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B E 57*. 1, 77


THE LIBRARY
OF
THE UNIVERSITY
OF CALIFORNIA
IN MEMORY OF
CAROLINE CUSHING DUNIWAY
→


º
--
-











THE WYWERN MYSTERY.


B.
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THE WWWERN MYSTERY.
3, #obel.
By J. S. J.E FANU,
AUTHOR OF “UNCLE sILAs,” “GUY DEVERELL,” ETC., ETC.
IN TEIREE VOLUMES.
WOL. III.
LONDON:
TINSLEY BROTHERS, 18, CATHERINE ST., STRAND.
1869.
[The Right of Translation is reserved.]


LONDON :
BRADBURY, Evans, AND co. PRINTERs, whitFFRIARs.
SA


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V, Z,
CONTENTS.
CHAPTER PAGE
I.—SPEECH RETURNS . - - - - 1
II.-HARRY I)RINKS A GLASS AND SPILLS
A GLASS . - - - - - 10
III.-HOME TO WYWERN . - - - - 19
IV.-A TWILIGHT VISIT - - - - 28
W.—THE HEIR OF THE FAIRFIELDS . . . 46
VI.-BERTH A WIELDIERRAUST . - - - 64
WII.-SERGEANT-MAJOR ARCHIDALE . - - 83
VIII.-A TALK WITH THE SQUIRE . - - 99
IX. —HARRY FAIRFIELD GROWS UNEASY . . 112
X.—A DRIVE TO TWYFORD . - - . 123
XI.-HOW FARES THE CHILD P - . . 141
XII.--THE OLD SQUIRE IEAVES WYVERN . 158
XIII.-MARJORY TREVELLIAN . - . . 165
XIV.-THE ENCELANTED GARDEN . - . 177
XW.—AN OLD FRIEND - - - . . 190
892


vi CONTENTS.
CHAPTER
XVI.-TOM ORANGE
XVII.--THE HOUR AND THE MAN
XVIII.--THE MARCH TO NOULTON FARM
XIX.-A SILENT FAREWELL . -
XX. —THE MARCH BY NIGHT .
CONCLUSION .
PAGE
197
204
212
230
241
254


THE WYWERN MYSTERY.
CHAPTER I.
SPEECH RETURNS.
THE dreaded day came and passed, and
Charles Fairfield was not dead, but better.
The fever was abating, but never did the
vital spark burn lower in living man. Seeing
that life was so low in his patient, that there
was nothing between it and death, the doctor
ordered certain measures to be taken.
“The fever is going, you see, but his
strength is not coming, nor won't for a
while. It's a very nice thing, I can tell you,
to bring him to land with such fine tackle.
I’ve brought a salmon ten pound weight into
VOL. III. B


2 THE WYWERN MYSTERY.
my net with a bit of a trout rod as light as a
rush almost. But this is nicer play—not,
mind you, that I’d have you in the dumps,
ma'am, but it will be necessary to watch him
as a cat would a mouse. Now, you'll have
on the table by his bed three bottles—de-
canted all, and ready for use instantaneously.
Beside that claret you'll have a bottle of port,
and you must also have a bottle of brandy.
He'll be always at his tricks, going to faint,
and you mustn't let him. Because, ma'am, it
might not be easy to get him out of such
a faint, and a faint is death, ma'am, if it
lasts long enough. Now, you're not to be
frightened.”
“Oh, no, Doctor Willett.”
“No, that would not do neither ; but I
want you clearly to see the importance of it.
Let him have the claret to his lips constantly
—in a tumbler, mind—you can’t give him
too much ; and whenever you see him look
faint, you must reinforce that with port; and
no mincing of matters—none of your half


SPEECH RETURNS. 3
measures. I'd rather you made him drunk
three times a day than run the least risk once
of the other thing; and if the port doesn't
get him up quick enough, you must fire away
with the brandy; and don't spare it—don't be
afraid—we'll get him round, in time, with
jellies and other good things; but life must
be maintained in the meanwhile any way—
*Very way—whatever way we can. So mind,
three—claret, port, brandy.”
He held up three fingers as he named
them, touching them in succession.
“That's a fire it's better should burn a bit
"9 fiercely for an hour than sink too low for
**cond ; once out, out for ever.”
"Thanks, Doctor Willett, I understand
"ite; and you'll be here to-morrow, won't
You, at the usual hour !”
"Certainly, ma'am, and it's high time you
should begin to take a little care of yourself;
Yºu must, indeed, or you'll rue it; you're too
"uch on your feet, and you have had no rest
night or day, and it's quite necessary Yo"
B 2


4. THE WYWERN MYSTERY.
should, unless you mean to put yourself out
of the world, which would not do at all. We
can't spare you, ma'am, we can't indeed—a
deal too valuable.”
For some time Charles Fairfield continued
in very much the same state. At the end of
three or four days he signed faintly to Alice,
who was in the room, with her large soft eyes
gazing on the invalid, whenever she could
look unperceived. She got up gently and
came close to him.
“Yes, darling,” and she lowered her head
that he might speak more easily.
Charles whispered—
“Quite well ?”
“You feel quite well ? Thank God,” she
answered, her large eyes filling with tears.
“Not I–you,” he whispered, with queru-
lous impatience; “ain't you?”
“Quite, darling.”
His fine blue Fairfield eyes were raised to
her face.
With a short sigh, he whispered,


SPEECH RETURNS. 5
“I’m glad.”
She stooped gently and kissed his thin
cheek.
“I’ve been dreaming so much,” he whis-
pered. “Will you tell me exactly what
happened—just before my illness—some-
thing happened here ?”
In a low murmur she told him.
When she stopped he waited as if expect-
ing more, and then he whispered—
“I thought so—yes.”
And he sighed heavily.
“You’re tired, darling,” she said ; “you
must take a little wine.”
“I hate it,” he whispered—“tired of it.”
“But, darling, the doctor says you must—
and—for my sake won't you?”
The faintest possible smile lighted his pale
face.
“Kind,” he whispered.
And when she placed the glass of claret to
his lips he sipped a little and turned away his
head languidly.


6 THE WYWERN MYSTERY.
“Enough. Bring me my dressing-case,”
he whispered.
She did so.
“The key was in my purse, I think. Open
it, Ally.”
She found the key and unlocked that inlaid
box.
“ Underneath there are two or three letters
in a big envelope. Keep them for me; don't
part with them,” he whispered.
“She lifted a long envelope containing
some papers, and the faintest nod indicated
that they were what he sought.
“Keep it safe. Put the case away.”
When she came back, looking at her, he
raised his eyebrows ever so little, and moved
his head. She understood his sign and
stooped again to listen.
“She mustn't be prosecuted, she's mad—
Ally, mind.”
“Darling, whatever you wish.”
“Good, Ally ; that's enough.”
There was a little pause.


SPEECH RETURNS. 7
“You did not take enough claret, darling
Ry. Won't you take a little more for your
poor little Ally '' whispered she anxiously.
“I’m very well, darling; by-and-by sleep ;
is better.”
So he laid his cheek closer to the pillow
and closed his eyes, and Alice Fairfield stole
on tiptoe to her chair, and with another look
at him and a deep sigh, she sat down and
took her work.
Silent was the room, except for the low
breathing of the invalid. Half an hour passed,
and Alice stole softly to the bedside. He was
awake, and said faintly,–
“Was it your mother ?”
“Who, darling t"
“Talking.”
“No one was talking, darling.”
“I saw her; I thought I heard—not her
—someone talking.”
“No, darling Ry, nothing.”
“Dreams; yes,” he murmured, and was
quiet again.


8 THE WYWERN MYSTERY.
Sad and ominous seemed those little wan-
derings. But such things are common in
sickness. It was simply weakness.
In a little time she came over softly, and
sat down by his pillow.
“I was looking down, Ally,” he whis-
pered.
“I’ll get it, darling. Something on the
floor, is it !” she asked, looking down.
“No, down to my feet; it's very long—
stretched.”
“Are your feet warm, darling 2*
“Quite,” and he sighed and closed his
eyes.
She continued sitting by his pillow.
“When Willie died, my brother, I was just
fifteen.”
Then came a pause.
“Willie was the handsomest,” he murmured
OIl.
“Willie was elder — nineteen, very tall.
Handsome Willie, he liked me the best. I
cried a deal that day. I used to cry alone,


SPEECH RETURNS. 9
MYSTER Y.
|ied those little wan-
mon in
ngs are cond
weakness-
ame over softly, and
** he whis-
VII, Ally,
- e
something on th
looking down- or -
eet ; it's very long
>
- 2 ->
darling his
ºned and closed
->
his pillow. ;11st
brother, I was juº
very tall.
best- I
one,
every day in the orchard, or by the river.
He's in the churchyard at Wyvern. I won-
der shall I see it any more. There was rain
the day of the funeral, they say it is lucky.
It was a long coffin, the Fairfields you
»
know
“Darling Ry, you are talking too much, it
will tire you; take ever so little claret, to
please your poor little Ally.” -
This time he did quite quietly, and then
closed his eyes, and dozed.


CHAPTER II.
HARRY DRINKS A GLASS AND SPILLS. A GLASS.
ABOUT an hour after, old Dulcibella came
to the door and knocked. Charles Fairfield
had slept a little, and was again awake. Into
that still darkened room she came to whisper
her message.
“Mr. Harry's come, and he's downstairs,
and he'd like to see you, and he wanted to
know whether he could see the master.”
“I’ll go down and see him ; say I’ll see
him with pleasure,” said Alice. “Harry is
here, darling,” she said gently, drawing near
to the patient, “but you can't see him, of
course.” -
“I must,” whispered the invalid peremp-
torily.
“Darling, are you well enough I’m sure


HARRY DRINKS AND SPILLS A GLASS. 11
you ought not. If the doctor were here he
would not allow it. Don't think of it, darling
Ry, and he'll come again in a few days, when
you are stronger.”
“It will do me good,” whispered Charles.
“Bring him—you tire me; wait, she can tell
him. I’ll see him alone; go, go, Ally, go.”
She would have remonstrated, but she
saw that in his flushed and irritated looks,
which warned her against opposing him
further.
“You are to go down, Dulcibella, and
bring Mr. Harry to the room to see your
master; and, Dulcibella, like a dear good
creature, won't you tell him how weak Master
Charles is ?” she urged, following her to the
lobby, “and beg of him not to stay long.”
In a minute or two more the clank of
Harry Fairfield's boot was heard on the
stair. He pushed open the door, and stepped
in.
“Hullo | Charlie—dark enough to blind a
horse here—all right, now. I hear you'll be


12 THE WYWERN MYSTERY.
on your legs again—I can't see you, upon my
soul, not a stim almost – before you see
three Sundays—you mustn't be tiring your-
self. I’m not talking too loud, eh? Would
you mind an inch or two more of the shutter
open 4°
“No,” said Charles, faintly. “A little.”
“There, that isn't much. I’m beginning
to see a bit now. You’ve had a stiff bout
this time, Charlie, 'twasn't typhus, nothing
infectious, chiefly the upper story; but you
had a squeak for it, my lad. I'd 'a came
over to look after you but my hands was too
full.”
“No good, Harry; could not have spoken,
or seen you. Better now.”
“A bit shaky still,” said Harry, lowering
his voice. “You’ll get o'er that, though, fast
enough. Keeping your spirits up, I See,” and
Harry winked at the decanters. “Summat
better than that rot-gut claret, too. This is
the stuff to put life in you. Port, yes.”
He filled his brother's glass, smelled to it,
º


rºw MYSTERY.
HARRY DRINKS AND SPILLS A GLASS. 13
can't see you, upon my
lost – before you see
lustn't be tiring your-
too loud, eh? Would
wo more of the shutter
“A little.”
I'm beginning
ad a stiff bout
asn't typhus, nothing
- OUI
ºpper story; but y
I'd 'a came
faintly.
much.
ou've h
ly lad.
ut my hands was to0
ild not have spoken,
y, lo wering
id Harr h, fast
r that, though Il
- I see," a
rits uP.
inters. " summa"
is 18
ret, to O- This **
Port, yes.
roll. -
O elled to it,
s, sm
|
|
and drank it off. “So it is, and right goo
port. I’ll drink your health, Charlie,” he
added, playfully filling his glass again.
“I’m glad you came, Harry, I feel better.”
said the invalid, and he extended his thin
hand upon the bed to his brother. -
“Hoot l of course you do,” said Harry,
looking hard at him, for he was growing
accustomed to the imperfect light. “You’ll
do very well, and Alice, I hear, is quite well
also. And so you've had a visit from the old
soldier, and a bit of a row, eh?”
“Very bad, Harry. Oh! God help me.”
moaned Charles.
“She ain't pretty, and she ain't pleasant
– bad without and worse within, like a
collier's sack,” said Harry, with a disgusted
grimace, lifting his eyebrows and shaking his
head.
“She's headlong and headstrong, and so
there has been bad work. I don’t know what's
to be done.”
“The best thing to be done's to let her


14 THE WYWERN MYSTERY.
alone,” said Harry. “They've put her up at
Hatherton, I hear.” -
“That's one thing,” murmured Charles,
with a great sigh. “I’m a heart-broken man,
Harry.”
“That's easy mended. Don't prosecute,
that's all. Get out o' the country when you're
well enough, and they must let her go, and
maybe the lesson won't do her no great
harm.”
“I’m glad I have you to talk to,” mur-
mured Charles, with another great sigh. “I
can't get it out of my head. You'll help me,
Harry Z’’
“All I can—taint much.”
“And, Harry, there's a thing that troubles
me.” He paused, it seemed, exhausted.
“Don’t mind it now, you're tirin' yourself.
Drink a glass o' this.”
And he filled the glass from which he had
been drinking his port.
“No, I hate wine,” he answered. “No, no,
by-and-by, perhaps.”
3.
s


HARRY DRINKS AND SPILLS A GLASS. 15
“You know best,” he acquiesced. “I sup-
pose I must drink it myself,” which necessity
he complied with accordingly. “I heard the
news, you know, and I’d a come sooner but
I’m taking an action next sizes on a war-
ranty about the grey filly against that d-d
rogue, Farmer Lundy, and had to be off
t’other side o’ Wyvern wi' the lawyer. 'Taint
easy to hold your own wi' the cheatin' chaps
that's going now, I can tell ye.”
“I’m no good to talk now, Harry. You'll
find me better next time, only, Harry, mind,
remember, I mayn't be long for this world,
and—I give you my honour—I swear, in the
presence of God, who'll judge me, I never
was married to Bertha. It’s a lie. I knew
she'd give me trouble some day; but it's a
lie. Alice is my wife. I never had a wife
but Alice, by G– Almighty That other's
a lie. Don't you know it's a lie, Harry 4”
“Don’t be botherin' yourself about that
now,” said Harry, coldly, with rather a sullen
countenance, looking askance through the


HARRY DRINKS AND SPILLS A GLASS. 17
*
bein’ too blunt and plain-spoken, and as for
likin', I'd like to know what else brings me
here. Of course I don't say I love anyone,
all out, as well as Harry Fairfield. You're
my brother, and I stand by you according ;
but as I said before, I love my shirt very
well, but I like my skin better. Hey! And
that's all fair.”
“All fair, Harry—I'll—I'll talk no more
now, Harry. I'll lie down for a little, and
we'll meet again.”
Harry was again looking through the space
of the open shutter, and he yawned. He was
thinking of taking his leave. -
In this “brown study" he was interrupted
by a sound. It was like the beginning of a
little laugh. He looked at Charlie, who had
uttered it ; his thin hand was extended
toward the little table at the bed-side, and
his long arm in its shirt-sleeve. His eyes
were open, but his face was changed. Harry
had seen death often enough to recognise
it. With a dreadful start, he was on his
WOL. III. C


18 THE WYWERN MYSTERY.
feet, and had seized his brother by the
shoulder.
“Charlie, man,—Charlie look at me—my
God l’ and he seized the brandy bottle and
poured ever so much into the open lips. It
flowed over from the corners of the mouth,
over cheek and chin ; the throat swallowed
not ; the eyes stared their earnest stare, un-
changing into immeasurable distance. Charles
Fairfield was among the Fairfields of other
times; hope and fear, the troubles and the
dream, ended.


CHAPTER III.
HOME TO WYWERN.
WHEN a sick man dies he leaves his bed
and his physic. His best friend asks him not
to stay, and sweetheart and kindred concur
in putting him out of doors, to lie in a bed of
clay, under the sky, come frost, or storm, or
rain ; a dumb outcast from fireside, tankard,
and even the talk of others.
Tall Charles Fairfield, of the blue eyes,
was, in due course, robed in his strange white
suit, boxed up and screwed down, with a
plated inscription over his cold breast, re-
counting his Christian and surnames, and
the tale of his years.
If from that serene slumber, he could
have been called again, the loud and exceed-
ing bitter cry, the wild farewell of his poor
C 2


20 THE WYWERN MYSTERY.
little Ally, would have wakened him; but
her loving Ry, her hero, slept on, with the
unearthly light on his face till the coffin-lid
hid it, and in the morning the athlete passed
downstairs on men's shoulders, and was slid
reverently into a hearse, and went away to
old Wyvern churchyard.
At ten o'clock in the morning, Charlie Fair-
field was on the ground. Was old Squire Harry
there to meet his son, and follow his coffin to
the aisle of the ancient little church, and
thence to his place in the churchyard 2
Not he,
“Serve him right,” said the Squire, when
he heard it. “I’m d-d if he'll lie in our
vault ; let him go to Parson Maybell, yonder,
under the trees; I’ll not have him.”
So Charles Fairfield is buried there under
the drip of those melancholy old trees, close
by the gentle vicar and his good and pretty
wife, over whom the grass has grown long,
and the leaves of twenty summers have
bloomed and fallen, and whose forlorn and


• HOME TO WYWERN. 21
beautiful little child was to be his bride, and
is now his widow.
Harry Fairfield was there, with the under-
taker's black cloak over his well-knit Fairfield
shoulders. He nodded to this friend and that
in the crowd, gruffly. His face was lowering
with thought, his eyes cast down, and some-
times raised in an abstracted glare to the
face of some unobserved bystander for a few
moments. Conspicuous above other uncovered
heads was his. The tall stature, and sta-
tuesque proportions of his race would have
marked him without the black mantle for the
kinsman of the dead Fairfield.
Up to Wyvern House, after the funeral
was over, went Harry. The old man, his hat
in his hand, was bareheaded, on the steps;
as he approached he nodded to his last re-
maining son. Three were gone now. A faint
sunlight glinted on his old features; a chill
northern air stirred his white locks. A
gloomy, but noble image of winter the gaunt
old man presented.


22 THE WYWERN MYSTERY.
“Well, that's over ; where's the lad
buried ?”
“Just where you wished, sir, near Vicar
Maybell's grave, under the trees.”
The old Squire grunted an assent.
“The neighbours was there, I dare say ?”
“Yes, sir, all—I think.”
“I shouldn't wonder—they liked Charlie
—they did. He's buried up there alone—
well, he deserved it. Was Dobbs there, from
Craybourne He was good to Dobbs. He
gave that fellow twenty pun' once, like a big
fool, when Dobbs was druv to the wall, the
time he lost his cattle ; he was there ?”
“Yes, I saw Dobbs there, sir, he was
crying.”
“More fool Dobbs—more fool he,” said
the Squire, and then came a short pause ;
“cryin' was he 7"
“Yes, sir.”
“He’s a big fool—Dobbs is a fool.”
“A man cryin' always looks a fool, the
3 x 3
rum faces they makes when they're blubbin',


HOME TO WYWERN. 23
observed Harry. “Some o' the Wykeford
folk was there—Rodney was at his funeral.”
“Rodney : He didn't like a bone in his
skin. Rodney's a bad dog. What brought
Rodney to my son's funeral 4’’
“He’s took up wi' them preachin’ folk at
Wykeford, I’m told, and he came down, I
'spose, to show the swaddlers what a forgivin',
charitable chap he is. Before he put on his
hat, he come over and put out his hand to
me.”
“And ye took it ! ye know ye took it.”
“Well, the folk was lookin' on, and he
took me so short,” said Harry.
“Charlie wouldn't a done that ; he
wouldn't a took his hand over your grave;
but you're not like us—never was ; you were
cut out for a lawyer, I think.”
“Well, the folk would 'a talked, ye know,
sir.”
“Talked, sir, would they : * retorted the
Squire, with an angry leer, “I never cared
the crack o' a cart-whip what the folk talked


24 THE WYWERN MYSTERY.
—let 'em talk, d-'em. And ye had no
gloves, Dickon says, nor nothin', buried like a .
dog 'a most, up in a corner there.”
“Ye told me not to lay out a shillin', sir,”
said Harry.
“If I did I did, but angry folk don't always
mean all they says; no matter, we're done
wi' it now—it's over. He was worth ye all,”
broke out the Squire passionately; “I could 'a
liked him, if he had 'a liked me—if he had
'a let me, but he didn't, and—there it is.”
So the Squire walked on a little hastily,
which was his way when he chose to be
alone, down the steps with gaunt, stumbling
gait, and slowly away into the tall woods
close by, and in that ancestral shadow dis-
appeared.
Future—present—past. The future—mist,
a tint, and shadow. The cloud on which fear
and hope project their airy phantoms, living
in imagination, and peopled by romance—a
dream of dreams. The present only we
possess man's momentary dominion, plastic


HOME TO WYWERN. 25
under his hand as the clay under the potter's
—always a moment of the present in our
absolute power—always that fleeting, plastic
moment speeding into the past—immutable,
eternal. The metal flows molten by, and then
chills and fixes for ever. So with the life of man
—so with the spirit of man. Work while it is
called day. The moment fixes the retrospect,
and death the character, for ever. The heart
knoweth its own bitterness. The proud man
looks on the past he has made. The hammer
of Thor can't break it; the fire that is not
quenched can't melt it. His thoughtless
handiwork will be the same for ever.
Old Squire Harry did not talk any more
about Charlie. About a month after this he
sent to Craybourne to say that Dobbs must
come up to Wyvern. Dobbs' heart failed
him when he heard it. Everyone was afraid
of old Squire Harry, for in his anger he
regarded neither his own interest nor other
men's safety.
“Ho, Dobbs' you're not fit for Cray-


26 THE WYWERN MYSTERY.
bourne, the farm's too much for you, and I’ve
nothing else to gi'e ye.” Dobbs' heart quailed
at these words. “You’re a fool, Dobbs—
you're a fool—you're not equal to it, man. I
wonder you didn't complain o' your rent.
It's too much—too high by half. I told
Cresswell to let you off every rent day a
good penn'orth, for future, and don't you talk
about it to no one, 'twould stop that.” He
laid his hand on Dobbs' shoulder, and looked
not unkindly in his face.
And then he turned and walked away, and
Dobbs knew that his audience was over.
And the old Squire was growing older, and
grass and weeds were growing apace over
handsome Charlie Fairfield's grave in Wy-
vern. But the old man never sent to Carwell
Grange, nor asked questions about Alice.
That wound was not healed, as death heals
SOIſle.
Harry came, but Alice was ill, and could
not see him. Lady Wyndale came, and her
she saw, and that good-natured kinswoman


HOME TO WYWERN. 27
made her promise that she would come and
live with her so soon as she was well enough
to leave the Grange.
And Alice lay still in her bed, as the
doctor commanded, and her heart seemed
breaking. The summer would return, but Ry
would never come again. The years would
come and pass—how were they to be got
over ? And, oh! the poor little thing that
was coming !—what a sad welcome ! It
would break her heart to look at it. “Oh,
Ry, Ry, Ry, my darling!”
So the morning broke and evening closed,
and her great eyes were wet with tears—
“the rain it raineth every day.”


CHAPTER IV.
A TWILIGHT WISIT.
IN the evening Tom had looked in at his
usual hour, and was recruiting himself with
his big mug of beer and lump of bread and
cheese at the kitchen table, and now the
keen edge of appetite removed, he was
talking agreeably. This was what he called
his supper. The flush of sunset on the sky
was fading into twilight, and Tom was chat-
ting with old Mildred Tarnley.
“Who’d think it was only three weeks
since the funeral 7" said Tom — “three
weeks to-morrow.”
“Ay, to-morrow. 'Twas a Thursday, I
mind, by the little boy comin' from Gryce's
mill, for the laundress's money, by noon.
Two months ago, to look at him, you'd


A TWILIGHT WISIT. 29
a said there was forty years' life in him;
but death keeps no calendar, they say, I
wonder Harry Fairfield isn't here oftener.
Though she might not talk wi' him nor
see him, the sound o' his voice in the house
would do her good—his own brother, you
know.”
“Dead men, 'tis an old sayin', is kin to
none,” said Tom. “They goes their own
gate, and so does the livin'.”
“There's that woman in jail. What's to
be done wi' her, and who's to talk wi' the
the lawyer folk : " said Mildred.
“Ill luck came wi' her to Carwell,” said
Tom. “Pity he ever set eyes on her; but
chances will be, and how can cat help it if
maid be a fool 2 I don’t know nothin' o'
that business, but in this world nout for
nout is the most of our wages, and I take
it folks knows what they are about, more
or less.”
Mildred Tarnley sniffed at this oracular
speech, and turned up her nose, and went


30 THE WYWERN MYSTERY.
over to the dresser and arranged some
matters there.
“The days is shortening apace. My old
eyes can scarce see over here without a
candle,” she said, returning. “But there's a
many a thing to be settled in this house,
I’m thinkin’.”
Tom nodded an acquiescence, and stood
up and stretched himself, and looked up to
the darkening sky.
“The crows is home in Carwell Wood ;
'twill be time to be turning keys and drawing
of bolts,” said Tom. “Ay, many a thing
'll want settlin', I doubt, down here, and
who's to do it !”
“Ay, who's to do it !” repeated Mildred.
“I tell ye, Tom, there's many a thing—too
many a thing — more than ye wot of—
enough to bring him out o' his grave, Tom
—as I’ve heered stories, many a one, wi'
less reason.”
As she ceased, a clink of a horseshoe
was heard in the little yard without, and


A TWILIGHT WISIT. 31
a tall figure leading a horse, as Charles
Fairfield used often to do, on his late re-
turns to his home, looked in at the window
— in that uncertain twilight, in stature,
attitude, and, as well as she could see,
in face, so much resembling the deceased
master of Carwell Grange, that Mrs. Tarnley
gasped,—
“My good Lord ' Who's that ?”
Something of the same momentary alarm
puzzled Tom, who frowned wildly at it, with
his fists clenched beside him.
It was Harry Fairfield, who exhibited, as
sometimes happens in certain lights and
moments, a family resemblance, which had
never struck those most familiar with his
appearance.
“Lawk, it's Mr. Harry; run out, Tom, and
take his nag, will ye ‘’’
Out went Tom, and in came Harry Fair-
field. He looked about him. He did not
smile facetiously and nod, and take old
Mildred's dubious hand, as he was wont,


32 THE WYWERN MYSTERY.
and crack a joke, not always very welcome
or very pleasant, to the tune of
“Nobody coming to marry me—
Nobody coming to woo.”
On the contrary, he looked as if he saw
nothing there but walls and twilight, and as
heavy laden with gloomy thoughts as the
troubled ghost she had imagined.
“How is Miss Ally how is your mis-
tress 2" at last he inquired abruptly. “Only
middling 4°
“Ailing, sir,” answered Mildred, dryly.
“Tell her I’m here, will ye? and has some-
thing to tell her and talk over, and will make
it as short as I can. Tell her I’d a come
earlier, but couldn't, for the sessions at Wyke-
ford, and dined wi' a neighbour in the town;
and say I mayn't be able to come for a good
while again. Is she up 3 ''
“No, sir, the doctor keeps her still to
her bed.”
“Well, old Dulcey Crane's there ; ain't
she 3’


A TWILIGHT WISIT. 33
“Ay, sir, and Lilly Dogger, too. Little
good the slut's to me these days.”
Harry was trying to read his watch at the
darkened window.
“Tell her all that—quick, for time flies,”
said Harry.
Harry Fairfield remained in the kitchen
while old Mildred did his message, and she
speedily returned to say that Alice was sit-
ting up by the fire, and would see him.
Up the dim stairs went Harry. He had
not been up there since the day he saw
the undertakers at Charlie's coffin, and had
his last peep at his darkening face. Up he
strode with his hand on the banister, and
old Mildred gliding before him like a shadow.
She knocked at the door. It was not that of
the room which they had occupied, where
poor Charles Fairfield had died, but the
adjoining one, hurriedly arranged, with such
extemporized comforts as the primitive peo-
ple of the household could manage—homely
enough, but not desolate, it looked.
vol. III. D


34 THE WYWERN MYSTERY.
Opening the door, she said—“Here's
Master Harry, ma'am, a-comin' to see
you.”
- Harry was already in the room. There
were candles lighted on a little table near
the bed, although the shutters were still
open, and the faint twilight mingling with
the light of the candles made a sort of
purple halo. Alice was sitting in a great
chair by the fire in her dressing-gown, pale,
and looking very ill. She did not speak ;
she extended her hand.
“Came to see you, Ally. Troublesome
world; but you must look up a bit, you
know. Troubles are but trials, they say,
and can't last for ever; so don't you be
frettin' yourself out o' the world, lass, and
makin' more food for worms.”
And with this consolation he shook her
hand.
“I would have seen you, Harry, when you
called before—it was very kind of you—
but I could not. I am better now, thank


A TWILIGHT WISIT. 35
God. I can't believe it still, sometimes,” and
her eyes filled with tears—
“Well, well, well,” said Harry, “where's
the good o' cryin’; cryin’ won't bring him
back, you know. There, there. And I want
to say a word to you about that woman
that's in jail, you know. 'Tis right you
should know everything. He should a told
you more about that, don't you see, else ye
might put your foot in it.”
Paler still turned Alice at these words.
“Tell them to go in there,” said he in a
lower tone, indicating with his thumb over
his shoulder, a sort of recess at the far end
of the room, in which stood a table with
some work on it.
At a word from Alice old Dulcibella called
Lilly Dogger into that distant “alcove,” as
Mildred termed it.
“It’s about that woman,” he continued,
in a very low tone, “about that one—Bertha.
That woman, you know, that's in Hatherton
Jail, you remember. There's no good pro-
D 2


36 THE WYWERN MYSTERY.
secuting that one. Poor Charles wouldn't
have allowed it at no price.”
“He said so. I wouldn't for the world,”
she answered very faintly.
“No, of course ; he wished it, and we'd
like to see his wishes complied with, poor
fellow, now he's gone,” acquiesced Harry
with alacrity. “And you know about her ?”
he added, in a very low tone.
“Oh no, no, Harry ; no, please,” she an-
swered imploringly.
“Well, it wouldn't do for you, you know,
to be gettin' up in the witness-box at the
'sizes to hang her, ye know.”
“Oh dear, Harry; no, I never could have
thought of it.”
“Well, you are not bound, luckily; nor
no one. I saw Rodney to-day about it ;
there's no recognizances—he only took the
informations—and I said you wouldn't pro-
secute ; nor I won't, I’m sure ; and the
crown won’t take it up, and so it will fall
through, and end quietly—the best way for


A TWILIGHT VISIT. 37
you ; for, as I told him, you're not in health
to go down there to be battlin' wi' lawyers,
and all sorts; 'twould never answer you, ye
know. So here's a slip o' paper I wrote,
and I told him I knew you'd sign it—
only sayin' you have no notion of prose-
cutin' that woman, nor moving more in the
matter.”
He placed it in her hand.
“I’m sure it's quite right; it's just what
I mean. Thank you, Harry ; you're very
good.”
“Get the ink and pen,” said Harry aloud
to Dulcibella.
“'Tis downstairs,” answered she. “I’ll
fetch it.”
And Dulcibella withdrew. Harry was
poking about the shelves and the chimney-
•piece. -
“This is ink,” said he, “ain’t it !” So it
was, and a pen. “I think it will write—try
it, Ally.”
So it was signed ; and he had fairly


38 THE WYWERN MYSTERY.
described its tenor and effect to his widowed
sister-in-law.
“I’ll see Rodney this evening and show
him this, to prevent his bothering you here
about it. And,” he almost whispered, “you
know about that woman 2 or you don't—do
you?”
Her lips moved, but he could hear no
words.
“She was once a fine woman—ye wouldn't
think—a devilish fine woman, I can tell you ;
and she says—ye know ’twas more than
likin'—she says she has the whip hand o' ye
—first come, first served. She's talkin o'
law, and all that. She says—but it won't
make no odds now, you know, what she says
—well, she says she was his wife.”
“Oh, God!—it's a lie,” whispered the poor
lady, with white lips, and staring at him with
darkening eyes.
“Well, maybe it is, and maybe it aint,” he
answered. “But it don’t much matter now ;
and I daresay we'll hear nothing about it,


A TWILIGHT WISIT. 39
and dead men's past fooling, ye know.
Good night, Ally, and God bless you; and
take care o' yourself, and don't be crying
your eyes out like that. And I'll come again
as soon as I can ; and any business, you
know, or anything, I'll be always ready to do
for you—and good night, Ally, and mind all
I said.”
Since those terrible words of his were
spoken she had not heard a syllable. He
took her icy hand. He looked for a puzzled
moment in her clouded eyes, and nodded, and
he called to the little girl in the adjoining
I'00m.
“I’m going now, child, and do you look
after your mistress.”
By a coincidence or association—some-
thing suggested by Harry Fairfield's looks,
was it 4–old Mildred Tarnley's head was
full of the Dutchwoman when Dulcibella
came into the kitchen.
“You took out the ink, Tom, when you
was weighin' them oats to-day,” said she, and


40 THE WYWERN MYSTERY.
out went Tom in search of that always errant
and mitching article.
“I was sayin' to Tom as ye came in, Mrs.
Crane, how I hoped to see that one in her
place. I think I'd walk to Hatherton and
back to see her hanged, the false jade, wi'
her knife, and her puce pelisse, and her
divilry. Old witch 1”
“Lawk, Mrs. Tarnley, how can ye * *
“Well, now Master Charles is under the
mould, I wouldn't spare her. What for
shouldn't Mrs. Fairfield make her pay for the
pipe she danced to. It's her turn now—
“When you are anvil, hold you still,
When you are hammer, strike your fill.”
And if I was Mrs. Fairfield, maybe I wouldn't
make her smoke for all.”
“I think my lady will do just what poor
Master Charles wished, and I know nothing
about the woman,” said Dulcibella, “only
they all say she's not right in her head, Mrs.
Tarnley, and I don't think she'll slight his


A TWILIGHT WISIT. 4]
last word, and punish the woman ; 'twould
be the same as sacrilege a'most ; and what
of her ? Much matter about a wooden platter!
and its ill burning the house to frighten the
mice.”
Harry Fairfield here sauntered into the
kitchen, rolling unspoken thoughts in his
mind. The conversation subsided at his
approach ; Dulcibella made her courtesy and
withdrew, and said he to Tom, who was
entering with the ink-bottle,
“Tom, run out, will ye, and get my nag
ready for the road ; I'll be off this minute.”
Tom departed promptly.
“Well, Mildred,” said he, eyeing her
darkly from the corners of his eyes, “sorrow
comes unsent for.”
“Ay, sure, she's breakin' her heart, poor
thing.”
“”Twon't break, I warrant, for all that,” he
answered ; “sorrow for a husband they say
is a pain in the elbow, sharp and short.”
“All along o' that ugly Dutch beast.


42 THE WYWERN MYSTERY.
'Twas an ill wind carried her to Carwell,”
said Mildred.
He shut his eyes and shook his head.
“That couldn't do nowhere,” said he,
“‘Two cats and one mouse,
Two wives in one house.’”
“Master Charles was no such fool. What
for should he ever a married such as that ?
I couldn't believe no such thing,” said Mrs.
Tarnley, sharply. -
“‘Two dogs at one bone,
Can never agree in one,’”
repeated Harry, oracularly. “There's no
need, mind, to set folks' tongues a ringin', nor
much good in tryin' to hide the matter, for
her people won't never let it rest, I lay ye
what ye please, never. 'Twill be strange
news up at Wyvern, but I'm afeard she'll
prove it only too ready ; 'twill shame us
finely.”
“Well, let them talk—“As the bell clinks,
s the fool thinks’—and who the worse. I


A TWILIGHT WISIT. 43
don’t believe it no how. He never would ha’
brought down the Fairfields to that, and if he
had, he could not ha’ brought the poor young
creature upstairs into such trouble and shame.
I won’t believe it of him till it's proved.”
“I hope they may never prove it. But
what can we do @ You and I know how
they lived here, and I have heard her call
him husband as often as I have fingers and
toes, but, bless ye, we'll hold our tongues—
you will, eh? won't ye, Mildred 4 ye musn't
be talkin’.”
“Talkin'! I ha' nout to talk about.
Fudge man, I don't believe it—'tis a d-d
lie, from top to bottom.”
“I hope so,” said he.
“A shameless liar she was, the blackest I
ever heard talk.”
“Best let sleepin’ dogs be,” said he.
There was some silver loose in his trousers’
pocket, and he was fumbling with it, and
looking hard at Mildred as he spoke to her.
Sometimes, between his finger and thumb, he


44 THE WYWERN MYSTERY.
held the shilling—sometimes the half-crown.
He was mentally deciding which to part
with, and it ended by his presenting Mildred
with the shilling, and recommending her to
apply this splendid “tip” to the purchase of
tea.
Some people experience a glow after they
have done a great benevolence; as he walked
into the stable-yard, Harry experienced a
sensation, but it wasn't a glow, a chill rather.
Remembering the oblique look with which
she eyed the silver coin in her dark palm,
and her scant thanks, he was thinking what
a beast he was to part with his money so
lightly.
Mildred Tarnley cynically muttered to
herself in the kitchen,
“‘Farewell frost,
Nothing got nor nothing lost.”
Here's a gift | Bless him I mind the
time a Fairfield would a been ashamed to
give an old servant such a vails. Hoot
what's the world a comin' to ? 'Tis time we


A TWILIGHT WISIT. 45
was a goin'. But Master Harry was ever
the same—a thrifty lad he was, that looked
after his pennies sharply,” said old Mildred
Tarnley, scornfully ; and she dropped the
coin disdainfully into a little tin porringer
that stood on the dresser.
And Tom came in, and the doors were
made sure, and Mildred Tarnley made her
modest cup of tea, and all was subsiding for
the night.
But Harry's words had stricken Alice
Fairfield. Perhaps those viewless arrows
oftener kill than people think of. Up in her
homely room Alice now lay very ill indeed.


CHAPTER W.
THE HEIR OF THE FAIRFIELDS.
AT dead of night Alice was very ill, and
Tom was called up to ride across Cressley
Common for the Wykeford doctor. Worse
and worse she grew. In this unknown danger
—without the support of a husband's love or
consolation—“the pains of hell gat hold
of her,” the fear of death was upon her.
Glad was she in her lonely terrors to
hear the friendly voice of Doctor Willett
as he came up the stairs, with a heavy,
booted step, in hurried conversation with
old Dulcibella Crane, who had gone down to
meet him on hearing the sound of his arrival.
In lower tones the doctor put his questions
when he had arrived in his patient's room,
and his manner became stern, and his


THE HEIR OF THE FAIRFIELDS. 47
measures prompt, and it was plain that he
was very much alarmed.
Alice Fairfield was in danger—in so great
danger that he would have called in the
Hatherton doctor, or any other, to share his
responsibility, if the horse which Tom drove
had not had as much as he could do that
night in the long trot—and partly canter—
to Wykeford and back again to the Grange.
Alice's danger increased, and her state
became so alarming that the doctor was afraid
to leave his patient, and stayed that night at
the Grange.
In the morning he sent Tom to Hatherton
with a summons for his brother physician,
and now this quaint household grew tho-
roughly alarmed.
The lady was past the effort of speaking,
almost of thinking, and lay like a white image
in her bed. Old Dulcibella happily had charge
of the money, not much, which Alice had for
present use; so the doctors had their fees,
and were gone, and Doctor Willett, of Wyke-


48 THE WYWERN MYSTERY.
ford, was to come again in the evening,
leaving his patient, as he said, quieter, but
still in a very precarious state.
When the Wykeford doctor returned he
found her again too ill to think of leaving
her. At midnight Tom was obliged to
mount, and ride away to Hatherton for the
other doctor.
Before the Hatherton doctor had reached
the Grange, however, a tiny voice was crying
there—a little spirit had come, a scion of the
Fairfield race.
Mrs. Tarnley wrote to Harry Fairfield to
Wyvern to announce the event, which she did
thus:–
“SIR,
“Master Harey, it has came a sirprise.
Missis is this mornin' gev burth to a boy and
air; babe is well, but Missis Fairfield low and
dangerous.
“Your servant,
“MILDRED TARNLEY.”
º


THE HEIR OF THE FAIRFIELDS. 49
Dulcibella, without consulting Mildred, any
more than Mildred did her, wrote also a
letter, gentler and more gracious, but cer-
tainly no better spelled. When these reached
Wyvern, Harry was from home.
It was not till four days had passed that
Harry Fairfield arrived in the afternoon.
He had thrown his horse's bridle to Tom
in the stable yard, and appeared suddenly
before Mildred Tarnley in the kitchen door.
“Well, how's the lady in the straw "
inquired Harry, looking uncomfortable, but
smiling his best. “How is Miss Alice 2"
“Mrs. Fairfield's very bad, and the doctor
han’t much hopes of her. She lies at God's
mercy, sir.”
“She'll be better, you'll find. She'll be all
right soon. And when was it—you put no
date to your note '"
“On Friday, I think. We're so put about
here I scarce know one day from t'other.”
“She'll be better. Is anyone here with
her ?”
WOL. III. - E.


50 THE WYWERN MYSTERY.
“A nurse from Hatherton.”
“No one else ? I thought Lady Wyndale
might a come.
“I was goin’ to send over there, but Doctor
Willett said no.”
“Did he Why?”
“Not yet a bit; he says she'd be in his
way and no use, and maybe worrit her into a
fever.”
“Very like,” said Harry; “and how’s the
boy—isn't it a boy 7"
“Boy—yes, sir, a fine thumpin' baby—and
like to do well, and will prove, belike, a true,
open-handed Fairfield, and a brave Squire o'
Wyvern.” -
“Well, that's as it may be. I’ll not trouble
him. I have more than enough to my share
as it is—and there's some things that's better
never than late, and I’ll live and die a
bachelor. I’ve more years than my teeth
shows.”
And Harry smiled and showed his fine
teeth.


THE HEIR OF THE FAIRFIELDS. 51
“There's Fairfields has took a wife later
than you,” said she, eyeing him darkly.
“Too wise, old girl. You'll not catch me
at that work. Wives is like Flanders'
mares, as the Squire says, fairest afar off.”
“Hey 2" snarled old Mildred, with a pro-
longed note.
“No, lass, I don't want, nohow, to be
Squire o' Wyvern—there's more pains than
gains in it; always one thing or t'other
wrong—one begs and t'other robs, and ten
cusses to one blessin'. I don’t want folks to
say o' me as they does of some—Harry's a
hog, and does no good till he dies.” -
“Folk do like an estate, though,” said Mil-
dred, with another shrewd look.
“Ay, if all's straight and clear, but I don't
like debts and bother, and I a’ seen how the
old boy's worried that way till he's fit to
drown himself in the pond. I can do some-
thing, buyin' or sellin'; and little and often,
you know, fills the purse.”
Mildred was silent.


52 THE WYWERN MYSTERY.
“They do say—I mean, I knows it for cer-
tain, there is a screw loose—and you know
where, I think—but how can I help that ?
The Dutchwoman, I know, can prove her
marriage to poor Charlie, but never you
blab–no more will I. There was no child
o' that marriage—neither chick nor child,
so, bein’ as she is, ’tis little to her how that
sow's handled. 'Twould be a pity poor
Charlie's son should lose his own ; and ye
may tell Alice I’m glad there's a boy, and
that she'll ha' no trouble from me, but all
the help I can, and that's a fact, and that's
God’s truth.”
“Well, well, that is queer —I never heard
man speak as you speak.”
There was a cynical incredulity in Mildred
Tarnley's tone.
“Listen, now—here we be alone, eh?”
said he, looking round.
“Ye may say so,” she said, with a dis-
contented emphasis.
“I'd tell you a thing in a minute, old


THE HEIR OF THE FAIRFIELDS. 53
Tarnley, only they say old vessels must
leak. Will you be staunch : Will ye hold
your tongue on’t if I tell you a thing 4"
“Ay,” said Mildred.
“Because one barking dog sets all the
street a barking, ye know,” he added.
“Ye know me well, Master Harry. I
could hold my tongue always when there was
need.”
“And that's the reason I'm going to talk
to you,” said Harry, “and no one knows it,
mind, but yourself, and if it gets out I'll
know who to blame.”
“'Twon't get out for me,” said Mildred,
looking hard at him.
“One devil drubs another, they say, and if
the young Squire upstairs has a foot in the
mud I’ve one in the mire,” said Harry. “If
his hat has a hole, my shoe has another. And
'tis a bad bargain where both are losers.”
“Well, I can’t see it nohow. I don't know
what you're drivin' at ; but I think you're no
fool, Master Harry ; ye never was that, and


54 THE WYWERN MYSTERY.
it's a cunning part, I've heered, to play the
fool well.”
And Harry did look very cunning as she
cited this saw, and for a moment also a
little put out. But he quickly resumed, and
staring in her face surlily, said he,
“Well, I am cunnin’; I hope I am ; and
you're a little bit that way yourself, old
Mildred; no fool, anyhow, that ever I could
see.”
“Crafty I may be, I ha' lived years and
seen folk enough to make me, but my heart
weren't set never on pelf.
“A thousand pounds and a bottle of hay
Is all one at doom’s-day.’”
“So it is,” said he, “but there's a good
many days 'twixt this and doom's-day yet
and money 'll do more than my lord's letter,
any place, and I’ll not deny I’d like Wyvern
well enough if my hand was free to lay on
it. But I a' thought it well over, and it
wouldn't fit me nohow. I can't.”


THE HEIR OF THE FAIRFIELDS. 55
“Ye're the first Fairfield I ever heered say
that Wyvern wouldn't fit him,” said she.
“Is that beer in the jug ' " he asked,
nodding toward a brown jug that stood on
the dresser.
“Yes, sir. Would ye like a drink?”
“Ay, if it baint stale.”
“Fresh drew, just as you was coming in,
sir,” said she, setting it down on the table.
“I’ll fetch ye a glass.”
“Never mind a glass, a rantin' dog like me
can drink out of a well-bucket, much less a
brown jug,” and clutching it carelessly by the
handle he quaffed as long and deep a draught
as his ancestor and namesake might after his
exhausting flight from Worcester a couple of
hundred years before.
“You are puzzled, old girl, and don't
know whether I be in jest or earnest. But,
good or bad, wives must be had—you know,
and you never heard of a Fairfield yet that
was lucky in a wife, or hadn't a screw loose
sometime about they sort o' cattle ; and ye're


56 THE WYWERN MYSTERY.
an old servant, Mildred, and though you be
a bit testy, you're true, and I may tell ye
things I wouldn't tell no one, not the
Governor, not my little finger; I'd burn my
shirt if it knew ; and ye won't tell no one,
upon your soul, and as ye hope to be saved?”
“I can keep counsel, I’m good at that,”
said Mildred.
“Well, I need not say no more than this:
there's them that's quiet enough now, and
will be, that if they thought I was Squire o'
Wyvern I'd make the world too hot to hold
me. I'd rather be Harry Fairfield at fair
and market than archbishop of hell, I can tell
ye, havin' no likin’ for fine titles and honour,
and glory, wi' a tethered leg and a sore
heart ; better to go your own gait, and eat
your mouthful where ye find it, than go in
gold wi' a broken back, that's all, and that's
truth. If 'twas otherwise I’d be down in the
mouth, I can tell you, about the young gen-
man upstairs, and I’d a liked his birthday no
better than a shepherd loves a bright Candle-


THE HEIR OF THE FAIRFIELDS. 57
mas ; but as it is—no matter, 'tis better to
me than a pot o' gold, and I drink the little
chap's health, and I wish she had a sieve full
o' them, and that's God's truth, as I stand
here,” and Harry backed the declaration with
an oath.
“Well, I believe you, Harry,” said Mildred.
“And I’m glad ot,” she added after a
pause.
“I’m very glad—there has been ill blood
o'er much in the family,” she resumed ;
“it’s time there should be peace and bro-
therhood, God knows—and — I’m glad to
hear you speak like that, sir.”
And, so saying, she extended her dark, hard
palm to him, and he took it, and laughed.
“Every man knows where his own shoe
pinches,” said he ; “’tis a shrewish world, old
girl, and there's warts and chilblains where
no one guesses, but things won't be for ever ;
'tis a long lane, ye know, that has no turning,
and the burr won't stick always.”
“Ay, ay, Master Harry, as I’ve heard the


58 THE WYWERN MYSTERY.
old folks say, ‘Be the day never so long, at
> 22
last cometh even-song.
“And how is the lady herself?” said he.
“As bad as can be, almost,” answered
Mildred.
“Who says so 2° he asked.
“The doctor; he has no opinion of her,
I'm afeared, poor little thing.”
“The doctor—does he 3—but is he any
good 4”
“It's Doctor Willett of Wykeford. He's
thought a deal of by most folk down here. I
don’t know, I’m sure, but he seems very nice
about her, I think, and kind, and looks after
the baby too.”
“That's right ; I'm glad o' that. I'd pay
something myself rather than it should be
neglected; and what does he say o' the boy Z’’
“Doin' very well—nothin’ against him ;
but, you know, 'tis only a few days, and o'er
Soon to judge yet a bit.”
“I wonder could she see me for a
minute 3’


THE HEIR OF THE FAIRFIELDS. 59
“Hoot, man! How came that in your
head 2 Why, the room's dark, and she never
speaks above a whisper, and not five words
then, and only, may be, thrice in a day. Ye
don’t know what way she is ; 'tis just the
turn o' a halfpenny whether she'll live till
mornin’.”
“That's bad. I didn't think she could be
that bad,” said he.
“She is, then.”
“'Twould do her no harm to know that
there's some rent—about thirty pounds—due
from Riddleswake. I'll give Tom a bit of a
note to Farmer Wycraft, and he'll pay it.
It's settled to her for her life—I know that—
and she'll be wantin' money ; and see you
that the child wants nothing. I have lots o'
reasons why that child should do well. This
ain't bad beer, I can tell you. Another mug
of it wouldn't hurt me, and if you can make
me out a mouthful of anything ; I’m beastly
hungry.”
A bit of cold corned beef, some cheese, and


60 THE WYWERN MYSTERY.
a loaf Mildred Tarnley produced, and Harry
made a hearty meal in the kitchen, not
disturbing that engrossing business by con-
versation, while old Mildred went to and fro,
into the scullery and back again, and busied
herself about her saucepans and dishes.
“Now get me a pen and ink and a bit o'
paper. There's no one in the house will be
the worse of a little money, and I'll write
that note.” And so he did, and handed it to
Mildred with the air of a prince who was
bestowing a gift.
“There ! That will make the mare go for
a while longer ; and, look ye, where's old
Dulcibella Crane : I’d like to shake hands
wi' her before I go.”
“Upstairs, wi' her mistress.”
“Tell her to come down and see me for a
minute ; and mind, old Tarnley, ye must
write to me often—to-morrow and next day
—and—where's my hat 4–on my head, by
Jove—and so on ; for if anything should
happen—if little Alice should founder, you


THE HEIR OF THE FAIRFIELDS. 61
know—there should be some one, when she's
off the hooks, to look after things a bit ; and
the Governor won’t do nothing—put that
out o' yer head
and 'twill all fall on my
shoulders ; and send her down to me—old
Dulcibella Crane, I mean—for I’m going, and
unless I’m wanted I mayn't see ye here for
many a day.”
Thus charged, Mildred Tarnley went away,
and in a few minutes old Dulcibella appeared.
From her, after he had examined her as to
the state of the lady upstairs, and of her baby,
he exacted the same promise as that which
Mildred had made him—a promise to write
often to Wyvern.
He did not mind making her the same odd
confidence which he had made to Mildred.
There was no need, he thought, for Dulcibella
was soft-hearted, and somewhat soft-headed,
too, and by no means given to suspicion;
and as she had not the evil that attends
shrewdness, neither had she the reliability,
and she was too much given to talking, and


62 THE WYWERN MYSTERY.
his secret would then become more public
than he cared to make it.
“And tell the mistress I wish her joy, do
you mind, and I’d like to stand godfather to
the boy whenever the christenin' is, and to
put me to any work she thinks I’m fit for ;
and tell her I wrote about a handful o' rent
that's coming to her ; and good-by, and take
care o' yourself; and who's nursin' the baby?”
“We feeds it wi' goat's milk and sich like,
by direction of the doctor. Wouldn't ye like
to see it !”
“Not this time—I’m off—but—who's
taking charge of him : *
“Among us the poor little darling is, but
mostly me.”
“Well, that's right, and look after it well,
and I’ll give ye a bit o' money when—when
it's on a little, and don’t forget to write;
and ye needn't say nout to old Mildred, for
she's goin' to write too, and might take huff
if she knew that you was writin’ also, do you
See ??”


THE HEIR OF THE FAIRFIELDS. 63
“Yes, Master Harry, surely none shall
know, and I’m thinkin' ye would like to see
it, and it won't be nothin the worse, ye'll
find, and it is such a darlin’.”
“And so like its poor papa that's gone, eh?
But I haven’t no time, dear, this bout, and
you may give his worship my kind regards,
and tell him the more he thrives the better
I’m pleased, and old chimnies won't stand for
ever, and he won't be long kept out of his
own, and I’ll keep them aloof that would
make or meddle or mar, and good-by, old
Dulcie Crane, and mind what I said.”
And clapping her on the shoulder with his
strong hand, he smiled after his fashion, and
wagged his head and strode into the yard,
mounted his horse, and was soon far away on
the road from Carwell Grange.


CHAPTER WI.
BERTHA WELDERKAUST.
HARRY FAIRFIELD, when, crossing Cressley
Common, he reached the road that diverges
eastward, took that turn, and rode towards
Hatherton.
Surly enough he looked when he slackened
his pace to a walk at the foot of the long low
hill that interposes between the common and
that town.
He had a short pipe in his pocket, with a
big bowl, and a metal cover to it, into which
he stuffed some pinches of tobacco—a shilling
went a good way in that sort of smoking, and
Harry was economical—and soon his pipe
was in full play.
This narcotic helped his cogitative powers,
and he had a good deal to think about. He


BERTHA WELDERKAUST. 65
was going to see his old friend Bertha Welder-
kaust, in her new situation, and he was con-
sidering how best to approach her.
From such ruminations—too vague and
irregular to be reduced to logical sequence
and arrangement—there arise, nevertheless,
conclusions by no means unimportant, and
quite distinct enough. By this time he had
smoked his pipe out, and looked down from
the summit of this rising ground upon the
pretty town spreading among the trees, with
its old tower and steeple, its court-house, its
parsonage, and that high-walled stronghold
on the right, in which the object of his visit
was at present secluded.
When, having complied with all formalities,
he obtained an entrace, and obtained permis-
sion to visit that person, it was her pleasure
to keep him waiting for some time for his
audience. Harry grew cross and impatient,
the more so as he heard that she had a friend
with her, drinking tea, and reading the news-
paper to her.
WOL. III. P


66 THE WYWERN MYSTERY.
As Harry Fairfield was one of those
persons who are averse to sacrificing them-
selves without a good consideration, the
reader will conclude that his object was
not altogether to serve the “old soldier.”
If it had been only that, I think he would
have left the town of Hatherton re infecta.
As it was, he waited, and at last was ad-
mitted.
This lady, Bertha Welderkaust, chose to be
known among her neighbours in misfortune
as Madame Bertha Fairfield of Wyvern,
which style and title she preferred to that
by which she had been committed to the
safe keeping of the gaoler.
When Harry Fairfield stepped into her
small apartment he found her dressed and
bedizened in a way that a little surprised him.
She had on a sky-blue satin dress, caught
up at one side with a bunch of artificial
flowers. She had a lace scarf and a lace
coiffure lying flat across her head, with a
miniature coronet of Roman pearl in the


BERTHA. WELDERKAUST. 67
centre, and lappets depending at each side.
She had a double necklace of enormous
Roman pearls about her throat, and a pair
of pink velvet slippers, embroidered with
beads and bugles, and this tawdry figure sat
on the side of her truckle bed to receive
him, with the air of a princess in a panto-
mime. She accumulated her finery in this
way, I think, for the purpose of impressing
the people about the prison with a due sense
of her position and importance. It may not
have been quite without its effect.
“Hullo l madame, I came to tell you some
news,” said he, as soon as the door was
closed. “But, by the makins' you 'most took
my breath away at first sight o' ye.”
“Pity to have so nice a man breathless—
deplorable pity!”— or biddy, as she pro-
nounced it. “Suppose you go away. I did
not ask you to come and get your breath
again in the air of my place.”
“What place may that be—not Hoxton
Old Town, hey?”

F 2


68 THE WYWERN MYSTERY.
“Not at all—Wyvern, dear child 7" she
said, with a quiet sneer.
“Oh, thank ye—yes—well I will, I think,
take a mouthful there as you are so good.”
As he concluded this speech Master Harry
put out his tongue at the blind lady with
a grimace that was outrageous.
“I’ll hide my name no longer,” she said,
“I'm Mrs. Fairfield of Wyvern.”
“That's as it may be,” he answered,
serenely.
“I say, I'm Mrs. Fairfield of Wyvern,”
repeated she.
“Boo !” answered Harry.
“Beast ! By that noise what do you
mean * *
“I’ll tellye, by-and-by. Come, you mustn't
be cross, it wastes time.”
“More time than we know what to do
with in this house,” she sneered.
“Well, that's true for some, I’ll not deny;
but there's some as is pretty well worked I
hear—eh –and so long as we baint, we may


WWWWA NELDERKAust. 69
enawe We Weisure, for as bad as that is,
business here, Wm told, is a deal worse,” and
Harry laughed.
“Pleasant was my Harry always,” again
sneered the lady.
“And ye heard of poor Charlie, of course?”
he asked.
“Yes, of course. Everyone is not like
you. I did hear. I don't thank you,” she
answered, tartly, and turned her pale, malig-
nant face toward him.
“But, dear girl, I could not. There was
difficulties, eyes a-watchin' on all hands, and
ears cocked, and I knew you could not be
long without knowing. So you heard ; but
mayhap you haven't heard this—there's a
child born o' that marriage.”
“Marriage 1" and with an oath the big
Dutchwoman burst into a discordant laugh.
For a moment Harry was alarmed, but the
laugh was not hysterical—purely emotional,
and an escape for pent-up scorn and fury.
“Well, any how there's a child—a boy—


70 THE WYWERN MYSTERY.
and a fine hale little chap, wi' a big bald head
and a bawlin' mouth as ever a mother hugged
—the darlin’.”
“Well, let the brat lie on the dung heap,
you'll not lift him,” said the lady.
“I’ll not meddle or make. I’m not
over-hot about Wyvern. I'd rather have
a pocket full o' money than a house full
o' debts any day; and anyhow there he is,
the four bones that's to walk off with my
share o't.”
“I should have got mourning,” said Bertha
Welderkaust, speaking from some hidden
train of thought.
“Bah! No one to see you here,” said
Harry.
“If I had money or credit, I'd have got
it,” she said.
“That's very affectionate of you,” said
Harry; “but why do you dress like that
—why do you dress like the lady wi' the
glass slipper, Cinderella, at the king's ball, in
the story book?”


BERTHA. WELDERKAUST. 71
“I should dress, you think, like Cinderella
over the coal-scuttle Z."
“Well, I wouldn't set the folk a laughing
when I was in no laughing humour myself—
not that it makes much odds, and I do
suppose it don't matter—not it.”
“It does matter something, perhaps, and
perhaps nothing ; but I know who I am,
and I won't let myself down,” said she.
“I don't want to lose myself among these
people; I'll keep myself distinct. I'm too
high to put my foot in the mud.”
“Too high to put your foot in the mud–
too high to put your foot on the pavement,”
said Harry, mischievously, with his eyes on
this impulsive lady, and hitching his chair off
a little to secure a fair start. “You’ll be
too high, I’m thinkin', to get your foot to
ground at all, one o' these days, if you don't
look sharp. It's too high a flight, I’m told,
to touch terra firma wi' the top o' your toe—
the gallows, I mean—and that's what you're
coming to quick, I'm afeard.”


72 THE WYWERN MYSTERY.
As Harry concluded, he stood up, intend-
ing to get out, if possible, without the
indignity of coming to hand-grips with a
WOman.
The Herculean lady, in sky-blue satin and
Roman pearls, leaned forward with sharpened
features, but neither extended her arm nor
attempted to rise. Then she sighed deeply,
and leaned with her shoulders to the wall.
“Off in a coach for this bout,” thought
Harry.
“Thank you, kind lad, always the same,”
she sneered, quietly. “You wish it, no
doubt, but, no, you don’t think it. I know
better.”
“Why the devil should I wish you hanged,
Bertha 7 Don't be a fool ; you're not in my
way, and never can be. There's that boy,
and, for reasons of my own, I'm glad
he is—I’m glad he's where he is—and
Wyvern will be for him and not for me—
never !”
“Harry, dear, you know quite well,” she


BERTHA. WELDERKAUST. 73
drawled, softly, with a titter, “you'll poison
that boy if you can.”
“You lie I" said Harry, turning scarlet,
and then as suddenly pale. “You lie!—and
so that's answered.”
Here followed a silence. The woman was
not angry, but she tittered again and nodded
her head.
“Wyvern's out o' my head. I never
cared about it. I had my own reasons. I
never did,” he swore, furiously, striking his
hand on the table. “And I won't see that
boy ruined—my flesh and blood—my own
nephew. No, no, Bertha, that would never
do ; the boy must have his own. I’ll see
you made comfortable, but that lay won't do
—you'll find it won't pay nohow.”
“Speak out, man—what do you mean 3”
said Bertha.
“Come, come, come, Bertha, you're no
fool,” wheedled he ; “there isn't a sounder
head from this to London; and though you
be a bit hot-headed, you're not as bad as


74 THE WYWERN MYSTERY.
you'd have us believe — 'taint the worst,
always, that has an o'er-hasty hand. Why,
bless ye, girl, I’d be sorry ye were hurt, and
I'll help to get ye out o' this, without scathe
or scorn, if you'll let me.”
“Well, come ; what's in your mind, Harry
Wairfield : " she asked.
“I tell ye what it is, it can do you no
good, no how, bein’ hard on that boy, and I
know, and you know, you never were married
to poor Charlie.”
“You lie l’’ cried the lady, bitterly. So
they were quits on the point of honour.
“Now, Bertha, lass, come now—reason,
reason; don't you be in a hurry, and just
listen to reason, and I'll make it better to you
than fifty marriages.”
“Don’t you think I have no advice—I’ve
engaged Mr. Wynell, the best attorney in
Hatherton; I know what I’m about.”
“The better you know it, the better I'm
pleased ; but the lawyerfolk likes always a
bit of a row—they seldom cries kiss and be


BERTHA. WELDERKAUST. 75
friends until their hands be well greased, and
their clients has a bellyful o' law ; therefore
it's better that friends should put their heads
together and agree before it comes to that
sort o' milling, and I tell ye, ye shall be cared
for ; I’ll see to it, if you don't be kickin' up
no rows about nothing.”
She laughed a quiet, scornful laugh.
“Oh ho! Master Harry, poor little fellow !
he's frightened, is he 4”
“You’re damnably mistaken,” said he.
“Frightened, indeed I'll see whose fright-
ened : I know there was no marriage—I
know it, and it won't do tryin’ it on me,
you'll just get yourself into the wrong box;
where's the use of runnin' your head into a
cotton bag 3’
“Cotton bag your own head. Who's to
do it !” -
“They'll be clumsy fingers that can't tie
that knot, lass. Come, you're a clever girl,
you're not to be talking—not like a fool. I
know everything about it. If you try that


76 THE WYWERN MYSTERY.
on, it will turn out bad. "Taint easy to green
Harry Fairfield ; I don't think he was ever
yet fooled by a lass but where he chose to
be fooled, and it's pretty well allowed there's
no use trying to bully him.”
“I ought to like you, if all that be so,”
said she, “for you are very like my own
self.”
“I’m not tryin' to bully you, girl, nor to
sell ye neither ; ye were always a bit rash,
and too ready wi' your hand ; but them's not
the worst folk goin'. We Fairfields has a
touch o' it, and we shouldn't be o'er hard on
quick-tempered folk like that. There was
no lass that ever I met, gentle or simple, that
could match ye for good looks and pleasant
talk, and ye dress so beautiful, and if ye had
but your eyes this minute, you'd have who
ye liked at your feet.”
And Harry Fairfield repeated this view of
her charms with an oath.
“If ifs and ans were pots and pans,”
repeated the lady with a sigh of gratification,


BERTIIA WELDERKAUST. 77
and with that foreign accent and peculiar
drawl which made the homely proverb sound
particularly odd ; “I forget the end—there
would be no use in tinkers, I think.”
“Well said, Bertha but there's none like
ye, not one, this minute, so handsome,”
exclaims he.
“Not that chit down at Carwell Grange, I
dare say—eh 4°
“Alice | Not fit to stand behind your
chair. If ye could but see her, and just look
in the glass, ye’d answer that question your-
self,” he replied.
“There it is again—if I could look in the
glass—it is fourteen years since I did that—
if I could see that fool of a girl—if-if-if”
she said with an irrepressible simper—“the
old proverb again—ifs and ans were pots
and pans—'twas old Mistress Tarnley used
to say that—a d d old witch she always
was,” she broke out, parenthetically, “and
should be broke alive on the wheel.”
“Bang away wi' the devil's broomstick,


78 THE WYWERN MYSTERY.
and break her to smash for me,” said Harry.
“But I’d sooner talk o' yourself. Hang me,
if you ever looked better—there's no such
figure; and, by the law, it's looking up—it is
—better and better every day. I like a tall
lass, but ye beat them all, by the law, and ye
shows off a dress so grandly.”
“Now don't think, foolish thing, I like
compliments—in at one ear and out of
the other,” she said, with the same smirk,
shaking her great head.
“Hoot, lass 1 Compliments, indeed Why
should I? Only this, that knowing you so
long I just blurts out everything that comes
uppermost, and it's a pity ye shouldn’t have
money to dress as ye should.”
“I never had that,” said the lady.
“Never—I know that well—and if ye
won't be said by me, ye’ll have less,” said
Harry.
“I don’t think you know much about it,”
said Bertha, serenely.
“Now, Bertha, child, you mustn't keep


BERTHA. WELIDERKAUST. 79
contradictin’ me. I do know a deal about it
—everything. There was no marriage, never.”
“As long as Charlie lived, ye never said
that—you always backed me.”
“I’m not going to tell lies for no one,”
said he, sulkily.
“Not going ! Why you have been lying
all your life—you'd lie for a shilling any day
—all lies, you mean, miserly liar.”
“Come, Bertha, draw it mild, won’t ye
Did you never hear say o' the Fairfields that
they were a quick-tempered folk 2 and it's
an old saying, don't knock a mad horse over
the head.”
“It's true all I said,” she laughed; “and
that's why it stings.”
“And did ye never hear that true jests
breed bad blood 2" he laughed. “But no
matter, I’m not a bit riled, and I won’t. I
like ye better for speaking out ; I hate that
meally-mouthed talk that fine-spoken folk
goes on wi'. I likes a bit of a rub now and
then ; if ye were too civil I couldn't speak


80 THE WYWERN MYSTERY.
my own mind neither, and that would never
do.”
“Get along with ye. Have you any more
to say ?”
“Shall I say it out, plain and short, and
will ye hear it through 4° he asked.
“Ay.” -
“Well, here it is ; if ye don't sign that
I think ye'll be hanged.”
“No, you don't,” she said, more quietly.
“I do, by
“No, you don’t,” she repeated, in the
,” he swore.
same tone, “who is to do it ! Charlie's
gone, and vilely as he used me, he never
would have done that ; and Alice won’t, she
told you so. I'm better informed, I believe,
than you fancied. So don't you suppose I am
at all anxious.” .
“I wanted to take you off in a coach, and
you won't let me,” said he.
“Thanks, simple Harry,” she sneered.
“And I’m coming this day week, and then
it will be within ten days o' the 'sizes.”


BERTHA. WELDERKAUST. 81
“And I’ll be discharged; and I'll bring
separate actions against every soul that
had a hand in putting me here. Ask my
attorney,” said the lady, with a pale angry
simper.
“And Judge Risk is coming down, and
you’d better ask your attorney, as you talk of
him, whether he's a hangin' judge or no.”
“Cunning beast ! all won't do,” she said,
sarcastically.
“Well, Bertha, this day week I’ll be here,
and this day week will be your last chance,
for things will begin that day, and no one
can stop them.”
“Lord have mercy upon us!” she whined,
with an ugly mockery and an upturning of
her sightless eyes.
“You may be saying something like that
in the press-room yet, if you won't take the
trouble to think in earnest before it's too late.
Now, listen, once for all, for it's the last
words I'll say. That's all true you say:
Charlie's gone, and if he was here, instead of
VOL. III. G


82 THE WYWERN MYSTERY.
in kingdom come, 'twould 'a been all one, for
he wouldn't never a moved a hand in the
matter, nor 'a suffered it ; and as for Alice,
she won't neither. But if you don't sign that
paper by this day week, and make no bones
about it,”—here he swore a hard oath,
“blind as you be, I’ll open your eyes—and
I'll prosecute the indictment myself. Good-
by, ma'am, and think between this and
then.”
Harry Fairfield strode from the room, and
was still full of the grim emotion which had
animated the close of his interview, when he
reached the little inn at which but a few
weeks before his brother Charles had stabled
his horse, when making his last visit to
Hatherton.


|
|
CHAPTER VII.
SERGEANT-MAJOR ARCHDALE.
HARRY FAIRFIELD was a captain in his
county militia. It was right that the House
of Fairfield should be represented in that
corps. Charlie, who was of an easy com-
pliant temper, would have taken the commis-
sion and the light duties, if that dignity had
been put upon him. But Harry chose it.
It extended his acquaintance, added to his
opportunities of selling his horses, and opened
some houses, Small and great, to him, in a
neighbourly fashion, when making his circuits
to fair and market. He knew something of
games, too, and was shrewd at whist and
draughts, and held a sure cue at billiards.
On the whole, his commission turned him in
something in the course of a year.

G 2


84 THE WYWERN MYSTERY.
It was upon some regimental business
that Sergeant-Major Archdale was awaiting
his return at Wyvern.
Harry Fairfield, as it happened, was think-
ing of the Sergeant as he rode into the yard
in gloomy rumination.
“Well, Archdale, what's the news 7 ° said
he, as he dismounted.
The news was not a great deal. After
he had heard it Harry paused for a time, and
said he, L
“Quite well, Archdale, I hope 2"
“Well, sir, I thank you.”
Again Harry paused.
“How did you come, Archdale.”
“Walked, sir.”
“Walked, oh! very well.”
Here was another pause.
“Archdale, you must go in. Here, Clinton,
get some luncheon for Sergeant-Major Arch-
dale. A drink of beer and a mouthful won’t
do you no harm; and, Archdale, before you
go let me know; I may have a word, and I’ll


SERGEANT-MAJOR ARCHDALE. 85
say it walking down the avenue. Get Mr.
Archdale some luncheon, Clinton, and some
sherry.”
22
“I thank you, sir,” said the Sergeant-
Major. “'Tis more like a supper for me;
I’ve had my dinner, sir, some time.” -
And with a stiff military step the Sergeant
followed Clinton into the house.
The Sergeant-Major was above the middle
size, and stout of body, which made him look
shorter. His hair was closely cut, and of a
pale blue iron gray. His face was rather
pale, and smooth as marble; full and long,
with a blue chin, and a sort of light upon his
fixed lineaments, not exactly a smile, but a
light that was treacherous and cruel. For
the rest his military coat, which was of the
old-fashioned cut, and his shako, with all the
brasses belonging to them, and his Wellington
boots, were natty and brilliant, and altogether
unexceptionable, and a more perfectly re-
spectable looking man you could not have
found in his rank of life in the country.


86 THE WYWERN MYSTERY.
Without a word, with a creak in his boots,
he marched slowly in, with inflexible coun-
tenance, after Clinton.
The Squire met Harry in the hall.
“Hollo l it's a week a most since I set
eyes on ye—ye'll look out some other place
for that mad filly ye bought of Jim Hardress:
she's broke a boy's arm this morning in the
stable; I’ll not look after him, I promise ye;
'tis your affair, mind, and you better look
sharp, and delay may cost ye money. Ye're
over clever. The devil owes ye a cake this
many a day, and he's a busy bishop, and he'll
pay ye a loaf yet, I promise you. She shan’t
be kicking my men—and she bites the manger
besides. Get her away, mind, or, by my soul,
I’ll sell her for the damage.”
So old Squire Harry stalked on, and the
last scion of his stock grinned after him,
sulkily, and snarled something between his
teeth, so soon as he was quite out of
hearing. -
“Who’s arm’s broke, Dick, or is it all a


SERGEANT-MAJOR ARCHDALE. 87
d
Harry of a servant who happened to be
d lie o’ the Governor's " inquired
passing at that moment.
“Well, yes, sir, Jim Slade's arm was broke
in the stable. 'Twas a kick, sir.”
“What kicked him 2 °
“The new horse that came in on Thursday,
sir.”
“Mare, ye mean. Why that thing's a
reglar lamb; she never kicked no one. A
child might play wi' her. More like ’twas
the Governor kicked him. And what did he
do wi' his arm 2 °
“The doctor, down in the town, set it, and
bound it up wi' splints, sir.”
“Well, I didn’t tell him, mind that—I
wasn't here, ye know—good-natured of the
doctor, I’ll not deny, but he shan’t be sending
in no bills to me. And how’s Jim since—
gettin' on nicely, I’ll swear.”
“I don’t know, sir; I didn’t see him since.”
“Hoot! then, it's all right, I warrant ye,
and ye can tell old Slade, if he likes it, I’ll


88 THE WYWERN MYSTERY.
get him a bit of a writin' to the hospital for
Jim ; but it won't be nothin'—not a bit.”
And with this economical arrangement,
Harry dismissed the subject for the present,
and took his stand upon the hall-door steps,
and smoked his pipe, awaiting the close of
Sergeant-Major Archdale's repast.
The long shadows and lights of golden
sunset faded before the guest appeared, and
twilight and the moths were abroad.
Almost as the servant informed Harry
Fairfield that Mr. Archdale was coming
round to the hall-door to receive his com-
mands, the Sergeant-Major appeared in front
of the house, and Harry Fairfield stepped
down to the court and was received by the
militia-man with a military salute.
“I’ll walk a bit wi' you, Archdale; I want
a word about another matter—not regimental
business. We'll walk down towards the
gate.”
Stiffly and silently the Sergeant-Major
marched beside the smoking gentleman, who


SERGEANT-MAJOR ARCHDALE. 89
having got a little way from the house,
knocked the ashes out of his pipe, and
dropped it into his pocket.
“That militia sogerin’ is beggarly pay for
a man like you, Archdale ; and I'll want a
clever fellow, by-and-by-for when the Squire
goes off the hooks, and that can't be a long
way off—I’ll have a deal o' trouble lookin'
after things; for there's a young châp to
succeed, and a plaguy long minority 'twill be,
and one way or another the trouble will fall
to my share, bein’ uncle, ye see, to the little
fellow. Am I making it plain what I
mean 2°
“Quite plain, sir,” said the cold voice of
the Sergeant-Major.
“Well, there's the property down at War-
hampton, a devilish wide stretch o' land for
the rental. There's good shootin' there, and
two keepers, but I doubt they makes away
wi' the game, and they want lookin' after ;
and there's the old park o' Warhampton—ye
know that part o' the country : ”


90 THE WYWERN MYSTERY.
“Yes, sir, well.”
“I know you do. Well, it should turn in
a good penny more than the Governor gets.
I can't bring it home to them, but I know
what I think. Where the horse lies down,
the hair will be foun', and I doubt the park-
book's doctored. There’ll be a sort o' steward
wanted there, dye see. D'ye know Noulton
farm 2 ”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, it's a nice thing, a snug house, and
as many acres as you’d want to begin wi';
the tenant's going after harvest—you'd be
the very man for’t, and I'll tell them I'll do
all I can to serve my nephew, but I must live
myself too. I’ve nout but my time and my
wits to turn a penny by, and if I try to
manage for him I'll want the best help I can
get, dye see? and you're the man I want;
I've got no end o' a character o' ye, for
honesty and steadiness and the like ; and
ye're a fellow can use his eyes, and hold his
tongue; and ye’d have the farm and the


SERGEANT-MAJOR ARCHIDALE. 91
house—ye know them—rent free ; and the
grazing of three cows on the common, and
it's none o' your overstocked, bare commons,
but as sweet a bit o' grass as ye’d find in the
kingdom ; and ye shall a’ fifty pounds a year
beside; and the farm's nigh forty acres, and
it's worth close on a hundred more. And—
if ye do all we want well, and I’m sure you
will—I’ll never lose sight o' ye while grass
grows and you and me lives.”
“I thank you, sir,” said the cold, clear
voice of Archdale.
“And there's a little bit of a secret—I
wouldn't tell another—about myself, Arch-
dale. I'll tell you, though,” said Harry,
lowering his voice.
“Yes, sir,” said Archdale, in the same cold
stern way, which irritated Harry.
“Well, I'm not talking, mind, to Sergeant-
Major Archdale, if you like the other thing,
at Noulton, best.”
“Noulton best, sir, certainly ; thank
25
you.


9
2
THE WYWERN MYSTERY.
“But to Mr. Archdale of Noulton, and
steward of Warhampton, mind ye, and 'twill
be settled next harvest.” -
“I thank you, sir.”
“Don’t walk so quick, we're gettin' over
the ground too fast. Well, there's a thing
you'll have to keep dark for me.”
“You’ll find me confidential, sir; my supe-
rior officers did.”
“I know that well—I know you, Archdale,
and that is why I chose you out o' a thou-
sand, and it’s a confidential fellow—d—d
confidential—I want, for the country's all one
as the town for talk, and tongues will keep
goin’ like the bells on a sheep-walk, and
there's many a bit o’ nonsense, that's no great
odds when all's told, that a chap wouldn't
like to have made the laugh or the talk o'
the country side.”
“Yes, sir,” said the inflexible Sergeant-
Major.
“You held the same rank in the line,
Sergeant-Major, didn't you ?”


SERGEANT-MAJOR ARCHDALE. 93
“Yes, sir,” said the Sergeant-Major, and
saluted from habit.
“I thought so, and that says a deal for
you, Mr. Archdale; and I remember one of
your papers says you were the youngest
sergeant ever made in your regiment 2"
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, that says a lot too, and a very
responsible office that is. Egad, from all I 'a
seen, I’d say the sergeants has more to do
with the state of a regiment than all the
other officers, commissioned or non-commis-
sioned, put together.”
“There's a good deal depends on 'em, sir.”
“You keep to yourself, Archdale; that's
the way to rise.”
“I was a man of few acquaintances, sir,
and confidential with my superior officers,
and few words, but I meant ’em, sir, and
made the men do their duty.”
“That's the man for my money,” said
Harry. “Will ye be ready for Noulton Farm
by the middle o' next month "


94. THE WYWERN MYSTERY.
“Yes, sir, I expect.”
“I’ll settle that for ye, then, and the pay
and the commonage. I’ll settle that wi' my
father to-morrow, and we'll get the writings
drawn.”
“I thank you, sir.”
“And, wait a bit. I told you,” said Harry,
perhaps a very little embarrassed, “there's
another little thing you must manage for
me.”
“Yes, sir.”
He almost wished Mr. Archdale to ask
questions and raise difficulties. This icy
surface, beneath which he saw nothing, began
to embarrass him.
“Every fellow's a fool once or twice in his
life, you know, Archdale ; and that's the way
rogues makes money, and honest chaps is
sold—
* No fools at the fair,
No sale for bad ware,’
you know 2°


SERGEANT-MAJOR ARCHDALE. 95
He looked for sympathy in the face of the
Sergeant-Major, but he found there neither
sympathy nor ridicule, but a serene, dignified,
supercilious composure.
“Well, I’m not married, and more's the
pity,” he said, affecting a kind of jocularity,
uneasily ; “but among 'em they’ve made me
a present of a brat they calls my son, and I
must just put him to nurse and provide for
him, I do suppose ; and keep all quiet, and
ye'll look out some decent poor body that
lives lonely and won't ask no questions nor
give no trouble, but be content wi' a trifle,
and I’ll gi'e’t to you every quarter for her,
and she'll never hear my name, mind, nor be
the wiser who owns it or where it came from.
I'd rayther she thought 'twas a poor body's
—if they think a fellow's well-to-do it makes
'em unreasonable, and that's the reason I
pitched on you, Archdale, because ye're a
man o' sense, and won't be talkin' like the
pratin’ fools that's goin'—and is it settled ? is
it a bargain 3’’


96 THE WYWERN MYSTERY.
“Yes, sir, I thank you, quite,” said Arch-
dale.
“Well, then, ye shall hear from me by the
end o' the week, and not a word, mind—till
all's signed and sealed—about Noulton Farm,
and about t'other thing—never. The stars is
comin' out bright, and the sunset did ye
mind; we'll 'a frost to-night; it's come dark
very sudden; sharp air.”
He paused, but the non-commissioned officer
did not venture a kindred remark, even an
acquiescence in these meteorological specula-
tions.
“And I heard the other day you made an
organ for Mr. Arden. Is it true 7" said
Harry, suddenly.
“Just a small thing, three stops, sir—
diapason, principal, and dulciana.”
“Well, I don't know nothing myself about
such gear, except to hear the old organ o'
Wyvern o' Sundays. But it's clever o' you.
How did ye learn ?”
“’Prenticed, sir, two years to an organ


SERGY ANT-MAJOR ARCHDALE. 97
builder in Westminster—Mr. Lomas—and he
died, and I was put to the army,” said Arch-
dale.
“Well, I may give ye a lift that way too.
They were talkin’ of an organ for Warhamp-
ton Church. We'll see. I'll not forget.”
“I thank you, sir,” repeated Archdale.
“Any more commands for me, sir?”
Mr. Archdale stood stiffly at the gate,
drawn up, as it were, at right angles to Harry
Fairfield.
“No, nothing, Archdale. I’m glad the
thing suits you, and it may lie in my way
yet to make them better than you think for.
Good night, Archdale ; good night, Sergeant-
Major.”
“Good night, sir.”
And Archdale wheeled to his left, and
with his back toward the village of Wyvern,
marched away at so stiff and regular a quick
march that you could have fancied the accom-
paniment of the drums and fifes.
Harry stood at the iron gate, one half of
WOL. III. H


98 THE WYWERN MYSTERY.
which was open, and he kicked a stone list-
lessly into the road, and leaning on the old
iron arabesques, he looked long after that
portly figure receding in distance and melting
in twilight.
“Night's the mother o’ thought, I’ve heard
say,” said Harry, rousing himself, and swing-
ing the great valve into its place with a
clang. “But thought won't do to dine on.
Hollo! Gate gate Jorrocks, anyone,” he
shouted. “Lock the gate, some of you, and
make all sure for the night.”
And with these orders to Jorrocks, he
marched back under the ancestral trees to
the old hall of Wyvern. Who was to keep
the hearth of the Fairfields aglow . The
light of the old Squire's life was flaring low
in the socket, a tiny taper was just lighted in
darksome Carwell, and Harry Fairfield—was
he ever to take his turn and illuminate the
Wyvern world?


CHAPTER VIII.
A TALK WITH THE SQUIRE.
HARRY proved how hungry he was by
eating a huge dinner. He had the old
dining-room to himself, and sipped his brandy
and water there by a pleasant fire of coal
and spluttering wood. With a button or two
undone, he gazed drowsily into the fire, with
his head thrown back and his eyes nearly
closed ; and the warmth of the fire and the
glow of the alcohol flushed his cheeks and
his nose and his forehead to a brilliant
crimson.
Harry had had a hard day's riding. Some
agitations, great variety of air, and now, as
we have seen, a hearty dinner and many
glasses of brandy and water, and a hot fire
before him. Naturally he fell asleep.

H 2


100 THE WYWERN MYSTERY.
He dreamed that the old Squire was dead
and buried. He forgot all about the little
boy at Carwell, and fancied that he, Harry
Fairfield, draped in the black mantle with
which the demure undertaker hangs the
mourners in chief, had returned from the
funeral, and was seated in the old “ oak
parlour,” just in all other respects as he
actually was. As he sat there, Master of
Wyvern at last, and listening, he thought,
to the rough tick of the old clock in the hall,
old Tom Ward seemed to him to bounce in,
his mulberry-coloured face turned the colour
of custard, his mouth agape, and his eyes
starting out of their sockets. “Get up,
Master Harry,” the old servant seemed to
say, in a woundy tremor, “for may the devil
fetch me if here baint the old master back
again, and he's in the blue room callin' for
22
ye.
“Ye lie l’ gasped Harry, waking up in a
horror.
“Come, ye, quick, Master Harry, for when


A TALK WITH THE SQUIRE. 101
the Squire calls it's ill tarrying,” said now the
real voice of Tom Ward.
“Where 2 °
“In the blue chamber.”
“Where—where am I ?” said Harry, now
on his feet and looking at Tom Ward. “By
jingo, Tom, I believe I was dreaming. You
gave me a hell of a fright, and is he there
really Very well.”
And Harry walked in and found the old
Squire of Wyvern standing with his back to
the fire, tall, gaunt, and flushed, and his
eyes looking large with the glassy sheen of
age.
“Well, why didn't ye tell me the news, ye
fool 7" said the Squire, as he entered. “D–n
ye, if it hadn't a bin for Tom Ward I
shouldn't a heerd nout o' the matter. So
there's a brat down in Carwell Grange—ha,
ha, -marriage is honourable, I’ve heerd tell,
but housekeepin's costly. 'Tis the old tune
on the bagpipe. That's the way to beggar's
bush. When marriage gets into the saddle


102 THE WYWERN MYSTERY.
repentance gets up at the crupper. Why the
devil didn't ye tell me the news? Why
didn't ye tell me, ye d–d wether-head 2*
“So I would 'a told ye to-night, but I fell
asleep after dinner. It's true enough, though,
and there's doctors, and nurses, and caudles,
and all sorts.”
“Well for Charlie he's out of the way—
dead mice feels no cold, you know, and she's
a bad un—Alice Maybell's a bad un. The
vicar was a thankless loon, and she's took
after him. She went her own gait, and much
good it did her. Sweetheart and honey bird
keeps no house, and the devil's bread is half
bran. She'll learn a lesson now. I was too
good to that huzzy. Put another man's child
in your bosom, they say, and he'll creep out
at your sleeves. She's never a friend now.
She's lost Charlie and she's lost me. Well
might the cat wink when both her eyes were
out. She'd like well enough to be back here
again in Wyvern—d—n her. She knows who
was her best friend by this time. Right well


A TAYLY WITH THE SQUIRE. 103
pleased wi' herself, I’ll be bound, the day she
gi'ed us the slip and ran off with the fool
Charlie—down in the mouth, I warrant her
now, the jade. I dare say the parson's down
at the Grange every day to pray wi' my
lady and talk o’ resignation. When all their
rogueries breaks down they take to cantin'
and psalm singin', and turns up their eyes,
the limmers, and cries the Lord's will be
done. Welcome death, quoth the rat, when
the trap fell. Much thanks to 'em for takin'
what they can't help. Well, she's a bad un—
a black-hearted, treacherous lass she proved,
and Charlie was a soft fellow and a mad
fellow, and so his day's over, and I was just
a daft old fool, and treated accordin'. But
time and thought tames all, and we shall all
lie alike in our graves.”
“And what's the boy like : " the old man
resumed. “Is he like Charlie 2 °
“He was asleep, and the room dark, so
there was no good trying to see him,” said
Harry, inventing an excuse.


104 THE WYWERN MYSTERY.
“Not a bit, dark or light, not a bit; he's
Ally’s son, and good won't grow from that
stock—never. As the old bird crows, so
crows the young, and that foreign madam, I
hear, swears she was married first to poor
Charlie, and what's that to me !—not that
spoonful of punch. She's up in limbo, and if
her story be true, why then that boy of
Ally’s ain't in the runnin', and his mother,
bless her heart, needn't trouble her head
about Wyvern, nor be wishin' the old Squire,
that was good to her, under the sod, to make
way for her son, and then there's you to step
in and claim my shoes, and my chair, and
cellar key, and then Madam—what's her
name—Van Trump, or something, will out
wi' a bantling, I take it, and you'll all fight it
out, up and down—kick, throttle and bite—
in the Court of Chancery, or where ye can,
and what is't to me who wins or who loses :
Not that bit o' lemon-peel, and if you think
I'm a going to spend a handful o' money in
law to clear up a matter that don't concern


A TALK WITH THE SQUIRE. 105
me, no more than the cat's whisker, you're a
long way out in your reckonin'—be me soul
ye are, for I'll not back none o' ye, and I
won't sport a shillin’—and I don't care a
d—n. Ye'll fight the battle o'er my grave,
and ye’ll take Wyvern who can, and 'twill
cost ye all round a pretty penny. Ye'll be
sellin' your shirts and your smocks, and ye're
pretty well in for it, and ye can't draw back.
Well lathered is half shaved, and it won’t
break my heart, I promise you.”
And the old man chuckled and hooted, and
wagged his head fiercely as he declaimed, in
his own way, upon the row that was coming.
“Don’t ye spare one another for my sake.
Take Wyvern who can. I’ll keep my hands
in my pockets, I promise ye. What have I
to do wi' other folk's windmills 2 ”
So the old Squire stormed on more serenely
than he had done for a long time.
“Make another tankard o' that thing,
Tom ; make a big one and brew it well, and
fetch a rummer for yourself, lad.”


106 THE WYWERN MYSTERY.
“Beggar's breed for rich men to feed,”
resumed the Squire. “A son at the Grange
o' Carwell, no less Well, I 'a taken enough,
and too much, on my shoulders in my day,
and 'tis often the least boy carries the biggest
fiddle. She's a sly lass—Alice. She'll find
fools enough to help her. I 'a done wi' her
—she's a bad un. Look at that harpsichord
thing there she used to play on,” he pointed
to the piano. “I got that down from Lunnon
for her to jingle tunes at as long as she liked,
and I’d a had it smashed up and pitched in
the river, only 'twould a made her think I
cared enough about her to take that trouble
about her lumber. She turned her back on
me when she liked, and I'll not turn my face
on her when she lists. A graceless huzzy she
was and is, and grace lasts but beauty blasts,
and so let it be for me. That's enough. I
take it there's no more to tell. So take ye a
candle if ye're sleepy, man, no use dawdlin'
sluggard’s guise, loath to bed, and loath to
rise,” and so, with a gruff nod he dismissed
;


A TALK NITH THE squire. 107
him, and in came Tom Ward with the punch
before very long-
“That's good, Tom ; that'll warm yer ribs.
Wow long a you been here ? Wyvern
aways, but a long time in the house, Tom, a
long time wi' the family. 'Tis sixty years
ago, Tom. I remember you in our livery,
Isabel and Blue—them's the old colours.
They don’t know the name now—salmon,
they calls it. We 'a seen Christmas pretty
often in the old house. We'll not see many
more, I’m thinking. The tale's nigh done.
'Twasn’t bad times wi' ye here, Tom ; we
can't complain ; we 'a had our share, and
after cheese comes nothing, as the old folks
used to say. Take the rummer and sit ye
down by the door, Tom. There's Master
Harry. I'd rather ha' a glass wi' you, Tom,
than a dozen wi' him, a d-d pippin'-
Squeezing rascal. Tom, ain't he a sneak,
and no Fairfield, Tom, ain't he, ain't he,
d—ye **
“I won't say that all out, sir. He's a tall,


108 THE WYWERN MYSTERY.
handsome lad, and Master Harry can sit
down and drink his share like a man.”
“Like a beast, ye mean. He never tells
ye a pleasant story, nor laughs like a man,
and what liquor he swallows, it goes into a
bad skin, Tom. He's not hot and hearty in
his cups, like a Fairfield ; he has no good
nature, Tom ; he's so close-fisted and cunnin'.
I hate them fellows that can't buy at the
market and sell at the fair, and drink when
he's drinkin’; d- him, he's always a watching
to do ye. just like his mother ; a screw
she was, and her son's like her, crooked to
sell, and crooked to buy. I hate him sober,
Tom, and I hate him drunk. Bring your
glass here, old lad ; a choice mug-full ye’ve
brewed to-night. Hold it straight, you fool!
“What was I sayin' 2 The old things is
out o' date, Tom ; the world's changin', and
'tain't in nature, Tom, to teach old dogs
tricks. I do suppose there's fun goin', though
I don't see it, and the old folks beginning to
be in the way, as they were always, and


A TALK WITH THE SQUIRE. 109
things won't change for us. We were brave
lads, we Fairfields, but there's no one to
come now. There won't be no one after me
in Wyvern house. To the wrestlin' on
Wyvern Fair Green, when I was a boy, I
mind the time when lords and ladies id come
ridin' down for twenty miles round, and all
the old stock o’ the country, some on horse-
back, and some in coaches, and silks and
satins, to see the belt played for and single-
stick and quarter-staves. They were manly
times, Tom, and a Fairfield ever first in the
field, and—what year is this 2 ay, I was
twenty the week before that day—’tis sixty-
four years ago—when I threw Dick Dutton
over my shoulder and broke his collar-bone,
and Dutton was counted the best man they
ever brought down here, and Meg Weeks—
ye'll mind Meg Weeks wi' the hazel eyes—
was lookin' on ; and the wrestlin's gone, and
not a man left in the country round that
could tell a quarter-staff from a flail; and
when I'm gone to my place in the church-


110 THE WYWERN MYSTERY.
yard, there's not a Fairfield in Wyvern no
longer, for I don't count Harry one, he's not
a Fairfield, by no chance, and never was.
Charlie had it in him, handsome Charlie. I
seen many a turn in him like me, I did; and
that Captain Jolliffe's died only tºother day
that he shot in the arm at Tewkesbury only
twenty years ago, for sayin' a wry word o'
me : old Morton read it yesterday, he says,
in the Lun’on paper. But it's all over wi'
Charlie, and—stand up, Tom, and fill yer
glass, and we'll drink to him.”
Old Tom Ward was the first to speak
after.
“Hot blood and proud, sir, and a bit wild,
when he was young ; more than that, there's
nout to be said by any. A brave lad, sir,
and the good naturedest I ever see. He
shouldn't be buried where he is, alone. I
don't like that nohow. He wouldn't a done
so by you, Squire ; he liked ye well; he
liked everyone that was ever kind to him. I
mind how he cried after poor Master Willie.
|


A TALK WITH THE SQUIRE. | 11
They two was very like and loving. Master
Willie was tall, like him, and handsome.”
“Don’t ye be talkin' o' them at all, ye fool,”
broke in the Squire, violently, “stop that and
hold your tongue, Tom. D– you, do you
think I'm foolish 2 Light my candle, and
get ye to bed, the tankard's out ; get ye
to bed, ye d–d old fool,” and he shook the
old servant hard by the hand as he spoke.


CHAPTER IX.
HARRY FAIRFIELD GROWS UNEASY.
A FEW days later Harry Fairfield rode
from Wyvern into the picturesque little town
of Wykeford, and passing the steep, narrow
bridge, pulled up near the church, at the door
of Dr. Willett. Harry had something to say
to the doctor, but, like a good diplomatist,
that shrewd dealer in horses preferred letting
the doctor talk a bit on his own account
first.
He found him in slippers and dressing-
gown, clipping the evergreens that grew in
front of his house, the hour of his forenoon
excursion not having yet arrived.
“Woodman, spare that tree,” said Harry,
quoting a popular song, facetiously.


HARRY FAIRFIELD GROWS UNEASY. 113
The doctor looked up.
“And how is Doctor Willett this morning?”
said Harry.
“Oh oh! Is that you?” said the doctor,
straightening his back with a little effort, for
he had been stooping to his task, and old
backs don’t unbend in a moment.
“Quite well, thank you—so are you, I
see.”
“Can't complain.”
“And how's the old Squire ?” said the
doctor.
“How's the old house 2" answered Harry:
“staunch and straight, and like to stand for
ever. I see no change in him. And all well
over at Carwell ?”
“Far from it,” said the doctor.
“And who's sick 2''
“The poor young mother—very ill indeed,”
said he—“nervous, low, and feverish, she has
been, and yesterday, when I saw her, it was
plainly fever—quite declared.”
“What sort of fever ?” asked Harry.
WOL. III. I


114 THE WYWERN MYSTERY.
“Well, the nerves are very much engaged,”
began the doctor—
“Take care it ain't typhus,” said Harry.
“The baby ha’n’t got it, I hope 2"
“No, the child's all safe.”
“There's typhus down at Gryce's mill,
and a child in scarlatina in the glen, I
hear.”
“Is there 7 ha It has been going a
good deal at that side, I’m told,” said Dr.
Willett. “There's Lady Wyndale at Oulton–
very good-natured she seems to be—wouldn't
she take the child and nurse it for a while !
It's a nice place, well enclosed, and lies high
—nothing likely to get in there. I attended
a patient there in dropsy, once, when it was
let, and the Wyndales away in India.”
“Ay, she's good-natured ; she'd have the
mother and child together, with a welcome,
but she says she won't take no one's babby to
nurse away from its people, and she's right,
I think, so the young chap must stand
his ground, and bide the fortune o' war, you


HARRY FAVYREIELD GROWS UNEASY. 115
know. What time shall you be there to-
day 4” he inquired.
“Three o’clock.”
“Very well, then, I'll be passin' at the mill
end o' the glen about that time, and I’ll ride
up, and look in, just to hear what you have
to say, and I’ll get home by Cressley Com-
mon. It will do me as well as tºother way.
I turned aside a bit to reach you, and hear
the news, and I must be joggin' again.
Good-bye, doctor. Is your church clock
right 4” said Harry, looking up at the old
tower and pulling out his watch to com-
pare.
“‘The clock goes as it pleaseth the clerk,
the old saw tells us, but we all go by the
clock here, and it does keep right good time,”
said old Dr. Willett, with his hand over his
eyes, reading its golden hands and figures, as
Harry was.
“Well, then, doctor, good-bye, and God
bless ye,” said Harry, and away he rode,
without hearing the doctor's farewell.

I 2


116 THE WYWERN MYSTERY.
At Carwell Grange, at three o'clock, there
was the gloom and silence of a sick house.
The tiptoe tread of old Dulcibella, and her
whisperings at the door, were scarcely
audible, and now and then a weary moan
was heard in the darkened room, and the
wail and squall of a little child from another
room not far off.
Old Mildred Tarnley had undertaken the
charge of the child, while Dulcibella, with the
aid of a neighbour brought in for the occa-
sion, took charge of the sick lady.
Before three o'clock came, to the surprise
of this sad household, Harry Fairfield arrived.
He did not come riding ; he arrived in a tax-
cart. He had got through more real work
that day than many men who were earning
their bread by their labour.
“Give this one a feed, Tom, and how’s all
here 4" said he, throwing the apron off and
jumping down.
“Bad enough, I'm afraid, sir.”
“ Worse 3 *


HARRY FAYYRFIELD GROWS UNEASY. 117
“I don’t know, sir, till the doctor comes ;
but can’t be no better, for I heard Mrs. Crane
say she didn’t close an eye all night.”
“I hope they’re not forgetting the child in
Whe hurry 2 * said Harry.
“Mrs. Tarnley and Lilly Dogger looks after
it, turn about.”
“That wouldn't do nohow, you know,” said
Harry—“ and give her a good feed, Tom,
good dog, good bone. She came at a good
lick, I can tell you, up the glen. The doctor
will be here soon.”
“Ay, sir.”
“Well, I'll stay till I hear what he says;
and there's sickness in Carwell Glen here, I’m
told.”
“I dessay, sir, there's a good deal going, I
hear.”
“Ye needn’t take her out of the shafts,
Tom. Fix her head in a halter by the gate
—in the ring there, if ye have a nose-bag at
hand—and come in here. She's as quiet as
a lamb ; I want to talk to you a bit. I’m


118 THE WYWERN MYSTERY.
goin' to buy two or three fillies, and think of
any you may have seen down about here.
Old Tarnley's in the kitchen now, is she 4”
“I think she is, sir.”
“Well, think of them fillies if you can ;
there's business to be done if I can get 'em
to suit.”
So in marched Harry, and tapped at the
kitchen window, and nodded and smiled to
Mrs. Tarnley.
“So you're all sick down here, I'm told ;
but sickness is better than sadness. That's
all I can say, lass,” said Harry, pacing, much
in his usual way, into the kitchen, and clap-
ping his big hand down on Mildred's
shoulder.
“Sick, sore, and sorry we be, sir. Your
brother's not that long buried that there
should be no sadness in the Grange, his own
o house that was, and his widow's that is—
sickness may well be better than sadness, but
'taint turn about wi' them here, but one and
'tother, both together. And that slut up-


HARRY FAIRFIELD GROWS UNEASY. 119
stairs, Miss Dogger, if you please, out of the
scullery into the bed-chamber, she's no more
use to me than the cock at the top o' Carwell
steeple. I never knew such times in Carwell
Grange; I’m wore off my old feet—I can't
stan’ it long, and I wish twenty times in a
day I was quiet at last in my grave.”
“A gruntin’ horse and a grumblin' wife,
they say, lasts long. Never you fear, you .
won't die this time, old girl, and I wouldn't
know the Grange if you wasn't here. 'Twill
all be right again soon, I warrant—no wind
blows long at the highest, ye know, and we'll
hear what the doctor says just now.”
“Hoot! what can the doctor say but just
the old thing. The leech to the physic and
God to the cure, and death will do as God
allows, and sickness shows us what we are,
and all fears the grave as the child does the
dark. I don't know much good he's doin', or
much he did for Master Charles—not but he's
as good as another, and better than many a
one, maybe—but he costs a deal o' money,


120 THE WYWERN MYSTERY.
and only Lady Wyndale came over here
yesterday—poorly though she is, and not
able to get out o' her coach—and saw Mrs.
Crane, and lent a fifty-pun note to keep all
straight till the young lady, please God, may
be able to look about her, and see after 'em
herself, we'd a bin at a sore pinch before the
week was out. Pity's good, but help's better.
'Tis well in this miserly world there's a kind
one left here and there, that wouldn't let
kindred want in the midst of plenty. There's
Squire Harry o' Wyvern, and his own little
grandson lyin' up in the cradle there, and
look at you, Master Harry. I wonder you
hadn't the thought.”
Harry laughed, perhaps, the least degree
awkwardly.
“Why, chick-a-biddy—” began Harry.
“I’m none o' yer chick-a-biddies. I'm old
Mildred Tarnley, o' the Grange o' Carwell,
that's in the service o' the family—her and
hers—many a long year, and I speaks my
mind, and I shouldn't like the family to be


HARRY FAVRFIELD GROWs UNEASY. 121
talked of as it will for meanness. If there's
a want o' money here in times of sickness, ’tis
a shame!”
“Well, ye know there's no want, but the
Governor's riled just now, and he'll come
round again ; and as for me, I'm as poor a
dog as is in the parish. Take me and turn
me round and round, and what more am I
than just a poor devil that lives by horses,
and not always the price of a pot o' stout in
my pocket—
“Four farthings and a thimble,
Makes the tailor's pocket jingle.”
Your tongue's a bit too hard, Mildred ; but
ye mean well, and there's kindness at the
bottom o' the mug, though the brew be
bitter.”
“I think I hear the doctor,” said Mildred,
placing her palm behind her ear and listen-
ing.
“Ay,” said Harry; “I hear him talkin'.”
And forth he strode to meet him.


122 THE WYWERN MYSTERY.
Before he went up Harry and the doctor
talked together for a little in the panelled
sitting-room, with which we are familiar.
“I’m sure to see you here, eh?”
“Before I go 2 Yes. I shall look in
here.”
“All right,” said Harry, and the doctor
walked up the stairs on his exploration.
|


CHAPTER X.
A DRIVE TO TWYFORD.
IN less than ten minutes the doctor came
down.
“Well ?” said Harry, over his shoulder,
turning briskly from the window.
“No material change,” replied the doctor.
“It’s not a case in which medicine can do
much. The most cheering thing about it is
that her strength has not given way, but you
know it is an anxious case—a very anxious
case.”
“I hope they are taking care of the child.
Old Dulcibella Crane would be a deal better
for that sort of thing than that dry old cake,
Mildred Tarnley. But then Ally would half
break her heart if ye took old Dulcibella from
her, always used to her, you know. And


124 THE WYWERN MYSTERY.
what's best to be done It would be bad
enough to lose poor Ally, but it would be
worse to lose the boy, for though I’m willing
to take my share of work for the family,
there's one thing I won't do, and that's to
marry. I'm past the time, and d me if
I'd take half England and do it. I’d like to
manage and nurse the estate for him, and be
paid of course, like other fellows, and that's
what would fit my knuckle. But, by Jove,
if they kill that boy among them there
will be no one to maintain the old name
of Wyvern; and kill him they will, if
they leave him in the hard hands of that
wiry old girl, Mildred Tarnley. She's a
cast-iron old maid, with the devil's temper,
and she has a dozen other things to mind
beside, and I know the child will die, and I
don't know anything to advise, d- me if
I do.”
“The house is in confusion, and very little
attention for the child, certainly,” said Doctor
Willett.


A DRIVE TO TWYFORD. J 25
“And that d-d scarlatina, beyond a
doubt, is in the glen there.”
The old doctor shrugged and shook his
head.
“I talked to the Governor a bit,” said
Harry, “thinking he might have the child
over to Wyvern, where it would be safe and
well looked after, but he hates the whole lot."
You know it was a stolen match, and it's no
use trying in that quarter. You're going
now, and I’ll walk a little bit beside you;
maybe you'll think of something, and
I haven't no money, ye may guess, to
throw away; but rather than the child
shouldn’t thrive I'd make out what would
answer.”
“That's very kind of you, sir,” said Doctor
Willett, looking at him, admiringly. “They
certainly have their hands pretty full here,
and a little neglect sometimes goes a long
way with a child.”
So they walked out together, talking, and
when the doctor got on his horse Harry


126 THE WYWERN MYSTERY.
walked beside him part of the way towards
Cressley Common.
When he came back to the Grange Harry
asked to see old Dulcibella, and he told her,
standing on the lobby and talking in whispers,
“The doctor says she's not able to under-
stand anything as she is at present.”
“Well, ye know she's wanderin' just now,
but she may clear up a bit for a while, by-
and-by.”
“Well, the doctor says she's not to be told
a word that can fret her, and particularly
about the child, for he says this is no place
for it, and he won't be answerable for its life
if it's left longer here, and there's scarlatina
and fever all round, and ye have as much as
ye can well manage here already, so few as
there is, without nursing children; and
Doctor Willett says he'll have it well at-
tended to by a person near Wykeford, and
I'll bring old Mildred over with it to the
place this evening, and we'll get it out o'
reach o' the sickness that's goin’.”


A DRAW F. TO TWYFORD. 127
“Please God!” said Dulcibella, after a
pause.
“Amen,” added Harry, and walked down
whistling low, with his hands in his pockets,
to tell the same story to old Mildred Tarnley.
“'Tis a pity,” she said, darkly, “the child
should be sent away from its home.”
“Especially with scarlet fever and typhus
all round,” said Harry.
“And away from its mother,” she con-
tinued. -
“Much good its mother is to it.”
“Just now she mayn't be able to do
much.”
“Oh but she can though,” interrupted
Harry, “she may give it the fever she's got,
whatever that is.”
“Well, I can't say nothin’ else but it's a
pity the child should be took away from its
natural home, and its own mother,” repeated
Mrs. Tarnley.
“And who's takin' care o't now *” de-
manded Harry.


128 - THE WYWERN MYSTERY.
“Lilly Dogger,” answered she.
“Lilly Dogger! just so ; the slut | you
said yourself, to-day, you wouldn't trust a
kitten with !”
Mrs. Tarnley couldn't deny it. She sniffed
and tossed up her chin a little.
“Ye forget, lass, ’twas never a Wyvern
fashion nursin' the babbies at home. I
wasn't, nor Charlie, poor fellow ! nor Willie,
nor none of us. 'Twas a sayin' with the old
folk, and often ye heered it, ‘one year a
2
nurse, and seven year the worse ;' and we
all was tall, well-thriven lads, and lives long,
without fever or broken bones or the like,
floors us untimely; and, anyhow, the doctor
says, so it must be. There's no one here,
wi' all this sickness in the house, has time
to look after it, and the child will just come
to grief unless his orders be followed. So
stick on your bonnet and roll up the young
chap in blankets, and I’ll drive ye over to
the place he says. It brings me a bit out
o' my way, but kith and kin, ye know ; and


A DRIVE TO TWYFORD. 129
I told the doctor if he went to any expense,
I’d be answerable to him myself, and I'll gi'e
ye a pound for good luck. So ye see I’m
not sich a screw all out as ye took me for.”
“I thank you, Master Harry, and I’ll not
deny but ’twas always the way wi' the family
to send out the children to nurse.”
“And what Mr. Charles would 'a done
himself if he was alive, as every one of us
knows; and for that reason what the lady
upstairs would 'a done if she had 'a bin able
to talk about anything. I'm sorry I have
to drive ye over, but I’ll bring ye back to-
night, and ye know I couldn't drive and
manage the babby, and the folk would be
wonderin’ when the child set up the pipes
in the tax-cart, and I’d soon have the hue-
and-cry behind me.”
“Hoot I wouldn't allow no such thing as
let the poor little thing be druv so, all alone,
like a parcel o' shop goods. No, no. The
family's not come to that yet a bit, I hope,”
cried Mrs. Tarnley.
VOL. III. K


130 THE WYWERN MYSTERY.
“Gi'e me a lump o' bread and cheese and
a mug o' beer. I don't think I ever was
here before without a bit and a sup, and it
wouldn't be lucky, ye know, to go without
enough to swear by, anyhow ; but there's no
hurry, mind—ye needn't be ready for a good
hour to come, for Willett won’t have no nurse
there sooner.”
Harry went out and had a talk with Tom
Clinton, and smoked his pipe for half an
hour; and Tom thought that the young
Squire was dull and queerish, and perhaps
he was not very well, for he did not eat his
bread and cheese, but drank a deal more
beer than usual instead.
“Bring a lot o' lolly-pops and milk,
or whatever it likes best, wi' ye, to keep
it quiet. I can't abide the bawlin' o'
children.” ..
Lilly Dogger, with red eyes and an in-
flamed nose, blubbered heart-broken, and
murmured to the baby—lest old Mildred
should overhear and blow her up—her leave-
|


A DRIVE TO TWYFORD. 131
takings and endearments, as she held it
close in her arms.
Beautiful though to us men, utterly myste-
rious is the feminine love of babies. Lilly
Dogger had led a serene, if not a very
cheerful life, at Carwell Grange up to this.
But now came this parting, and her peace
was shivered.
Old Mildred had now got up, with her
threadbare brown cloak, and her grizzly old
bonnet, and had arranged the child on her
lap ; so, at last, all being ready, the tax-cart
was in motion.
It was late in the autumn now. The long
days were over. They had dawdled away a
longer time than they supposed before start-
ing. It turned out a long drive, much longer
than Mildred Tarnley had expected. The
moon rose, and they had got into a part of
the country with which she was not familiar.
They had driven fourteen miles or upward
through a lonely and somewhat melancholy
country. It was, I suppose, little better than

K 2


132 THE WYWERN MYSTERY.
moor, but detached groups of trees, possibly
the broken and disappearing fragments of
what had once been a forest, gave it a sad
sort of picturesqueness.
Mildred Tarnley was not a garrulous per-
son, and had not spent her life at Carwell
Grange without learning the accomplishment
of taciturnity, but she remarked and resented
the gloomy silence of Master Harry, who had
never once addressed a word to her since
they started.
Toward the close of their journey she
observed that Harry Fairfield looked fre-
quently at his watch, and hurried the pace
of the mare, and altogether seemed to grow
more and more anxious. They had been
obliged to pull up twice to enable her to feed
the baby, who was now fast asleep.
, “’Tis right,” she thought, “he should look
ahead and mind his driving, while we're
getting on, though a word now and then
would not have troubled him, much. But
when we stopped to feed the child there was
&


A DRIVE TO TWYFORD. 133
no excuse. He got down and settled the
buckle at the horse's head. He got up again,
and drew the rug over his knees, and he
leaned on his elbow back upon the cushion,
and he never so much as asked was me or
the baby alive!” -
They now reached a gentle hollow, in
which, a shallow brook crossed the road, and
some four or five habitations of an humble
sort stood at either side ; one under the
shade of two gigantic ash trees, had a sign
depending in front, being a wayside inn of the
humblest dimensions.
A village this could hardly be termed;
and at the near end Harry pulled up before
a building a little above the rank of a
cottage, old and quaint, with a large-leafed
plant that, in the moonlight, looked like a
vine, growing over the prop of a sort of
porch that opened under the gable.
If the mare was quiet at the Grange, you
may be sure that her run to Twyford had
not made her less so.


134 THE WYVERN MYSTERY.
* ,
Harry helped old Tarnley down, with her
little charge in her arms, and led her silently
into the meat little room, with tiers of delf
ornaments, in brilliant colours, on the cup-
board, and a Dutch clock ticking.in the nook
by the fire where some faggots crackled, and
a candle was burning on the table in a bright
brass candlestick.
. Mrs. Tarnley's experienced eye surveyed
the room and its belongings. She descried,
moreover, a ladder stair which mounted to a
loft, from whose dormant window, as she
looked from her seat in the tax-cart, shē
had observed the light of a candle.
Very humble, it undoubtedly was, but
nothing could be more scrupulously clean.
It had an air of decency, too, that was re-
assuring. There was a woman there in a
cloak and bonnet, who rose as they entered
and courtesied. -
Harry set a lumbering arm-chair by the
fire, and beckoned Tarnley to occupy it.
Then he asked:


A DRIVE TO TWYFORD. 135
-
... “How soon is the Warhampton bus ex-
pected 7”. -
“Twenty-five minutes, please, sir,” an-
swered the woman, with another courtesy
and a glance at the clock.
“That woman from Willett's is coming by
the 'bus,” he said gruffly, to Mildred. “'Tis
a snug little place this, and as clean as a
bone after a hungry dog. Would you mind,”
he continued, addressing the stranger OI’
hostess, whichsoever she might be, “tellin'
Archdale, if he's here, I want a word wi' him
at the door $* -
“He’s over the way I think, sir, with the
horse. I’ll call him, please, sir.”
So off she went. º *
“This is where poor Charles said he'd like
to have his child nursed—Twyford ; 'tis
sweet air about here, considered. He was
expectin’ a babby, poor fellow, and he talked
a deal wi' me about it the day he was took.
Wouldn’t ye like a bit to eat and a glass of
beer, or somethin'? . They have lots over the
*


136 THE WYWERN MYSTERY,
- ~
way, for as poor as it looks; and here's the
pound I promised ye, lass, for luck, ye know,
when we was leaving the Grange.”
He drew forth the hand with which he
had been fumbling in his pocket and placed
the piece of gold in hers.
“Thank you, Master Harry,” she said,
making a little instinctive effort to rise for
the purpose of executing a courtesy. But
Harry, with his hand on her shoulder, re-
pressed it.
“Sit ye quiet, and rest yourself, after
joggin' all this way; and what's that
bundle 2''
“The baby's things, sir.”
“All right. Well, and what will ye
have 2" - - -
“I feel a bit queerish, Master Harry, I
thank ye. I'd rather not eat nothin'
till I gets home, and I’ll get my cup o' tea
then.”
“Not eat l”
“Nothin', sir, I thank ye, Master Harry.”


A DRIVE TO TWYFORD. 137
º/ -
“Well,” said Harry, so far forth relieved,
but resolved, cost what it might, to make
Mildred happy on this particular occasion,
“if ye won't eat, I’m hanged but ye shall
drink some. I tell ye what it shall be, a jug
of sherry negus. Come, ye must.”
... “Well, Master Harry, as so ye will have
it, I'll not say ye nay,” consented Mildred
graciously.
Harry went himself to the little pot-house
over the way, and saw this nectar brewed,
and brought it over in his own hand—the
tankard in one hand and the glass in the
other. -
“Devilish good stuff it is, Mildred, and
I'm glad, old lass, I thought of it. I remem-
ber you liked that brew long ago, and much
good may it do you, girl.”
He was trying to be kind.
He had set it down on the table, and now,
as he spoke, he laid his hand on her shoulder,
and she thought she might have wronged
Master Harry with his rough jests, and


138 THE WYWERN MYSTERY. -
shrewd ways, and that he had more of the
Fairfield in his nature than she had always
given him credit for.
Out he went again, and talked with Arch-
dale, who was in plain clothes, and a round
hat, with a great coat buttoned up to his
smooth blue chin, and a gig-whip in his
hand. Archdale, as usual, was severely
placid and brief, and as Harry talked
with him outside, Mildred Tarnley thought
she heard a step in the loft over her
head, and another sound that excited her
curiosity. She listened, but all was quiet
again. t
Harry returned in comparatively high
spirits. - - -
“Well, Mrs. Tarnley,” said he, “the 'bus
is a bit late, I’m thinkin', but anyhow, he
can't wait,” and he pointed over his shoulder
at Mr. Archdale who stood at the door ;
“he'll drive you back again, and he knows
the road as far as Cressley Common, and you
can show him the rest,-and you'll want to
-


. A DRIVE TO TWYFORD. 139
be back again with poor Alice,—and the
doctor will look in here, often in the week—
almost every day—and tell you how the little
chap's going on. And, see, here's a very
respectable woman—what's her name —she
was here this minute, and she won’t be
leaving till after the 'bus comes in, and you
leave her the baby, and I’ll wait here till I
see it in charge of the nurse that's coming
from Wykeford. Come in, will ye –not
Ayou—the woman, I mean. Now, Mildred,
give her the baby.”
The woman had a gentle, cheerful, and
honest face ; and looked down with the
angelic light of a woman's tenderness on the
sleeping face of the little baby. -
“Lord, love it,” she murmured, smiling.
“What a darling little face l’”
Mildred Tarnley looked down on it, too.
She said nothing. She bit her lips hard,
and her old eyes filled up with tears that
welled over as she surrendered the baby,
without a word, and then hastily she


140 THE WYWERN MYSTERY.
went out, mounted to her seat in the tax-
cart, and was driven swiftly away by a
companion as silent as he who had con-
veyed her there.


CHAPTER XI.
HOW FARES THE CHILD !
DR. WILLETT called regularly at the Grange,
and kind Lady Wyndale was daily there,
taking the doctor's directions about jellies,
wines, and such other good things as the
depressed state of the patient called for,
notwithstanding her fever. -
In a few days more he changed this treat-
ment. The patient, in fact, could not be got
to swallow these things. Dr. Willett became
more perplexed. It was not exactly gastric
fever, but he thought it more resembled that
flickering treacherous fire than any other
fever with which he was acquainted.
There are sicknesses that will not be cured
through the body. The mind diseased, which
is the parent of these impracticable maladies,


142 THE WYWERN MYSTERY.
of which, when people die, they are said to
have died of a broken heart—disdains the
apothecary’s boxes and bottles—knows no-
thing of them. The heart-ache, of which it
is no more than an unusually protracted fit,
has its seat in that which no apothecary can
hear, see, feel, or understand. When the
immortal, and in this life, inscrutable, spirit,
which is the unseen lodger, the master, of
the body, sickens, all sickens. In its pain
all below it writhe and wither, and the body,
its ultimate expression, reflects but cannot
mitigate its torment.
Dr. Willett, too, complained that the child
was ill, and that it must have been ill before
it left the Grange.
On this point he and Mildred Tarnley had
a sharp battle.
When both parties had cooled a little
he admitted that possibly the symptoms
might not have been sufficiently developed
to have excited the attention of an unin-
structed observer.


HOW FARES THE CHILD 2 143
The Grange was growing all this time
more awful. Death seemed to have made
his abode there, and the shadow of the hearse
plumes seemed to rest upon the windows.
Courage flagged, despair supervened, and
Mrs. Tarnley's temper grew all but insup-
portable. A day in such situations seems
very long, and many had passed since the
baby had made his journey to Twyford. The
doctor seemed desponding, and stood longer
silent by his patient's bed this day than
usual. His questions were briefer, and he
was less communicative than usual when he
was going.
Mildred Tarnley was making up her mind
that the blow was inevitable, and was se-
cretly wishing it might come soon, since come
it must.
The father buried but two months since,
the mother sinking into an untimely grave,
and the poor little baby also dying ! Was
this family accursed ? What a blight was
this


--------------º
144 THE WYVERN MYSTERY.
The doctor had said that he would return
by Gryce's mill. It had been dark some
time, and was now about seven o'clock. Tom
was down at the forge, Dulcibella and Lilly
Dogger both upstairs, and she quite alone in
the kitchen. She was more uncomfortable
than she had ever been before about Alice
that night.
She had seen in the doctor's countenance
that day, as he told her he would look in
again on his return up the glen, that which
had profoundly alarmed her, and now, sit-
ting alone in this dark kitchen, she was in-
fested by gloomy forebodings and terrible
fancies.
She went upstairs to the sick lady's door.
At that hour no amendment was probable,
and there certainly was none. Down again
she went. The idea had got into her head
that the patient would die that night, and
she grew nervous, and tired of listening for
death-watches, and picking incipient winding-
sheets off the candle. “I wonder Master


HOW FARES THE CHILD ! 145
Harry doesn't come here, if 'twas only to
ask whether his sister was dead or alive, and
why old Willett don't come. Smelt out a
good supper somewhere, and he's stuffin' his
gut, I’ll warrant, while the poor lady's takin'
the rattles.”
Mildred Tarnley could stand this no longer,
and she went out and down the dark road
that leads to the Glen of Carwell, close by,
down which, with the uselessness of impa-
tience, she went to look for a sight of the
absent doctor, and listen for the tread of his
horse.
Nothing cheered by that darksome walk,
and the solemn and solitary view down the
Carwell road, she stood gazing down toward
distant Gryce's mill, until she tired of that
too, and in dismay and bitterness retraced
her steps toward the Grange.
On entering the yard, she saw a man's
figure approaching her from the kitchen door.
She thought it was the doctor's, for a moment,
but it was not, and with a “Lord ' who's
VOL. III. L


I46 THE WYWERN MYSTERY.
that ?” gasped in fear that sounded like fury,
she stood fixed as the old pump.
“Bah! don't you know me, woman 7" said
Harry Fairfield, surlily; “I have only a few
minutes. Ye'll have to come wi' me in the
morning over to Twyford.”
“To Twyford **
“Ay, to Twyford; and why the devil do
ye leave the yard-door open; I walked into
the kitchen and right up the stairs, lookin'
for ye, and knocked at Ally's door. I think
ye're cracked.”
“And what's to fear here, down in the
Grange 3 Hoot | If 'tweren't for form's
sake we need never draw bolt from one
Christmas to another.”
“There was a woman found with her
throat cut by the Three Pollards, between
this and Hatherton, on Tuesday. If you
likes it, down here, ’tis little to me. I'll
come here at eight o'clock in the morning to
fetch ye.”
“Is the child sick 3"


HOW FARES THE CHILD 2 147
“Not it. It was, but it's gettin' all right;
... that is, if it be the child.”
“What the de'il d'ye mean, Master Harry?”.
“I was lookin' at the child this mornin',
and d= me, if I think it's the same child
we left there !” said Harry.
“Why, sir—Mr. Harry, what's this 2°
“I say I misdoubt it's not the same child,
and ye must come over and look at it. Don't
ye say a word o' the matter to no one ; no
more did I; if you do we'll never come to
the bottom of it.”
“My good Lord!” exclaimed old Mildred,
turning paler, and frowning very hard.
“I won't stop. I won't eat anything. I
can't delay to-night; my nag's by the bridle,
there, beside the scales, and—any message to
Wykeford I'll be passing Willett's house.”
“Well! well !” repeated Mildred, gaping
at him still, with scarcely a breath left her,
“sin is sin, be it seen or no; judgment
follows. God has feet o' wool and hands o'
iron.”
º

L 2


14.S THE WYWERN MYSTERY.
“Sweep before your own door, lass; ye're
a bit daft, bain't ye 7" said Harry, with a
sudden glare in his face.
“God forgive us all !”
“Amen,” said Harry.
And there came a pause.
“Women and fools will be meddlin’,” he
resumed. “Lord love ye! For mad words,
deaf ears, they say. 'Pon my soul! 'twould
make a cow laugh, and if ye don't mind ye
may run yer head against the wall.”
“I will go to-morrow and look at the
child,” said Mildred, with sullen emphasis,
clapping one lean hand down on the other.
“That's all I want ye. Come, what mis-
chief can ye make o’ that ? Clear yer
head | *
“There's two things shouldn't anger ye:
what ye can help and what ye can't,” said
Mildred. “I’ll go wi' ye in the mornin',
Master Harry.”
“That's the least we can do and the most.
How's Ally "


HOW FARES THE CHILD ! 140
“Dyin', I think; she'll be gone before day-
break, I'm thinkin’.”
“That's bad,” said Harry.
“Good hap or ill hap, as God awards. I
know nout against her.”
“Poor little thing !” said Harry.
“I blame myself; but what could I do?
If aught's gone wrong wi' the child, poor
lady! 'tis well she were gone too.”
“There's many a fellow'd knock ye on the
head for less,” replied Harry, with a very
black look; “you women has a hintin' fun-
kin' way wi' ye. Ye like to ladle the drip-
pin' over a fellow's legs, and say ye meant
the mutton. Can't ye speak out and say
what ye mean, and get it off yer stomach,
and let me know, and I’ll answer it
straight, like a man and a Fairfield, d
me !”
“I’ll go wi' ye to-morrow ; and I take it
that's what ye want.”
“Well, this I’ll say. If ye suppose I’d
hurt that poor baby to the value of a pin's


150 THE WYWERN MYSTERY.
point, you're a stupider and a wickeder witch
than I took ye for, and I wish poor Ally
could hear me, and I’d swear to her on my
knees, at her dying bed, by the Creator that
made me, that I’ll work for that boy as if he
was my own, till I make him safe in Wyvern.
And can't ye see, woman, d ye, that I
can have but the boy's good in my mind
when I ask ye to come over on such an
errand to Twyford 2*
“Well, I do suppose—I do suppose. Eight
o'clock, and there's two feet will be cold ere
then, I'm afeard.”
“Don’t be a fool no more, and I forgive
ye, Mildred,” said he, extending his hand;
“and don’t ye mind a lick wi' the rough side
o' my tongue—'tis a way wi' us Fairfields
—and there wasn't many on 'em would 'a
stood to let ye rile them as ye did me. And
bolt yer doors, mind; and, poor Ally I
hope she may do yet, and mind ye—eight
o'clock sharp.”
So Harry departed.


HOW FARES THE CHILD ! 151
Mildred stood and looked after him for a
time.
“There's nothin' ever goes right at the
Grange,” she said with a short hard sigh ;
“nor never did, nor never will.”
And after a pause, with another sigh, she
said—
“No, no ; I won’t think it—I couldn't
think it—taint in one o' them. They might
be fickle wi' a lass, or hot tempered wi' a
man, and a bit too hard wi' tongue or hand,
but the like o' that—I can't believe it—never,
and I wish I hadn't a heard that. I’m most
sure I heard the child cry in the loft there ;
I'm sorry I didn't say so then. I don't
know why, and I don't know now, what it
should be no more than another, but I didn’t
like it. It looked like summat hid—I can’t
say. But my heart misgave me.”
Old Mildred walked into the house. She
had other thoughts now than the poor lady
upstairs. They were remorseful, though she
could hardly say for what she could blame


152 THE WYWERN MYSTERY.
herself. Perhaps she overrated her autho-
rity, and fancied she could have prevented
the baby's being taken away.
But it might be all quite right—men were
so stupid about babies. A pretty hand a
Fairfield man would make of a nurseryl At
all events the morrow would clear a great
deal up.
The morning came. The doctor had looked
in, and, as often happened, had surprised the
lookers-on by pronouncing positively that the
patient was not worse. -
With a qualm at her heart, Mildred asked
him when he had seen the child: and watched
his face hard while he answered quite frankly
that he had seen it the day before—that it
was decidedly better, and might possibly do
well.
When should he see it again :
There was nothing alarming, probably to-
morrow ; certainly not later than the next
day. There was nothing urgent—the chances
were rather in favour of its recovery, but, of


How FARES THE CHILD ! 153
course, there were the risks, and we weren't
to hollo till we were out of the wood.
With this cheer Mildred was much com-
forted, so much re-assured that when eight
o'clock came next morning and brought no
Harry Fairfield, she felt rather relieved of a
bore than disappointed.
Two days later Dr. Willett reported more
favourably than he had yet done on Alice.
His account of the boy, however, was by no
means so cheery.
Harry looked in still later, and talked the
matter over with Mildred. -
“I thought, ye see, I might just be makin'
a fool o' myself—and another o' you, so I
went over there quietly next day, and I'm
sure it was a mistake. The child's thinner
a deal, and its colour gone, and it was dark
a'most when I saw it, and she held the
candle too low and cast a shadow from its
nose, by Jove, across its face. You never
see so queer a monkey as it looked, and so
I held my tongue, but made over here to put


154 THE WYWERN MYSTERY.
our heads together and make sure o' the
matter. But when I went next day and saw
it in the daylight, by Jove it was all right—
the child and no mistake. But it is grown
awful thin and wry-faced, only you couldn't
take it for any other, and the doctor sees it
every second day, and I’m glad to hear
that poor little Alice is getting on so well.
She'll be on her legs again, in no time, I'm
thinking.”
After Harry had gone, Dr. Willett arrived
with a very ill account of the baby.
“Dying, poor little thing. Its heart wrong,
and all the organs; but you musn't tell poor
Mrs. Fairfield. It may cost her her life, if
she begins to fret about it, and just tell her
it's quite well, for it's true, you know—it's
nearer heaven, and best of all when it gets
there. So tell her, when she asks, that it
was sent in charge of careful people to get
it out of the reach of the infection that is
in the neighbourhood, and keep her mind
quiet.”


How FARES THE CHILD ! I55
A few days later the news of its death
arrived in the kitchen, and Lilly Dogger, who
was afraid to give way to her emotions
before Mrs. Tarnley, abruptly rose, and ran
out, and throwing her apron over her head,
broke into absolute screams of crying under
the great old trees that stand by the scales.
Here there was a sad secret to disclose
when the time came, and poor Alice was
strong enough to bear the story.
In the meantime Harry Fairfield came and
had a stormy interview with old Mildred.
The doctor, he swore, didn't know his busi-
ness. The women at Twyford had neglected
the child. He’d see to it. He’d be a devil
among the tailors. He'd open their eyes for
them. He had often got fifty pounds for a
less neglect of a filly. They should smoke all
round for it. And there now was Wyvern
without an heir, for, d-n him if he'd ever
marry; he wouldn't for Saint Peter. It
wouldn't do—it couldn't be, at no price ; and
there was old Wyvern, and never a Fairfield


156 THE WYWERN MYSTERY.
to see tankard filled or faggot fired in the
old house.
Harry was not married, although he had
insinuated some matrimonial ambiguities in
his talk with old Mildred. But I believe he
swore truly when he vowed that he never
would marry. He had quite made up his
mind on that point for some time.
For the rest, his threatenings ended in the
noise they began in. In truth there was no
ground for complaint, and both nurse and
doctor had done their duty.
Alice recovered. I do not attempt to de-
scribe the long mourning that followed, the
sweet, the bitter, and the terrible recollections
that ever after tinted the image of Carwell
Grange in her memory.
As soon as she could bear removal to her
kind kinswoman, Lady Wyndale insisted on
taking her to Oulton. After a time they
travelled, and finally returned to Oulton,
where they lived on together in the happiness
of great and tried affection.


HOW FARES THE CHILD ! 157
A difference of five-and-thirty years did
not separate them any more than the interval
of a generation did Naomi and Ruth. Lady
Wyndale, being one of those gifted women in
whom the girlish spirit burns high and
bright so long as life itself continues, full of
sympathy and gaiety, with a strong vein
of romance, and a pleasant sense of the
ridiculous, and also fine immovable affections,
was to one who had suffered calamities so
dire as had befallen Alice Fairfield, a more
delightful companion than any of her own age
could have been. For when it was needed,
there was the graver charm of a long and
sad experience; and there were also the
grander teachings of religion, and these were
not obtruded or vaunted in anywise, but,
rather toned her thoughts and feelings, with
their peculiar sublime and melancholy lights,
in which all things are subdued and also
glorified.
º


CHAPTER XII.
THE OLD SQUIRE LEAVES WYWERN.
THE old folk can’t go on living always.
The King's messenger had called at Wyvern,
and the old Squire must needs get up and go.
Sickness was a cross he had never been
used to bear, and now that it was laid on his
old shoulders he knew that he could not keep
his feet very long.
He had the Wyvern lawyer, who did the
business of the estate, up to his room, and the
parson and his own son, Harry Fairfield. He
made the attorney read the will, which he
had told him to bring up with him, and
the Squire listened as it was read slowly.
After the clergyman had gone—
“Have ye ought to say to that, son
Harry 3” said the old Squire.
“'Tis an old will, father,” said Harry.
“It aint,” said the Squire.
i


THE OLD SQUIRE LEAVES WYWERN. 159
“Eight years less two months,” said the
lawyer.
“About the age rum's fit to drink,” said
the old Squire. “What say ye to it—now's
your time, son ?”
“Priests, women, and poultry, they say,
has never enough. There's bin changes
since, and I don't see why Wyvern should be
charged so heavy.”
“There's three hundred a year to Alice,
said the old Squire.
! »
that's what ye mean
His son was silent.
“Well, I don’t owe her nothin', that's true,
but I’ll let it stand, mind. And Harry, lad,
the day ye do a good thing there will be
seven new moons.” -
“What was parson a whisperin’ about in
the window wi' ye!” he asked of the at- -
torney after a time.
“Some claim upon the vicarage which he
thought you said you meant to remit by will.”
“I’a thought upon it, and I won't. Pater-
noster built churches, and Our Father pulled
'em down. There's o'er many parsons for


160 THE WYWERN MYSTERY.
the churches, and o'er many churches for the
people—tell him I won't.”
“What the devil made you talk about that
to him?” said Harry, with a dark look, when
he and the attorney had got out of the room.
“My dear sir,” said the lawyer, “we must
be true to our clients, and beside, don't you
remember the clergyman said he'd be here
to-morrow at One to administer the Lord's
Supper, and he'll be certain to speak of it
then to our client.”
At nightfall the Squire grew worse, and
his head wandered.
“Tell that white-faced Vicar Maybell,
there's never a one but the thankless in hell
—I’ll not sit under none o' his sermons—Ay,
he frowns at that.”
“Hey, dear!” whispered the housekeeper,
gazing at him from the hearth where they
were sitting.
“And who does he mean, ma'am 2 * asked
the nurse. **
“God knows—old times, I suppose,” she
answered.


THE OLD SQUIRE LEAVES WYWERN. 161
“There's a glass broke, Tom, who's kicking
up the row % " mumbled the Squire, “Play,
women, and wine undoes men, laughin'—Ay,
light it, I’m very dark—Who's he, ye fool —
Joan and my lady's all one in the dark.” &
“That’s Tom Ward he's thinkin’ on ?”
said the nurse.
“Ay, he liked Tom ever. He wouldn't
think 'twas Wyvern without Tom,” answered
the housekeeper.
In a little time he said more distinctly and
sternly—
“The dead should do nothing—So that's
the bishop.–Ay—ay—The devil, mind ye,
isn't always at one door.—If there was a
good man here he'd put a clout over that
face—Ye'll never do it.”
Then it would sink into mumbling, and
then again grow more distinct.
At last the morning came, and the Squire
so many hours nearer death, was, neverthe-
less, now like himself.
In due course the clergyman arrived, and
the housekeeper, and serious Jim Hopper of
WOL. III. M


162 THE wyvern MYSTERY.
the mill, close by, attended to make up a
little congregation with whom ...the dying
Squire was to receive that most “comfort-
able " Sacrament, before setting out on his
long journey.
“You’re distinctly a Church of England
man 3” inquired the clergyman gently.
“Ay, what do you take me for "
“I make it a rule, dear sir, to inquire. I
have once or twice found Presbyterians and
other Dissenters among the attendants at my
church at Nottingham before I came here,
and I am happy to hear so clear an answer
to my inquiry,” said the clergyman with a
gracious solemnity.
“The crow thinks her own bird fairest—
go on,” said Squire Harry.
After these rites were over, the Squire
needed rest.
Then, after an hour or so, he called for
Tom Ward.
“Well, Tom, we a' lived a long while
together—here in Wyyern—you and me,
and “be the day never so long, at last cometh


THE OLD SQUIRE LEAVES WYWERN. 163
even' song, as they say, and now the doctor
thinks my time be come, and I sent for ye
to shake hands, Tom, and bid ye good-
bye.”
Tom was drying his eyes hastily, and his
old face was more puckered than ever.
“Yer honour was always kind to me—”
“Come, Tom, ye musn't be cryin', man.
Penny in pocket's a merry companion, and I
wrote ye down for somethin' in my will, and
ye a' brewed me many a tankard, Tom—ye'll
never brew me another—and I wouldn't go
without a word and a shake by the hand.”
When this was over, the nurse signed to
Tom to go.
I wonder how the grim old man, with near
a week's white stubble on his chin, felt as he
saw Tom Ward glide away softly, with tears
on his rugged cheeks. For Tom, it was the
breaking up and foundering of old Wyvern in
the deep. He was too old to live in the
new Wyvern that was coming, mayhap.
“I’ll never get the old days out o' my
head, nor ever like the new, and 'twon't be

M 2


164 THE WYWERN MYSTERY.
long, I’m thinkin', before I follow him down
the ash-tree road to Wyvern churchyard.”
And so for the old Squire it came, the last
day of light, and the first of death.
It was a stately funeral in the old-fashioned
way. All the good old houses of the county
were represented there. The neighbours,
great and small, mustered ; the shops in the
town were all shut, and the tenants attended
in masses.
This solemn feast and pageant over, the
fuss subsided, and Harry entered upon his
reign with a gravity becoming his new pre-
rogative and responsibilities. -
Sergeant-Major Archdale was an influ-
ential, and prosperous, and reserved minister
under the new régime. He had a snug berth
at Warhampton, as Harry Fairfield had pro-
mised, and from that distant legation he was
summoned every now and then to Wyvern,
and there conferred with the Squire. I have
called him Sergeant-Major, but he was so no
longer. He had retired some time before from
the militia and was now plain Mr. Archdale.


CHAPTER XIII.
MARJORY TREWELLIAN.
IN order to throwing a light upon the
nature of some of the duties of Mr. Archdale,
we must convey the reader in spirit, to some
little distance.
In the sequestered country, about twelve
miles south of Twyford, in a pretty nook
formed by a wooded hollow close by the old
by-road to Warhampton, stands an antique
cottage, with a loft and two little windows
peeping through the very steep thatched
roof and a high narrow gable—gable and
wall alike streaked and crossed with those
black oak beams which formed the cage into
whose interstices our ancestors built their
brick and plaster. The steep roof runs out
over a little porch which has a bench in one


-
166 THE WYWERN MYSTERY.
side of it. Another stone bench stands under
the lattice window, the woodwork of which
casement, as well as the black spars crossed
and morticed in the walls, and even the
curved brick chimney, look shrunk and
warped by time, by which, too, the hatch at
the door is rounded and furrowed, and the
stone seat and window stones worn into
curves and hollows, and such and so
venerable is the air of the structure, with its
ivy-bound porch, that one might fancy it the
very farm house in which Anne Hathaway
passed her girlhood.
Here dwelt good Mrs. Marjory Trevellian,
some fifty years old and upward, with, I
think, the kindest face and pleasantest laugh
in that part of the country; a widow of
many years; not very happy in her marriage,
and quite content with her experience of the
wedded state ; quiet, cheerful, very indus-
trious ; with a little farm of three acres, and
a cow; spinning sometimes, knitting at others,
and when she could, taking in washing, and


MARJORY TREVELLIAN. 167
in all things approving herself diligent, cheer-
ful, and honest.
With this kind, cheery, honest dame lived
a little boy, the son of a Mr. Henry—that
was all she knew distinctly about his people.
She called him her Fairy, and her Prince,
and when curious people questioned her
closely, she said that his father was a mer-
chant, “unfortunate in business,” as the
phrase is ; that he was living perhaps in con-
cealment, and in distressed circumstances, or
possibly was dead. All she could say for
certain was, that she received a very small
allowance for maintaining him, which was
paid punctually every three months in ad-
vance, and that as to the name of the boy,
his Christian name was William and his sur-
name Henry, and that she called him her
“Prince’ or her “Fairy,” and he called her
“Granny.”
She idolised this pretty boy, and he loved her
with the tenderness which a child bestows upon
a loving nurse, something more than filial


l68 THE WYWERN MYSTERY.
The boy remembers no other home but
this, and no other friend but “Granny.” He
was now a little past eleven. His life had
been solitary, but cheerful. Was there not
the pond only thirty yards away from their
door-step, in which he sailed his fleet of
ships, made of corks, which old Peter Durdon
gave him He was a cousin of Marjory
Trevellian's, and lived in the village two
miles away. He used to call every Sunday
and to bring these corks in his pocket, and
a bit of such lead as tea is wrapped in to
make the keels of their navy. He was
dressed in a blue “swallow-tailed” coat with
brass buttons; his drab trousers were very
short ; his stockings faded sky-blue ; and his
shoes clumsy and clouted, and highly polished.
He wore a chestnut wig of a long and lank
cut, and his forehead slanted back very
much, and his nose came forward, and a per-
petual smile expanded his cheeks, which were
as red and smooth as a ripe apple. His
countenance was not wise, though very


MARJORY TREVELLIAN. 169
good-natured—rather silly, I'm afraid—and
I think he took more interest in this sort of
shipping than was quite compatible with
strength of mind.
As these ships glided with thin paper sails
across the pond, while Master Henry watched
them in grave absorption, Peter's raptures
expressed themselves in continuous peals of
laughter.
These were great occasions in the Solitary
life of Fairy.
There were a set of big box-wood nine-
pins—skittles, I suppose, with balls—battered
and discoloured—I never knew how they got
into the cottage, but they looked a hundred
years old if a day. Many a game with these
on the smooth patch of sward at the other
side of the pond had pleasant old Marjory
with her darling. -
In its seclusion this life was monastic, but
not in its liberty. The boy was, on the
whole, very happy.
Looking on honest Marjory as mistress of


170 THE WYWERN MYSTERY.
all she surveyed, it never struck him, that in
the points in which her dietary differed from
his she was practising a compulsory economy.
The article of meat was not often found in
her bill of fare. But conscientiously she
placed the little fellow's bit of broiled meat
before him every day, and told him when
he inquired why she had none for herself
that she did not like it, and that it did not
agree with her, which he accepted as un-
doubted truths, and wondered and regretted
secretly.
On winter evenings their tea was very
cosy. A wheaten cake baked on the
griddle, a new-laid egg each, and a cup of
tea from the many-coloured delf tea-pot—a
good deal burnt on the side next the fire.
With the door barred and the window care-
fully closed, the fire burning cheerfully, and
their candle lighting the party—who so
happy : And was there not the old Robin-
son Crusoe, with binding black with age, and
a frontispiece showing the hero with his


MARJORY TREWELLIAN. 171
grave countenance and beard, his tall cap
and goat-skin dress, his musket over one
shoulder and his umbrella over the other,
and recounting his marvellous life in the
quaint old type of Queen Anne : And was
there not that other literary treasure, the
old folio volume of Captain Cook's, Commo-
dore Anson's, and other seafaring worthies'
voyages round or up and down the world,
with no end of careful old copperplates,
showing Pacific islands, curious volcanoes,
flotillas of armed canoes, thick-lipped mis-
creants with rings in their noses and birds'
tails enlivening their foreheads, and long
processions of official people, priests, &c.,
with a small white pocket-handkerchief each
by way of dress % But better far than these,
which together with her Bible and Prayer-
Book, constituted Marjory's library, was that
good creature's inexhaustible collection of
fairy tales, received traditionally and re-
counted vivá voce, and prefaced with the
rhyme which even at this distance recals me


172 THE WYWERN MYSTERY.
to the nursery fireside with the far-off tones
of a kindly voice that I shall hear no
In Ol’e.
“Once upon a time there was a king and a queen,
As many have been,
But few I have seen,
Except in pictures ’’
And starting with this little trumpeting
and summons to attention—the “oyes-oyes-
oyes” and immutable prelude of an ever-
varying sequel, good Marjory, the herald of
ever new wonders, would tell her tale of
dwarfs and castles, of godmother fairies, and
malignant enchantresses, broken - hearted
princes and persecuted princesses, and en-
chanted palaces and awful forests, till the
hour came for the little fellow to get to his
bed and enter the no less wonderful land of
dreams.
Another person who contributed to the
regular entertainment of the boy was Tom
Orange.
Tom Orange called at the cottage some-


MARJORY TREWELLIAN. 173
times at intervals of three months, sometimes,
for perhaps half a year, on the first of every
month, and was always made welcome by
Marjory Trevellian, and feasted with rashers
and whatever else her humble larder afforded,
and on going had established a mysterious
right to a shilling “tip,” which he always made
it a point should be an honourable secret
among them.
What might be the nature of his business
the little boy neither knew nor cared, but
Tom Orange was in the boy's eyes the ideal
and epitome of all that was enchanting,
brilliant, and exhilarating.
Tom was somewhat long and lean, with a
face also long and always smiling, except
when it was making a grimace, an art in
which he excelled almost every other black-
guard I have heard of His clothes and hat
were seedy, and, for so merry a person, he
was wonderfully poor.
Tom Orange's accomplishments were in-
finite, he could dance a hornpipe with all the


174: THE WYWERN MYSTERY.
well-known airs and graces of a sailor; he
could protrude his mouth till it assumed a
shape quite unknown to physiognomists, and
with a delicate finger, turning his eyelids inside
out, make the pupils of those organs quiver
strangely, while he uttered a sound like the
call of a jackdaw. He could sing a variety
of comic songs, with refrains delivered with
a volubility which distanced admiration, and
made his very audience breathless, and some
of these were relieved with occasional dialogue
of matchless character and humour. He
could swallow any number of pennies you
pleased, and take them all out at different
angles of his body; he could put several
potatoes under his hat, and withdraw them
all without touching either the hat or the
potatoes. He could keep three balls always
in the air together, and he could balance two
chairs upon his chin.
In short, as I have said, his accomplish-
ments were innumerable and extraordinary,
and the only wonder was how so universal a


MARJORY TREVELLIAN. 175
genius could possibly possess so few shillings
and so many seedy articles of dress.
Tom Orange, too, was great at skittles,
and gave his pupil wonderful new lights.
He taught him also how to guard, stop,
and strike according to the principles of “the
noble art of self-defence.” In fact, it would
have been difficult to discover a more
fascinating companion and instructor of youth.
Possibly it was as well, however, that his
visits were so far between, and as brief as
fortune ordained them to be. It was no
wonder, however, that these visits were
looked for by the boy, as the return of the
life and excitement of an annual fair might
have been by the ingenuous youth of some
other rural district.
There was but one point on which Mar-
jory was obliged to impose a prohibition
upon the child. It seemed a trifle, but in
reality was a gigantic privation.
“No, darling, you mustn't talk to any
other boys, nor play with them, nor go near


176 THE WYWERN MYSTERY.
them; if you do you'll be took away by your
friends, and I’ll never see you again; and
what will poor Granny do then without her
darling 2*
And Granny's eyes filled with tears, and
the boy cried and hugged her passionately,
and this little agony gave place to wild
affection and a glow of unspeakable delight
and happiness, and was celebrated by a hot
cake that evening, and new-laid eggs and a
great tea, and stories to no end.
And she found her darling that night
crying in his sleep, and was sure he was
dreaming of leaving the old cottage, and she
wakened him with kisses, herself crying.
So these two persons, notwithstanding
some disparity of years, were wonderfully
happy in one another's society, and if they
had each their will, would have fixed things
as they were, and neither grown older nor
younger, but just gone on living so for ever.


CHAPTER XIV.
THE ENCHANTED GARDEN.
MARJORY TREVELLIAN was what is ac-
counted among her class “a good scholar,”
and she had taught the little boy to read and
write, to “say his tables,” and to “cypher,”
as she termed the initiatory arithmetical
exercises.
It was plain, however, that the boy was
not abandoned to chance, but that an eye
was upon him, and some friendly, if not con-
scientious direction, controlling his destiny.
In one of his visits Tom Orange handed
her a letter, written in the same neat clerk’s
hand in which the short memorandum that
accompanied each remittance was penned.
Having read the letter she was thoughtful.
When Tom had gone away, she said—
WOL. III. N


178 THE WYWERN MYSTERY.
“You are to be taught like a gentleman,
as you are, my darling, and you're not to be
sent to school for three or four years, and in
the meantime Mr. Wharton—he's a kind,
good gentleman—is to teach you for two
hours every evening after the school is over.
You know his house. It is about a mile
away from this ; just half-way on the road
to the grammar school.”
“But I’m to live at home, Granny, all the
same 4” inquired the boy in great trepida-
tion.
“Lord love it, to be sure he is,” she ans-
wered, beaming on him with great affection.
“Only two hours, and every one likes Mr.
Wharton, and I’m desired to go to his house
to take his orders, to-morrow.”
So she did, and the new order of things
was established with very little disturbance
of the old.
The narrow road which the boy every
afternoon passed to and from Doctor Whar-
ton's house makes, about half-way, a sudden


THE ENCHANTED GARDEN. 179
curve. It is a wooded road, not without
little ups and downs, and formidable ruts,
and blocks of worn old stone, so large as to
shock all the rules of modern road-making.
Upon this curve, so as nearly to front the
boy's line of march, is a very old fruit garden,
with a discoloured ivy-grown wall, on which
are growing moss and house-leek, and here
and there tufts of grass and wall-flower.
Over the wall are seen ancient standard
plum and cherry and pear-trees, and beyond
them the upper windows, and the steep, grey
roof, and slender chimneys of a house as
much out of date as the garden.
In the garden-wall is a tall door with worn
fluted pilasters corresponding in antiquity
with the rest of the building and its belong-
ings. This stone framework has an iron
door, oldfashioned and fancifully wrought
into arabesques of spikes, leaves, and stars,
facing the quiet road, and within this a
strong wooden door.
Fruit-trees are, of course, always inter-

N 2


180 THE WYWERN MYSTERY.
esting to boys, but quite another interest
mingled in the feeling with which little
Willie viewed such glimpses of the old
grey house and its background of dark and
towering timber as his approach afforded, and
he often wished, as he passed, that a hole in
the wall might afford him a peep into the
old garden and a glimpse of its owners. He
sometimes heard their voices.
A clear, childish laugh he had heard more
than once, from among the tall fruit-trees
and climbing roses that over-topped the wall,
and a sweet female voice also faintly prattling
with the child.
One evening, as he returned from Doctor
Wharton's, with his books buckled in his
strap swinging from his hand, having slack-
ened his pace as usual when he found himself
under the garden wall, to his infinite delight
the inner wooden door, which had always
obstructed his curiosity, was open. The outer
gate of iron rails and foliage was locked, but
through its bars he could See at last the


THE ENCHANTED GARDEN. 181
garden. Its trees were old and overgrown.
It was wonderfully dark, with roses and other
flowers glowing here and there, and one
straight walk leading up to the house, and
continuing the line of the narrow bridge
which, at the iron door, crossed what seemed
a sort of moat, whose banks were overgrown
with docks and nettles. He could see part
of the steps leading up to the door of the
house, and a portion of one of its windows.
The rest was concealed by the thick foliage,
and the effect of this little glimpse was in-
creased by the deep shadow of the fore-
ground.
It was not very far from sunset, and the
Small birds were already singing among the
boughs, and the deep shadow—the antique
and neglected air and the silence of the
place—gave it in his romantic eyes, a
character of monastic mystery and enchant-
ment.
As he gazed straight up the dark walk
towards the house, suddenly a man turned


182 THE WYWERN MYSTERY.
the corner of the yew hedge that met the
bridge's parapet close to him, and walking
straight up to the door, with a gruff look at
the little boy, shut and locked the wooden
door in his face.
So all was gone for the present. He knew
there was no good in looking through the
key-hole, for envious fortune had hung a
spray of sweetbriar so as effectually to inter-
cept the view, and nothing remained but the
dingy chocolate-coloured planks before him,
and the foliage and roses trembling over the
old wall.
Many a time again he passed and re-passed
the door without a like good hap.
At length, however, one evening he found
the envious wooden door once more open,
and the view again disclosed through the
iron bars.
A very pretty little girl, with golden hair,
was standing on tip-toe near, and with all
her soul was striving to reach an apple with
a stick which she held in her tiny fingers.


THE ENCHANTED GARDEN. 183
Seeing him she fixed her large eyes on
him, and said, with an air of command—
“Come, and climb up the tree and get me
that apple.” -
His heart beat quick—there was nothing
he liked better.
“But I can't get in,” he said, blushing;
“ the door is locked.”
“Oh I’ll call mamma—she’ll let you in.
Don't you know mamma 2 °
“No, I never saw her,” answered the boy.
“Wait there, and I’ll fetch her.”
And so she was gone.
The first flutter of his excitement was
hardly over when he heard steps and voices
near, and the little girl returned, holding the
hand of a slight, pale lady, with a very pretty
face, dressed all in black. She had the key
in her hand, and smiled gently on the little
boy as she approached. Her face was kind,
and at once he trusted her.
“Oh ! he has left the inner door open
again,” she said, and with a little nod and


184 THE WYWERN MYSTERY.
smile of welcome she opened the door, and
the boy entered the garden.
Both doors were now shut.
“Look up, little boy,” said the lady in
black, with a very sweet voice.
She liked his face. He was a very hand-
some little fellow, and with an expression
earnest, shy, and bright, and the indescribable
character of refinement too in his face. She
smiled more kindly still, and placing just the
tip of her finger under his chin she said—
“You are a gentleman's son, and you are
nicely dressed. What is your name 2"
“My papa's name is Mr. Henry,” he ans-
wered.
“And where do you go to school 2"
“I don't go to school. I say lessons to
Mr. Wharton—about half a mile from this.”
“It is great fun, I suppose, playing with
the little boys—cricket, and all that ?”
“I’m not allowed to play with the little
boys.”
“Who forbids you?”


THE ENCHANTED GARDEN. 185
“My friends won't allow me.”
“Who are your friends?”
“I never saw them.”
“Really land don't you live with your
papa 3 °
“No, I live with Marjory.”
“Do you mean with your mamma 2"
“Oh, no. She died a long time ago.”
“And is your papa rich—why aren't you
with him 4 °
“He was rich, granny says, but he grew
poor.”
“And where is he now 4°
“I don't know. I'm to go to school,” he
said, acquiring confidence the more he looked
in that sweet face. “My friends will send
me, in three years, granny says.”
“You are a very nice little boy, and I’m
sure a good little fellow. We'll have tea in
a few minutes—you must stay and drink tea
with us.”
The little fellow held his straw hat in his
hand, and was looking up in the face of the


186 THE WYWERN MYSTERY.
lady, whose slender fingers were laid almost
caressingly on his rich brown hair as she
looked down smiling, with eyes in which
“the water stood.” Perhaps these forlorn
childhoods had a peculiar interest for her.
“And it is very polite of you taking off
your hat to a lady, but put it on again, for
I’m not a bit better than you; and I’ll go
and tell them to get tea now. Dulcibella,”
she called. “Dulcibella, this little friend is
coming to drink tea with us, and Amy and
he will play here till it comes, and don't
mind getting up, sit quiet and rest yourself.”
And she signed with her hand, smiling, to
repress her attempt to rise.
“Well, darling, play in sight o' me, till
your mamma comes back,” said the rheu-
matic old woman, addressing the little girl;
“and ye mustn't be pulling at that great
rolling-stone; ye can't move it, and ye may
break your pretty back trying.”
With these and similar injunctions the
children were abandoned to their play.


THE ENCHANTED GARDEN. 187
He found this pretty young lady imperious,
but it was pleasant to be so commanded, and
the little boy climbed trees to gather her
favourite apples, and climbed the garden wall
to pluck a bit of wallflower, and at last she
said—
“Now, we'll play ninepins. There's the
box, set them up on the walk. Yes, that's
right; you have played; who taught you?”
“Granny.”
“Has Granny ninepins ?”
“Yes, ever so much bigger than these.”
“Really So Granny is rich, then { *
“I think so.”
“As rich as mamma 2 °
“Her garden isn't so big.”
“Begin, do you; ah, ha! you've hit one,
and who plays best ?”
“Tom Orange does; does your mamma
know Tom Orange 2"
“I dare say she does. Dulcibella, does
mamma know Tom Orange 2"
“No, my dear.”


188 THE WYNERN MYSTERY.
“No, she doesn't,” echoed the little girl,
“who is he 4”
What, not know Tom Orangel How could
that be 2 So he narrated on that brilliant
theme.
“Tom Orange must come to tea with
mamma, I’ll tell her to ask him,” decided the
young lady.
So these little wiseacres pursued their
game, and then had their tea, and in about
an hour the little boy found himself trudging
home, with a sudden misgiving, for the first
time, as to the propriety of his having made
these acquaintances without Granny's leave.
The kind voice, the beloved smile of Granny
received him before the cottage door.
“Welcome, darlin', and where was my
darlin', and what kept him from his old
Granny ?”
So they hugged and kissed, and then he
related all that had happened, and asked
“was it any harm, Granny ?”
“Not a bit, darlin', that's a good lady, and


THE ENCHANTED GARDEN. 189
a grand lady, and a fit companion for ye, and
see how she knew the gentle blood in your
pretty face; and ye may go, as she has asked
you, to-morrow evening again, and as often
as she asks ye; for it was only the little
fellows that's going about without edication
or manners, that your friends, and who can
blame them, doesn't like ye to keep company
with—and who'd blame them, seeing they're
seldom out of mischief, and that's the begin-
ning o' wickedness, and you're going, but
oh darlin', not for three long years, thank
God, to a grand school where there's none
but the best.”
So this chance acquaintance grew, and the
lady seemed to take every week a deeper
interest in the fine little boy, so sensitive,
generous, and intelligent, and he very often
drank tea with his new friends.


CHAPTER XV.
AN OLD FRIEND.
I AM going now to describe the occurrences
of a particular evening on which my young
friend drank tea at Stanlake Farm, which
was the name of the house with the old
garden to which I have introduced the
reader.
A light shower had driven the party in
from the garden, and so the boy and Amy
were at their ninepins in the great hall,
when, the door being open, a gentleman
rode up and dismounted, placing the bridle
in the hand of a groom who accompanied him.
A tall man he was, with whiskers and hair
dashed with white, and a slight stoop. He
strode into the hall, his hat on, and a whip
still in his hand.


AN OLD FRIEND. 191
“Hollo! So there you are—and how is
your ladyship 7" said he. “Skittles, by the
law Brayvo Two down, by Jove I’d
rather that young man took you in hand
than I. And tell me—where's Ally 4”
“Mamma's in the drawing-room,” said the
young lady, scarcely regarding his presence.
“Now play, it's your turn,” she said, ad-
dressing her companion.
The new arrival looked at the boy and
paused till he threw the ball.
“That's devilish good too,” said the stranger
—“very near the nine. Eh! But a miss is as
good as a mile ; and I don’t think he's quite
as good as you—and she's in the drawing-
room; which is the drawing-room ' ".
“Don’t you know the drawing-room
Well, there it is,” and the young lady
indicated it with her finger. “My turn
now.”
And while the game was pursued in the
hall, the visitor pushed open the drawing-
room door and entered.
º


192 THE WYWERN MYSTERY.
“And how is Miss Ally "
“Oh, Harryl Really '''
“Myself as large as life. You don't look
half pleased, Ally. But I have nout but
good news for you to-day. You're some-
thing richer this week than you were last.”
“What is it, Harry 4 Tell me what you
mean : ”
“So I will. You know that charge on
Carwell—a hundred and forty pounds a year
—well, that's dropped in. That old witch
is dead—ye might 'a seen it in the news-
paper, if you take in one—Bertha Welder-
kaust. No love lost between ye. Eh 2"
“Oh, Harry ! Harry I don’t,” said poor
Alice, pale, and looking intensely pained.
“Well, I won't then ; I didn’t think
'twould vex you. Only you know what a
head devil that was—and she's dead in the
old place, Hoxton. I read the inquest in
the Times. She was always drinkin’. I
think she was a bit mad. She and the
people in the back room were always quar-


AN OLD FRIEND. 193
relling; and the father's up for that and
forgery. But ’twasn't clear how it came
about. Some swore she was out of her mind
with drink, and pitched herself out ’o the
window ; and some thought it might 'a bin
that chap as went in to rob her, thinkin' she
was stupid ; and so there was a tussle for't—
she was main strong, ye know—and he
chucked her out. Anyhow she got it awful,
for she fell across the spikes of the area-
rails, and she hung on them with three
lodged in her side—the mad dog-fox, she
was ”
“Oh, Harry How shocking ! Oh! pray
don't l” exclaimed Alice, who looked as if
she was going to faint.
“Well, she lay there, without breath
enough to screech, twistin' like a worm—for
three hours, it's thought.”
“Oh Harry—pray don't describe it;
don't, I implore. I feel so ill.”
“Well, I won't, if you say so, only she's
smashed, and cold in her wooden surtout;
WOL. III. O


194 THE WYWERN MYSTERY.
and her charge is reverted to you, now ; and
I thought I'd tell ye.”
“Thank you, Harry,” she said very
faintly.
“And when did you come here ! I only
heard this morning,” asked Harry.
“Five weeks ago.”
“Do you like it ; ain't it plaguy lone-
some 4”
“I like the quiet—at least for a time,”
she answered.
“And I’m thinkin' o' gettin' married—
upon my soul I am. What do you think o'
that ?”
“Really l’’
“Sure as you're there, but it won't be
none o' your love-matches.
‘Bring something, lass, along wi' thee,
If thou intend to live wi' me.”
That's my motto. Sweetheart and honey-
bird keeps no house, I’ve heard say. I like
a body that can look after things, and that


AN OLD FRIEND. 195
would rather fund fifty pounds than spend a
hundred.
“A nice wife and a back door
Hath made many a rich man poor,'
as they say ; and besides, I'm not a young
fellow no longer. I'm pushin' sixty, and I
should be wise. And who's the little chap
that's playin' skittles wi' Amy in the hall ?”
“Oh, that's such a nice little boy, His
father's name is Henry, and his mother has
been dead a long time. He lives with a
good old woman named Marjory Trevellian.
What's the matter, Harry Z’’
“Nothing. I beg your pardon. I was
thinkin’ o' something else, and I didn't hear.
Tell me now, and I’ll listen.”
So she repeated her information, and Harry
yawned and stretched his arms.
“‘For want o' company,
Welcome trumpery,’
and I must be goin' now. I wouldn’t mind
drinkin' a glass o' sherry, as you're so
o 2


196 THE WYWERN MYSTERY.
pressing, for I’ve had a stiff ride, and dust's
drouthy.”
So Harry, having completed his visit cha-
racteristically, took his leave, and mounted
his nag and rode away.


CHAPTER XVI.
TOM ORANGE.
LITTLE Miss Amy had a slight cold, and
the next tea-party was put off for a day.
On the evening following Harry's visit at
Stanlake Farm, Marjory Trevellian being at
that time absent in the village to make some
frugal purchases, who should suddenly appear
before the little boy's eyes, as he lifted them
from his fleet upon the pond, but his friend, Tom
Orange, as usual in high and delightful spirits.
Need I say how welcome Tom was ? He
asked in a minute or two for Marjory, and
took her temporary absence with great good-
humour. Tom affected chilliness, and indeed
the evening was a little sharp, and proposed
that they should retire to the cottage, and
sit down there.


198 THE WYWERN MYSTERY.
“How soon do you suppose, youngster, the
old hen will come home.”
“Who 2 °
“Marjory Daw, down the chimney.”
“Oh, Granny ?”
This nickname was the only pleasantry of
Mr. Orange which did not quite please the
boy.
Tom Orange here interpolated his per-
formance of the jackdaw, with his eyelids
turned inside out and the pupils quivering,
which, although it may possibly have resem-
bled the jackdaw of heraldry, was not an
exact portraiture of the bird familiar to us in
natural history; and when this was over he
asked again — “How soon will she be
home 2 °
“She walked down to the town, and I
think she can't be more than about half-way
back again.”
“That's a mile, and three miles an hour
is the best of her paces if she was runnin'
for a pound o' sausages and a new cap.


TOM ORANGE. 199
Heigh ho! and alas and alack-a-day.
No one at home but the maid, and the
maid's gone to church I wrote her a letter
the day before yesterday, and I must read it
again before she comes back. Where does
she keep her letters ?”
“In her work-box on the shelf.”
“This will be it, the wery identical fiddle!”
said Tom Orange, playfully, setting it down
upon the little deal table, and, opening it, he
took out the little sheaf of letters from the
end, and took them one by one to the window,
where he took the liberty of reading them.
I think he was disappointed, for he pitched
them back again into their nook in the little
trunk-shaped box contemptuously.
The boy regarded Tom Orange as a friend
of the family so confidential, and as a man in
all respects so admirable and virtuous, that
nothing appeared more desirable and natural
than that excellent person's giving his atten-
tion to the domestic correspondence.
He popped the box back again in its berth.


200 THE WYWERN MYSTERY.
Then he treated the young gentleman to
Lingo's song with the rag-tag-merry-derry
perrywig and hat-band, &c., and at the con-
clusion of the performance admitted that he
was “dry,” and with a pleasant wink, and
the tip of his finger pushing the end of his
nose a good deal to the left, he asked him
whether he could tell him where Mrs. Trevel-
lian, who would be deeply grieved if she
thought that Tom was detained for a drink
till her return, kept her liquor.
“Yes, I can show you,” said the boy.
“Wait a minute, my guide, my comforter,
and friend,” said Tom Orange; and he ascer-
tained from the door-stone that no one was
inconveniently near.
The boy was getting a tea-cup off the
shelf.
“Never mind sugar, my hero, I'll sweeten
it with a thought of Marjory Daw.”
The boy explained, and led him into the
dark nook by the hall door. Tom Orange,
well pleased, moved almost on tip-toe, and


TOM ORANGE. 201
looked curiously and spoke under his breath,
as he groped in this twilight.
“Here it is,” said the boy, frankly.
“Where 2 ”
“Here.”
“This l’” said Tom, for his friend had un-
covered a crock of water.
Tom Orange glared at him and at
the water with grotesque surprise, and
the bona fides of the boy and the simpli-
city of the situation struck Tom comically,
and, exploding good-humouredly, he sat
down in Marjory's chair and laughed
hilariously.
Having satisfied himself by a confidential
dialogue that Marjory Daw had no private
bottle of comfort anywhere, this agreeable
fellow so far forgot his thirst, that he did not
mind drawing water from the crock, and
talked on a variety of subjects to the young
gentleman. In the course of this conversa-
tion he asked him two topographical ques-
tions. One was—


TOM ORANGE. 203
again this evening, I think, or in the morning
at latest.”
The game was played, but Marjory did
not appear, and Tom Orange, entertaining
his young friend with a ludicrous imitation
of Bill Withershins' knock-knees, took his de-
parture, leaving his delighted companion in
the state which Moore describes as being
usual
“When the lamp that lighted
The traveller at first goes out.”
So, having watched Tom till he was quite
out of sight, he returned to his neglected
navy on the pond, and delivered his admir-
able Crichton's message to Marjory Daw on
her return.


CHAPTER XVII.
THE HOUR AND THE MAN.
SUPPER-TIME came, and Tom Orange did
not return. Darkness closed over the old
cottage, the poplar trees and the town, and
the little boy said his prayers under the
superintendence of worthy Marjory, and went
to his bed.
He was disturbed in his sleep by voices
talking in the room. He could only keep his
eyes open for a little time, and he saw Tom
Orange talking with mammy. He was at
one side of the little table and she at another,
and his head was leaning forward so as to
approach uncomfortably near to the mutton-
fat with a long snuff in the middle. Mammy,
as he indiscriminately called “Granny,” was
sobbing bitterly into her apron, and some-


THE HOUR AND THE MAN. 205
times with streaming eyes, speaking so low
that he could not hear, to Tom Orange.
Interesting as was the scene, slumber stole
him away, and when he next wakened,
Tom was gone, and mammy was sitting on
the bed, crying as if her heart would break.
When he opened his eyes, she said,
“Oh, darlin’ſ darlin'! My man—my own,
2,
own blessed man—my darlin and she
hugged him to her heart.
He remembered transports similar when
two years ago he was very ill of a fever.
“I’m not sick, mammy, indeed; I'm quite
well,” and with these assurances and many
caresses, he again fell asleep.
In the morning his Sunday clothes, to his
wonder, were prepared for him to put on.
The little old faded crimson carpet-bag, which
she had always told him, to the no small con-
tent of his self-importance, was his own, stood
plump and locked on the little table under
the clock. His chair was close beside
mammy's. She had all the delicacies he


206 THE WYWERN MYSTERY.
liked best for his breakfast. There was a
thin little slice of fried bacon, and a new-laid
egg, and a hot cake, and tea—quite a grand
breakfast.
Mammy sat beside him very close. Her
arm was round him. She was very pale.
She tried to smile at his prattle, and her eyes
filled up as often as she looked at him, or
heard him speak.
Now and then he looked wonderingly in
her face, and she tried to smile her old smile
and nodded, and swallowed down some tea
from her cup.
She made belief of eating her breakfast, but
she could not.
When the wondering little man had ended
his breakfast, with her old kind hands she
drew him towards her.
“Sit down on my lap, my precious—my
own man—my beautiful boy—my own angel
bright. Oh, darlin’—darlin’—darlin'!” and
she hugged the boy to her heart, and sobbed
over his shoulder as if her heart was bursting.


THE HOUR AND THE MAN. 207
He remembered that she cried the same
way when the doctor said he was safe and
sure to recover.
“Mammy,” he said, kissing her, “Amy has
birth-days—and I think this is my birth-
day—is it?”
“No, darlin’; no, no,” she sobbed, kissing
him. “No, my darlin', no. Oh, no, 'taint that.”
She got up hastily, and brought him
his little boots that she had cleaned. The
boy put them on, wondering, and she laced
them.
With eyes streaming she took up one of
the little cork boats, which he kept on the
window-stool floating in a wooden bowl.
“You’ll give me one of them, darlin’—to
old mammy—for a keepsake.”
“Oh! yes. Choose a good one—the one
with the gold paper on the pin; that one
sails the best of all.”
“And—and ”—she cried bitterly before
she could go on—“ and this is the little box
I'll put them in,” and she picked them out of


208 THE WYWERN MYSTERY.
the bowl and laid them in a cardboard box,
which she quickly tied round. “And this is
the last day of poor mammy with her bright
only darlin’—for your friends are sending for
you to-day, and Mr. Archdale will be here in
ten minutes, and you're to go with him. Oh,
my precious—the light o' the house—and to
leave me alone.”
The boy stood up, and with a cry, ran and
threw his arms round her, where she stood
near the clock. -
“Oh no, no, no. Oh ! mammy, you
wouldn't ; you couldn't, you couldn't.”
“Oh, darlin', you're breaking my heart.
What can I do 2 °
“Don’t let me go. Oh, mammy, don't. Oh,
you couldn’t, you couldn't.”
“But what can I do, darlin’? Oh, darlin',
what can I do 2°
“I’ll run away, mammy, I'll run away;
and I'll come back when they're gone, and stay
with you.”
“Oh, God Almighty 1" she cried, “here


THE HOUR AND THE MAN. 209
he's coming. I see him coming down the
hazel road.”
“Hide me, mammy ; hide me in the press.
Oh, mammy, mammy, you wouldn't give me
to him l’’
The boy had got into this large old-painted
press, and coiled himself up between two
shelves. There was hardly a moment to
think; and yielding to the instinct of her
desperate affection, and to the child's wild
appeal, she locked the door, and put the key
in her pocket.
She sat down. She was half stunned by
her own audacity. She scarcely knew what
she had done. Before she could recover her-
self, the door darkened, a hand crossed the
hatch and opened it, and ex-Sergeant-Major
Archdale entered the cottage.
In curt military fashion he announced him-
self, and demanded the boy.
She was looking straight in this formidable
man's face, and yet it seemed as if he were
vanishing from before her eyes.
WOL. III. P


THE HOUR AND THE MAN. 211
“He breakfasted with you?” said he, with
a cool nod toward the table.
There was a momentary hesitation, and she
cleared her voice and said—
“Yes.” . .
Archdale rose and placed his fingers on the
teapot.
“That's hot,” said the Sergeant with the
same inflexible dignity.
Marjory was awfully uneasy.
“He can't be far. Which way did he
go 2"
“Out by the door. I can't tell.”
The ex-Sergeant-Major might have believed
her the goddess of truth itself, or might have
thought her the most impudent liar in Eng-
land. You could not have gathered in the
least from his countenance toward which view
his conclusions tended.
The Sergeant's light cold grey eye glided
again round the room, and there was another
silence awfully trying to our good friend
Marjory.

P 2


CHAPTER XVIII.
THE MARCH TO NOULTON FARM.
“I THINK, ma'am, the boy's in the house.
You'd best give him up, for I'll not go without
him. How many rooms have you?”
“Three and a loft, sir.”
The Sergeant stood up.
“I’ll search the house first, ma'am, and if
he's not here I’ll inform the police and have
him in the Hue-and-Cry; and if you have
had anything to do with the boy's deserting,
or had a hand in making away with him any-
how, I’ll have you in gaol and punished. I
must secure the door, and you can leave the
house first, if you like best.”
“Very well, sir,” answered she.
But at this moment came a knocking and
crying from within the press.


214 THE WYWERN MYSTERY.
he saw the stout form of the Sergeant stooped
low, as his blue, smooth fixed countenance
peered narrowly into the dark. After a few
seconds he seemed to discern the figure of the
boy.
“Come, you sir, get out,” said the com-
manding voice of the visitor, as the cane
which he carried in his hand, paid round
with wax-end for some three inches at the
extremity, began switching his little legs
Smartly.
“Oh, sir, for the love of God!” cried Mar-
jory, clinging to his hand, “Oh, sir, he's the
gentlest little creature, and he'll do what-
ever he's bid, and the lovingest child in the
world.”
The boy had got out by this time, and look-
ing wonderingly in the man's face, was un-
consciously, with the wincing of pain, lifting
his leg slightly, for the sting of the cane was
quite new to him.
“If I catch you at that work again I'll give
you five dozen,” said his new acquaintance.


THE MARCH TO NOULTON FARM. 215
“Is this his 2° said he, touching the carpet
bag with his cane.
“Yes, sir, please.”
He took it in his hand, and glanced at the
boy—I think it was in his mind to make him
carry it. But the child was slender, and the
bag, conscientiously packed with everything
that had ever belonged to him, was a trifle too
heavy.
“Anything else ?” demanded the Sergeant-
Major.
“This—this, God bless him.”
It was the little box with the ships.
“And this ; ” and she thrust the griddle
cake, broken across and rolled up in brown
paper, into the boy's pocket.
“And these;” and three apples she had
ready, she thrust after them.
“And oh! my blessed darlin', my darlin',
darlin', darlin’.”
He was lifted up against her heart, folded
fast, and hugging her round the neck, they
kissed and cried and cried and kissed, and at


216 THE WYWERN MYSTERY.
last she let him down ; and the Sergeant-
Major, with the cane under his arm, the
carpet-bag in one hand, and the boy's wrist
firmly held in the other, marched out of the
door.
“That's enough—don't follow, woman,’
said he, after they had gone about twenty
yards on the path ; “and I’ll report you,” he
added with a nod which, with these pleasant
words, she might take as a farewell or not as
2
she pleased.
She stood on the little rising ground by
the hawthorn tree, kissing her hands wildly
after him, with streaming eyes.
“I’ll be sure to see you soon. I’d walk
round the world barefoot to see my pretty
man again,” she kept crying after him; “and
I’ll bring the ninepins, I’ll be sure. Mammy's
comin', my darlin’.”
And the receding figure of the little boy
was turned toward her all it could. He was
gazing over his shoulder, with cheeks stream-
ing with tears, and his little hand waving


218 THE WYWERN MYSTERY.
He let him sob on, and neither snubbed nor
consoled him, but carried his head serene and
high, looking straight before him.
At length the novelty of the scene began
to act upon the volatility of childhood.
As he walked by the Sergeant he began
to prattle, at first timidly, and then more
volubly.
The first instinct of the child is trust. It
was a kind of consolation to the boy to talk
a great deal of his home, and Tom Orange
was of course mentioned with the usual in-
quiry, “Do you know Tom Orange 3"
“Why so?”
Then followed the list of that facetious and
brilliant person's accomplishments.
“And are we to go near a place called
Wyvern or Carwell Grange 3" asked the boy,
whose memory, where his fancy was inte-
rested, was retentive.
“Why so : " again demanded the Sergeant,
looking straight before him.
“Because Tom Orange told me there's the


220 THE WYVERN MYSTERY.
the carpet-bag trudged on in front as the
Sergeant-Major had commanded.
Our little friend, with many a sobbing sigh,
and a great load at his heart, yet was looking
about him.
They were crossing a moor with beautiful
purple heather, such as he had never
seen before. The Sergeant had let go
his wrist. He felt more at his ease every
way.
There were little pools of water here and
there which attracted the boy's attention, and
made him open his box of cork boats and
peep at them. He wondered how they would
sail in these dark little nooks, and at last, one
lying very conveniently, he paused at its
margin, and took out a ship and floated it,
and another, and another. How quickly
seconds fly and minutes.
He was roused by the distant voice of the
Sergeant-Major shouting, “Hollo, you sir,
come here.”
He looked up. The Sergeant was consult-


THE MARCH TO NOULTON FARM. 221
ing his big silver watch as he stood upon a
little eminence of peat.
By the time he reached him the Sergeant
had replaced it, and the two or three seals
and watchkey he sported were dangling at
the end of his chain upon his paunch. The
Sergeant was standing with his heels together
and the point of his cane close to the side of
his boot.
“Come to the front,” said the Sergeant.
“Give up that box,” said he,
The boy placed it in his hand. He
uncovered it, turned over the little navy
with his fingers, and then jerked the
box and its contents over the heath at his
side.
“Don’t pick one of 'em up,” said he.
“Move half a pace to the right,” was his
next order.
His next command was—
“Hold out your hand.”
The boy looked in his face, surprised.
The Sergeant's face looked not a bit


222 THE WYWERN MYSTERY.
angrier or a bit kinder than usual. Per-
fectly serene. -
“Hold out your hand, sir.”
He held it out, and the cane descended
with a whistling cut across his fingers.
Another. The boy's face flushed with pain,
and his deadened hand sunk downward. An
upward blow of the cane across his knuckles
accompanied the command, “Hold it up, sir,”
and a third cut came down.
The Sergeant was strong, and could use his
wrist dexterously.
“Hold out the other ; ” and the same
discipline was repeated.
Mingled with and above the pain which
called up the three great black weals across
the slender fingers of each hand, was the
sense of outrage and cruelty.
The tears sprang to his eyes, and for the
first time in his life he cried passionately
under that double anguish. -
“Walk in front,” said the Sergeant, se-
renely.


THE MARCH TO NOULTON FARM. 223
And squeezing and wringing his trembling
hands together, the still writhing little fellow
marched along the path, with a bitterer sense
of desolation than ever.
The bus was late at Wunning; and a lady
in it, struck by the beauty and sadness of the
little boy's face, said some kind words, and
seemed to take to him, he thought, with a
tenderness that made his heart fuller; and it
was a labour almost too great for him to keep
down the rising sobs and the tears that were
every moment on the point of flowing over.
This good Samaritan bought a bag of what
were called “Ginger-bread nuts”—quite a
little store; which Archdale declined leaving
at the boy's discretion. But I am bound to
say that they were served out to him, from
day to day, with conscientious punctuality by
the Sergeant-Major, who was strictly to be
depended on in all matters of property; and
would not have nibbled at one of those nuts
though his thin lips had watered and not a
soul had been near. He must have possessed


224 THE WYWERN MYSTERY.
a good many valuable military virtues, or he
could not, I presume, have been where he
WaS.
Noulton Farm is a melancholy but not an
ugly place. There are a great many trees
about it. They stand too near the windows.
The house is small and old, and there is a
small garden with a thick high hedge
round it.
The members of the family were few.
Miss Mary Archdale was ill when they
arrived. She was the only child of the ex-
Sergeant, who was a widower ; and the new
inmate of the house heard of her with a
terror founded on his awe of her silent father.
They entered a small parlour, and the boy
sat down in the chair indicated by the Ser-
geant. That person hung his hat on a peg
in the hall, and placed his cane along the
chimney-piece. Then he rang the bell.
The elderly woman who was the female
staff of the kitchen entered. She looked
frightened, as all that household did, in their


THE MARCH TO NOULTON FARM. 225
master's presence, and watched him with an
alarmed eye.
“Where's Miss Mary 3”
“A-spitting blood, sir, please.”
“Bring in supper,” said the Sergeant.
The boy sat in fear at the very corner of
the table. His grief would not let him eat,
and he sipped a cup of tea that was too hot,
and had neither milk nor sugar enough. The
Sergeant snuffed his candle, and put on a
pair of plated spectacles, and looked through
his weekly paper.
While he was so employed there glided
into the room a very slight girl, with large
eyes and a very pale face. Her hair was
brown and rich.
The hand with which she held her shawl
across was very thin ; and in her pale face
and large eyes was a timid and imploring
look that struck the little boy. She looked
at him and he at her silently ; her sad eyes
lingered on his face for a moment, and he felt
that he liked her.
WOL. III. Q


226 THE WYWERN MYSTERY.
She took a chair very softly and sat down
without saying a word.
In a little while the Sergeant laid down his
paper and looked at her. Her large eyes
were raised toward him with timid expecta-
tion, but she did not speak.
“Not well just now 2°
“No, sir.”
“You take the bottle regularly "
“Yes, sir.”
“You’ll be better in the morning belike.”
“I’m sure I shall, sir.”
He lighted a candle that stood on a side-
table, and his dog Bion got up to attend him.
It was a large pug-dog, gambouge-coloured,
with a black nose. The boy often after-
wards wished to play with Bion, and
make his acquaintance. But he did not
know how the attempt would be taken either
by the dog or his master, and so he did not
Venture.
No caresses passed between the dog
and the Sergeant. Each did his duty by


THE MARCH TO NOULTON FARM. 227
the other, and they understood one an-
other, I suppose, but no further signs of love
appeared.
The Sergeant went out and shut the door,
and the girl smiled very sweetly on the little
guest, and put out her hand to welcome
him.
“I’m very glad you are come here. I was
very lonely. My father is gone to the work-
room ; he's making an organ there, and he
won’t come back till a quarter to nine. That's
an hour and three-quarters. Do you hear—
listen.”
She raised her finger and looked toward
the partition as she spoke, and he heard a
booming of an organ through the wall.
“Tony blows the organ for him.”
Tony was a little boy from the workhouse,
who cleaned knives, forks, shoes, and made
himself generally useful, being the second ser-
vant, the only male one in their modest esta-
blishment.
“I wish I was better, I’m so out of breath

Q 2


228 THE WYWERN MYSTERY.
talking. We'll be very happy now. That's
tuning the pipes—that one's wolving. I used
to blow the bellows for him, but the doctor
says I must not, and indeed I couldn't
now. You must eat something and drink
more tea, and we'll be great friends, shan’t
We 2 °
So they talked a great deal, she being
obliged to stop often for breath, and he could
see that she was very weak, and also that she
stood in indescribable awe of her father.
But she said, “He’s a very good man, and he
works very hard to earn his money, but he
does not talk, and that makes people afraid
of him. He won't be back here until he
comes here to read the Bible and prayers at
a quarter to nine.”
So she talked on, but all the time in an
undertone, and listening every now and then
for the boom of the pipes, and the little boy
opened his heart to her and wept bitterly, and
she cried too, silently, as he went on, and
they became very near friends. She looked


THE MARCH TO NOULTON FARM. 229
as if she understood his griefs. Perhaps her
own resembled them.
The old woman came in and took away
the tea things, and shortly after the Ser-
geant entered and read the chapter and the
prayers.


CHAPTER XIX.
A SILENT FAREWELL.
AT Noulton Farm each day was like its
brother. Inflexible hours, inflexible duties,
all proceeded with a regimental punctuality.
At meals not a word was spoken, and while
the master of the house was in it, all conver-
sation was carried on, even in remote rooms,
in an undertone.
Our little friend used to see the workhouse
boy at prayers, morning and evening, and
occasionally to pass his pale disquieted face
on the stairs or lobbies when his duties
brought him there. They eyed one another
wistfully, but dared not speak. Mr. Archdale
had so ordained it.
That workhouse boy—perhaps he was in-
efficient, perhaps too much was expected from


Q&A TRE, w" sex MYSTERY.
stern man took the paper, and said in his
cold terrible tones-
“You’ve read that ?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And understand it !”
“Yes, sir.”
“If I find you speaking to Thomas Orange
I'll tie you up in the workshop, and give
you five dozen.” And with this promise he
serenely left him. -
Children are unsuspicious of death, and our
little friend, who every night used to cry in
his bed silently, with a bursting heart, think-
ing of his mammy and old happy times, till
he fell asleep in the dark, never dreamed that
his poor friend Mary was dying—she, per-
haps, herself did not think so any more than
he, but every one else said it. -
They two grew to be great friends. Each
had a secret, and she trusted hers to the
little friend whom God had sent her.
It was the old story—the troubled course
of true love. Willie Fairlace was the hero.


236 THE WYWERN MYSTERY.
open window through the trees and down the
fragrant field toward the sunset sky, filling
the air with grand and melancholy harmony,
she would listen to that whispered message of
the boy's, looking far away, and weeping,
and holding the little fellow's hand, and
asking him to say it over again, and telling
him she felt better, and thanking him, and
Smiling and crying bitterly.
One evening the Sergeant was at his
organ-pipes as usual. The boy as he stood
in the garden at his task, watering the
parched beds, heard a familiar laugh at the
hedge, and the well-known refrain—
“Tag-rag-merry-derry-perrywig and hatband-hic-hoc-
horum-genetivo l’’
It was Tom Orange himself!
In spite of his danger the boy was de-
lighted. He ran to the hedge, and he and
Tom, in a moment more, were actually
talking.
It became soon a very serious conversation.
The distant booming of the organ-pipes


238 THE WYWERN MYSTERY.
“And all my ships were lost on the moor;
and how is little Toozie the cat 2 °
“Wery well; blooming—blushing.”
“And, Tom, you are quite well ?”
“Never better, as I lately told Squire
Harry Fairfield; and mind ye, I'll be even
yet with the old boy in there,” and he indi-
cated the house with a jerk of his thumb.
“I don't hear the organ, Tom. Good-bye.”
And Tom was off in a moment, and the
boy had resumed his watering-pot. And that
evening he sat down with, for the first time, .
a tremendous secret at his heart. -
There was one grief even in the hope of
his liberation. When he looked at poor
Mary, and thought how lonely she would be.
Oh! if poor Mary could come with him
But some time or other he and Tom would
come and take her away, and she would live
with him and mammy, and be one of that
happy family.
She did not know what thoughts were
in the boy's mind as his sad earnest eyes


A SILENT FAREWELL. 239
were fixed on her, and she smiled with a
little languid nod.
But he need not have grieved his gentle
heart on this account. There was not to
be a seeming desertion of his friend; nor
anything she could mistake for a treacherous
slight.
That morning, at two o'clock, Mary died.
About ten minutes before an alarm from
the old servant who slept in the room called
up her father.
Her faithful little friend was on his knees
sobbing beside the bed, with her wasted hand
in his, as the Sergeant-Major, hastily dressed,
walked in, and stood by the curtain looking
down into those large deep eyes. She was
conscious, though she could not speak. She
saw, as she looked up her last look, a few
sullen drops gather in those proud eyes, and
roll down his cheeks. Perhaps the sad, won-
dering look with which she returned these
signs of tenderness, smote him, and haunted
him afterwards. There was a little motion


240 THE WYWERN MYSTERY.
in her right hand as if she would have liked
him to take it—in sign of reconciliation—
and with those faint tokens of the love that
might have been, the change of death came,
and the troubled little heart was still, and
the image of Willie Fairlace was lost in the
great darkness.
Then the little boy cried aloud wildly—
“Oh! Mary, pretty Mary. Oh! Mary,
are you dead? Oh! isn't it a pity; isn't it
a pity! Oh! is she dead?”
The Sergeant dried his eyes hastily. He
hoped, I dare say, that no one had seen his
momentary weakness. He drew a long
breath. With a stern face he closed the
pretty eyes that Willie Fairlace, far away
now, will never forget; and closed the little
mouth that never will complain, or sigh, or
confess its sad tale more.
“You had better get to your room, boy.
Get to your bed,” said the Sergeant, not un-
gently laying his hand on the boy's shoulder.
“You’ll take cold. Give him a candle.”


242 THE WYWERN MYSTERY.
Neither counsel nor encouragement to be
heard; nothing but the song of the small
birds among the leaves, and the late flowers,
Soon to close, peeping from among the garden
plants, and the long quiet shadows of the
poplars that stood so tall and still against the
western sky.
The boy came in and had his lonely cup
of tea in the “parlour,” and a little talk with
the somewhat sour and sad old servant. He
was longing for the night. Yearning to see
Tom's friendly face and to end his suspense.
At last the twilight was gone. The night
had indeed come, and the moon shone serenely
over the old gray roof and the solemn trees;
over the dead and the living. -
The boy lay down in his bed at the accus-
tomed early hour. The old woman had taken
away his candle and shut the door. He lay
with his eyes wide open listening with a
palpitating heart for every sound.
The inflexible regularity which the absent
master had established in his household was in


THE MARCH BY NIGHT. 243
the boy's favour. He heard the servant shut
and bar the outer door at the wonted hour.
He saw the boy's candle in his window for
a while and then put out. Tony was in his
bed, and for tired Tony to lie down was ge-
nerally to be asleep.
Peeping stealthily from his lattice he saw
the old servant's candle glimmering redly
through the window on the juniper that stood
near the wall in the shadow ; and soon that
light also disappeared, and he knew that the
old woman had gone into her room. It was
half-past ten. She would be asleep in a
quarter of an hour, and in another fifteen
minutes his critical adventure would have
commenced.
Stealthily, breathlessly, he dressed. His
window looked toward the Ozier trees, where
Tom was to await him. It opened, lattice
fashion, with a hinge.
Happily the night was still, and the process
of preparing to descend perfectly noiseless.
The piece of old rope that lay in the corner
R 2


246 THE WYWERN MYSTERY.
now. You have got over seven altogether
up to this. Not so bad. You're not tired,
youngster ?”
“Not the least.”
“That's right. You're a good soldier.
Now come, we'll stand close under this hedge
and eat a bit.”
They supped very heartily on great slices
of bread and corned beef, which bore ample
traces of the greens in which it had been
served when hot.
“And now, boy, you must get on to
Hatherton by yourself, for I’m known about
here, and there's a fair there in the morning,
and there will be people on the way before
light. You must go a mile beyond the town,
to the George public. Mrs. Gumford keeps
it, and there I'll meet you.” Then he
detailed the route and the landmarks for the
boy's guidance. “Take a drink of this,”
said, he, pulling a soda-water bottle full of
milk out of his coat pocket.
And when he had done—


THE MARCH BY NIGHT. 247
“Take a mouthful of this, my hero, it will
keep you warm.”
And he placed a flask of brandy to the
boy's lips, and made him swallow a little.
“And here's a bit more bread, if you
should be hungry. Good night, and re-
member.”
After about an hour's solitary walking, the
boy began to grow alarmed. Tom's land-
marks failed him, and he began to fear that
he had lost his way. In half an hour more
he was sure that he was quite out of his
reckoning, and as his spirits sank he began
to feel the cold wind and drenching rain
more and more.
And now he found himself entering a town
not at all answering Tom's description of
Hatherton.
The little town was silent, its doors and
windows shut, and all except a few old-
fashioned oil-lamps dark.
After walking listlessly about—afraid to
knock and ask anywhere for shelter—worn


248 THE WYWERN MYSTERY.
out, he sat down on a door-step. He leaned
back and soon fell fast asleep.
A shake by the shoulder roused him. A
policeman was stooping over him. -
“I say, get up out o' that,” said the im-
perious voice of the policeman.
The boy was not half awake; he stared at
him, his big face and leather-bound chimney-
pot looked like a dream.
“I say,” he continued, shaking him, but
not violently, “you must get up out o' that.
You're not to be making yourself comfortable
there all night. Come, be lively.”
Comfortable ! Lively –-all comparative—
all a question of degrees.
The boy got up as quickly as the cold and
stiffness of his joints would let him.
Very dutifully he got up, and stood
drenched, pale, and shivering in the moon-
light.
The policeman looked down not unkindly
now, at the little wayfarer. There was some-
thing piteous, I dare say. He looked a grave,


THE MARCH BY NIGHT. 249
thoughtful man, of more than fifty, and he
put his hand on the child's shoulder.
“Ye see, boy, that was no place to sleep
22
in.
“No, sir, I’ll never do it again, sir, please.”
“You’re cold ; you'd get pains in your
bones.”
“I’ll not any more, sir, please.”
“Come with me, my boy, it's only a step.”
He brought the boy into his house down
the lane close by.
“There's a fire. You warm yourself.
There's my little one in fever, so you can't
stop long. Sit down, child, and warm your-
self.”
He gave him a drink of hot milk and a
piece of bread.
“You don't get up, you know ; there's no
need,” he added.
I think he was afraid of his pewter spoons.
He kept the little fellow nearly half an hour,
and he lent him an old bottomless sack to
wrap about his shoulders, and charged him


250 THE WYWERN MYSTERY.
to bring it back in the morning. I think the
man thought he might be a thief. He was
a kind man—there was a balancing of great
pity and suspicion.
The boy returned the sack with many
thanks, in the first faint twilight of morning,
and set forth again for Hatherton. It was,
the fellow who directed him said, still five
miles on.
At about a mile from Hatherton, cold and
wet, and fearing to be too early at the George
Inn, the rendezvous agreed on, the tired little
fellow crept in, cold and wet, to a road-side
pot-house.
At the fire of the ale-house three fellows
were drinking beer. Says one who had now
and then had his eye on the boy—
“That boy there has run away from
school.” -
I cannot describe the terror with which the
little fellow heard those words. The other
two looked at him. One was a fat fellow in
breeches and top boots, and a red cloth waist-


THE MARCH BY NIGHT. 251
coat, and a ruddy good-humoured face; and
after a look they returned to their talk; and
in a little while the lean man, who seemed
to find it hard to take his eyes off him, said,
“That's a runaway, that chap ; we ought
to tell the police and send him back to
school.”
“Well, that's no business of ours; can't
you let him be * said the red waistcoat.
“Come here,” said the lean man, beckoning
him over with his hard eye on him.
He rose and slowly approached under that
dreadful command.
I can't say that there was anything male-
volent in that man's face. Somewhat sharp
and stern, with a lean inflexibility of duty.
To the boy at this moment no face could
have been imagined more terrific ; his only
hope was in his fat companion. He turned,
I am sure, an imploring look upon him.
“Come, Irons, let the boy alone, unless ye
mean to quarrel wi' me; d-me ye shall let
him alone ! And get him his breakfast of


THE MARCH BY NIGHT. 253
harmlessly away, as the boy did when he
saw that dreaded man turn away and walk
with measured tread up the street. For a
moment his terror was renewed, for Bion, that
yellow namesake of the philosopher, recog-
nising him, stood against the boy's leg, and
scratched repeatedly, and gave him a shove
with his nose, and whimpered. The boy
turned quickly, and walking away the dog
left him, and ran after his master, and took
his place at his side.


CONCLUSION,
AT the George Inn, a little way out of
Hatherton, the boy, to his inexpressible
delight, at last found Tom Orange.
He told Tom at once of his adventure
at the shop window, and the occurrence
darkened Tom's countenance. He peeped
out and took a long look toward Hatherton.
“Put the horse to the fly and bring
it round at once,” said Tom, who put his
hand in his pocket and drew forth a rather
showy handful of silver.
I don't pretend to say, when Tom was
out of regular employment, from what pur-
suits exactly he drew his revenue. They
had rather improved than otherwise ; but I
dare say there were anxious compensations.
The boy had eaten his breakfast before he


CONCLUSION. 255
reached Hatherton. So much the better ;
for the apparition of the Sergeant-Major
would have left him totally without appe-
tite. As it was, he was in an agony to be
gone, every moment expecting to see him
approach the little inn to arrest him and
Tom.
Tom Orange was uneasy, I am sure, and
very fidgety till the fly came round.
“You know Squire Fairfield of Wyvern ?”
said the hostess, while they were waiting.
“Ay,” said Tom.
“Did you hear the news?”
“What is it !”
“Shot the night before last in a row with
poachers. Gentlemen should leave that sort
o' work to their keepers; but they was
always a fightin' wild lot, them Fairfields;
and he's lyin' now a dead man—all the same
—gave over by Doctor Willett and another
—wi' a whole charge o' duck-shot lodged
under his shoulder.”
“And that's the news?” said Tom, raising


256 THE WYWERN MYSTERY.
his eyes and looking through the door. He
had been looking down on the ground as Mrs.
Gumford of the George told her story.
“There's sharp fellows poachers round
there, I’m told,” he said, “next time he'd
a’ been out himself with the keepers to take
'em dead or alive. I suppose that wouldn't
answer them.”
“'Tis a wicked world, said the lady.
“D—d wicked,” said Tom. “Here's the
fly.”
In they got and drove off.
Tom was gloomy, and very silent.
“Tom, where are we going to ?” asked
the boy at last.
“All right,” said Tom. “All right, my
young master. You'll find it's to none but
good friends. And, say now—Haven't I
been a good friend to you, Master Harry,
all your days, sir? Many a mile that
you know nothing about has Tom Orange
walked on your business, and down to
the cottage and back again; and where


CONCLUSION. 257
would you or her have been if it wasn't for
poor Tom Orange 3"
“Yes, indeed, Tom, and I love you,
Tom.”
“And now, I’ve took you away from that
fellow, and I’m told I’m likely to be hanged
for it. Well, no matter.”
“Oh, Tom ; poor Tom Oh! no, no, no!”
and he threw his arms round Tom's neck in
a paroxysm of agonised affection, and, in spite
of the jolting, kissed Tom ; sometimes on the
cheek, on the eyebrow, on the chin, and in a
great jolt violently on the rim of his hat,
and it rolled over his shoulder under their
feet.
“Well, that is gratifyin',” said Tom, drying
his eyes. “There is some reward for pren-
ciple after all, and if you come to be a great
man some o’ these days, you'll not forget
poor Tom Orange, that would have spent
his last bob and spilt his heart's blood,
without fee or reward, in your service.”
Another explosion of friendship from the
VOL. III. S


260 www.wywºn Mystery.
Welderkaust, he was justified in holding
that his nephew had no legal right to
succeed.
The second was, that he had resolved,
although he might have wavered lately a
little, never to marry, and to educate the boy
better than ever he was educated himself,
and finally to make him heir to Wyvern,
pretending him to be an illegitimate son of
his own.
Whether the sergeant-Major knew more
than he was ordered or undertook to know,
he never gave the smallest ground to con-
jecture. He stated exactly what had passed
between him and Harry Fairfield. By him
he was told that the child which was con-
veyed to Marjory Trevellian's care was his
own unacknowledged son.
On the very same evening, and when old
Mildred Tarnley was in the house at Twy-
ford, was a child taken, with the seeds of
consumption already active in it, from a
workhouse in another part of England and
|


CONCLUSION. 261
placed there as the son of Charles Fairfield
and Alice. It was when, contrary to all
assurances, this child appeared for a few
days to rally, and the situation conse-
quent on its growing up the reputed
heir to Wyvern alarmed Harry, that he
went over, in his panic, to the Grange, and
there opened his case, that the child at
Twyford was a changeling, and not his
brother's son.
When, however, the child began to sink,
and its approaching death could no longer
be doubtful, he became, as we have seen,
once more quite clear that the baby was the
same which he had taken away from Carwell
Grange.
Dr. Willett's seeing the child so often at
Twyford, also prevented suspicion, though
illogically enough, for had they reflected
they might easily have remembered that
the doctor had hardly seen the child
twice after its birth while at the Grange,
and that, like every one else, he took


- -
264. THE wyvern MYSTERY.
ing, and some dramatic buffooneries, and
excellent devilled kidneys and brandy.
Marjory Trevellian lives with the family
at Wyvern, and I think if kind old Lady
Wyndale were still living the consolations of
Alice would be nearly full.
END OF WOL. III.
* -
BRADBURY, Evans, AND Co., PRINTERs, whitefriars.