The Squire of Sandal-Side A Pastoral Romance

CHAPTER V.

CHAR­LOTTE.

“Oh, how this spring of love re­sem­bleth The un­cer­tain glo­ry of an April day!”

“Ham­mer­ing and clink­ing, chat­ter­ing stony names Of shale and horn­blende, rag and trap and tuff, Amyg­daloid and tra­chyte.”

When Char­lotte again went to Up-​Hill she found her­self walk­ing through a sober realm of leaf­less trees. The glo­ry of au­tumn was gone. The hills, with their cir­cu­lar sheep-​pens, were now brown and bare; and the plaid­ed shep­herds, de­scend­ing far apart, gave on­ly an air of lone­li­ness to the land­scape. She could see the white line of the stony road with a sad dis­tinct­ness. It was no longer bor­dered with creep­ing vines and patch­es of mur­mur­ing bee-​bent heather. And the stream-​bed al­so had lost near­ly all its sen­tinel rush­es, and the tall brak­ens from its shag­gy slopes were gone. But Sil­ver Beck still ran mu­si­cal­ly over tracts of tin­kling stones; and, through the chilly air, the lus­tered black cock was crow­ing for the gray hen in the hol­low.

Very soon the at­mo­sphere be­came full of misty rain; and ere she reached the house, there was a cold wind, and the near­est cloud was sprin­kling the bub­bling beck. It was pleas­ant to see Ducie at the open door ready to wel­come her; pleas­ant to get in­to the snug house­place, and watch the great fire leap­ing up the chim­ney, and throw­ing lus­tres on the carved oak press­es and long set­tles, and on the bright brass and pewter ves­sels, and the rows of showy chi­naware. Very pleas­ant to draw her chair to the lit­tle round ta­ble on the hearth­stone, and to in­hale the fra­grance of the in­fus­ing tea, and the rich aro­ma of pot­ted char and spiced bread and fresh­ly-​baked cheese-​cakes. And still more pleas­ant to be tak­en pos­ses­sion of, to have her damp shoes and cloak re­moved, her chill fin­gers warmed in a kind­ly, moth­er­ly clasp, and to be made to feel through all her sens­es that she was in­deed “wel­come as sun-​shin­ing.”

With a lit­tle shiv­er of dis­ap­point­ment she no­ticed that there were on­ly two tea-​cups on the ta­ble; and the house, when she came to an­alyze its at­mo­sphere, had in it the per­cep­ti­ble lone­li­ness of the ab­sent mas­ter. “Is not Stephen at home?” she asked, as Ducie set­tled her­self com­fort­ably for their meal; “I thought Stephen was at home.”

“No, he isn't. He went to Kendal three days ago about his fleeces. Whit­ney's car­pet-​works have made him a very good of­fer. Did not the squire speak of it?”

“No.”

“Well he knew all about it. He met Steve, and Steve told him. The squire has been a lit­tle queer with us late­ly, Char­lotte. Do you know what the trou­ble is? I thought I would have you up to tea, and ask you; so when San­dal was up here this morn­ing, I said, 'Let Char­lotte come, and have a cup of tea with me, squire, I'd be glad.' And he said, 'When?' And I said, 'This af­ter­noon. I am fair lone­ly with­out Steve.' And he said, 'I'm agree­able. She'll be glad enough to come.' And I said, 'Thank'ee, squire, I'll be glad enough to see her.' But what _is_ the mat­ter, Char­lotte? The squire has been in his airs with Steve ev­er so long.”

Then Char­lotte's face grew like a flame; and she an­swered, in a tone of ten­der sad­ness, “Fa­ther thinks Steve loves me; and he says there is no love-​line be­tween our hous­es, and that, if there were, it is crossed with sor­row, and that nei­ther the liv­ing nor the dead will have mar­riage be­tween Steve and me.”

“I thought that was the trou­ble. I did so. As for the liv­ing, he speaks for him­self; as for the dead, it is your grand­moth­er San­dal he thinks of. She was a hard, proud wom­an, Char­lotte. Her two daugh­ters re­joiced at their wed­ding-​days, and two out of her three sons she drove away from their home. Your fa­ther was on the point of go­ing, when his broth­er Laun­cie's death made him the heir. Then she gave him a bit more re­spect, and for pret­ty Al­ice More­combe's sake he stayed by the old squire. Ten years your moth­er wait­ed for William San­dal, Char­lotte.”

“Yes, I know.”

“Do you love Steve, Char­lotte? I am Steve's moth­er, dear, and you may speak to me as if you were talk­ing to your own heart. I would nev­er tell Steve ei­ther this way or that way for any thing. Steve would not thank me if I did. He is one of them that wants to reach his hap­pi­ness in his own way, and by his own hand. And I have good rea­sons for ask­ing you such a ques­tion, or I would not ask it; you may be sure I have, that you may.”

Char­lotte had put down her cup, and she sat with her hands clasped up­on her lap, look­ing down in­to it. Ducie's ques­tion took her by sur­prise, and she was rather of­fend­ed by it. For Char­lotte San­dal had been taught all the ret­icences of good so­ci­ety, and for a mo­ment she re­sent­ed a cat­echism so di­rect and per­son­al; but on­ly for a mo­ment. Be­fore Ducie had done speak­ing, she had re­mem­bered that noth­ing but true kind­ness could have prompt­ed the in­quiry. Ducie was not a cu­ri­ous, tat­tling, med­dle­some wom­an; Char­lotte had nev­er known her to in­ter­fere in any one's af­fairs. She had few vis­itors, and she made no calls. Year in and year out, Ducie could al­ways be found at home with her­self.

“You need not tell me, dear, if you do not know; or if you do not want to tell me.”

“I do know, Ducie; and I do not mind telling you in the least. I love Stephen very dear­ly. I have loved him ev­er since--I don't know when.”

“And you have al­ways had as good and as true as you have giv­en. Steve is fond­ly heart-​grown to you, Char­lotte. But we will say no more; and what we have said is dropped in­to my heart like a stone dropped in­to deep wa­ter.”

Then they spoke of the rec­tor, how he was fail­ing a lit­tle; and of one of the maids at Seat-​San­dal who was to mar­ry the head shep­herd at Up-​Hill; and at last, when there had been enough of in­dif­fer­ent talk to ef­fec­tu­al­ly put Steve out of mind, Ducie asked sud­den­ly, “How is Har­ry, and is he do­ing well?”

This was a sub­ject Char­lotte was glad to dis­cuss with Ducie. Har­ry was a great fa­vorite with her, and had been ac­cus­tomed to run to Up-​Hill when­ev­er he was in any boy­ish scrape. And Har­ry was _not_ do­ing well. “Fa­ther is vexed and trou­bled about him, Ducie,” she an­swered. “When­ev­er a let­ter comes from Har­ry, it puts ev­ery thing wrong in the house. Moth­er goes away and cries; and Sophia sulks be­cause, she says, 'it is a shame any sin­gle one of the fam­ily should be al­lowed to make all the rest un­com­fort­able.'”

“Har­ry should nev­er have gone in­to the army. He hasn't any re­sist­ing pow­er, hasn't Har­ry. And there is noth­ing but temp­ta­tion in the army. Dear me, Char­lotte! We may well pray not to be led in­to the way of temp­ta­tion; for if we once get in­to it, we are no bet­ter off than a fly in a spi­der's web.”

She was fill­ing the two emp­ty cups as she spoke, but she sud­den­ly set down the teapot, and lis­tened a mo­ment. “I hear Steve's foot­steps. Sit still, Char­lotte. He is open­ing the door. I knew it was he.”

“Moth­er! moth­er!”

“Here I am, Steve.”

He came in rosy and wet with his climb up the fell­side; and, as he kissed his moth­er, he put out his hand to Char­lotte. Then there was the pleas­an­test stir of care and wel­come imag­in­able; and Steve soon found him­self sit­ting op­po­site the girl he loved so dear­ly, tak­ing his cup from her hands, look­ing in­to her bright, kind eyes, ex­chang­ing with her those charm­ing lit­tle cour­te­sies which can be made the ve­hi­cles of so much that is not spo­ken, and that is un­der­stood with­out speech.

But the af­ter­noons were now very short, and the hap­py meal had to be has­tened. The clouds, too, had fall­en low; and the rain, as Ducie said, “was plash­ing and pat­ter­ing bad­ly.” She fold­ed her own blan­ket-​shawl around Char­lotte; and as there was no wind, and the road was most­ly wide enough for two, Steve could car­ry an um­brel­la, and get her safe­ly home be­fore the dark­en­ing.

How mer­ri­ly they went out to­geth­er in­to the storm! Steve thought he could hard­ly have cho­sen any cir­cum­stances that would have pleased him bet­ter. It was quite nec­es­sary that Char­lotte should keep close to his side; it was quite nat­ural that she should lift her face to his in talk­ing; it was equal­ly nat­ural that Steve should bend to­wards Char­lotte, and that, in a mo­ment, with­out any con­scious in­ten­tion of do­ing so, he should kiss her.

She trem­bled and stood still, but she was not an­gry. “That was very wrong, Steve. I told you at the har­vest-​home what fa­ther said, and what I had promised fa­ther. I'll break no squares with fa­ther, and you must not make me do so.”

“I could not help it, Char­lotte, you looked so be­witch­ing.”

“Oh, dear! the old, old ex­cuse, 'The wom­an tempt­ed me,' etc.”

“For­give me, dear Char­lotte. I was go­ing to tell you that I had been very for­tu­nate in Kendal, and next week I am go­ing to Brad­ford to learn all about spin­ning and weav­ing and ma­chin­ery. But what is suc­cess with­out you? If I make ev­ery dream come to pass, and have not Char­lotte, my heart will keep telling me, night and day, '_All for noth­ing, all for noth­ing_.'”

“Do not be so im­pa­tient. You are mak­ing trou­ble, and fore­speak­ing dis­ap­point­ment. Be­fore you have learned all about man­ufac­tur­ing, and built your mill, be­fore you are re­al­ly ready to be­gin your life's work, many a change may have tak­en place in San­dal-​Side. When Julius comes at Christ­mas I think he will ask Sophia to mar­ry him, and I think Sophia will ac­cept his of­fer. That mar­riage would open the way for our mar­riage.”

“On­ly part­ly I fear. I can see that squire San­dal has tak­en a dis­like, and your moth­er was a lit­tle high with me when I saw her last.”

“Part­ly your own fault, sir. Why did you give up the ways of your fa­thers? The idea of mills and trad­ing in these dales is such a new one.”

“But a man must move with his own age, Char­lotte. There is no prospect of an­oth­er Stu­art re­bel­lion. I can­not do the queen's ser­vice, and get re­ward­ed as old Christo­pher San­dal did. And I want to go to Par­lia­ment, and can't go with­out mon­ey. And I can't make mon­ey quick enough by keep­ing sheep and plant­ing wheat. But man­ufac­tur­ing means mon­ey, land, in­flu­ence, pow­er.”

“Fa­ther does not see these things as you do, Steve. He sees the peace­ful dales in­vad­ed by white-​faced fac­to­ry-​hands, loud-​voiced, quar­relling, dis­re­spect­ful. All the old land­marks and tra­di­tions will dis­ap­pear; al­so sim­ple ways of liv­ing, calm re­li­gion, true friend­ships. Ev­ery good old sen­ti­ment will be gauged by mon­ey, will fi­nal­ly van­ish be­fore mon­ey, and what the busy world calls 'im­prove­ments.' It makes him fret­ful, jeal­ous, and un­hap­py.”

“That is just the trou­ble, Char­lotte. When a man has not the spir­it of his age, he has all its un­hap­pi­ness. But my great­est fear is, that you will grow weary of wait­ing for _our hour_.”

“I have told you that I shall not. There is an old proverb which says, 'Trust not the man who promis­es with an oath.' Is not my sim­ple word, then, the best and the surest hope?”

Then she nes­tled close to his side, and be­gan to talk of his plans and his jour­ney, and to an­tic­ipate the time when he would break ground up­on Sil­ver Beck, and build the many-​win­dowed fac­to­ry that had been his dream ev­er since he had be­gan to plan his own ca­reer. The wind rose, the rain fell in a down-​pour be­fore they reached the park-​gates; but there was a cer­tain joy in fac­ing the wet breeze, and al­though they did not loi­ter, yet nei­ther did they hur­ry. In both their hearts there was a lit­tle fear of the squire, but nei­ther spoke of it. Char­lotte would not sup­pose or sug­gest any ne­ces­si­ty for avoid­ing him, and Steve was equal­ly sen­si­tive on the sub­ject.

When they ar­rived at Seat-​San­dal the main en­trance was closed, and Stephen stood with her on the thresh­old un­til a man-​ser­vant opened slow­ly its pon­der­ous pan­els. There was a bright fire burn­ing in the hall, and lights were in the sconces on the walls. Char­lotte asked Steve to come in and rest a while. She tried to avoid show­ing ei­ther fear or hur­ry, and Steve was con­scious of the same ef­fort on his own part; but yet he knew that they both thought it well none of the fam­ily were aware of her re­turn, or of his pres­ence. She watched him de­scend the drip­ping steps in­to the dark­ness, and then went to­wards the fire. An un­usu­al si­lence was in the house. She stood up­on the hearth­stone while the ser­vant re­bolt­ed the door, and then asked,--

“Is din­ner served, Noel?”

“It be over, Miss Char­lotte.”

So she went to her own room. It was chilly and drea­ry. The fire had been al­lowed to die down, and had on­ly just been re­plen­ished. It was smok­ing al­so, and the can­dles on her toi­let-​ta­ble burned dim­ly in the damp at­mo­sphere. She hur­ried­ly changed her gown, and was go­ing down-​stairs, when a move­ment in Sophia's room ar­rest­ed her at­ten­tion. It was very un­usu­al for Sophia to be up-​stairs at that hour, and the fact struck her sig­nif­icant­ly. She knocked at the door, and was told rather ir­ri­ta­bly to “Come in.”

“Dear me, Sophia! what is the mat­ter? It feels as if there were some­thing wrong in the house.”

“I sup­pose there is some­thing wrong. Fa­ther got a let­ter from Har­ry by the late post, and he left his din­ner un­touched; and moth­er is in her room cry­ing, of course. I do think it is a shame that Har­ry is al­lowed to turn the house up­side down when­ev­er he feels like it.”

“Per­haps he is in trou­ble.”

“He is al­ways in trou­ble, for he is al­ways busy mak­ing trou­ble. His very amuse­ments mean trou­ble for all who have the mis­for­tune to have any thing to do with him. Julius told me that no man in the 'Camero­ni­ans' had a worse name than Har­ry San­dal.”

“Julius! The idea of Julius talk­ing bad­ly about our Har­ry, and to you! I won­der you lis­tened to him. It was a shab­by thing to do; it was that.”

“Julius on­ly re­peat­ed what he had heard, and he was very sor­ry to do so. He felt it to be con­sci­en­tious­ly his du­ty.”

“Bah! God save me from such a con­science! If Julius had heard any thing good of Har­ry, he would have had no con­sci­en­tious scru­ples about si­lence; not he! I dare say Julius would be glad if poor Har­ry was out of his way.”

“Char­lotte San­dal, you shall not say such very un­la­dy­like, such unchris­tian­like, things in my room. It is quite easy to see _whose_ com­pa­ny you have been in.”

“I have been with Ducie. Can you find me a sweet­er or bet­ter soul?”

“Or a hand­somer young man than her son?”

“I mean that al­so, cer­tain­ly. Hand­some, en­er­get­ic, en­ter­pris­ing, kind, re­li­gious.”

“Spare me the bal­ance of your ad­jec­tives. We all know that Steve is square on ev­ery side, and straight in ev­ery cor­ner. Don't be so earnest; you fa­tigue me to-​night. I am on the verge of a ner­vous headache, and I re­al­ly think you had bet­ter leave me.” She turned her chair to­wards the fire as she spoke, and hard­ly pal­li­at­ed this act of dis­missal by the faint “ex­cuse me,” which ac­com­pa­nied it. And Char­lotte made no re­mark, though she left her sis­ter's room, men­tal­ly promis­ing her­self to keep away from it in the fu­ture.

She went next to the par­lor. The squire's chair was emp­ty, and on the lit­tle stand at its side, the “Gen­tle­man's Mag­azine” lay un­cut. His slip­pers, usu­al­ly as­sumed af­ter din­ner, were still warm­ing on the white sheep­skin rug be­fore the fire. But the large, hand­some face, that al­ways made a sun­shiny feel­ing round the hearth, was ab­sent; and the room had a lone­li­ness that made her heart fear. She wait­ed a few min­utes, look­ing with ex­pec­ta­tion to­wards a piece of knit­ting which was Mrs. San­dal's evening work. But the ivory nee­dles and the col­ored wools re­mained un­called for, and she grew rapid­ly im­pa­tient, and went to her moth­er's room. Mrs. San­dal was ly­ing up­on her couch, ex­haust­ed with weep­ing; and the squire sat hold­ing his head in his hands, the very pic­ture of de­spon­den­cy and sor­row.

“Can I come and speak to you, moth­er?”

The squire an­swered, “To be sure you can, Char­lotte. We are glad to see you. We are in trou­ble, my dear.”

“Is it Har­ry, fa­ther?”

“Trou­ble most­ly comes that way. Yes, it is Har­ry. He is in a great strait, and wants five hun­dred pounds, Char­lotte; five hun­dred pounds, dear, and he wants it at once. On­ly six weeks ago he wrote in the same way for a hun­dred and fifty pounds. He is rob­bing me, rob­bing his moth­er, rob­bing Sophia and you.”

“William, I wouldn't give way to tem­per that road; call­ing your own son and my son a thief. It's not fair,” said Mrs. San­dal, with con­sid­er­able as­per­ity.

“I must call things by their right names, Al­ice. I call a cat, a cat; and I call our Har­ry a thief; for I don't know that forc­ing mon­ey from a fa­ther is any bet­ter than forc­ing it from a stranger. It is on­ly us­ing a fa­ther's love as a pick-​lock in­stead of an iron tool. That's all the dif­fer­ence, Al­ice; and I don't think the dif­fer­ence is one that helps Har­ry's case much. Eh? What?”

“Dear me! it is al­ways mon­ey,” sighed Char­lotte.

“Your fa­ther knows very well that Har­ry must have the mon­ey, Char­lotte. I think it is cru­el of him to make ev­ery one ill be­fore he gives what is sure to be giv­en in the end. Sophia has a headache, I dare say, and I am sure I have.”

“But I can­not give him this mon­ey, Al­ice. I have not re­al­ized on my wool and wheat yet. I can­not coin mon­ey. I will not beg or bor­row it. I will not mort­gage an acre for it.”

“And you will let your on­ly son the heir of San­dal-​Side, go to jail and dis­grace for five hun­dred pounds. I nev­er heard tell of such cru­el­ty. Nev­er, nev­er, nev­er!”

“You do not know what you are say­ing, Al­ice. Tell me how I am to find five hun­dred pounds. Eh? What?”

“There must be ways. How can a wom­an tell?”

“Fa­ther, have I not got some mon­ey of my own?”

“You have the ac­crued in­ter­est on the thou­sand pounds your grand­moth­er left you. Sophia has the same.”

“Is the in­ter­est suf­fi­cient?”

“You have drawn from it at in­ter­vals. I think there is about three hun­dred pounds to your cred­it.”

“Sophia will have near­ly as much. Call her, fa­ther. Sure­ly be­tween us we can ar­range five hun­dred pounds. I shall be re­al glad to help Har­ry. Young men have so many temp­ta­tions now, fa­ther. Har­ry is a good sort in the main. Just have a lit­tle pa­tience with him. Eh, fa­ther?”

And the squire was glad of the plead­ing voice. Glad for some one to make the ex­cus­es he did not think it right to make. Glad to have the lit­tle breath of hope that Char­lotte's faith in her broth­er gave him. He stood up, and took her face be­tween his hands and kissed it. Then he sent a ser­vant for Sophia; and af­ter a short de­lay the young la­dy ap­peared, look­ing pale and ex­ceed­ing­ly in­jured.

“Did you send for me, fa­ther?”

“Yes, I did. Come in and sit down. There is some­thing to be done for Har­ry, and we want your help, Sophia. Eh? What?”

She pushed a chair gen­tly to the ta­ble, and sat down lan­guid­ly. She was re­al­ly sick, but her air and at­ti­tude was that of a per­son suf­fer­ing an ex­trem­ity of phys­ical an­guish. The squire looked at her and then at Char­lotte with dis­may and self-​re­proach.

“Har­ry wants five hun­dred pounds, Sophia.”

“I am as­ton­ished he does not want five thou­sand pounds. Fa­ther, I would not send him a sovereign of it. Julius told me about his car­ry­ings-​on.”

She could hard­ly have said any words so fa­vor­able to Har­ry's cause. The squire was on the de­fen­sive for his own side in a mo­ment.

“What has Julius to do with it?” he cried. “San­dal-​Side is not his prop­er­ty, and please God it nev­er will be. Har­ry is one kind of a sin­ner, Julius is an­oth­er kind of a sin­ner. God Almighty on­ly knows which kind of sin­ner is the mean­er and worse. The long and the short of it, is this: Har­ry must have five hun­dred pounds. Char­lotte is will­ing to give the bal­ance of her in­ter­est ac­count, about three hun­dred pounds, to­wards it. Will you make up what is lack­ing, out of your in­ter­est mon­ey? Eh? What?”

“I do not know why I should be asked to do this, I am sure.”

“On­ly be­cause I have no ready mon­ey at present. And be­cause, how­ev­er bad Har­ry is, he is your broth­er. And be­cause he is heir of San­dal, and the hon­or of the name is worth sav­ing. And be­cause your moth­er will break her heart if shame comes to Har­ry. And there are some oth­er rea­sons too; but if moth­er, broth­er, and hon­or don't seem worth while to you, why, then, Sophia, there is no use wast­ing words. Eh? What?”

“Let fa­ther have what is need­ed, Sophia. I will pay you back.”

“Very well, Char­lotte; but I think it is most un­just, most in­iq­ui­tous, as Julius says”--

“Now, then, don't quote Julius to me. What right had he to be dis­cussing my fam­ily mat­ters, or San­dal mat­ters ei­ther, I won­der? Eh? What?”

“He is in the fam­ily.”

“Is he? Very well, then, I am still the head of the fam­ily. If he has any ad­vice to of­fer, he can come to me with it. Eh? What?”

“Fa­ther, I am as sick as can be to-​night.”

“Go thy ways then. Moth­er and I are both poor­ly too. Good-​night, girls, both.” And he turned away with an air of hope­less de­pres­sion, that was far more piti­ful than the loud­est com­plain­ing.

The sis­ters went away to­geth­er, silent, and feel­ing quite “out” with each oth­er. But Sophia re­al­ly had a ner­vous at­tack, and was shiv­ery and sick with it. By the light­ed can­dle in her hand, Char­lotte saw that her very lips were white, and that heavy tears were silent­ly rolling down her wan cheeks. They washed all of Char­lotte's anger away; she for­got her res­olu­tion not to en­ter her sis­ter's room again, and at its door she said, “Let me stay with you till you can sleep, Sophia; or I will go, and ask Ann to make you a cup of strong cof­fee. You are suf­fer­ing very much.”

“Yes, I am suf­fer­ing; and fa­ther knows how I do suf­fer with these headaches, and that any an­noy­ance brings them on; and yet, if Har­ry cries out at Ed­in­burgh, ev­ery one in Seat-​San­dal must be put out of their own way to help him. And I do think it is a shame that our lit­tle for­tunes are to be crum­bled as a kind of spice in­to his big for­tune. If Har­ry does not know the val­ue of mon­ey I do.”

“I will pay you back ev­ery pound. I re­al­ly do not care a bit about mon­ey. I have all the dress I want. You buy books and mu­sic, I do not. I have no use for my mon­ey ex­cept to make hap­pi­ness with it; and, af­ter all, that is the best in­ter­est I can pos­si­bly get.”

“Very well. Then, you can pay Har­ry's debts if it gives you plea­sure. I sup­pose I am a lit­tle pe­cu­liar on this sub­ject. Last Sun­day, when the rec­tor was preach­ing about the prodi­gal son, I could not help think­ing that the sym­pa­thy for the bad young man was too much. I know, if I had been the el­der broth­er, I should have felt pre­cise­ly as he did. I don't think he ought to be blamed. And it would cer­tain­ly have been more just and prop­er for the fa­ther to have giv­en the feast and the gifts to the son who nev­er at any time trans­gressed his com­mand­ments. You see, Char­lotte, that para­ble is go­ing on all over the world ev­er since; go­ing on right here in Seat-​San­dal; and I am on the el­der broth­er's side. Har­ry has giv­en me a headache to-​night; and I dare say he is en­joy­ing him­self pre­cise­ly as the Jerusalem prodi­gal did be­fore the swine husks, when it was the ri­otous liv­ing.”

“Have a cup of cof­fee, So­phy. I'll go down for it. You are just as trem­bly and ex­cit­ed as you can be.”

“Very well; thank you, Char­lotte. You al­ways have such a bright, kind face. I am afraid I do not de­serve such a good sis­ter.”

“Yes, you do de­serve all I can help or plea­sure you in.” And then, when the cof­fee had been tak­en, and Sophia lay rest­less and wide-​eyed up­on her bed, Char­lotte pro­posed to read to her from any book she de­sired; an of­fer in­volv­ing no small de­gree of self-​de­nial, for Sophia's books were very rarely in­ter­est­ing, or even in­tel­li­gi­ble, to her sis­ter. But she lift­ed the near­est two, Bar­ret's “Ma­ga,” and “The Veiled Prophet,” and rather dis­mal­ly asked which it was to be?

“Nei­ther of them, Char­lotte. The 'Ma­ga' makes me think, and I know you de­test po­et­ry. I got a let­ter to-​night from Agnes Bul­teel, and it ap­pears to be about Pro­fes­sor Sedg­wick. I was so an­noyed at Har­ry I could not feel any in­ter­est in it then; but, if you don't ob­ject, I should like to hear you read it now.”

“Ob­ject? No, in­deed. I think a great deal of the old pro­fes­sor. What gay times fa­ther and I have had on the Screes with him, and his ham­mer and leather bags! And, as Agnes writes a large, round hand, and does not fres­co her let­ters, I can read about the pro­fes­sor eas­ily.”

RE­SPECT­ED MISS SAN­DAL,--I have such a thing to tell you about Pro­fes­sor Sedg­wick and our Joe; hop­ing that the squire or Miss Char­lotte may see him, and let him know that Joe meant no harm at all. One hot forenoon late­ly, when we were through at home, an old gen­tle­man­ly make of a fel­low came in­to our fold, and said, quite nat­ural, that he want­ed some­body to go with him on to the fells. We all stopped, and took a good look at him be­fore any­body spoke; but at last fa­ther said, mid­dling sharp-​like,--he al­ways speaks that way, does fa­ther, when we're busy,--

“We've some­thing else to do here than go rak­ing over the fells on a fine day like this with no­body knows who.”

He gave fa­ther a lile, cheer­ful bit of a laugh, and said he didn't want to hin­der work; but he would give any­body that knew the fells well a mat­ter of five shillings to go with him, and car­ry his two lit­tle bags. And fa­ther says to our Joe, “Away with thee! It's a crown more than ev­er thou was worth at home.” So the strange man gave Joe two lit­tle leather bags to car­ry; and Joe thought he was go­ing to make his five shillings mid­dling easy, for he nev­er ex­pect­ed he would find any thing on the fells to put in­to the bags. But Joe was mis­tak­en. The old gen­tle­man, he said, went loup­ing over wet spots and great stones, and scraf­fling over crags and screes, till you would have thought he was some kin to a Herd­wick sheep.

Char­lotte laughed hearti­ly at this point. “It is just the way Sedg­wick goes on. He led fa­ther and me ex­act­ly such a chase one day last June.”

“I dare say he did. I re­mem­ber you looked like it. Go on.”

Af­ter a while he be­gan look­ing hard at all the stones and crags he came to; and then he took to break­ing lumps off them with a queer lit­tle ham­mer he had with him, and stuff­ing the bits in­to the bags that Joe was car­ry­ing. He fair­ly capped Joe then. He couldn't tell what to make of such a cus­tomer. At last Joe asked him why ev­er he came so far up the fell for lit­tle bits of stone, when he might get so many down in the dales? He laughed, and went on knap­ping away with his lit­tle ham­mer, and said he was a jol­ly-​jist.

“Ge­ol­ogist she means, Char­lotte.”

“Of course; but Agnes spells it 'jol­ly-​jist.'”

“Agnes ought to know bet­ter. She wait­ed ta­ble fre­quent­ly, and must have heard the word pro­nounced. Go on, Char­lotte.”

He kept on at this feck­less work till late in the af­ter­noon, and by that time he had filled both bags full with odd bits of stone. Joe said he hadn't of­ten had a hard­er dar­rack af­ter sheep at clip­ping-​time than he had af­ter that old man, car­ry­ing his leather bags. But, how­ev­er, they got back to our house, and moth­er gave the stranger some bread and milk; and af­ter he had tak­en it, and talked with fa­ther about sheep-​farm­ing and such like, he paid Joe his five shillings like a man, and told him he would give him an­oth­er five shillings if he would bring his bags full of stones down to Skeal-​Hill by nine o'clock in the morn­ing.

“Are you sleepy So­phy?”

“Oh, dear, no! Go on.”

Next morn­ing Joe took the bags, and start­ed for Skeal-​Hill. It was an­oth­er hot morn­ing; and he hadn't gone far till he be­gan to think that he was as great a fool as the jol­ly-​jist to car­ry bro­ken stones to Skeal-​Hill, when he could find plen­ty on any road-​side close to the place he was go­ing to. So he shook them out of the bags, and stepped on a gay bit lighter with­out them. When he got near to Skeal-​Hill he found old Abra­ham Atchisson sit­ting on a stool, break­ing stones to mend roads with; and Joe asked him if he could fill his leather bags from his heap. Abra­ham told Joe to take them that wasn't bro­ken if he want­ed stones; so Joe told him how it was, and all about it. The old man was like to tot­tle off his stool with laugh­ing, and he said, “Joe take good care of thy­sen'; thou art over sharp to live very long in this world; fill thy bags, and make on with thee.”

“Don't you re­mem­ber old Abra­ham, So­phy? He built the stone dyke at the low­er fold.”

“No, I do not re­mem­ber, I think.”

“You are get­ting sleepy. Shall I stop?”

“No, no; fin­ish the let­ter.”

When Joe got to Skeal-​Hill, the jol­ly-​jist had just got his break­fast, and they took Joe in­to the par­lor to him. He laughed all over when Joe went in with the bags, and told him to set them down in a cor­ner, and asked him if he would have some break­fast. Joe had had his por­ridge, but he said he didn't mind; so he told them to bring in some more cof­fee and eggs, and ham and toast­ed bread; and Joe got such a break­fast as isn't com­mon with him, while the old gen­tle­man was get­ting him­self ready to go off in a car­riage that was wait­ing at the door for him. When he came down-​stairs he gave Joe an­oth­er five shillings, and paid for Joe's break­fast, and for what he had eat­en him­self. Then he told him to put the leather bags be­side the driv­er's feet, and in­to the car­riage he got, and laughed, and nod­ded, and away he went; and then Joe heard them say he was Pro­fes­sor Sedg­wick, a great jol­ly-​jist. And Joe thinks it would be a fa­mous job if fa­ther could sell all of the stones on our fell at five shillings a bag­ful, and a break­fast at odd times. And would it not be so, Miss San­dal? But I'm not easy in my mind about Joe chang­ing the stones; though, as Joe says, one make of stone is about the same as an­oth­er.

“Sophia, you are sleepy now.”

“Yes, a lit­tle. You can fin­ish to-​mor­row.”

Then she laid down the sim­ple let­ter, and sat very still for a lit­tle while. Her heart was busy. There is a soli­tary place that gir­dles our life in­to which it is good to en­ter at the close of ev­ery day. There we may sit still with our own soul, and com­mune with it; and out of its peace pass eas­ily in­to the shad­owy king­dom of sleep, and find a lit­tle space of rest pre­pared. So Char­lotte sat in qui­et med­ita­tion un­til Sophia was fath­oms deep be­low the tide of life. Sight, speech, feel­ing, where were they gone? Ah! when the door is closed, and the win­dows dark­ened, who can tell what pass­es in the solemn tem­ple of mor­tal­ity? Are we un­vis­it­ed then? Un­friend­ed? Un­coun­selled?

“Be­hold! The solemn spaces of the night are thronged By bands of ten­der dreams, that come and go Over the land and sea; they glide at will Through all the dim, strange realms of men asleep, And vis­it ev­ery soul.”