The Squire of Sandal-Side A Pastoral Romance

CHAPTER X.

THE NEW SQUIRE.

“A word was brought, Un­to him,--the King him­self de­sired his pres­ence.”

“The mys­tery of life He probes; and in the bat­tling din of things That frets the fee­ble ear, he seeks and finds A har­mo­ny that tunes the dis­so­nant strife To sweet­est mu­sic.”

This year the ef­fort to keep Christ­mas in Seat-​San­dal was a fail­ure. Julius did not re­turn in time for the fes­ti­val, and the squire was un­able to take any part in it. There had been one of those sud­den, mys­te­ri­ous changes in his con­di­tion, mark­ing a point in life from which ev­ery step is on the down-​hill road to the grave. One day he had seemed even bet­ter than usu­al; the next morn­ing he looked many years old­er. Las­si­tude of body and mind had seized the once ea­ger, sym­pa­thet­ic man; he was weary of the strug­gle for life, and had _giv­en up_. This change oc­curred just be­fore Christ­mas; and Char­lotte could not help feel­ing that the ev­er­greens for the feast might, af­ter all, be the ev­er­greens for the fu­ner­al.

One snowy day be­tween Christ­mas and New Year, Julius came home. Be­fore he said a word to Sophia, she di­vined that he had suc­ceed­ed in his ob­ject. He en­tered the house with the air of a mas­ter; and, when he heard how rapid­ly the squire was fail­ing, he con­grat­ulat­ed him­self on his pru­dent alacrity in the mat­ter. The next morn­ing he was per­mit­ted an in­ter­view. “You have been a long time away, Julius,” said the squire lan­guid­ly, and with­out ap­par­ent in­ter­est in the sub­ject.

“I have been a long jour­ney.”

“Ah! Where have you been? Eh?”

“To Italy.”

The sick man flushed crim­son, and his large, thin hands quiv­ered slight­ly. Julius not­ed the change in him with some alarm; for, though it was not per­haps ac­tu­al­ly nec­es­sary to have the squire's sig­na­ture to Har­ry's re­lin­quish­ment, it would be more sat­is­fac­to­ry to ob­tain it. He knew that nei­ther Mrs. San­dal nor Char­lotte would dis­pute Har­ry's deed; but he wished not on­ly to pos­sess Seat-​San­dal, but al­so the good-​will of the neigh­bor­hood, and for this pur­pose he must show a clear, clean right to the suc­ces­sion. He had ex­plained the mat­ter to Sophia, and been an­noyed at her want of en­thu­si­asm. She feared that any dis­cus­sion re­lat­ing to Har­ry might se­ri­ous­ly ex­cite and in­jure her fa­ther, and she could not bring her­self to ad­vise it. But the dis­ap­proval on­ly made Julius more de­ter­mined to car­ry out his own views; and there­fore, when the squire asked, “Where have you been?” he told him the truth; and oh, how cru­el the truth can some­times be!

“I have been to Italy.”

“To see”--

“Har­ry? Yes.”

Then, with­out wait­ing to in­form him­self as to whether the squire wished the con­ver­sa­tion dropped or con­tin­ued, he added, “He was in a mis­er­able con­di­tion,--des­ti­tute, with a dy­ing wife and child.”

“Child! Eh? What?”

“Yes, a son; a lit­tle chap, noth­ing but skin and bone and black eyes,--an Ital­ian San­dal.”

The squire was silent a few min­utes; then he asked in a slow, con­strained voice, “What did you do?”

“Har­ry sent for me in or­der that we might dis­cuss a cer­tain pro­pos­al he wished to make me. I have ac­cept­ed it--re­luc­tant­ly ac­cept­ed it; but re­al­ly it ap­peared the on­ly way to help him to any pur­pose.”

“What did Har­ry want? Eh? What?”

“He want­ed to go to Amer­ica, and be­gin a new life, and found a new house there; and, as he had de­ter­mined nev­er un­der any cir­cum­stances to vis­it San­dal-​Side again, he asked me to give him the mon­ey nec­es­sary for em­igra­tion.”

“Did you?”

“Yes, I did.”

“For what? What equiv­alent could he give you?”

“He had noth­ing to give me but his right of suc­ces­sion. I bought it for ten thou­sand pounds. A sum of mon­ey like that ought to give him a good start in Amer­ica. I think, up­on the whole, he was very wise.”

“Har­ry San­dal sold my home and es­tate over my head, while I was still alive, with­out a word to me! God have mer­cy!”

“Un­cle, he nev­er thought of it in that light, I am sure.”

“That is what he did; sold it with­out a thought as to what his moth­er's or sis­ter's wish­es might be. Sold it away from his own child. My God! The man is an im­mea­sur­able scoundrel; and, Julius San­dal, you are an­oth­er.”

“Sir?”

“Leave me. I am still mas­ter of San­dal. Leave me. Leave my house. Do not en­ter it again un­til my dead body has passed the gates.”

“It will be right for you first to sign this pa­per.”

“What pa­per? Eh? What?”

“The deed of Har­ry's re­lin­quish­ment. He has my mon­ey. I look to your hon­or to se­cure me.”

“You look the wrong road. I will sign no such pa­per,--no, not for twen­ty years of life.”

He spoke stern­ly, but al­most in a whis­per. The strain up­on him was ter­ri­ble; he was us­ing up the last rem­nants of his life to main­tain it.

“That you should sign the deed is on­ly bare hon­esty. I gave the mon­ey trust­ing to your hon­esty.”

“I will not sign it. It would be a queer thing for me to be a part­ner in such a dirty job. The right of suc­ces­sion to San­dal, bar­ring Har­ry San­dal, is not vest­ed in you. It is in Har­ry's son. Who­ev­er his moth­er may be, the lit­tle lad is heir of San­dal-​Side; and I'll not be made a thief in my last hours by you. That's a trick be­yond your pow­er. Now, then, I'll waste no more words on you, good, bad, or in­dif­fer­ent.”

He had, in fact, reached the lim­it of his pow­ers, and Julius saw it; yet he did not hes­itate to press his right to San­dal's sig­na­ture by ev­ery ar­gu­ment he thought like­ly to avail. San­dal was as one that heard not, and for­tu­nate­ly Mrs. San­dal's en­trance put an end to the painful in­ter­view.

This was a sor­row the squire had nev­er con­tem­plat­ed, and it filled his heart with anx­ious mis­ery. He strove to keep calm, to hus­band his strength, to de­vise some means of pro­tect­ing his wife's rights. “I must send for Lawyer Moser: if there is any way out of this wrong, he will know the right way,” he thought. But he had to rest a lit­tle ere he could give the nec­es­sary prompt in­struc­tions. To­wards noon he re­vived, and asked ea­ger­ly for Stephen La­trigg. A mes­sen­ger was at once sent to Up-​Hill. He found Stephen in the barn, where the men were mak­ing the flails beat with a rhythm and reg­ular­ity as ex­hil­arat­ing as mu­sic. Stephen left them at once; but, when he told Ducie what word had been brought him, he was star­tled at her look and man­ner.

“I have been look­ing for this news all day: I fear me, Steve, that the squire has come to 'the pass­ing.' Last night I saw your grand­fa­ther.”

“Dreamed of him?”

“Well, then, call it a dream. I saw your grand­fa­ther. He was in this room; he was sort­ing the pa­pers he left; and, as I watched his hands, he lift­ed his head and looked at me. I have got my or­ders, I feel that. But wait not now, I will fol­low you anon.”

In the “Seat” there was a dis­tinct feel­ing of con­sum­mat­ing calami­ty. The ser­vants had come to a state of mind in which the ex­pec­ta­tion was rather a re­lief. They were on­ly afraid the squire might ral­ly again. In Mrs. San­dal's heart there was that re­sent­ful res­ig­na­tion which says to sor­row, “Do thy worst. I am no longer able to re­sist, or even to plead.” Char­lotte on­ly clung to her dream of hope, and re­fused to be wak­ened from it. She was sure her fa­ther had been worse many a time. She was al­most cross at Ducie's un­usu­al vis­it.

About four o'clock Steve had a long in­ter­view with the squire. Char­lotte walked rest­less­ly to and fro in the cor­ri­dor; she heard Steve's voice, strong and kind and solemn, and she di­vined what promis­es he was mak­ing to the dy­ing man for her­self and for her moth­er. But even her love did not an­tic­ipate their part­ing words,--

“Farewell, Stephen. Yet one word more. If Har­ry should come back--what of Har­ry? Eh? What?”

“I will stand by him. I will put my hand in his hand, and my foot with his foot. They that wrong Har­ry will wrong me, they that shame Har­ry will shame me. I will nev­er call him less than a broth­er, as God hears me speak.”

A light “that nev­er was on sea or sky” shone in San­dal's fast dim­ming eyes, and ir­ra­di­at­ed his set gray coun­te­nance. “Stephen, tell him at death's door I turned back to for­give him--to bless him. I stretch--out--my hand--to--him.”

At this mo­ment Char­lotte opened the door soft­ly, and waved Stephen to­wards her. “Your moth­er is come, and she says she must see the squire.” And then, be­fore Stephen could an­swer, Ducie gen­tly put them both aside. “Wait in the cor­ri­dor, my chil­dren,” she said: “none but God and San­dal must hear my farewell.” With the words, she closed the door, and went to the dy­ing man. He ap­peared to be un­con­scious; but she took his hand, stroked it kind­ly, and bend­ing down whis­pered, “William, William San­dal! Do you know me?”

“Sure­ly it is Ducie. It is grow­ing dark. We must go home, Ducie. Eh? What?”

“William, try and un­der­stand what I say. You will go the hap­pi­er to heav­en for my words.” And, as they grew slow­ly in­to the squire's ap­pre­hen­sion, a look of amaze­ment, of grat­itude, of in­tense sat­is­fac­tion, trans­fig­ured the clay for the last time. It seemed as if the de­part­ing soul stood still to lis­ten. He was per­fect­ly qui­et un­til she ceased speak­ing; then, in a strange, un­earth­ly tone, he ut­tered one word, “Hap­py.” It was the last word that ev­er part­ed his lips. Be­tween shores he lin­gered un­til the next day­break, and then the lov­ing watch­ers saw that the pal­lid win­try light fell on the dead. How peace­ful was the large, worn face! How tran­quil! How dis­tant from them! How grand­ly, how ter­ri­bly in­dif­fer­ent! To Squire William San­dal, all the noisy, sor­row­ful con­tro­ver­sies of earth had grown sud­den­ly silent.

The read­ing of the squire's will made pub­lic the re­al con­di­tion of af­fairs. Julius had spo­ken with the lawyer pre­vi­ous­ly, and made clear to him his right in eq­ui­ty to stand in the heir's place. But the squires and states­men of the Dales heard the sub­sti­tu­tion with mut­tered dis­sents, or in a si­lence still more em­phat­ic of dis­ap­proval. Ducie and Mrs. San­dal and Char­lotte were shocked and as­tound­ed at the rev­ela­tion, and there was not a fam­ily in San­dal-​Side who had that night a good word for Julius San­dal. He thought it very hard, and said so. He had not forced Har­ry in any way. He had tak­en no ad­van­tage of him. Har­ry was quite sat­is­fied with the ex­change, and what had oth­er peo­ple to do with his af­fairs? He did not care for their opin­ion. “That for it!” and he snapped his fin­gers de­fi­ant­ly to ev­ery point of the com­pass. But, all the same, he walked the floor of the east rooms near­ly all night, and kept Sophia awake to lis­ten to his com­plaints.

Sophia was fret­ful and sleepy, and not as sym­pa­thet­ic with “the soul that halved her own,” as cen­turies of fel­low-​feel­ing might have claimed; but she had her spe­cial wor­ries. She per­ceived, even thus ear­ly, that as long as the late squire's wid­ow was in the Seat, her own au­thor­ity would be im­per­fect. “Of course, she did not wish to hur­ry her moth­er; but she would feel, in her place, how much more com­fort­able for all a change would be. And moth­er had her dow­er-​house in the vil­lage; a very com­fort­able home, quite large enough for Char­lotte and her­self and a cou­ple of maids, which was cer­tain­ly all they need­ed.”

Where did such thoughts and feel­ings spring from? Were they ly­ing dor­mant in her heart that sum­mer when the squire drove home his har­vest, and her moth­er went joy­ful­ly up and down the sun­ny old rooms, al­ways de­vis­ing some­thing for her girls' com­fort or plea­sures? In those days how proud Sophia had been of her fa­ther and moth­er! What in­dig­na­tion she would have felt had one sug­gest­ed that the time was com­ing when she would be glad to see a stranger in her fa­ther's place, and feel im­pa­tient to say to her moth­er, “Step down low­er; I would be mis­tress in your room”! Alas! there are depths in the hu­man heart we fear to look in­to; for we know that of­ten all that is nec­es­sary to as­suage a great grief, or oblit­er­ate a great loss, is the in­her­itance of a fine man­sion, or a lit­tle mon­ey, or a few jew­els, or even a rich gar­ment. And as soon as the squire was in his grave, Julius and Sophia be­gan to dis­cuss the plans which on­ly a very shal­low shame had made them ret­icent about be­fore.

In­deed, it soon be­came nec­es­sary for oth­ers, al­so, to dis­cuss the fu­ture. Peo­ple soon grow un­wel­come in a house that is not their own; and the new squire of San­dal-​Side was ea­ger to so ren­ovate and change the place that it would cease to re­mind him of his im­me­di­ate pre­de­ces­sors. The San­dals of past cen­turies were wel­come, they gave dig­ni­ty to his claims; but the last squire, and his son Har­ry San­dal, on­ly re­mind­ed him of cir­cum­stances he felt it more com­fort­able to for­get. So, dur­ing the long, drea­ry days of mid­win­ter, he and Sophia oc­cu­pied them­selves very pleas­ant­ly in se­lect­ing styles of fur­ni­ture, and col­ors of draperies, and in ar­rang­ing for a full suite of Ori­en­tal rooms, which were to per­pet­uate in pot­tery and lac­quer­ware, In­di­an bronzes and mat­tings, Chi­nese screens and cab­inets, the An­glo-​In­di­an pos­ses­sor of the old Cum­ber­land es­tate.

Even pend­ing these al­ter­ations, oth­ers were in progress. Ev­ery fam­ily ar­range­ment was changed in some re­spect. The hour for break­fast had been fixed at what Julius called a civ­ilized time. This, of course, de­layed ev­ery oth­er meal; yet the ser­vants, who had grum­bled at over-​work un­der the old au­thor­ity, had not a com­plaint to make un­der the new. For the present mas­ter and mis­tress of San­dal were not peo­ple who cared for com­plaints. “If you can do the work, Ann, you may stay,” said Sophia to the dis­sat­is­fied cook; “if not, the squire will pay you your due wages. He has a friend in Lon­don whose cook would like a sit­ua­tion in the coun­try.” Af­ter which ex­pla­na­tion Ann be­haved her­self ad­mirably, and nev­er found her work hard, though din­ner was two hours lat­er, and the sup­per dish­es were not sent in un­til eleven o'clock.

But, though Julius had suc­ceed­ed in bring­ing his ta­ble so far with­in his own ideas of com­fort, in oth­er re­spects he felt his im­po­tence to or­der events. Ev­ery meal-​time brought him in con­tact with the wid­ow San­dal and with Char­lotte; and nei­ther Sophia, nor yet him­self, had felt able to re­quest the late mis­tress to re­sign her seat at the foot of the ta­ble. And Sophia soon be­gan to think it un­kind of her moth­er not to see the po­si­tion, and vol­un­tar­ily amend it. “I do re­al­ly think moth­er might have some con­sid­er­ation for me, Julius,” she com­plained. “It puts me in such a very pe­cu­liar po­si­tion not to take my place at my own ta­ble; and it is so try­ing and per­plex­ing for the ser­vants,--mak­ing them feel as if there were two mis­tress­es.”

“And al­ways the calm, scorn­ful face of your sis­ter Char­lotte at her side. Do you no­tice with what os­ten­ta­tious obe­di­ence and at­ten­tion she de­votes her­self to your moth­er?”

“She thinks that she is show­ing me my du­ty, Julius. But peo­ple have some du­ties to­ward them­selves.”

“And to­wards their hus­bands.”

“Cer­tain­ly. I thank Heav­en I have al­ways put my hus­band first.” And she re­al­ly glanced up­wards with the com­pla­cent air of one who ex­pect­ed Heav­en to im­itate men, and “praise her for do­ing well un­to her­self.”

“This state of things can­not go on much longer, Sophia.”

“Cer­tain­ly it can­not. Moth­er must look af­ter her own house soon.”

“I would speak to her to-​day, Sophia. She has had six weeks now to ar­range her plans, and next month I want to be­gin and put the house in­to de­cent con­di­tion. I think I will write to Lon­don this af­ter­noon, and tell Jef­fcott to send the pol­ish­ers and painters on the 15th of March.”

“Moth­er is so slow about things, I don't think she will be ready to move so ear­ly.”

“Oh, I re­al­ly can't stand them any longer! I can't in­deed, Sophia, and I won't. I did not mar­ry your moth­er and sis­ter, nor yet buy them with the place. Your moth­er has her rec­og­nized rights in the es­tate, and she has a dow­er-​house to which to re­tire; and the soon­er she goes there now, the bet­ter. You may tell her I say so.”

“You may as well tell her your­self, Julius.”

“Do you wish me to be in­sult­ed by your sis­ter Char­lotte again? It is too bad to put me in such a po­si­tion. I can­not pun­ish two wom­en, even for such shame­ful in­nu­en­dos as I had to take when she sat at the head of the ta­ble. You ought to re­flect, too, that the rooms they oc­cu­py are the best rooms in the house,--the mas­ter's rooms. I am go­ing to have the oak walls pol­ished, in or­der to bring out the carv­ings; and I think we will choose green and white for the car­pets and cur­tains. The present fur­ni­ture is dread­ful­ly old-​fash­ioned, and hor­ri­bly full of old mem­ories.”

“Well, then, I shall give moth­er to un­der­stand that we ex­pect to make these changes very soon.”

“De­pend up­on it, the soon­er your moth­er and Char­lotte go to their own house, the bet­ter for all par­ties. For, if we do not in­sist up­on it, they will stay and stay, un­til that La­trigg young man has his house fin­ished. Then Char­lotte will ex­pect to be mar­ried from here, and we shall have all the trou­ble and ex­pense of the af­fair. Oh, I tell you, Sophia, I see through the whole plan! But reck­on­ing with­out me, and reck­on­ing with me, are dif­fer­ent things.”

This con­ver­sa­tion took place af­ter a most un­pleas­ant lunch. Julius had come to it in a fret­ful, hy­per­crit­ical mood. He had been cal­cu­lat­ing what his pro­posed changes would cost, and the sum to­tal had giv­en him a slight shock. He was like many ex­trav­agant peo­ple, sub­ject to pass­ing spells of al­most con­temptible econ­omy; and at that hour the pro­posed fu­ture out­lay of thou­sands did not trou­ble him so much as the ac­tu­al pen­ny-​half-​pen­ny val­ue of his moth­er-​in-​law's lunch.

He did not say so, but in some way the feel­ing per­me­at­ed the ta­ble. The wid­ow pushed her plate aside, and sipped her glass of wine in si­lence. Char­lotte took a pet­tish plea­sure in re­fus­ing what she felt she was un­wel­come to. Both left the ta­ble be­fore Julius and Sophia had fin­ished their meal; and both, as soon as they reached their rooms, turned to each oth­er with faces hot with in­dig­na­tion, and hearts an­gry with a sense of shame­ful un­kind­ness.

Char­lotte spoke first. “What is to be done, moth­er? I can­not see you in­sult­ed, meal af­ter meal, in this way. Let us go at once. I have told you it would come to this. We ought to have moved im­me­di­ate­ly,--just as soon as Julius came here as mas­ter.”

“My house in the vil­lage has been emp­ty for three years. It is cold and damp. It needs at­ten­tion of ev­ery kind. If we could on­ly stay here un­til Stephen's house was fin­ished: then you could be mar­ried.”

“O moth­er dear, that is not pos­si­ble! You know Steve and I can­not mar­ry un­til fa­ther has been dead at least a year. It would be an in­sult to fa­ther to have a wed­ding in his mourn­ing year.”

“If your fa­ther knows any thing, Char­lotte, he knows the trou­ble we are in. He would count it no in­sult.”

“But all through the Dales it would be a shame to us. Steve and I would not like to be­gin life with the ill words or ill thoughts of our neigh­bors.”

“What shall I do? Char­lotte, dear, what shall I do?”

“Let us go to our own home. Bet­ter to brave a lit­tle damp and dis­com­fort than con­stant hu­mil­ia­tion.”

“This is my home, my own dear home! It is full of mem­ories of your fa­ther and Har­ry.”

“O moth­er, I should think you would want to for­get Har­ry!”

“No, no, no! I want to re­mem­ber him ev­ery hour of the day and night. How could I pray for him, if I for­got him? Lit­tle you know how a moth­er loves, Char­lotte. His fa­ther for­gave him: shall I be less piti­ful?--I, who nursed him at my breast, and car­ried him in my arms.”

Char­lotte did not an­swer. She was touched by her moth­er's fi­deli­ty, and she found in her own heart a feel­ing much akin to it. Their con­ver­sa­tion re­vert­ed to their un­hap­py po­si­tion, and to the dif­fi­cul­ty of mak­ing an im­me­di­ate change. For not on­ly was the dow­er-​house in an un­tenantable state, but the weath­er was very much against them. The gray weath­er, the gloomy sky, the monotonous rains, the melt­ing snow, the spite­ful east wind,--by all this en­mi­ty of the el­ements, as well as by the en­mi­ty in the house­hold, the poor be­reaved la­dy was sad­dened and con­trolled.

The wretched con­ver­sa­tion was fol­lowed by a most un­hap­py si­lence. Both hearts were brood­ing over their slights and wrongs. Day by day Char­lotte's life had grown hard­er to bear. Sophia's lit­tle flaunts and dis­sents, her as­ton­ish­ments and cor­rec­tions, were al­most as cru­el as the open ha­tred of Julius, his si­lence, his low­er­ing brows, and in­so­lence of pro­pri­etor­ship. To these things she had to add the in­tan­gi­ble con­tempt of ser­vants, and the feel­ing of con­straint in the house where she had been the beloved child and the one in au­thor­ity. Al­so she found the in­so­lence which Stephen had to brave ev­ery time he called up­on her just as dif­fi­cult to bear as were her own pe­cu­liar slights. Julius had ceased to rec­og­nize him, had ceased to speak of him ex­cept as “that per­son.” Ev­ery vis­it he made Char­lotte was the oc­ca­sion of some pet­ty im­per­ti­nence, some un­mis­tak­able as­sur­ance that his pres­ence was of­fen­sive to the mas­ter of Seat-​San­dal.

All these things trou­bled the moth­er al­so, but her bit­ter­est pang was the cru­el­ty of Sophia. A slow, silent pro­cess of alien­ation had been go­ing on in the girl ev­er since her en­gage­ment to Julius: it had first touched her thoughts, then her feel­ings; now its blight­ing in­flu­ence had de­te­ri­orat­ed her whole na­ture. And in her moth­er's heart there were sad echoes of that bit­ter cry that comes down from age to age, “Oh, my son Ab­sa­lom, Ab­sa­lom! My son, my son!”

“O Sophia! oh, my child, my child! How can you treat me so? What have I done?” She was mur­mur­ing such words to her­self when the door was opened, and Sophia en­tered. It was char­ac­ter­is­tic of the wom­an that she did not knock ere en­ter­ing. She had al­ways jeal­ous­ly guard­ed her rights to the soli­tude of her own room; and, even when she was a school-​girl, it had been an un­der­stood house­hold reg­ula­tion that no one was to en­ter it with­out knock­ing. But now that she was mis­tress of all the rooms in Seat-​San­dal, she ig­nored the sim­ple cour­tesy to­wards oth­ers. Con­se­quent­ly, when she en­tered, she saw the tears in her moth­er's eyes. They on­ly an­gered her. “Why should the sor­rows of oth­ers dark­en her hap­py home?” Sophia was one of those wom­en whom long re­grets fa­tigue. As for her fa­ther, she re­flect­ed, “that he had been well nursed, deco­rous­ly buried, and that ev­ery pro­pri­ety had been at­tend­ed to. It was, in her opin­ion, high time that the liv­ing--Julius and her­self--should be thought of.” The stat­ed events of life--its reg­ular meals, its triv­ial plea­sures--had quite filled any void in her ex­is­tence made by her fa­ther's death. If he had come back to earth, if some one had said to her, “He is here,” she would have been far more em­bar­rassed than de­light­ed. The world­ly ad­van­tages built up­on the ex­tinc­tion of a great love! Sophia could con­tem­plate them with­out a blush.

She came for­ward, shiv­er­ing slight­ly, and stirred the fire. “How cold and drea­ry you are! Moth­er, why don't you cheer up and do some­thing? It would be bet­ter for you than mop­ing on the so­fa.”

“Sup­pose Julius had died six weeks ago, would you think of 'cheer­ing up,' Sophia?”

“Char­lotte, what a shame­ful thing to say!”

“Pre­cise­ly what you have just said to moth­er.”

“Sup­pos­ing Julius dead! I nev­er heard such a cru­el thing. I dare say it would de­light you.”

“No, it would not; for Julius is not fit to die.”

“Moth­er, I will not be in­sult­ed in my own house in such a way. Speak to Char­lotte, or I must tell Julius.”

“What have you come to say, Sophia?”

“I came to talk pleas­ant­ly, to see you, and”--

“You saw me an hour or two since, and were very rude and un­kind. But if you re­gret it, my dear, it is for­giv­en.”

“I do not know what there is to for­give. But re­al­ly, Char­lotte and you seem so com­plete­ly un­hap­py and dis­sat­is­fied here, that I should think you would make a change.”

“Do you mean that you wish me to go?”

“If you put words in­to my mouth.”

“It is not worth while af­fect­ing ei­ther re­gret or of­fence, Sophia. How soon do you wish us to leave?”

The dowa­ger mis­tress of San­dal-​Side had stood up as she asked the ques­tion. She was quite calm, and her man­ner even cold and in­dif­fer­ent. “If you wish us to go to-​day, it is still pos­si­ble. I can walk as far as the rec­to­ry. For your fa­ther's sake, the rec­tor will make us wel­come.--Char­lotte, my bon­net and cloak!”

“Moth­er! I think such threats very un­called for. What will peo­ple say? And how can poor Julius de­fend him­self against two ladies? I call it tak­ing ad­van­tage of us.”

“'Tak­ing ad­van­tage?' Oh, no! Oh, no!--Char­lotte, my dear, give me my cloak.”

The lit­tle la­dy was not to be ei­ther fright­ened or en­treat­ed; and she deigned Julius--who had been hasti­ly sum­moned by Sophia--no an­swer, ei­ther to his ar­gu­ments or his apolo­gies.

“It is enough,” she cried, with a slight quiver in her voice, “it is enough! You turn me out of the home he gave me. Do you think that the dead see not? know not? You will find out, you will find out.” And so, lean­ing up­on Char­lotte's arm, she walked slow­ly down the stair­way, and in­to the drip­ping, soak­ing, gloomy af­ter­noon. It was in­deed wretched weath­er. A thick cur­tain of mist filled all the at­mo­sphere, and made of day­light on­ly a di­lut­ed dark­ness, in which it was hard to dis­tin­guish the skele­tons of the trees which win­ter had stripped. The moun­tains had dis­ap­peared; there was no sky; a veil of chill­ing mois­ture and de­press­ing gloom was over ev­ery thing. But nei­ther Char­lotte nor her moth­er was at that hour con­scious of such in­of­fen­sive dis­agree­ables. They were trem­bling with anger and sor­row. In a mo­ment such a great event had hap­pened, one ut­ter­ly un­con­ceived of, and un­pre­pared for. Half an hour pre­vi­ous, the un­hap­py moth­er had dread­ed the break­ing away from her old life, and had de­clined to dis­cuss with Char­lotte any plan tend­ing to such a con­sum­ma­tion. Then, sud­den­ly, she had tak­en a step more de­cid­ed and un­usu­al than had ev­er en­tered Char­lotte's mind.

The foot­path through the park was very wet and mud­dy. Ev­ery branch dropped wa­ter. They were a lit­tle fright­ened at what they were do­ing, and their hearts were trou­bled by many com­plex emo­tions. But for­tu­nate­ly the walk was a short one, and the short­est way to the rec­to­ry lay di­rect­ly through the church­yard. With­out a word Mrs. San­dal took it; and with­out a word she turned aside at a cer­tain point, and through the long, rank, with­ered grass­es walked straight to the squire's grave. It was yet quite bare; the snow had melt­ed away, and it had a look as des­olate as her own heart. She stood a few min­utes speech­less by its side; but the painful­ly tight clasp in which she held Char­lotte's hand ex­pressed bet­ter than any words could have done the ten­sion of feel­ing, the pas­sion of emo­tion, which dom­inat­ed her. And Char­lotte felt that si­lence was her moth­er's safe­ty. If she spoke, she would weep, per­haps break down com­plete­ly, and be un­able to reach the shel­ter of the rec­to­ry.

The rec­tor was walk­ing about his study. He saw the two fe­male forms pass­ing through the misty grave­yard, and up to his own front door; but that they were Mrs. San­dal and Char­lotte San­dal, was a sup­po­si­tion be­yond the range of his life's prob­abil­ities. So, when they en­tered his room, he was for the mo­ment as­tound­ed; but how much more so, when Char­lotte, see­ing her moth­er un­able to frame a word, said, “We have come to you for shel­ter and pro­tec­tion!”

Then Mrs. San­dal be­gan to sob hys­ter­ical­ly; and the rec­tor called his house­keep­er, and the best rooms were quick­ly opened and warmed, and the sor­row­ful, weary la­dy lay down to rest in their com­fort and seclu­sion. Char­lotte did not find their friend as un­pre­pared for the event as she sup­posed like­ly. Pri­vate mat­ters sift through the pub­lic mind in a way be­yond all ex­pla­na­tion, and “There had been a gen­er­al im­pres­sion,” he said, “that the late squire's wid­ow was very ill done to by the new squire.”

Char­lotte did not spare the new squire. All his pet­ty ways of an­noy­ing her moth­er and her­self and Stephen; all his small economies about their fire and food and com­forts; all his scorn­ful con­tempt for their house­hold ways and tra­di­tions; all that she knew re­gard­ing his pur­chase of Har­ry's rights, and its ruth­less rev­ela­tion to her dy­ing fa­ther,--all that she knew wrong of Julius, she told. It was a re­lief to do it. While he had been their guest, and af­ter­wards while they had been his guests, her mouth had been closed. Week af­ter week she had suf­fered in si­lence. The long-​re­strained tide of wrong flowed from her lips with a strange, pa­thet­ic elo­quence; and, as the rec­tor held her hands, his own were wet with her fast-​falling tears. At last she laid her head against his shoul­der, and wept as if her heart would break. “He has been our ru­in,” she cried, “our evil an­gel. He has used Har­ry's fol­ly and fa­ther's good­ness and Sophia's love--all of them--for his own self­ish ends.”

“He is a bad one. He should be hanged, and cheap at it! Hear him, talk­ing of hav­ing lived so of­ten! God have mer­cy! He is not wor­thy of one life, let alone of two.”

At this junc­ture, Julius him­self en­tered the room. Nei­ther of its oc­cu­pants had heard his ar­rival, and he saw Char­lotte in the aban­don of her grief and anger. She would have risen, but the rec­tor would not let her. “Sit still, Char­lotte,” he said. “He has done his do, and you need not fear him any more. And dry your tears, my dearie; learn while you are young to squan­der noth­ing, not even grief.” Then he turned to Julius, and gave him one of those looks which go through all dis­guis­es in­to the shoals and quick­sands of the heart; such a look as that with which the tamer of wild beasts con­trols his cap­tive.

“Well, squire, what want you?”

“I want jus­tice, sir. I am come here to de­fend my­self.”

“Very well, I am here to lis­ten.”

Self-​jus­ti­fi­ca­tion is a vig­or­ous qual­ity: Julius spoke with elo­quence, and with a su­per­fi­cial show of right. The rec­tor heard him pa­tient­ly, of­fer­ing no com­ment, and per­mit­ting no dis­pu­ta­tion. But, when Julius was fin­ished, he an­swered with a cer­tain stern warmth, “Say what you will, squire, you and I are of two ways of think­ing. You are in the wrong, and you will be hard set to prove your­self in the right; and that is as true as gospel.”

“I am, at least, a gen­tle­man, rec­tor; and I know how to treat gen­tle­wom­en.”

“Gen­tle-​man! Gen­tle-​sin­ner, let me say! Will Sa­tan care whether you be a peas­ant, or a star-​and-​garter gen­tle­man? Tut, tut! in my of­fice I know noth­ing about gen­tle­men. There are plen­ty of gen­tle­men with Beelze­bub; and they will ring all eter­ni­ty for a drop of wa­ter, and nev­er find a ser­vant to an­swer them.”

“Sir, though you are a cler­gy­man, you have no right to speak to me in such a man­ner.”

“Be­cause I am a cler­gy­man, I have the right. If I see a man sleep­ing while the Dev­il rocks his cra­dle, have I not the right to say to him, 'Wake up, you are in dan­ger'? Let me tell you, squire, you have com­mit­ted more than one sin. Go home, and con­fess them to God and man. Above all, turn down a leaf in your Bible where a fool once asked, 'Who is my neigh­bor?' Keep it turned down, un­til you have an­swered the ques­tion bet­ter than you have been do­ing it late­ly.”

“None of my neigh­bors can say wrong of me. I have al­ways done my du­ty to them. I have paid ev­ery one what I owe”--

“Not enough, squire; not enough. Fol­low on, as Hosea says, to love them. Don't al­ways give them the white, and keep the yolk for your­self. You know your du­ty. Haste you back home, then, and do it.”

“I will not be put off in such a way, sir. You must in­ter­fere in this mat­ter: make these sil­ly wom­en be­have them­selves. I can­not have the whole coun­try-​side talk­ing of my af­fairs.”

“Me in­ter­fere! No, no! I am not in your liv­ery, squire; and I won't fight your quar­rels. Sir, my time is en­gaged.”

“I have a right”--

“My time is en­gaged. It is my hour for read­ing the Evening Ser­vice. Stay and hear it, if you de­sire. But it is a bad neigh­bor­hood, where a man can't say his prayers qui­et­ly.” And he stood up, walked slow­ly to his read­ing-​desk, and be­gan to turn the leaves of the Book of Com­mon Prayer.

Then Julius went out in a pas­sion, and the rec­tor mut­tered, “The Dev­il may quote Scrip­ture, but he does not like to hear it read. Come, Char­lotte, let us thank God, thank him twice, nay, thrice, not alone for the faith of Christ Je­sus, but al­so for the lega­cy of Christ Je­sus. Oh, child, amid earth's weary rest­less­ness and noisy quar­rels, how rich a lega­cy,”--

“'Peace I leave with you. My peace I give un­to you.'”