sitting at that moment, with four of 
 his friends, at a table covered with a plentiful re- 
 past. The servant presented the ring, saying it 
 was sent in by a lady who demanded to see 
 him. " A most queen-like summons, truly I" ex- 
 claimed his friends, laughing, and began merrily 
 to interrogate the servant as to what was the lady's 
 seeming. 
 
 Richard said not a word in reply, but, dropping 
 the ring into his waistcoat pocket, bit his lip and 
 went out. It was a rencontre he was not pre- 
 pared for. He thouf v \ for one moment, that he 
 
REAPING. 145 
 
 would deny his own identity, but the next, he 
 remembered his mother's ready forgiveness, and 
 determined to brave it out. 
 
 Mrs. Durant, who had listened for the servant's 
 return, instantly recognised the step of her son on 
 the stairs; she opened, therefore, the door of a 
 lower room, as if she herself had been mistress of 
 the house, and, with an air of offended dignity, 
 motioned for him to enter also. He did so, and 
 she closed the door upon them. Something he 
 said of the prodigal son, and hastened to embrace 
 her. She had never repelled his embrace before, 
 but at that moment she did it. 
 
 " This is a discovery, Richard,'* she said, " that 
 I did not expect to make !" 
 
 A base lie sprung to his lips; he said he was 
 but a lodger, and that the house was none of his. 
 
 " Unworthy young man I" exclaimed she, with 
 singular severity, "may God forgive you for the 
 falsehood you have spoken!" 
 
 Richard, unabashed, persisted that he had not 
 deceived her, and that he was suffering poverty. 
 
 " Poverty I" she exclaimed, glancing upon his 
 dress ; " does this look like poverty ? Look at 
 my shoes ; see, they are patched and cobbled ! 
 why have I worn such ? Because you received 
 the solitary guinea; because you received also 
 that which could be turned into money, and I 
 could ill spare, on the plea of your want !" 
 
 Richard tried to excuse himself by urging the 
 need there was to keep all knowledge of himself 
 from every one. 
 
 v That is no argument," replied she, " for, in 
 o 
 
146 REAPING. 
 
 health or in sickness, in want or in prosperity, 
 what had you to fear from me ? Oh, Richard !" 
 continued she, after a moment's pause, in which 
 he said nothing, " I would rather have found you 
 wanting bread, than have come thus upon your 
 concealed luxury ! Heaven forgive you I for you 
 have cruelly deceived, and even despoiled, the 
 kindest of mothers !" And she wept bitterly. 
 
 " Madam !" exclaimed he, as she again broke 
 forth with passionate upbraidings, " silence ! or 
 you will betray me ! They who were above stairs 
 with me, and my very servants, may be listening 
 — I shall be betrayed !" 
 
 " Fool !" returned she, " to have put your life 
 in hazard of strangers; far better to have trusted 
 your mother !" 
 
 " Silence ! silence !" said Richard, speaking in 
 an under tone, but in his own voice; "silence, I 
 command — and leave the house I I cannot have 
 my safety thus endangered !" 
 
 " I will go I w returned she; " but oh! Richard! 
 this I have not deserved !" 
 
 " Not another word I" said he, taking her by 
 the arm, and hurrying her to the outer door. The 
 door was closed upon her, and she stood for twq 
 seconds upon the steps, that she might control the 
 emotion which wrung her heart almost to break- 
 ing. An hour afterwards, as she was on her way 
 home, not pondering on, but hurrying over in her 
 own mind this strange interview with her undutiful 
 son, she remembered that she had come away 
 without her ring. 
 
 When Richard returned to his friends, he spoke 
 
REAPING. 147 
 
 of his visitor as insane, and reproached his servant 
 for admitting her ; and thus the affair passed off 
 with them. It however hurried the day which he 
 had seen approaching — the day when he must 
 sink a few steps lower in life. He secured all his 
 valuables which were portable, and had them 
 secretly conveyed to lodgings more accordant 
 with his diminishing means ; and on a certain Mon- 
 day morning, about a month after his mother's 
 visit, went away, leaving his servants and his 
 landlord to settle between themselves which had 
 best claim to his goods, seeing they had both law- 
 ful claims upon his purse. 
 
 He did not doubt but that his mother was 
 grievously hurt and offended ; but as he had never 
 learned to spare her feelings, he could not be ex- 
 pected to be much concerned on that account 
 now. His only determination regarding her was, 
 that he would keep out of her way ; and if he did 
 that only long enough, she would be willing, he 
 knew, to forget and forgive when they met. 
 
 In the meantime, although confidence was 
 growing between Elizabeth and her mother; Mrs. 
 Durant carefully kept from her knowledge every- 
 thing to the disadvantage ofher son. Not a word 
 did she say of the discovery she had made ; and 
 the poor girl attributed her pale and haggard 
 countenance, at first, to the fatigue of an unusual 
 walk; and when, afterwards, she discovered that 
 her mother suffered from restless nights, and that 
 something seemed to be oppressing her mind by 
 clay, she strove all in her power to amuse her, and 
 stole many an hour from her needful labour, to 
 
148 REAPING. 
 
 read to her, or to walk out with her. It was no 
 wonder, she thought, that this altered way of life 
 produced such effects: she therefore proposed that 
 they should leave their city lodgings and go into 
 the suburbs, or, better still, to Richmond, where her 
 mother might have the comfort of friendly neigh- 
 bours. To this proposal, however, Mrs. Durant 
 invariably answered that she would never expose 
 Richard to the danger of being suspected ; besides, 
 how could he find them if they changed their 
 dwelling unknown to him? 
 
 It was not long before there appeared a suffi- 
 cient cause for Mrs. Durant's anxiety, in the 
 unusually long absence of her son. Richard 
 understood his mother's heart perfectly, when he 
 said that if he kept out of her way she would be 
 soon ready to forget and forgive; by degrees 
 resentment faded before affection, and with affec- 
 tion came all the old anxiety. She therefore set 
 off again to Westminster, in order merely to pass 
 his door, and so judge by the exterior of his 
 residence, how it went with him. He had then 
 been gone from his house two or three weeks, 
 and new residents were there, but externally there 
 was no change. At the moment she passed by, a 
 fat female servant was buying a ballad from a 
 ballad-monger at the area-steps, and a chariot was 
 just driving away from the door. It contained 
 her son, she had no doubt. A sense of injury 
 again passed over her mind, but it died away in 
 unspeakable sorrow, and she returned home with 
 her usual aching heart. 
 
 Again and again she took the same long walk, 
 
REAPING. 149 
 
 merely to assure herself that all was well with him ; 
 and month and after month wore on rn the same 
 melancholy way. At length she found the win- 
 dow-shutters closed, the door-steps soiled by 
 frequent foot-prints, straw and litter lying within 
 the area, and a paper in the lower window, an- 
 nouncing that the house was to be let. 
 
 Was it possible that Richard was dead ? The 
 idea entered her heart like the point of a dagger, 
 and she leant against a lamp-post, to save herself 
 from falling. A glass of water was offered her 
 by a poor woman who sold fruit at a stall on the 
 pavement. Mrs. Durant spoke of the heat of the 
 weather, and a sudden faintness which it had oc- 
 casioned, and then asked her benefactress " if 
 there had not been a sale at No. j — ?" 
 
 " Why, ma'am, that's, as one may say, a very 
 unlucky house ! There was an execution for rent, 
 as took away all the goods, the day before yester- 
 day ! I hates them executioners, ma'am ! Even 
 the very children's beds were taken from under 
 them. Landlords, ma'am, have no hearts !" • 
 
 " Children !" exclaimed Mrs. Durant, some- 
 what relieved, in the hope that she had mistaken 
 the number; " there were no children; Mr. 
 Simpson was unmarried!" 
 
 " Oh ! ma'am !" replied the woman, " Mr. 
 Simpson's been gone this half-year; stick and 
 stone, his goods were sold up last quarter: I 
 
 always took him for a raffish sort of a but, 
 
 la ! ma'am, are you ill again ?" 
 
 " No, no," returned Mrs. Durant, supporting 
 herself by the iron railing against which the 
 o 2 
 
150 REAPING. 
 
 woman sat; "I am not ill; but this Mr. Simpson, 
 where is he now ?" 
 
 " Nobody knows !" said the fruitseller. 
 
 u Perhaps in jail !" sighed Mrs. Durant. 
 
 u Likely enough, ma'am," returned the woman, 
 " for his credit was none of the best before he left 
 here." 
 
 Mrs. Durant made no further inquiries, but 
 with anxiety in her countenance, that attracted the 
 eyes of many a passer-by, bent her steps home- 
 ward. 
 
 Elizabeth had never inquired what was the 
 cause which every now and then took her mother 
 from home; she believed it had reference to her 
 brother; and, as it appeared to be purposely kept 
 from her, she respected the secrecy. 
 
 It was later than ordinary, on this particular 
 evening, when Mrs. Durant returned home. Her 
 daughter met her, as usual, at the head of the 
 stairs, but there was a peculiarity in her manner 
 which excited her mother's attention; she was, 
 more than ordinarily affectionate: the truth was, 
 she had painful news to communicate ; but the first 
 glance at her mother's agitated countenance led 
 her to suspect that she was no stranger to it. 
 
 " So you have seen Richard, then ?" asked 
 Elizabeth, in this belief. m 
 
 " Good Heavens ! no !" exclaimed ner mother; 
 " but what do you know of him ?" 
 
 " He has been here," returned she. 
 
 " Thank God !" said Mrs. Durant; " then he 
 is not in jail ! But quick, tell me all !" 
 
 " He came," replied Elizabeth, scarcely re- 
 
REAPING. 151 
 
 pressing her tears, " to ask relief from us. He 
 has been ill, he says, and looks miserably poor!" 
 
 " Oh ! my unhappy boy !" exclaimed his mo- 
 ther; " where is he, for I will go to him to-night !" 
 and she again threw on her cloak. 
 
 " That is impossible," said Elizabeth, rising to 
 detain her, " for I know not where he is, nor yet 
 do I know the circumstances which led to his pre- 
 sent distress; but of its reality I cannot doubt. 
 Poor fellow !" said she, again weeping, " I should 
 not have known him scarcely, for sickness and 
 poverty have sorely changed him !" 
 
 More than the enduring strength of Mrs. Du- 
 rant's old affection had now returned. "He will not 
 fail in duty to me now," said she, " for they to whom 
 much is forgiven, the same love much ; we shall 
 be happier than we have been before !" And 
 night and day she had no thought but how she 
 might benefit him. 
 
 It was not long before Richard again made his 
 appearance, for he was now reduced to poverty — 
 to the want of bread, and even the shelter of a 
 roof. He dared not, he said, ask for employment, 
 lest it should lead to questions that would occasion 
 his detection. It was equally dangerous for him 
 to be seen frequently at the home of his mother 
 and sister; they had taken no means to conceal 
 themselves from public knowledge, and with them, 
 therefore, he was in danger. He bewailed his 
 fate with the most abject spirit, and called upon 
 his mother to devise aid for him. No means of 
 saving him suggested itself to her, but the remov- 
 ing from their present lodgings, assuming for 
 
152 REAPING. 
 
 themselves a false name, and taking Richard to 
 live with them. 
 
 They removed, accordingly, to a small house al 
 Holloway, and Elizabeth excused the removal to 
 her friends, the Franklins, on the plea of her mo- 
 ther's health and comfort. Mrs. Durant and her 
 son assumed the every-day name of Jones, he per- 
 sonating, as formerly, the character of an elderly 
 man. 
 
 " It required more than Elizabeth's former 
 efforts to earn what was additionally needful for 
 the maintenance of a third person ; but as her 
 brother professed himself grateful, and willing in 
 any way to assist her, she never complained. 
 Richard could not help her in her own peculiar 
 and delicate art ; but one thing he could do, he 
 could carry her weekly work home to Horobin's. 
 and thus save her time and fatigue, now that the} 
 lived so far from the city. She received her 
 wages monthly, and at the month's end she herself 
 went to receive a larger sum than ordinary, for she 
 had worked more industriously than ever before. 
 What was her inexpressible chagrin, therefore, to 
 learn that her messenger had received it that very 
 morning! She concealed her feelings, and, filled 
 with the most uneasy suspicion, returned home. 
 Richard made no attempt to deny it: he was 
 pressed, he said, by one single debt; he feared a 
 prison; and, with the money in his pocket, he 
 could not resist thus applying it. Elizabeth said 
 that it was both selfish and dishonest; that he at 
 least should have asked her leave; and that, in 
 twelve months, she could not make up the loss by 
 
REAPING. 153 
 
 extra work ; but she never told her mother : and, 
 as Richard himself appeared humbled and peni- 
 tent, and promised not to offend again, could he 
 but regain her confidence, she at length gave it, 
 that he might at least have the means of deserving 
 it. She worked harder than ever; her mother 
 was out of health and spirits, and the poor girl 
 thought, if she could only raise ten pounds, and 
 send her to the sea-side for a couple of weeks, it 
 might be the means of restoring her. Never were 
 artificial flowers made so assiduously before: she 
 even made a vain attempt to instruct her brother 
 in cutting the forms of leaves and petals, so that 
 she might realize her little scheme before the year 
 was too late. Richard took in her flowers now 
 twice a week, for they were in great demand ; and 
 as this first pleasure seemed about to be realized, 
 she even fancied herself happy. 
 
 When the month was nearly completed, she 
 was surprised one day by a visit from Nehemiah 
 Netley. It was now long since she had seen him, 
 or any of her Richmond friends, for all London 
 lay between them ; and friends so situated soon 
 find that it is as easy to visit on opposite sides of a 
 county as on opposite sides of the great city. Mr. 
 Netley looked hurried and angry as he entered 
 the little parlour in which Elizabeth sat at work, 
 and in which Richard also lay half asleep on a 
 sofa. 
 
 " Oh !" said he, entering, and then drawing 
 back, as he caught sight of Richard. 
 
 Elizabeth rose from her work, and went to the 
 door. 
 
154 REAPING. 
 
 " Who is this Mr. Jones ?" asked he, abruptly, 
 without any salutation, the moment she closed the 
 door of the other little parlour, into which she 
 took him; " not a husband, I hope !" 
 
 " No, indeed, sir," replied Elizabeth, blushing. 
 
 " Who then is he ?" asked Mr. Netley. 
 
 " He is," replied she, " a relation, who has 
 fallen into distress : but why da you inquire ?" 
 
 " Why do I inquire, Miss Durant!" answered 
 Mr. Netley, growing angry; "why, indeed! for 
 he seems a good-for-nothing vagabond ! Do you 
 know that you need not make any more flowers 
 for Horobin? Nay, never look at me in that 
 way. I say, you need not make any more flowers 
 for Horobin — and that's plain English, is it not?" 
 
 " My dear sir !" exclaimed Elizabeth. 
 
 " Did not Horobin order that that fellow Jones 
 should not again come about his place?" asked 
 the old man ; " and yet you must send him there 
 twice every week. I did not bespeak Horobin's 
 custom on these terms." 
 
 Elizabeth heaved a deep sigh — for she knew that 
 her brother had again deceived her — and dropped 
 into a chair. Mr. Netley sat down beside her ; 
 " I have a shrewd guess, Miss Durant," said lie, 
 " who this Mr. Jones may be : he is your bro- 
 ther!" 
 
 Elizabeth started, and laid her hand upon his 
 arm. 
 
 " He is your brother," the old gentleman con- 
 tinued; " but I shall not betray you : I like you 
 too well for that: but you have done foolishly 
 — all women do foolishly, when their hearts are 
 
REAPING. 155 
 
 concerned — whether it be for a lover or a brother! 
 But I shall not betray you ! And I'll tell you 
 what you must do : you must go home with me ; 
 I am come all the way from Richmond on pur- 
 pose !" 
 
 u I cannot leave my mother; indeed, my dear 
 sir, I cannot!" said Elizabeth. 
 
 " As you please," returned he; " but this I 
 can tell you — you have done your last work for 
 Horobin. You'll have a dismissal to-day. Jones 
 was there last night : — and so you never heard of 
 it?" 
 
 Elizabeth looked greatly dismayed, and said 
 that she had not. At that moment the postman's 
 knock was heard, and she received the letter from 
 Horobin. 
 
 M You ought to have had more sense than to 
 have run yourself into this dilemma!" said Mr. 
 Netley, as Elizabeth dropped the letter from her 
 hand, " but you must decide; for let me tell you, 
 I am not the only one who suspects Jones to be 
 your brother; and if the idea once gets to Sharpie 
 and Sir Thomas, the Bow-street fellows will be 
 upon him instantly !" 
 
 Elizabeth proposed to call her mother; and, as 
 he saw no objection to this, it was done ; she obtain- 
 ing, however, a promise from him, that her mother 
 should know nothing of the injury Richard had 
 done her; " for," said she, " there will be sorrow 
 enough without this being added." 
 
 On the first mention of Mr. Netley 's suspicion 
 respecting the person of Jones, Mrs. Durant made 
 up her mind to instant flight with her son ; and, 
 
156 REAPING. 
 
 in order that her daughter might not be without 
 a home and protectors, she insisted upon her 
 accepting Mr. Netley's offer, in the firm belief 
 that she possessed the means of providing a com- 
 fortable maintenance for herself. The business 
 was soon settled, and Mr. Netley gave Elizabeth 
 till evening, to make preparations for her removal, 
 at which time he promised to return for her. 
 
 Mrs. Durant was deeply affected on parting 
 with her daughter, whose worth and affection 
 had been made known to her under such trying 
 circumstances. She shed tears, and embraced 
 her tenderly. " God bless you," she said; " I 
 shall often think of you — for you have been a 
 good girl!" 
 
 The five pounds which Elizabeth had earned 
 and put by, she now prayed her mother to accept; 
 but this she would not do. " No, child!" said 
 she, with tears in her eyes, " put it out of my 
 sight — I never thought to have been thus affected ! 
 — put it by; and keep this brooch for my sake!" 
 said she, taking out the one she was wearing; "it 
 will not be an unlucky gift to you, though it has 
 a pin in it; but I have lost my best ring, or that 
 should have been yours instead. Now Heaven 
 bless you ! there is no knowing what may happen 
 before we meet again.*' 
 
 Before Mr. Netley again made his appearance, 
 Mrs. Durant had regained her wonted composure; 
 but it was with a long and earnest gaze that she 
 watched the hackney-coach which contained Mr. 
 Netley and her daughter, drive away from the 
 door. 
 
157 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 REAPING, CONTINUED. 
 
 We must now advance iwo years in our story, 
 and we shall find Elizabeth Durant, patient and 
 industrious as we left her, pursuing her humble 
 avocation still; for, through Mr. Netley's inter- 
 ference, she had long been restored to the em- 
 ployment of Mr. Horobin. She was now four- 
 and-twenty, and, for anything she could discover, 
 a life of labour lay before her. It would have 
 touched any kind heart that even had not known 
 her history, to have seen one like her, capable of 
 every enjoyment of intellect and taste, yet bound 
 down by the necessity of her circumstances, to the 
 most incessant occupation. Few pleasures — such, 
 at least, as the wealthy and the gay call pleasure 
 — was she able to enjoy, for she had neither time 
 nor money to spend. But there was the almost 
 daily intercourse with her kind friends, the 
 Franklins, for she had a lodging near them ; there 
 was the pleasant evening and Sunday stroll in 
 the park at Richmond, and on the terrace, and 
 occasionally a sail on the Thames; kind letters, 
 too, from dear Mrs. Betty Thicknisse, who never 
 could forsake her, and that internal consciousness 
 of duty faithfully performed, both to God and 
 man, which is the sure reward of the right-doer, 
 and which is to the moral being like sound health 
 to the body. This was the bright side of her life; 
 but there was a dark side also. Her mother had 
 
158 
 
 REAPING. 
 
 assured her at parting, that she would write often. 
 It was more than Elizabeth expected; but she 
 hoped, at all events, to have continued knowledge 
 of her residence and of her circumstances, that, 
 if need were, she might administer aid or comfort. 
 She had received but two letters, and those within 
 the first six months after their separation. The 
 first was dated from Greenwich, and was short, 
 but not unsatisfactory : it spoke of her improved 
 health, and assured her of her comfort; it stated 
 also, that Richard had never failed in his duty, 
 and that, please God there was peace with 
 France, she proposed their removing there, as 
 living would be cheap, and Richard might there 
 find employment, which he could not well do in 
 London. 
 
 The second letter was written five months after- 
 wards; it was dated, but the address had been so 
 carefully crossed and scored over, that she could 
 not make it out. This was of itself a painful cir- 
 cumstance; there was something to conceal: it 
 said nothing also of " comfort," or of " Richard's 
 dutiful behaviour;" and excused long silence by 
 complaints of " ill-health and want of spirits." 
 There was everything in the letter to excite un- 
 easiness, if not alarm. After that time, not a 
 word of intelligence was received, either from 
 Richard or her mother. It seemed as if the 
 great gulf of London had swallowed them up; 
 and Elizabeth experienced anxiety little inferior 
 to that of her mother, when first seeking after 
 her son. 
 
 Month after month went on, till two years had 
 
REAPING. 159 
 
 elapsed. At that time Elizabeth received an 
 order to make some flowers for a noble lady in 
 one of the fashionable squares, and was desired 
 to go in person, that she might receive a quantity 
 of hot-house flowers, which she was to imitate. 
 In returning home, fearing lest the flowers should 
 be injured, she called a coach from a stand in 
 Oxford-street. No waterman was at hand to open 
 the door, and the driver dismounted for that pur- 
 pose; their eyes met — a pang thrilled through 
 her heart, for the man surely was her brother! — 
 muffled up and disguised; but through all, and 
 more, through poverty and degradation, and traces 
 of low vice, she recognised the countenance too 
 well. She could scarcely articulate her directions, 
 and fixed, without questioning him, her eyes 
 inquiringly on his face: he only returned an un- 
 pleasant wink, and then mounted his box, leaving 
 her in the most painful suspense. Could it 
 indeed be Richard? — If so, how hopelessly 
 fallen! — and her mother — what might not be her 
 fate in this horribly downward course! She felt 
 almost inclined to stop the coach, and question 
 him by the way; but an undefined fear crept 
 over her — a dread both of him, and of what she 
 might have to learn. She remembered, with the 
 greatest satisfaction, that she had ordered him to 
 drive to Mr. Netley's; and when there, without 
 venturing another glance on the countenance so 
 painfully interesting, she begged him to wait till 
 she fetched him the fare from within, intending 
 hastily to consult with her friends, to whom all 
 her anxieties were known. No sooner, however, 
 
160 REAPING. 
 
 was she within doors, than he mounted the box, 
 and drove off without his fare. That was alone 
 confirmation. 
 
 Good Mr. Netley, as soon as he had heard the 
 circumstance, set off to London to speak with 
 him himself, for Elizabeth had taken the number. 
 The coach, however, was not upon the stand, nor 
 could the other hackney-coachmen give any 
 information respecting him: he had not been 
 many days among them, but had come there, they 
 said, from the stand near Vauxhall-bridge. That 
 was all they knew. The proprietor of the coach 
 knew nothing more. The man, he said, went by 
 the name of Walker; but where he lived, or what 
 was his character, he knew not: — so that he got 
 his coach-hire, that was all his concern. Mr. 
 Netley said he would wait till the coach came in, 
 even if it were past midnight. It was brought in 
 about eleven o'clock by another person, who had 
 been employed, he said, by Walker for that pur- 
 pose, and that Walker would not take the coach 
 again. Richard, then, was providing against in- 
 quiries; and Mr. Netley could only return with 
 this unsatisfactory information. 
 
 One fact, however, was ascertained — Richard 
 was now the driver of a hackney-coach. 
 
 By swift degrees he had sunk lower and lower, 
 dragging after him his devoted mother, who, by 
 this time, had been despoiled of all her personal 
 possessions, and subsisted alone on Lady Thick- 
 nisse's bounty ; yet through all she clung to him ; 
 " for who," said she, " would stand by him, if I 
 deserted him?" 
 
REAPING. 161 
 
 Poor Mrs. Durant! Did she ever think of her 
 proud days, when they rode together over the 
 broad lands of his fathers, her heart swelling with 
 exultation, because she was the mother of a fair 
 boy! 
 
 "God help us!" exclaimed Mrs. Durant — squa- 
 lidly dressed, and with a haggard countenance, as 
 Richard, on this very night, was brought to his 
 home in White Chapel, miserably drunken, and 
 laid on his bed by two of his pot-companions — 
 " Heaven help us! What a 'beast he makes of 
 himself!" added she, when they were left alone 
 together. " I need not have cooked him this nice 
 chop, which should have been my dinner, had I 
 known that he would have come home thus, after 
 all his promises." And Mrs. Durant took up the 
 covered dish from the fire, and began deliberately 
 to remove the supper-table, which she had spread 
 for his coming. " It is no use my sitting down to 
 eat," said she, " for I could not touch a morsel 
 now! Heaven help me!" and she sate down and 
 wept. 
 
 The drunken man lay in heavy sleep, almost 
 like death, upon the low bedstead in the room, 
 and his mother, after she had given way to a 
 paroxysm of weeping, took his hat from the floor, 
 where it had been dropped, brushed it neatly, and 
 placed it on the table, and then proceeded to take 
 off his shoes, and loosen his cravat — heaving 
 bitter sighs the while, upbraiding him, and be- 
 wailing herself; for she was not speaking before 
 witnesses. When all this was done, and his head 
 laid, as she thought, easily on the pillow, she left 
 p2 
 
162 REAPING. 
 
 him with his clothes on, and went to her own 
 comfortless bed. 
 
 Although Mr. Netley was prevented, by Rich- 
 ard's caution, from discovering him at that time, 
 he did not lose sight of his quest. To an idle 
 man like him, who, nevertheless, liked to be busy, 
 any occupation was a blessing; and, estimating the 
 high principle and industry of Elizabeth Durant 
 as he did, he was the most zealous of champions 
 in her cause. It became a habit, therefore, with 
 the good old man, to go to town three or four 
 times a week, merely to make silent observations 
 on the drivers of hackney-coaches; not doubting 
 but if Richard remained among them, he would 
 sooner or later be discovered. 
 
 One day Mr. Netley w r as walking leisurely up 
 Bridge-street, Blackfriars, looking, as usual, at the 
 stand of coaches. One particular driver, in a 
 long drab coat, heavily caped, was rubbing the 
 tarnished door-handle of an ill-conditioned coach, 
 when a tall elderly woman, meanly dressed and 
 meagre-looking, crossed off the pavement, where 
 she had been standing some time, and slowly went 
 up to him. She spoke to him ; he still rubbed upon 
 the door handle, without regarding her, and then 
 went to the other side, where she followed him. 
 Mr. Netley also crossed the street at the same 
 time, partly for occupation, and partly to see how 
 the two went on. The woman continued to speak 
 earnestly, but in a low voice, to which the man 
 replied by a few positive words, pushing her from 
 him at the same time. The woman became more 
 urgent, and the man more angry, and, at length, 
 
REAPING. 163 
 
 dragging down his whip from the coach-box, he 
 seemed to menace her with the handle. 
 
 " Who is that fellow?" asked Nehemiah Net- 
 ley, from a waterman who stood at the corner of 
 Bride-lane, and was looking on. 
 
 " The greatest reprobate on the stand, sir," re- 
 plied he. 
 
 " And the woman?" asked Mr. Netley. 
 
 " His mother, sir, I take it," replied the water- 
 man ; " they often quarrels, I've heard. She has 
 a sort of annuity that he can't get hold of — that's 
 what they quarrels about mostly." 
 
 "What is his name?" asked Mr. Netley; but 
 the waterman's answer was not heard, for Mr. 
 Netley beheld a sight which roused his indig- 
 nation, and arrested his entire attention. The 
 hackney-coach driver struck his mother ; a crowd 
 rushed up, crying shame upon him; the woman 
 tried to avoid the blows, but the man was tran- 
 sported by rage, and the more the spectators ex- 
 claimed against him, the more violent he became. 
 There was no street-police in London in those 
 days, and, before a constable was summoned, the 
 poor woman was down upon the pavement, and, 
 as Nehemiah Netley himself witnessed, was even 
 kicked by her brutal son ; by which means she 
 fell down the steps of an area, and was taken up 
 insensible. The general feeling is seldom wrong. 
 A sentiment of execration was uttered by the 
 whole crowd upon the inhuman wretch, who now 
 endeavoured to shake himself loose of the angry 
 populace that was closing upon him. The spec- 
 tacle, however, of the body, bleeding and insen- 
 
164 REAPING. 
 
 sible, seemed to restore him to his senses; and he 
 began to mutter that he had not intended so 
 much; but that her temper was beyond mortal 
 endurance. But the public indignation would 
 not admit his excuses — a constable was at hand, 
 and, by order of all the bystanders, he was taken 
 into custody, and hurried away to Guildhall, where 
 the city magistrate was then sitting, attended by a 
 large crowd, who supported the ill-used and still 
 insensible woman, as evidence against her son ; and 
 followed by many most respectable witnesses, 
 among whom was Mr. Netley, all impatient for 
 the punishment of the offender. 
 
 It was not until she was placed before the 
 magistrate that she recovered her senses; and 
 then, although unable to move, and suffering ex- 
 cruciating pain — for her leg was broken by the 
 fall — she refused to complain of, or even to admit, 
 ill-usage on the part of her son. The utmost 
 astonishment filled the court, and, at first, she was 
 thought to be raving : but she was firm in her 
 assertion, begging earnestly to be removed: she was 
 ill, she said, very ill, as they might see, and she had 
 fallen by accident. The prisoner she admitted to 
 be her son, and that he had been angry; that 
 they had had a quarrel in the morning, but he 
 was not in the habit of striking her. In vain wit- 
 nesses pressed forward, angry at her pertinacity, 
 to bear testimony to the ill-treatment and blows 
 which they had witnessed. It was all mistaken, 
 she declared; he never struck her when she was 
 down ; and that she had fallen into the area in try- 
 ing to disengage herself from the crowd. 
 
REAPING. 165 
 
 The indiscriminating many, who had followed 
 her to Guildhall, impatient to avenge her cause, 
 now turned their anger upon her, believing her to 
 be drunk; but those who understood human na- 
 ture, saw affection, strong as instinct: the mise- 
 rable mother would not criminate her son; and 
 they, if they blamed, pitied her at the same time. 
 The son stood dogged and sullen, turning, by his 
 hardened demeanour, all hearts against him ; but 
 since the injured party denied any charge against 
 him, he was dismissed, but not without a severe 
 reprimand. A reprimand was also given to the 
 unhappy mother; but she did not hear it. The 
 pain of the broken limb, which she had endured 
 without complaint, whilst her son appeared in 
 danger, now overcame her fortitude, and she sank 
 back in the witness-box insensible. In that state 
 she was carried to the hospital. 
 
 Such was the deplorable history which Nehe- 
 miah Netley related to Elizabeth. There was no 
 doubt who the parties really were ; the name also 
 was given as Walker. Early the next morning 
 Mr. Netley obtained an order for his friend, Miss 
 Browne — for it was considered needful to conceal 
 her name — to be admitted to the hospital. The 
 surgeon said he would allow no one to see the 
 patient in question, for she was in extreme dan- 
 ger; but, at length, won by Elizabeth's earnest 
 entreaties and tears, he yielded so far as to allow 
 her a distant view of the patient in bed. What a 
 doleful thing it was to look along that line of 
 hospital-beds, each one containing its unhappy 
 and suffering tenant I How much more doleful to 
 
166 REAPING. 
 
 discover among those tenants a heart-broken 
 mother ! It was not easy to recognise the coun- 
 tenance, pale and haggard, with sunken, closed 
 eyes and grey and matted hair; yet the recog- 
 nition was made. Elizabeth sank upon her 
 knees, where she stood, and, covering her face 
 with her hands, prayed God to have mercy on 
 them. 
 
 She took lodgings in the neighbourhood of the 
 hospital, that she might be near. Fever and in- 
 flammation seized on the patient, and the surgeon 
 gave but slight hopes of her recovery. Elizabeth 
 could only be admitted for a short time to the 
 hospital each day, and was only allowed a distant 
 glance. It was too little for her affection. Fe- 
 male nurses were in the room, and from their 
 hands her mother received aid: she could do 
 more for her than any of these, and, with tears 
 she besought the benevolent surgeon to accept 
 her as hospital-nurse, that she might be present 
 day and night by her mother's bed. The good 
 man was moved; he had witnessed all kind of 
 physical suffering, and was callous to it; but this 
 devotion of filial love affected him, and with tears 
 in his eyes he gave his consent, on one condition 
 only, that she should wear a common dress and 
 linen cap, and be no way remarkable to the eye 
 of the patient; and also that she should not make 
 herself known to her mother, without his per- 
 mission. 
 
 Elizabeth bound her long black hair up tightly 
 under a linen cap, assumed the most humble of 
 garbs, and with a patience and tenderness that 
 
REAPING. 167 
 
 never was surpassed, waited by the bed of her 
 mother. The fever was high, and delirium came 
 on, and the frantic words of the poor sufferer 
 were heart-rending: now appeals to her son; now 
 terrors of his detection and disgrace ; and then 
 cries for mercy, as if she imagined some scene of 
 violence. Fortunately •nobody took notice of her 
 ravings; there were too many scenes, of suffering 
 constantly occurring within those walls, for indi- 
 vidual cases to attract attention. Elizabeth never 
 left her mother's bed-side ; and at length, by such 
 tender, incessant care as hospital patients rarely 
 receive, had the satisfaction of learning that the 
 worst was over, and if the patient could be kept 
 perfectly tranquil, her recovery might be hoped 
 for. 
 
 A month afterwards, Mrs. Durant, who was 
 now removed into a convalescent ward of the 
 hospital, was waiting anxiously one evening for an 
 answer to a letter which she had the day before 
 written to her daughter at Richmond, informing 
 her of her sad state in this hospital ; and, without 
 mentioning her son in the remotest manner, beg- 
 ging that she would come and see her, when 
 Elizabeth, in her usual walking dress, entered the 
 room. 
 
 " I knew you would come!" said she, holding 
 out her hand and bursting into tears, thinking 
 instantly how different was the ready duty of her 
 daughter to the unkindness of her son. Elizabeth 
 kissed her, and sate down beside her. 
 
 " Oh, it is a dreadful thing to find me here!" 
 said the poor lady, looking sadly into her 
 
168 REAPING. 
 
 daughter s face ; " I thought to have spared you, 
 or any one, the knowledge of my being here ; but 
 this solitude — this dismal place — and something of 
 suffering beside, have broken my spirit. I could 
 not live without feeling that I was loved — and I 
 knew you would not fail me." 
 
 Both mother and daughter wept. 
 
 " You are surprised," continued she, after a 
 pause, " to find me here. But do not ask me 
 the cause ; ask nothing from me ; only let me see 
 you sometimes; I want a kind face to look at. 
 You would have come before, I am sure, if you 
 had known what I have suffered." 
 
 " Dearest mother," returned Elizabeth, in a 
 calm voice, "I have been with you before. I 
 was with you through your worst suffering. I 
 was your nurse — that young woman in the white 
 cap, whom you thanked so gratefully." 
 
 Mrs. Durant put her hand into her daughter's 
 without speaking; for the deepest emotion does 
 not leave the power of fluent speech. And now 
 all the kindness and thoughtfijlness of that most 
 tender of nurses was perfectly understood. 
 
 In a few seconds, thoughts which might have 
 been the guiding principle of a life passed through 
 her mind, and, falling on her daughter's neck, she 
 kissed her, and wept tears of bitter self-condem- 
 nation. 
 
169 
 
 CONCLUSION. 
 
 If Richard inquired after the health of his mother, 
 during her abode in the hospital, the knowledge 
 of such inquiry never reached her; and she felt 
 this supposed neglect as only another instance of 
 unkindness. But she never complained of him: 
 if she had not decreased in affection towards him, 
 she at least had learned to rest upon the duty and 
 love of her daughter. 
 
 It was but a few days after she had been re- 
 moved to Elizabeth's lodgings at Richmond, when 
 a young man, of remarkably prepossessing appear- 
 ance, desired to have an interview with them. 
 He was a stranger both to mother and daughter, 
 and declined to give his name. His manners 
 were very mild and gentlemanly, and he appeared 
 to feel reluctance in stating his business. At 
 length he said, Mr. Anthony Sharpie had dis- 
 covered that Mr. Richard Durant had not perished 
 in the fire at Stanton-Combe. Mrs. Durant grew 
 pale as death; but the stranger noticed it no 
 further than by speaking in a tone yet more gentle. 
 
 " He was sorry," he said, " to state that a war- 
 rant was issued for his apprehension, under the 
 name of Walker, the driver of a hackney-coach." 
 
 Elizabeth handed a glass of water to her mo- 
 ther, who she feared might faint, and apologized 
 to the stranger, on the plea of her mother's late 
 suffering. 
 
 " I am influenced," said their unknown friend, 
 when Mrs. Durant again seemed able to hear 
 Q 
 
170 CONCLUSION. 
 
 what further he had to say, " by the greatest 
 possible kindness towards you, and even towards 
 this unhappy young man; and, to confess the 
 truth, have had repeated interviews with him." 
 
 " Pray, my dear sir," interrupted Mrs. Durant, 
 " where is my unfortunate son?" 
 
 " He has sailed this very morning from Graves- 
 end for Madras," answered the stranger. 
 
 A deep sigh escaped from the mother, in reply. 
 
 M I think I have done right," pursued the 
 stranger; " the most remorseless pursuit would 
 have dragged him from any concealment in this 
 country. I had the means of knowing every step 
 which the opposite party took. I was the only 
 person who could save him. I have done it. 1 
 paid his passage, and he has gone from England 
 well provided for ; and has thus an opportunity of 
 retrieving his character, and regaining, in some 
 measure, his station in society. Let me know 
 that I have done right." 
 
 The silent tears of Elizabeth and her mother 
 were his answer. 
 
 " But may we not know to whom we are so 
 greatly obliged?" asked Elizabeth, as the stranger 
 took up his hat, as if about to depart. 
 
 " I doubt the favourable effect of my name/ 
 said he, half smilfng; "I am the son of Sir 
 Thomas Durant; permit me to hope that I have 
 not forfeited your friendship!" 
 
 THE END. 
 
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