THE
THOMAS COOPER
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THE
FAMILY FEUD
by
THOMAS COOPER
AUTHOR OF "ALDERMAN RALPH
LONDON
GEORGE ROUTLEDGE AND SONS, Limited
broadway, ludgate hill
manchester and new york
1892
Extract from "The Life of Thomas Cooper (page 336).
'« rT)Y Novel ('Alderman Ralph') was put into the hands
^ of Messrs. Routledge, and they received it and
published it in 1853. Their reception of 'Alderman
Ralph' made me resolve to compose another novel; and
in this new novel I embodied some part of the story of
my former Chartist novel, but burnt the Chartist part of
it. I suppose about a third of the new novel was composed
of my older one. I gave my new novel into the hands of
Messrs. Routledge, having first entitled it ' Cain Colton;
or the History of the Great Family Feud of the Uphams
and the Downhams.' But when they made up their
minds to publish it they determined to style it simply
'The Family Feud.' They brought out this novel in
the beginning of 1855, and gave me £100 for 'Alderman
Ralph,' and the like sum for ' The Family Feud.'
 Not long after the publication 6f the ' The Family
Feud,' I commenced another novel, which I purposed
calling ' The Wharfdale Beauty,' but events put a stop
to my novel writing, and I have never resumed it and
never shall.
"THE FAMILY FEUD.
From the ATHEN/EUM, March 10th, 1855.—♦'This little
book is, for its freshness, vigour and variety, worth any half-dozen of
the novels which come into the world with all the honours of binding
and typography. The story is anything but probable, but there are
such life-like descriptions and the incidents are so romantic, that the
reader is carried on to the end without delaying to criticise.
THE AUTHOR TO THE READER.
Consider, dear reader,—and fearing that thou mayest, unhappily, regard
consideration as an irksome employment, I address thee affectionately,—
consider, I say, how wondrously various are the modes, not only of pre-
paring food for the stomach, among the French cooks, but of preparing
food for the brain, by the literary cooks of all civilized nations! Consider
the vast subject but in one department of mental cookery,—that of writing
history.
You may make it tell weighty truth, even in fables, like dear old
Herodotus ; or without fable, and in sentences as sharp and trenchant as
Damascus blades, like Tacitus. You may make it tell lies to please your-
self, like Hume; or to please your party, and to gravel those to whom you
bear a grudge, like Clarendon or Burnet. You may make it as dry as a
stick, like Echard or Rapin; or use it to dazzle your reader, to play
Will-o'-the-Wisp with him, in order to lead him into the quagmires of
Pyrrhonism, and then grin in his face, like Voltaire. You may write it
eloquently, and after an extensive survey of the facts, like Gibbon; or
magniloquently, and without troubling yourself much about the facts, like
Robertson. You may write it learnedly, and so as to make your reader
think, like Mr. Grote; or ingeniously, and so as to save your reader the
labour of thinking, like Mr. Macaulay. You may make it thunder, and
dash, and sparkle, like Thierry; or flow monotonously, with an occasional
ripple, like Roscoe.
You may write it in a fever, as Lamartine did the "Girondins or in
an ague, as the poor fellow has written the  Restoration. You may
write it in sport; you may write it in earnest. You may write it in
rhyme, like the old English chroniclers; you may write it in reason, as
it is to be hoped it will be written some time. You may write in blank
verse or in bald prose. You may exclude all figures and allusions from it,
as rigidly as if you were setting down every word on your Bible oath; or
you may stuff it with Pantagruelism. You may write it so that it shall
have one meaning for the vulgar, and another for the learned ; one for the
novice, and another for the initiated. You may construct it chrono-
logically, and with a strict regard to time; or anachronically, and with a
confusion of all times. You may dress your actors in the fashion, or give
them garments which your tailor would tell you belonged to the age of
their great-grandfathers and great-grandmothers. You may write your
history in the first person, so as to give it all the intense interest of direct
eye-witness, or autobiography; or you may set it down in the third person,
with modesty for the vehicle, but arrogance in the rider, like the imperial
Veni, Vidi, Vici.
iv
to thk reader.
 But which of the modes is the best ? does the reader ask ? Now,
might disown the obligation to answer ; or I might flatter the reader by
telling him that that is the best which he likes best. But I boldly, and iD
the true catholic spirit, tell him that they are all very well in their way.
Let every historian write according to his native simplicity or guile, plain-
ness or elegance, dulness or wit. Let us have men's hearts and minds on
paper, that we may know what there is in them. If they be good and wise,
the world must be the better for having their treasures thrown abroad in
it; and if they be evil and foolish, their thoughts had better be brought to-
the light, that they may be reproved.
But, to my purpose. Maintaining that all the modes hitherto employed
in writing history are very well in their way, I am, nevertheless, at liberty
to maintain that there is a mode yet to be used, better than any one of
them ; and that is the Mixed Mode, or a mode combining all the excellen-
cies and defects of the modes hitherto employed. Be it known to the
reader, if he have not sagacity enough to make the discovery for himself
that this is the very mode in which I write. In what books, chapters, or
sentences I resemble the labourers, great or little, wise men or fools, who
have gone before me, I need not take the trouble to point out. The critics
will do all that cleverly. They will be sure to discover that I am every-
where like somebody or other. It is a pleasing occupation for them ; and
I will not forestall them in it.
It only remains that, having shown that I work by the Mixed Mode, I
declare my right to be unrestricted as to style. I will not, for instance,
consent to be limited to the uniform use of any one of the forms of speech
which are called First, Second, and Third Person. I appeal to the reader
whether he does not find the First Person a very wearisome fellow, when
used over and over again, either by himself or another : so do I; and shall
therefore escape from the First to the Third Person, when I deem it con-
venient. As for the Second Person, I know not why I should be debarred
the use of it. The critics say it should be shunned by the historian, inas-
much as it brings him too closely into the company of his reader. A dictum
against which I protest, as flowing from the false taste of this artificial and
corrupt age. Is not my book written for the reader ? Why, then, should
I not look him honestly in the face, and say Thee and Thou to him, when I
wish to speak home to him in a friendly way ?
Finally, the privilege I claim for myself I claim for my hero, or for any
other personage in this history. If he, or another, have thought fit,
in the materials they have entrusted to me for the fabrication of this im-
portant work, to speak sometimes in the First Person, and at other times
in the Third—or to couch their thoughts now in a plain style, and then in
more ornate periods,—who shall gainsay it ? None. Or, if I be pledged
to secrecy as to the authorship of some parts of this work—that of the
Second Book, for instance,—will any one suppose me capable of breaking
my pledge ? Let no one deem so lightly of honest
Adam Hornbook.
THE FAMILY FEUD.
BOOK I.
WHICH IS CHIEFLY AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY BY THE HERO OF THIS REMARKABLE
HISTORY; AND WHICH RELATES WHAT HE KNEW OF HIS OWN KNOWLEDGE,
OR LEARNED FROM OTHERS, RESPECTING HIMSELF UP TO HIS TWENTIETH
ykar.
CHAPTER I.
Prologus Major; or, the Author's Greater Prologue, inasmuch as it is fundamental
to the whole History.
The origin of tlie notable enmity between tbe families of Up-
bam and Downbam, like all otber profound questions relative
to tbe springs of human action, remains a mystery. Tbe oldest
inhabitant of Quarrelton only knew that the hostility of the
two families had been kept up for many generations. Who the
first Mr. Upham was, or where he came from, nobody knew;
and the like might be affirmed of the first Mr. Downham. At
the time that this history opens, the writer is simply enabled to
record of the two representatives of these age-long belligerent
families, that Mr. Timothy Upham was the most prosperous
merchant, and Mr. Titus Downham the busiest medical man, in
the township above named,—facts from which an intelligent
reader may deduce the sagacious conclusion, that the venerable
proverb,  Two of a trade can never agree, which throws a
light so glaringly illustrative on many deadly quarrels in this
quarrelsome world, can be of no more use to illumine the quarrel
of Mr. Timothy and Mr. Titus than any old horn lantern.
And whatever might have been the origin of the great quarrel
of these two families, to speak truth, it never interested their
neighbours. A man would have been deemed superfluous, if
the Quarrelton folk had heard him propose an inquiry of that
nature. To them it seemed as natural as the curdling of milk
and vinegar, that the Uphams should contemn the Downhams,
and the Downhams denounce the Uphams. Besides, all the
dwellers in Quarrelton, gentle and simple, were disqualified from
B
2
THE FAMILY FEUD.
exercising a cool retrospect, inasmuch as the great family enmity
was shared by the whole town; and every house in it was either
Upham or Downham in partisanship. Nay, sometimes, a single
tenement became an unenviable camp of combatants for the one
interest and the other.
The entireness with which everybody in the parish, from the
clergyman to the chimney-sweep, took sides was also remark-
able : there was no sneakish moderation shown towards an
opponent; no half-hearted mincing of censure when he was
named. If, in an assembly of the Uphams, the character of a
neighbour were weighed, he was sure to be found wanting if he
were a Downham; and when some story was repeated in a
company of Downhams, and the witness for it was discovered to
be an Upham, it was instantly and without hesitation pro-
nounced to be unworthy of credit.
Nevertheless, and notwithstanding the heat with which the
Quarrelton people asserted their partisanship, it was no strange
accident to see them as hotly, and as suddenly as hotly, change
sides. The state of the quarrel, as to numbers on either aide,
was thus greatly variable: the more prevalent majority was
Upham; but the balance of party strength was sometimes so
completely reversed, that the current saying of the day would
be,  The Uphams are down, and the Downhams are up ! Why
there fell out this frequent and sudden change of sides, it would,
perhaps, be ill-natured as well as difficult to tell: very likely
it grew out of caprice in a few; and it might be sordid self-
interest that turned the many.
The latter and severer part of this censure was most fre-
quently applied by the Downham party to their opponents. Mr.
Timothy Upham, although exceedingly rich, was an egregious
monopolist: at least his foes said so, while they were his foes ;
he was an enormous corn-buyer; he had half a dozen mills for
flour, and two for linseed cake and oil; he had boats on the
water, and waggons on the land; and he had a line of ware-
houses wherein he stored up to sell by retail what he purchased
at wholesale: videlicet — all manner of raw and wrought
articles, from hemp to hatbands, and from logwood to wooden
spoons.
Now, the people of Quarrelton who were on the Downham
side, and while they were on it, vehemently protested against
the monopolies of Mr. Timothy Upham as scandalous, infamous,
unchristian, and tyrannical; on the other hand, those of his
own party, and while they were of it, upheld the name of
Mr. Timothy as that of a public benefactor and a philanthropist,
and as a pattern equally of goodness and of wisdom : the enter-
prising gentleman, they maintained, often provided bread for
THE FAMILY FEUD.
3
tradespeople and their workmen, who would have had to starve
if they had been left to their own enterprise.
For the wealthy Mr. Titus Downham, the claim of public
beneficence was still more stoutly put forth by his partisans,
while they were his : unlike his brethren of the faculty resident
in the same town—not one of whom had been lucky enough to
be born with a fortune, or sharp enough to win one—he never
sent a bill of charges into the house of a poor man or woman ;
and he frequently declined pay when the poor offered it; he
was equally at the call of the poor as of the rich, at any hour of
the day, at any hour of the night, and in all weathers; he was
unwearied in his profession: he was devoted to it, without a
spark of sordid feeling; his very enemies granted all this ; but
they said there was no particular merit in it; it was his hobby,
and he could afford it.
It is scarcely necessary, in the outset, to say more of what
their respective partisans said of Mr. Timothy and Mr. Titus ;
but it may be remarked that Mr. Timothy and Mr. Titus, with
the most gentlemanly conceptions of their own propriety of
behaviour in the great family feud, said extremely little of each
other.
CHAPTER II.
Prologus Minor; or, the Author's Little Prologue, inasmuch as it is spoken to suit
his own convenience, and to introduce his Hero.
Wooden spoons—the courteous reader will please to under-
stand that I will not be bound so to construct the beginning of
each new chapter that it may tie on neatly or fit modishly to
the old one.
Wooden spoons—the gentle reader will please to remember
that they were among the articles which Mr. Timothy Upham
was accustomed to buy at wholesale and sell by retail.
Wooden spoons—how to make 'em, I meant to say, was one
of the useful works which Cain Colton, the hero of this true
history, learnt to do when a lad. His instructor in this art,
craft, and mystery, was one ancient Job Oldstock, a very re-
putable fashioner in that line. For a few years of his youth,
our hero was the pride of Job's heart; he wrought and finished
a spoon in such thorough artistic style, that Job delighted to
look at his workmanship, and boasted that, with such help,
the house of Oldstock would never lose its reputation in the
e 2
4
THE FAMILY FEUD.
wooden-spoon market; but, before Cain Colton had half com-
pleted his teens, he had become a careless and slatternly work-
man, and Job had lost all heart of his amendment: how was
this ?
 ISTay, sir, says the reader,  there is a previous question:
who was Cain Colton ? and a second question: how came he
into the shadow of the wooden-spoon maker ?
It is well that I happen to be in possession of an authentic
piece of autobiography which will enable me to satisfy these
orderly queries. The reader shall have Cain's own account of
his earliest self. I might have placed it first, and so have begun
at the beginning; but I was moved to begin in another way,--
first, that I might please myself by having the first word ; and
secondly, that I might prevent the reader from being pained, at
the outset, by the somewhat grim and torturous recollections of
my hero. I trust I shall have credit with the reader for having
thus demonstrated my tenderness towards him,
CHAPTER III.
In which the Hero's Autobiography is begun.
"Do you know why you are called Cain?"—There is that
old woman, with her fiendish look, putting that hateful and tor-
menting question to me! I see her with my mind's eye as
palpably as I saw her so many years ago, when she made my
childish heart feel, what it had not felt before—the reality of
misfery. But the fiendish face has long ago mouldered into dust:
let me avoid the image of it, and begin my singular life-record
in earnest.
My earliest recollections are of a happy life and a happy
home; and yet that home was so mean that I know not how
any who have passed their days in abundance and polished con-
venience can easily comprehend how I could be happy there:
a thatched clav-built shed, having but two narrow rooms on the
ground floor, the one containing a straw bed, and the other a
rude arm-chair and a couple of logs for seats, with a few shelves
of rough deal fixed against the wall, and an old oak table—such
is the bare picture of my grandfather's dwelling, and my first
home. Though but a bare-legged and bareheaded boy, clad
coarsely at the best, and often in rags, sharing my grandsire's
brown bread and milk morning and evening, and partaking with
him of boiled potatoes and salt at noon, I knew no discontent.
THE FAMILY FEUD.
How should IP I had never heard of luxuries; and a state
which one neither knows of nor imagines one cannot envy.
The perfect liberty of my childhood was, I doubt not, the
largest ingredient in my happiness. Our cottage stood on a wild
moor. My aged grandfather was constantly employed, by the
owner of this wide waste, to keep open its  grips or narrow
water-channels ; to cast an eye, in the absence of the shepherd,
on a few sheep which roamed over its barren expanse ; and to
make such repairs as lay within the compass of his failing
strength, in its high turf fences. He regarded me with unceas-
ing fondness ; permitted me to yander from his side as far as I
pleased; and his eye ever brightened with pleasure, and his
voice faltered with tenderness, when I returned to show him
some new prize of linnets' eggs rifled from their nests in the
gorse bushes, a lapful of bramble-berries, or a posy of wild
flowers.
This simple opening scene in the drama of my life was sud-
denly closed. My grandfather dropped down dead on the open
moor, with the gripping-shovel in his hand, and while in the act
of conversation with the shepherd and another servant of Squire
Fernshawe, the owner of the moor and of a large adjoining
estate.
I was but five years old when I thus suddenly lost my first
protector; and I did not at once understand that the old man
was dead. He seemed to have sunk into a sleep ; and the faint
smile on his aged face was like that which I had often seen it
wear when I awoke him of a morning. A vague feeling of alarm
and dread crept over me when the two men lifted his corpse on
their shoulders, and gently bade me follow them over the moor.
They did not carry him to our own home, and I began to cry
when I saw that we were going farther and farther from it; but
they hushed me with kind assurances. The worthy shepherd
had resolved to provide the decencies of burial for his old friend;
and the shepherd's cottage became my home until after my
grandfather's interment.
I remember but one circumstance connected with my brief
sojourn at the kind shepherd's: it was, that he held me up to
look at my grandfather's dead face for the last time, and that as
he set me down weeping, and the carpenter began to screw on
the lid of the coffin, the shepherd also burst into tears, and
said—
 Poor old John Colton! I respected him very much, for I've
known him ever since I was a child, and he was a good neigh-
bour before that trouble. I hope his poor soul is at rest; but I
wish I had heard him say that he forgave the Brundrells before
lie died!
6
THE FAMILY FETTD.
I did not know what the shepherd meant; and I used to
repeat his words, and wonder at them, for years afterwards.
Meanwhile, the clergyman who interred my grandfather
related to the owner of the moor the circumstances of the old
man's sudden death, of the shepherd's kindness, and of my own
orphan condition; and the result was, that the shepherd was
directed to take me to the hall, where Squire Fernshawe
intended that I should be kept, and employed about such easy
services as were suited to my tender age and strength: a charity
which was in keeping with the daily acts of the good man's life.
The change from an humble shed to a spacious kitchen, with
an occasional peep into the state-rooms, at the grand furniture,
and the huge gilt-framed portraits of the squire's ancestors;
the possession of a hat, shoes, and decent clothes, and the daily
enj oyment of superior food, were causes sufficiently powerful to
account for my forgetfulness of all grief within a few days. The
new and irksome condition of restraint prevented me from feel-
ing so wildly happy as when roaming over the moor; but I
ceased to feel restraint irksome in the lapse of a few months.
It was the entrance into the kitchen, during the next year, of
that diabolical old woman which began my real misery. She
came to act as scullion, or assistant to the cook; and I was com-
pelled to pass many hours of the day in her sight, and where I
could scarcely avoid seeing her for five minutes together. The
entire outline of her features was repulsive—the nose hooked to
deformity, the cheek-bones high, the under-jaw square and
large, while her shrivelled lips discovered a few broken black
teeth—but I cannot describe the harrowing expression of her
scowling brow and dark eyes, when she uttered the words—
 Do you know why you are called Cain ?
She used to do this when the cook and other servants were
out of the kitchen, coming near to me, stooping down, and pro-
nouncing the words slowly, and in a strong whisper. The effect
upon my childish nerves was shuddering: it robbed me of all
power to tell the cook, or any one else, how miserable it made
me; and at length, unless she contrived to seize me, I used to
run out of the kitchen whenever I was left alone with the old
woman, and so escape her tyranny. In about another year she
was discharged from the hall for a petty theft, and I saw her no
more until I was twelve years old.
THE FAMILY FEUD.
7
CHAPTER IV.
The Hero continues his Autobiography, and learns something startling about his
Parentage.
Squiee Eeestshawe was a widower, and was childless; and
with the exception of a young serving-man and maid, and
myself, the inmates of the hall were considerably advanced in
years. It was not till about my ninth year that I had any
experience of the simple and delightful communion of feeling
which subsists between companions in childhood. Then it was
that Mary Granger, the little daughter of the squire's over-
looker of the grounds, began to be my occasional associate in
weeding the flowerbeds of the hall garden: she was nearly of
the same age as myself, but was the taller of the two ; and was
altogether my superior, for a time, in quickness of apprehension
and ability to perform the light work allotted to us.
Mary thus became my instructress; but the child's nature
was so sweet and gentle, that I had no sense of humiliation or
inferiority when with her. In her companionship, and delivered
from the fearful presence of that old woman, I grew almost as
happy as I had been on the wild moor. "We were never scolded
for an error by the aged gardener: he never spoke to us
angrily, even if we happened, while too much intent on the
exchange of our childish thoughts, to pluck up a scarce flower
instead of a weed; but would simply express his regret, and
gravely charge us to be more careful for the future. The good
old squire himself was beheld by us with reverence, but without
fear, when he walked in the garden ; indeed, he seldom quitted
it when we were there, without patting us on the head, and
bestowing upon us a paternal smile and a few words of encou-
ragement.
Erom my tenth to my twelfth year I grew and strengthened
rapidly, and became a general favourite with the domestics at
the hall, while every one perceived that I was highly regarded
by the squire. The overlooker took especial note of this, and
felt encouraged to distinguish me, and select me sometimes for
a companion, at other times for a deputy, in making the daily
rounds over the home estate, which was extensive. 1 was thus
a frequent visitant at the overlooker's house, which formed the
lodge at the entrance to the long avenue of grand elms that led
to the hall. My friendship with little Mary, as I used to call her,
now I had become much taller than herself, was thus pleasingly
8
THE FAMILY FEED.
continued. Her mother, whose gentle and kindly disposition she
inherited, always welcomed me; and her aged grandmother, who
was blind, and sat, soft-cushioned, in the corner chair, always
recognized my voice with signs of pleasure as I crossed the
threshold; and, while listening to the cheerful prattle of Mary
and myself, would often say,
 The Lord bless the dear bairns ! They're like brother and
sister, poor things ! Heaven send they may always be as happy
as they are now !
The good old woman's wishes were earnest; but, like all
other mortals, she lacked the power to secure their fulfilment:
I was soon to prove a deeper renewal of misery from the old
source.
Whenever I accompanied the overlooker, or acted as his
deputy, in making the daily rounds over the home estate, I was
privileged to bear a small light gun: it was more for the pur-
pose of preserving the squire's game than for bringing it down,
that either I or the overlooker bore a gun ; and it was seldom
that it was loaded with more than powder. There was a small
pheasant-preserve which was in danger of robbery—not from
any upgrown person, every one at the hall believed—but from
the froward lads of a village in the neighbourhood; to them
the eggs were an almost irresistible temptation: our orders
were, not to injure, but to scare them; and the discharge of a
gun by the hedge of the preserve, would make them scamper
away like so many frightened foumarts.
Marking the figure of what I supposed to be a boy passing
through a gap in the fence of the preserve, one day, while I was
at two fields' distance, I advanced quickly, and fired an alarm
as usual. Ho one came out of the holt that I could see or hear,
so I hastened to the hedge, and looking in at the gap, beheld
the figure continuing to stoop down, as if to take up the phea-
sants' eggs, in spite of all alarms. I shouted, but was unheeded.
I was alone, and fearing from the size of the figure that the boy
would be too powerful for me if I attempted to cope with him in
any other way, I quickly reloaded my gun without shot, as
before, and cried out,
 Hun, or I'll shoot you ! 
But I was still unheeded, though I repeated the cry, until I
grew so angry that I went towards the figure and shot, when
within six or eight yards of it. It rose, and turned towards me,
in the shape of the old crone of the kitchen, clad in a man's
jacket, and with a peasant's hat on her head.
"Hay, curse thee! It was not the mother, but the son, he
doomed thee to kill, she croaked;  and I see thou wilt do it,
sure enough!
9
eak nor
ig look;
led lier
•anee, I
horror,
pressed,
preserve
asiness,
ing that
ming of
en com-
which
ired by
e alone,
day was
, that I
of my
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ich was
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ee. In
was on
jrheard
e voice,
te died
upon it
er body
malice,
nth her
did the
a.
m, in a
Eleanor
forgive
names
ace for
>rtuned
recy, of
all, and
ither of
f .
- JfojiciiuL.
Xome feW o/ ,AmW
8
continued
inherited,
was blind
recognizee
threshold
and mysel
 The I
sister, poc
as they ar
The gO'
other moi
I was soo
source.
Whenei
deputy, in
privileged
pose of pr
that eithei
that it was
pheasant-i
any upgro
the frowa;
the eggs
were, not
gun by th
away like
Marking
through a
at two fiel
as usual,
so I hastei
the figure
sants' eggs
I was alon
would be t
any other
before, anc
"Kun, <
But I w
grew so an
within sis
in the sha
jacket, anc
 Nay, <! |
doomed tl
sure enoug
fiyoofesr $otip
* ~ r /tONKCY PI
BRAND
W a capital couple the Moon and I,
I polish, the EartJ^, she brightens the
And "e lat^ declare, as half the world knows,
Tl0Uj'la capital couple, we WORT "WASH CLOTHES
^00^ Xohl KEY gtywlc
^9 a Large Bar.
THE WORLD'S MOST MARVELLOUS CLEANSER AND POLISHER
Makes Tin like Silver, Copper like Gold, Paint like New,
Spotless Earthenware, Crockery like Marble, Marble White,
Brass Ware like Mirrors
THE FAMILY FEUD.
9
The old horror came over me, and I could neither speak nor
move. She began to approach me with her old withering look;
but then I raised the gun, and should certainly have felled her
to the earth, had she come near enough. My appearance, I
have no doubt, was forbidding, from the mixture of horror,
anger, and abhorrence, which my face must have expressed.
She quailed before me, turned round, and quitted the preserve
as fast as age and decrepitude permitted her.
I returned to the hall with a heavy feeling of uneasiness,
ruminating on the old woman's curse, and with a foreboding that
I should one day realize some deep trouble as the meaning of
those other strange words of hers, which I could not then com-
prebend.
On the third morning after this unpleasant adventure, which
I had not felt power to mention to any one, I was desired by
the overlooker to make the usual round on the home estate alone,
once more, and, as it proved, for the last time. The day was
so fine, and everything around me so bright and smiling, that I
recovered my usual cheerfulness ; and, in the course of my
round, sat down on the clump of a tree, under the shade of a
hazel brake, in a holt or plantation not far from that which was
set apart as the pheasant-preserve, to watch the gambols of
a couple of squirrels on the branches of a large spruce-tree. In
a few minutes I became sensible that human company was on
the other side of the brake; and the conversation I overheard
riveted me to the spot where I sat.
 Well, God save us from the sin of blood!  began one voice,
and which was clearly that of an elderly woman;  she died
hardly ; but they say that such kin often do. Depend upon it
the lad did not hurt her—for there was no mark on her body
that they could find at the crowner's quest. It was only malice,
and the strife to cover her own sin, that made her swear with her
dying breath that the lad had shot her.
 Then, do ye really believe that she and old Mike did the
deed upon poor Andrew Colton?  asked a second woman.
 I Icnoio that they did, Euth, affirmed the first woman, in a
strong under-tone; "I never told it before; but now Eleanor
Brundrell is dead, I can ease my heart by telling it. God forgive
her! she was a bad, wicked woman.
There was a silence of some moments, and, from the names
wdiich had been mentioned, it was an excruciating silence for
me. But the woman who had last spoken was soon importuned
by the other to give a narrative, under the pledge of secrecy, of
what she knew. And thus she went on:—
 I lived, for many years, next door to Michael Brundrell, and
his wife that is now dead; and though I never liked either of
10
THE FAMILY FEUD.
'em, I cannot say tliat they were ever thought to be guilty of
any great vileness till they did this deed. You understand,
Ruth, that Abel Brundrell, the son of Mike and Nelly, and
Andrew, the son of old John, who dropt down dead on the
moor some years ago, were playfellows when they were childer,
and rake-fellows afterwards. They could never be separated,
and led one another into all sorts of scrapes ; so that if one
were caught at a trick, you might be sure the other was at hand.
Now, the lads were just becoming men, when a feat-looking
young woman—lady, may-be, I ought to call her—came a-
visiting to Farmer Yarrel's. She was the daughter of a very
rich man at Quarrelton ; but she had not a bit o' pride in her;
she would speak to the poorest, and she was the comeliest creatur
I ever saw. She came and went often ; and it was soon noised
that both these lads had set their minds on her 
 You mean Andrew, the father of this lad, Cain ; and Abel,
that's come over to bury old Nelly Brundrell, his mother?
interrupted Buth.
 Of course I do, rejoined the other impatiently;  I thought
I had spoken plain enough. Don't put me out—or I'll give
over ; for it isn't a pleasant story to tell.
 I'll not do it again, Tibby. Pray go on!  entreated Ruth.
"Well, to cut my thread short, continued Tib,  the young
woman walked sometimes with one and sometimes with the
other ; and it was said, that although they had been such thick-
and-thin friends, they fought about her. Howsomever, Abel
was laid up in bed several weeks with his wounds ; and mean-
time, young Andrew Colton won the young woman's consent,
and married her. I saw him put the ring on her finger, in the
parish church; and I thought as she came out she was the fairest
bride I had ever seen. But I shall never forget the face of Nell
Brundrell, as she looked on them when they passed by her at
the porch door. The bride trembled and clung to Andrew's
arm, and even Andrew looked pale, though he was always a
brave-hearted lad. What a look Nell gave 'em! You know,
Ruth, she was but hard-favoured i' th' face at the best 
 I vow to ye, Tibby, I never liked to meet her either by dark
or daylight!  declared Ruth.
"Nor I, said Tib; "but as I was saying, Andrew married
the young woman. And I know not how it was, but somehow,
old John, who at first took 'em into his house, and seemed very
kind, began to conceive a dislike to his son's young wife. People
thought it was because her rich father had turned his back on
her for marrying a poor man. And I and others reasoned with
old John, and tried to persuade him that the rich father would
come to, after a while, and all would be right. But he said I
THE FAMILY FEUD.
11
did not know the ground of his dislike, nor would he show it:
by hook or by crook he would be quit of her. Why he took a
dislike to her, I cannot imagine, for she was a feat creatur, as I
said to ye, Ruth ; and as she was kindly to everybody, I'm sure
she must have been so to the old man. But he would have her
out, and out they were forced to go. And where should they
go, to everybody's wonder, but to Nell Brundrell's? Abel had
got well, had shaken hands with young Andrew, and away he
went somewhere on his painting business 
 That's him that's grown rich, and has come now to bury his
mother, interjected Ruth.
"The same, went on Tibby; "well, you know Eleanor
Brundrell could use a smooth tongue, as unfeatly as was her
face ; and she wheedled Andrew and his young wife to come and
lodge with her. Poor Andrew! he little thought, I imagine,
that his death-knell struck when he crossed Nell's threshold! 
Here the woman stopped again, as if she had some misgivings
about the propriety of saying more. I need not describe the
racking impatience I felt to hear more. The woman, Ruth,
seemed to feel a measure of it, for thus she endeavoured to
draw her companion into a continuance of the story:
 Ay, poor Andrew! I remember hearing my mother tell of
the alarm there was about his death ; and how she went to see
his poor corpse with the gash in his neck lying in Brundrell's
house. But you know, Tibby, Brundrell and his wife were in
bed and their door was locked, and the key was found in
Andrew's pocket, when the miller's men discovered the corpse,
as they were going by before daylight, with their lanterns.
Besides, it was proved before the crowner, you know, that Andrew
asked for the key in the presence of his own wife, just when she
and Mike and Nell Brundrell were going to bed, saying he was
going to Meadham, that was three miles off, and should not be
home again till after midnight. It was a strange freak for him
to take ; but you know his wife proved that they gave him the
key, and that he went out, and locked the door after him. And
then, there were witnesses to prove that he was seen at Mead-
ham late that night. At least my mother used to say so. More
than all, Tibby, Brundrell and liis wife were examined by the
crowner ; but, you know, he acquitted them 
 The greater fool he was for it!  said Tib, harshly,  and the
good easy squire for counselling him. If this had happened
up by Lunnon, or some large place where folks are sharp-witted,
depend upon it, Mike and Nell Brundrell would have been hung.
I tell you, neighbour, she continued excitedly, but lowering
her voice, "I heard poor Andrew come back to Brundrell's
door, an hour after midnight, and open it with the key, and go
12
THE FAMILY FEtTD.
ia—for I was too bad o' the toothache to sleep'—and before he
could get upstairs, I heard 
But here Tib sunk her voice to so low a whisper that, though
I was in an agony to hear the syllables, I could not catch them.
 The Lord have mercy upon us !  exclaimed Ruth in a terri-
fied manner; and then continued with,  well, His judgment
came upon 'em; for they say old Mike pined away like a 'natomy,
and was a mere bag o' bones when he died; and now the old
woman is gone to her account with this lie on her tongue! 
 Depend upon it, resumed Tibby,  old John Colton believed
that his son Andrew was murdered by the Brundrells, or he
would not have sworn at the parson, and frightened him into
christening this lad, Cain 
I started convulsively, overset the gun which I had reared
against the bushes, and, with the noise it made by falling on the
clump of the tree whereon I sat, alarmed the women, who,
with a faint scream, sprang up, and hurried away out of the
holt, so soon as they had caught sight of who it was that had
been listening to them. A sickness and cold sweat, with a
bewildered feeling, held me to the tree-clump for a considerable
time. So soon as I could shake off my helplessness, and felt
sufficiently recovered to walk, I set off at a slow pace for the
hall. My troubles were not yet ended, nor even at their climax.
CHAPTER V.
Cain Colton continues liis Narrative up to the time of his removal to Quarrelton.
Crossing the last field, which led into the court-yard of the
hall, I was hastily met by the overlooker.
"Give me that, sir! he said, in a strange peremptory tone,
while snatchmg the gun from me;  and come along with me
to the squire instantly.
I followed him as quickly as my feebleness permitted. I must
have looked ill, but he was too much agitated to observe it;
indeed, he never turned to look at me ; but, with the gun in
his hand, marshalled me into the squire's presence. The vene-
rable gentleman was sitting in his magisterial chair, with his
law-books before him, ana addressed me with a constrained
severity and an air of deep concern, as  Young man! a title
which chilled me by its strangeness, and especially as it came
from one whom I so deeply venerated.
"So, young man, he began, "your heart is older in malice
THE FAMILY FEUD.
13
than I had supposed or imagined! I had hoped, by the ex-
traordinary care I have taken, that you should never hear
mention of the mysterious and melancholy circumstances con-
ntcted with your family, that no feeling of mistaken revenge
could ever arise in your mind towards this aged and miserable
woman. I do not wish to press the accusation against you,
and, indeed, I am not authorized to do so. There were no marks
of shot upon her body; and as you have simply hastened the
wretched old creature's death by fright, I cannot bring any
crime home to you, as a magistrate.
The good old squire paused, and looked at me earnestly. But
I could not speak: my tongue cleaved to the roof of my mouth,
though I felt eager, almost to madness, with desire to tell the
squire not only of my innocence, but of the amazement and
distress with which I had listened to that dialogue of Tib and
Ruth, but an hour before, in the holt.
 Well, silence beseems you best, resumed the old gentle-
man, with all his natural beneficence;  I see you are conscience-
stricken; and, I hope, truly repentant. Perhaps I am more
blamable than yourself: I ought to have removed you some
years ago, and so have effectually prevented the possibility of
anything coming to your ears that might tempt you to do
wrong: but this shall now be remedied as far as it can; you
may withdraw, young man, concluded he, while tears started
to his eyes ;  I will provide for your removal, and give you
another fair start in life; and I pray that you may be delivered
from revengeful thoughts, and live to be a good and happy
man!
The venerable man rose to hasten out of the room, and hide
his emotion, unable to remain while I withdrew; and the over-
looker, taking me by the arm, led me, in my completely passive
state, to his own home. He now began to treat me with his
old accustomed kindness, and only gently expressed his regret
at my  want of conduct, as he called it. So soon as self-
possession began to return, I assured him that there was no
shot in the gun when I fired at the old woman, and that I had
not acted from malice, having no knowledge at the time as to
who she was,—or, that she had injured any one related to me.
He looked surprised at first; but his wonder immediately gave
way to incredulity.
 Rather an unlikely tale, Cain, he said, sharply ;  you
seem to have some knowledge of that queer, melancholy affair
now; and yet it was only the other morning that you shot at
the old woman. How am I to understand you, my lad P I do
not wish to be hard upon you; but it is of no use telling un-
truths about it, now it is done, you know.
14
THE FAMILY FETTD.
I unhesitatingly related to him the substance of the conversa-
tion I had overheard at the hazel brake; and, amidst sundry
interjections of wonder on his part, described the horror which
the old woman had inflicted on me when a child, in the hall
kitchen; and my remembrance of the shepherd's exclamation
over my grandfather's corpse as it lay in the coffin. -Finally, I
entreated him, if he were able, to solve the mystery which hung
over my existence, and over the history of my family; for I
thought he looked as if he were acquainted with a sequel to the
relation I had given him.
To my great mortification, he coldly answered that he could
tell me nothing more than I had already heard; and warned
me not to place reliance on what the woman had said, as the
manner of my father's murder, and the identity of the murderers,
remained to that hour conjectural. But his look and tone, while
he said this, seemed, as I thought, to prove that he was only
trying to soothe my excitement. I intimated that I felt sure
he could solve one mystery for me : the cause of my name.
 Think no more about that, he replied, with an air of con-
fusion; "it is only a piece of folly. Your grandfather was in
his second childhood, poor old man! and was scarcely account-
able for what he did. Think no more about it: it would do you
no good to know.
This language only rendered me more impetuously desirous
of wringing the mystery from him; and at length he gave me
the following singular relation :—
 Your grandfather took your mother back to his own house,
on the day of your father's funeral, and was unremitting in his
kindness to her. Under his roof you were born, some two
or three months afterwards, and your poor mother died almost
immediately. Your grandfather could not read; but he had
heard the history of Cain and Abel read in the church, and it
seems to have taken a great hold upon his mind. When you!
were taken to be christened, the nurse who held you in her
arms, gave your name as ' Andrew,' your father's name, to the
clergyman; for so, she asserted, your mother, while on her
death-bed, willed you should be called. But your grandfather,
with a stern voice and look, cried out that your name should be
' Cain!' The clergyman turned pale, and asked your grand-
father why he wished to give a Christian child such a name, and
whether he knew what Cain did.
 ' To be sure I know all about it,' shouted old John; ' did I
not hear ye read it last New-year-tide ? and is it not declared in
the Fourth Commandment that the sins of the fathers are visited
upon the children P This bairn's appointed to fulfil it!'
 ' Presumptuous man!' said the clergyman.; ' how dare you,
THE FAMILY FEUl).
15
in your ignorance, thus wrest the Scriptures according to your
own blind and corrupt will ? I will not pronounce such an evil
name to be that of this poor innocent and unconscious child!'
 At which your poor erring grandfather swore—he swore, in
the open church!—and even threatened to smite the clergyman
to the floor, if you were not christened ' Cain !' The parson
was a feeble, dying man; and he was so much affrighted at your
grandfather's furious behaviour, that he obeyed. But he did
not live to christen another child, nor, indeed, to enter the
church again. All the parish believed that your grandfather
had gone out of his right mind; and the villagers were glad
when he took it into his head to build himself that hut on the
moor, where you were brought up till you came to the hall.
The squire ordered that old John should not be disturbed;
and scarcely anybody but the shepherd ever went to speak to
him. He used to tell the shepherd that he was told by an
angel in a dream that you were to be called ' Cain !' But the
shepherd believed that the old man only came to imagine so,
since he never mentioned that till about a year before he
died.
This strange story saddened me deeply ; for I saw my grand-
father's meaning to be horrible enough in giving me my name;
and that old woman's shuddering question, and her curse in the
pheasant-preserve, came fearfully back on my memory.
"Answer me but one more question, I said to the over-
looker,  and I will not ask you another. I thought that the
answer, although I could not misreckon what it would be,
would ease my torment, by ending my uncertainty; but I
bitterly regretted from that moment that I ever asked for it.
 Tell me, said I,  and do not hide it from me—did my
grandfather ever say that I was born to murder Abel Brundrell P 
The overlooker averted his face, and did not speak; but I
repeated my wilful question more eagerly; and at last, the
shepherd's authority was given as a voucher that my grand-
father had said so. The overlooker immediately discerned the
afflictive effect of his answer; but he strove in the most sensible
■way to relieve me.
 I tell you, my lad, he said,  this is all a piece of folly,
from beginning to end. Your grandfather, I repeat, was in his
second childhood, even when you were christened. Nobody
knows the real truth about the death of your poor father. And
besides, you have never seen Abel Brundrell, and would not
know him if you were to meet him. He is a man of more than
thirty years of age—if he be still alive ; for he may be dead,
since he has never been heard of since you were born.
 He has come over to bury his mother, and is now in the
18
THE FAMILY FETTP.
village; the women said so in the holt: I forgot to tell you
that, said I.
The overlooker seemed confounded, and sat staring on me for
some seconds.
 It must be to-night, then, he said ; but it was in an absent
manner, or as if he were talking to himself. Then, with con-
strained cheerfulness, he again exhorted me to discard terror.
 You do not know the man, he insisted,  and may never meet
him in your life. Put away all evil thoughts towards him, and
towards everybody, and be determined to be happy in your new
situation whatever it may be. The squire has given me orders
to take you to a market-town, where my brother-in-law, Doctor
Downham lives, and to take his advice in apprenticing you to
some useful trade; and we shall set out to-night, Cain, so you
will soon have done with this part of the country.
This announcement was sudden, but it did not shock me; I
felt careless now as to where I went; and the sudden removal
seemed a light sorrow in comparison with my heavier misery.
Neither the overlooker's wife nor daughter were in the cottage
when we entered it, and the blind grandmother was asleep. I
asked little Mary's father if I might not see her, to bid her
"good-bye, before we started on our journey; but he replied
that she would not be at home till dark, and we must be on our
way very soon. He then directed me to go to the hall kitchen,
where the servants had orders to get my clothes ready, and inti-
mated that he would join me there very soon.
In another hour we had turned our backs on the hall. The
servants shewed regret at parting with me ; but my deepest
regret was that I could not take a farewell of little Mary Gran-
ger. We rode only a few miles that night—the overlooker on
his stout hackney, and 1 on a favourite pony which the squire
had hitherto allowed me to call my own, but which I was to see
no more when we came to our journey's end. We halted at a
roadside inn for the night, and the next day journeyed over a
country which was strange to me,, passing through several vil-
lages, till, a little before nightfall, we entered Quarrelton.
Granger pronounced the name of the town as we rode along the
street, and told me that we were at the end of our journey. I
immediately remembered that this was the town from which my
mother had come, according to the relation of Tib, in the holt;
but I resolved not to remind the overlooker of the fact, lest he
should change his purpose. The idea that I was to live in the
town where my mother had lived and, most likely, was born, was
soothing to me ; and I believe, if Granger had taken me else-
where, I should have run away and come back to Quarrelton.
Mr. Titus Downham, whom the overlooker called  Doctor,
the family feud.
17
was a tall, gentlemanly, and very kindly-looking personage; lie
received Granger with great welcome; inquired tenderly after
the health of Mrs. Granger, who was the sister of Mr. "Titus ;
and, in answer to Granger's inquiry, replied that he had no
doubt he could find me a good place. And by his means, I
became apprenticed the very next morning to Job Oldstock, the
wooden spoon-maker, to whom the overlooker paid over a pre-
mium of five-and-twenty pounds, on behalf of the good squire ;
and when Granger bade me farewell, it were hard to say whe-
ther he or I showed the greater signs of distress. I saw him no
more.
CHAPTER VI.
The Author gives a few Hints for an Essay on Scarecrows.
Wilt thou not, now, good reader, hold me absolved of ill-judg-
ment, in that I masked this life-drama with an inoffensive and
every-day sort of prologue, instead of presenting thee at the
outset, with the unwelcome images and torturous recollections
of the hero's boyhood ? Thou wilt, if thou art unsophisticated.
But, belike, my reader has been corrupted, like so many more,
by the false taste of these times—is a far-gone lover of the melo-
dramatic, and would take greater delight in the presentation of
 The Castle Spectre, or "Esmeralda, than in the performance
of a hearty old English comedy. If so, I have nothing left for it
but to commiserate my reader's case, and the more feelingly
inasmuch as it influences mine.
I would that this prevailing thirst for exciting stories were so
thoroughly quenched that it might never be felt again; and that
instead of distorted descriptions of impossible villains, out-of-the-
world sort of scoundrels, never-before-thought-of goblins, lovers
striking their breasts, tearing their hair, and shrieking or shiver
ing aghast at somebody's outrageous perfidy, old folk standing
on their heads, and young folk stalking on stilts, we might see a
restoration of the healthy love for real pictures of English life.
Until that restoration be brought about, I, Adam Hornbook,
must, in some degree, conform to the prevailing taste, despite
the sturdy independence of which I could boast, if it were not
unseemly ; and must be able to show that my hero has had some
experience of Life's scarecrows, and has been thrown into
hysterics by them. But ought it not to console my heart that
I am also able to show how the poor fellow learnt to strip off
c
18
the family feud.
tEeir lagged and unsightly jackets, tear away their great mie-
sliapen hats and ugly black masks, knock out their frightful
saucer eyes, and, in fine, to demolish them, and discover that
they were only stuffed with straw ?
I wish in my inmost heart, that the reader may be able to do
the like with his scarecrows ; for, mark me, I do not deny that
there are scarecrows in life, or I would not conform at all to the
prevailing taste for exhibiting them: I only contend that the
world is not filled with them naturally, but that there are many
beautiful and comforting realities in it; many real human crea-
tures, for instance, who have hearts in their bosoms ; and, over-
and above all, the sunshine of heaven, which is real, and which
descendeth from the Source of all bounty,  on the evil and the
good.
I hold that I have had some share of this sunshine, and that
there is a share for thee, reader, whoever thou art; and thou
doest ill, believe me, if thou art shutting it out by carrying thy
coffin on thy own shoulders all the way through thy life-journey.
Hug melodramatic terrors if thou wilt; I prefer the sunshine, if
I might have my own way. And understand that, though the
portrait of my hero, as drawn by his own hand thus far, has
been somewhat of a sombre hue, thou wilt find, by keeping his
company, that he catches now and then the sunshine, which also
falls merrily on his fellows.
And now again to the story. The "previous question having
been answered, that other question remains to be answered,—
 How was this ?  that is to say, how was it that after young
Cain Colton had gladdened the heart of old Job Oldstock by his
proficiency and skill in wooden spoon-making, he fell off into the
careless and slatternly workman, and caused Job to lose all heart
of his amendment ? Cain shall again answer for himself, and
retrace his own experience.
CHAPTEE VII.
The Hero resumes his Narrative, and reaches the Threshold of another important
Change in his History.
I bemembee that I began to make inquiry of my new master
and his wife, a few days after I had entered their dwelling, whe-
ther they knew anything respecting my mother ; but they shook
their heads and professed ignorance. I took kindly to the
wooden spoons, not only because the making them seemed to
THE FAMILY FEUD.
19
give me a right to remain in Quarrelton, my mother's town, and
where I yet hoped to learn something of her and her relatives,
and because I was kindly and tenderly treated by Job Oldstock
and his wife Dorothy, but because this wooden spoon fashioning
awoke the hitherto slumbering faculty of the artist within me.
I do not remember having made a single attempt to imitate any
living or dead thing, by drawing or carving, before I learnt to
make wooden spoons. This looks strange to me when I think
of it; and yet, I doubt not, there are thousands who could call
up like proofs of the power of circumstance on mind, habits, and
character.
Job had patterns for ornamenting the higher priced spoons ;
but the patterns were rude, and I soon devised others that sur-
passed them. Thence, I passed to attempt the carving of small
pieces of wood, with a common pocket-knife, into images of
dogs, horses, and men; and from thence I began to draw on
paper and pasteboard with pencil, and soon to colour. Little
Mary had taught me to read; and now I went to a stationer's
shop for my paper and other materials, the stationer conversed
with me, and recommended me to read some of the books in his
circulating library; and I had soon a passion for reading. Next,
a new and still more delicious feeling for music, which had also
slept hitherto for lack of the sweet voice to awaken it, was
quickened by the notes of the grand church-organ; and a young
companion soon persuaded me to learn to play the violin.
Kind old Job was pleased with my new employments for a
time, and so long as they did not so completely absorb me as to
give me a disgust for the coarseness and monotony of wooden
spoon-making. But when that change came upon me, I discerned
that there was a change in him. Yet I saw that he could not
easily exchange the tone of kindness for that of severity ; and
some months of my declension as a workman went over before
he gave me harsh words. These, at first, startled me, and in-
duced me to pay greater attention to the neatness and finish of
my work ; but, in spite of my self-reproaches, I relapsed again
and again, and at last, no reproof or scolding had any good effect
upon me. This sore state of things could not fail to come to
an end, sooner or later; and it was suddenly ended in a way
that I did not expect.
I often tarried late with my companion to practise with the
violin; but one night, we were deceived as to the hour by an old
ricketty wooden clock, and when I reached Job's door, I found
it was fastened. Job very angrily demanded who was there,
and when he had let me in, assailed me with loud reproofs,
not only for staying out so late, but for my faulty wooden spoons,
20
THE FAMILY FEUD.
which, he pulled out of a basket, and then kicked them con-
temptuously about the cottage floor.
 Patientness ! patientness !  entreated his good helpmate
Dorothy, who, notwithstanding my errors, had shown me almost
a mother's tenderness.
 Why, what shall I do with him ?  exclaimed Job, with
rising wrath;  he sets me fast. I'm at my wit's end with the
young good-for-naught.
 Patientness! patientness! again entreated the good
Dorothy.
 Patientness! I ought not to hear that from thee, Dolly,
protested her husband ;  I'm a pattern o' patience ; and they
must have foreseen that I should be, or they wouldn't have
christened me ' Job.' Didn't I give him soft words till they
took no hold of him ?
 And now thou giv'st him hard uns, do they stick any better
on his stomach ? 
 Stick on his stomach, a young scape-grace! a stick to his
back ! and he shall have it, too! declared Job, feeling his native
patience forsake him, and actually beginning to look about for a
weapon.
 On the peril of thy peace, Job, lay not a hand upon her
child !  cried Dorothy, springing from her chair by the fireside,
and seizing her husband by the arm.
Job's anger was quelled in a moment; and he sank into a
chair, and fixed his eyes upon me with a strange expression,
which, joined with the old woman's words, excited my wonder.
 Do not sit staring in that fashion, said Dorothy, with a
look of uneasiness, which, most likely, was occasioned by the
inadvertent allusion she had made to my mother,  but do as I
told thee: thou know'st thou hast Mr. Granger's leave, if the
lad be willing, and Mr. Timothy will take him.
 Cain, sit down, and listen to me, said Job, speaking to me
with some effort, and now, to my surprise, in a gentle tone.
I sat down, with my violin and bow in my hand, and looked
at Job earnestly, but did not speak. I had felt too much alarmed
from the moment I entered the cottage, either to speak or ven-
ture to sit down.
 Cain, proceeded the old man,  would you like to leave the
spoon-making, and be a clerk in Mr. Upham's counting-house, if
he would take you ?
 I would, indeed, I answered in a moment.
 I knew he would, said Dorothy;  and it is most fitting he
should be there.
 Mind thy tongue, Dolly ! said Job, giving her a peculiar
glance, which she understood, and added, as it seemed with the
THE FAMILY FEUD.
21
intent to cover this second inadvertence,  for his thin white
hands are more fitted for holding a pen than for cutting wooden
spoons.
Job smiled, somewhat grimly, and said, "Well, we'll goto
Mr. Timothy in the morning. You may go to bed now, Cain.
I withdrew, at once, bidding my aged protector and protectress
 good night, which they returned with as much kindness as if
I had never given them any uneasiness. They did not them-
selves retire, though it was past their usual hour ; but sat by the
fire conversing in a low tone, feeling, I doubt not, too anxious
and disturbed to think of sleep. My resting-place was on the
ground-floor; and some time after I was a-bed, they began to
talk in their ordinary tone, either forgetting that I was near, or
concluding that I must be asleep. But I was as sleepless as
they ; and again, without purposing it, became an auditor of a
dialogue which, although I believed it concerned myself, was not
intended for my hearing.
 I hope to the Lord it will be for the best, said Job,  but
if Mr. Timothy should find it out, and take offence at it, we shall
lose our best friend, Dolly.
 How can he take offence at his own flesh and blood?
reasoned Dorothy.
 His father did, answered Job, sharply.
 True, granted Dolly;  but Mr. Timothy has not his
father's pride ; and it is said that when his father died, and he
was free to do it, he made great inquiries after his poor sister,
but found that she had been dead more than three years.
 I have never believed that, thou know'st, Dolly. If Mr.
Timothy had made great search about his sister, he would have
found the lad, and taken him to bring up.
 But the child was in the old crazed man's keeping. They
lived like savages on the wild, it is said—and Mr. Granger con-
firmed it, you know; and I suppose nobody would tell Mr.
Timothy anything about 'em.
 I fear he didn't wish to learn anything about 'em, Dolly;
but determined to observe the charge they say his father gave
him on the bed of death, to disown the sister who had married a
mean man. If it be so, he would never forgive us should we"—
 Let us do what is right, Job, insisted Dorothy ;  it will
bring us the greatest peace at heart, even if we suffer for doing it.
Job seemed unable to gainsay his wife on this head ; but after
some minutes' silence essayed another line of argument.
 Suffer! ay, I fear we shall suffer, he said;  how are we
to get through our daily work if he leaves us? He does not
always do his work well—far from it—but he's a quick work-
man, and his earnings are of great value to us. And then, who
oo
the family feud.
is to carry on the business -when we grow older, as we shall do
in a few years, Dolly? TVe're getting fast over the hilltop,
now—nay, i'faith, we're beginning to go down on the side to-
wards the church-yard! „
 True, Job ; and may we be ready when we get to^the foot.
was Dorothy's sincere ejaculation; "but I'm thinking, she added,
 that while our lives last thou and I will be able to do as much
work as folks are likely to call for. The trade is not so brisk as
it used to be when we were first married, thou know st. The
world o' folk begins to grow too proud to use wooden spoons,
now-a-days.
 Thou hast told a truth, though I'm loth to own it, Dolly,
sighed Job—and there was an end of the conversation.
I dared not tell Job and Dorothy that I had overheard them ;
and if I had, they would have denied that I was the subject of
their conversation. They had invariably checked me whenever
I had uttered a word about my origin. They knew nothing of
it, they said; and I had better say nothing about it, for I should
get no good by telling such shocking tales about murder, for
the truth of which I could not answer. And I did not violate
their injunction, even in the ears of my companion, the young
fiddler.
CHAPTER VIII.
Cain Colton rebates his Introduction to the great Merchant; and shows that when
your Counsel loses his Tongue, it is wisest to plead for yourself.
Though Mr. Timothy Upham was so rich, he had no sub-
oppidan villa, no pleasant retirement amidst the roses and holly-
hocks of Restvale and Slumbermead, Poppydale and Dreamfield,
delightful retreats lying in different directions around busy
Quarrelton. He always said he had never known any pleasure
except in business, and had never had any time for seeking
pleasure out of it. The large old house, therefore, which had
already served three generations of Uphams, still served him;
and it stood close by his line of warehouses in the High-street.
Job Oldstock, finding that the great merchant was not at the
warehouse, timorously ascended the steps before the porticoed
door of Mr. Timothy's mansion, and very nervously lifted the
knocker; but did not strike with it, or let it fall. I, who in my
eagerness had sprung up the steps at a bound, and stood beside
him, felt impatient to see him stand and look so thoughtful. I
stood a few moments; but he did not move.
THE FAMILY FEUD.
23
 Why don't you knock P I asked.
 I'm thinking, he replied faintly,  we had, may be, better
go back.
I did not answer; but quickly laid hold of the bell-pull in the
door-post, and drew it with all my might.
"There! thou hast done it thyself! said Job, letting the
knocker fall, as if I had removed some dread responsibility from
his shoulders, and taken it on my own.
A. footman in plain livery opened the door in haste, and asked,
rather sharply, what we wanted, and why we made so much
noise. Job stammered with confusion, and I was compelled to
explain that we wished to see Mr. Timothy.
 Keep thy tongue still till thou art spoken to, when we see
Mr. Timothy, said Job to me with an uneasy look, when the
footman had gone to bear the message within.
 I will, unless you lose yours, answered I; and we were
immediately conducted to the presence.
Mr. Timothy Upham looked to be about, or somewhat under,
forty years of age; and was a bluff, open-countenanced man,
with a good complexion. His forehead was already bald, and
he wore spectacles. He was of the middle stature, and was
somewhat stout about the gastric region; but his appearance
bespoke great activity. His dress was plain; and neither the
size nor the furniture of the room into which Job and myself
were introduced were, by any means, imposing. The rooms
were, I thought, inferior to Squire Ternshawe's. Yet Job
bowed, and bent his head and stroked it, with a mighty sense of
awe, as he stood before the great merchant, in the great man's
own house. An interview in the counting-house, he thought,
would not have been so solemn. He said so, at least, to
Dorothy, when he afterwards reported his errand; but it was,
in reality, the errand itself, and Job's division with himself
about it, which made him feel so uncomfortable.
 Grood morning, Job! said Mr. Timothy, very pleasantly,
 what is it that I can do for you this morning ? Are none of
the clerks in the office ? Or do they want to drive too hard a
bargain with you, my good friend?
 Not that, sir, answered Job, very slowly;  we haven't
many spoons on hand, at present. I—I—didn't want to see
you, sir, about—about—buying goods, sir.
"Well, then, what is it? Sit you down, Job; and tell me
what you want, said the merchant, in his most encouraging
tone;  sit down, my boy !—Is this your son, Job ? 
 No, sir, answered the old man, sitting down on the edge of
a chair, and holding his hat before his breast, while he looked
21
THE FAMILY FEUD.
ruefully on tlie carpet;  but—it's about bim tbat I—wished to
see you.
"Indeed! and wbat about bim, Job? "What's your name,
my boy? and how old are you? asked the merchant, turning
towards me, and eyeing me observantly through the spectacles.
 I am fifteen, or thereabouts, sir, I answered,  and my
name is Cain Colton. My reply was given without more
embarrassment than, perhaps, the great merchant thought na-
tural and proper in one so young, and brought into such a
presence for the first time.
 Cain! bless me, what a strange name, to be sure! exclaimed
the merchant; and, in his surprise at my christened name, my
surname seemed to escape his notice.  This is an apprentice
of yours, I suppose, Job? he went on in the quickly-appre-
hensive way that seemed to be natural or habitual with him;
 and a country youth, of course ; for it is only the village folks
who think of giving their children the queerest names in the
Old Testament—though there can be no objection to yours,
Job. My name is selected from the ISTew Testament, and I like
it all the better for that, the merchant rattled on.  But, now,
what do you wish to say about this youth, Job? he asked,
continuing to look all the while at me, through his spectacles.
Job did not reply, and the merchant, without waiting, again
inquired of me, "Do you work at the wooden-spoon making,
my lad?
 Yes, sir, I answered;  but I hope I shall not work at it
much longer.
 Ah! how is that ? you should not be weary of work, you
know "—and Mr. Timothy shook his head, and looked redder in
the face— we all have to work. It is our duty. I work very
hard myself. I'll be bound for it, I work much harder than
you, my lad.
 I'm not weary of work, sir, I declared, so soon as I could
edge in a word;  I'm only weary of wooden spoons.
"Oh! I see. You think you would like a trade with more
variety in it. Well, I think it must be rather dull, making
nothing but wooden spoons, and always wooden spoons. What
trade, now, would you like to be ?
 I should like to be a clerk in your counting-house, sir, I
replied, manfully; "and my master, Job Oldstock, has come
here to speak to you about it.
 Indeed ! exclaimed Mr. Timothy; and snatching off his
spectacles in a twinkling, he opened his eyes upon me very
widely. He spake not another word for—I know not how long,
but it seemed to me a terrible long time; and, of course, Job
and I sat in uneasy silence.
THE FAMILY FEUD.
25
CHAPTER IX.
Which is a free Essay cn Spectacles and Spectacle-wearers, by the Author.
Permit me, reader, to seize the opportunity offered by that
long and curious silence of Mr. Timothy, which Cain Colton has
just described, to call thy philosophic attention to the signifi-
cance of Mr. Timothy's position, and to the wisdom it proves
him to possess. Seest thou not a profound meaning in that
occasional act of the spectacle-wearers,—of whom there are
many in this world, both in a real and figurative sense,—the
figurative, perhaps, being more virtually real than the other?
I saw a barnacled man, in his angry haste, stumble over a
wheelbarrow, one day ; and it was, methought, most notable
that he immediately pulled off his glasses to see what he had
tumbled over. The philosophical corollary I drew was—that
although looking at things with other people's, or with artificial,
eyes may answer a man's purpose well enough, in the indifferent
affairs of life, yet he instinctively resorts to the use of his own
rude natural vision, when something presents itself to affect,
very impressively, either his shins, or any other of his close
personal interests.
I mean that a wise man acts thus ; and, because Mr. Timothy
thus acted, he, as I have already hinted, established his claim
to wisdom: that is to say, common-sense—somewhat falsely
named, seeing that it is about the scarcest of all the senses with
mankind, and is the most valuable of all wisdom; but that is an
old saw of Dean Swift's.
What I wish is, that all the spectacle-wearers would take a
lesson from Mr. Timothy, and take off their artificial eyes, now
and then. Such instruments are often treacherous. I question
if the hasty man would have stumbled over the wheelbarrow,
that day, if he had been without his spectacles. Aware of the
imperfection of his own natural eyesight, he would have been
cautious : the artificial eyes gave him a rash confidence, and he
bx'oke his shins.
I do not say that artificial eyes are of no value: they must,
of course, be valuable to all who are naturally dull of sight.
Xeither can any of us, however sharp-sighted, dispense with the
aid of other people's eyes, at all times. We are compelled to
see many things with the aid of other living people's eyes ; and
the great bulk of our knowledge we may be said to look upon
with the eyes of the dead.
26
the family FEUD.
It is the wearing of spectacles from mere affectation that is
so objectionable. Doubtless, they often make a man look wiser
than his neighbours ; but they cannot serve long to disguise his
ignorance. He may play the owl with his glasses, and retail
his borrowed wisdom with an important air, for a time ; but
when you pose him with a shrewd question at the end of his
prosy speech, and he looks over his spectacles, forgetting his
affectation in his puzzle, and tries in vain to answer you with
his own stinted wit, you quickly find out what his poor brains
are worth.
Who will wear spectacles from affectation when he reflects
that there is great danger in using them ? Ask the experienced,
and they will tell you that the artificial eyes gradually spoil the
natural; that your spectacles become too young for you, and
you too old for the spectacles. What an economy .there would
be in the invention of glasses that grew old with the eyes!
Your mechanical opticians are not the conjurors some folk take
them for, since they have not reached that simple discovery.
And then, how fragile and perishable are the eyes they fur-
nish! Think what a precarious resort it is for a poor mortal
to trust to eyes that may be instantly shivered into shining
atoms, by himself or another, yea, in a moment; or, that he
may have left at home, in his other coat pocket, and he finds
that out just at the critical moment when he needs them; or,
that some young wag may steal for fun, and in order to have a
laugh at grey-beard wisdom! Ah, it is best to depend on the
natural eyes in your own head, so long as you can,—by my
halidome, so it is! That is really all the philosophy I can make
out of it. But, bear me witness, reader, I would have made
more of it, if I had been able. Mr. Timothy has had time to
consider, and it is time that the silence was broken. I was only
intent on filling up the interstice in Cain Colton's story. He
shall go on again now.
CHAPTER X.
In which Mr. Timothy's Character, both for Wisdom and Philanthropy, is
established.
 Indeed ! repeated Mr. Timothy ; "but can you write? and
can you write sufficiently well for the counting-house ? 
"Will you allow me to try with that pen and paper, sir? I
asked, pointing to the table.
THE FAMILY FEUD,
"Do so, answered tlie merchant; and I approached, and
wrote in a neat and legible hand— Timothy Upham, Esq.,
Quarrelton.
The merchant's face beamed with pleasure ! The  Esq., if
an upgrown man had done it, might have seemed a trick of
flattery : a boy could not be suspected of knowing such a trick.
Mr. Timothy felt sure that I had written the "Esq. because I
had imbibed very proper notions of people, most likely from my
master; and with increased respect for Job, visible in his
behaviour, Mr. Timothy turned to the old man, and said,—
"Well, my good friend, I should like to serve you, and the
youth too, in this affair. I think you may send him to the
counting-house to-morrow morning ; and, if he suits us—and I
have little doubt that he will—at the end of a month, I will
endeavour to make such arrangements about him as shall be
satisfactory to you.
My heart bounded with pleasure at the merchant's words, for
I thought myself sure, now, of a transference to the counting-
house. But my fear was great that all would end in bitter dis-
appointment, when Job, still with his eyes on the carpet, and
turning his hat round, very thoughtfully began to stammer out
a—but.
 But—but, sir, said Job, while Mr. Upham listened very
attentively ;  you see, I've been thinking that we shall be hard
set to do our work without him. And yet the lad's hands, (and
the merchant looked at them, long) as my wife says, are fitter
for pen-work than spoon-making. And it isn't wise—I know it
isn't, Mr. Timothy—to force young people's inclinations against
their will. I did not like it myself, when I was young; but
then, sir, you see, it'll be a great loss to old folks, like Dolly
and me, to lose the lad's help in our work.
Mr. Timothy still eyeing me closely, had listened patiently
to Job's speech, which took the old man a long time to deliver;
but, at the end of it, instead of speaking he rang the bell, and
then sat down in his arm-chair till the footman came.
 Bring Job a glass of ale, and the youth a glass of cowslip
wine, he said to the servant.  Now Job, my good friend, he
proceeded,  I am about to say a few quiet words to you; and
you must give me credit for meaning well towards both yourself
and this youth. I have no doubt you feel that he is of some value
to you as an assistant in your business ; but, let me plainly
tell you—and do not let it hurt your feelings—it is not worth
the labour of learning, this wooden spoon-making.
Job, for the first time, raised his head, and looked up, with
offended dignity; but Mr. Upham went on :—
 I say it is not worth learning. I have some thousands of
28
the family feud.
your spoons in my warehouse; I always take what you bring
me, especially when you cannot sell your goods elsewhere: 1
make it a rule to do so; but I tell you plainly _ your trade will
soon be worth nothing. In a few years you will be completely
driven out of the market by the Birmingham people
"Hang and drown the Brimmajem folk! ejaculated Job,
unable to repress his wrath, at the probing of this old sore.
 Nay, my good friend! protested Mr. Upham, raising his
hand;  do not be so rash! Why should the Birmingham
people be either hanged or drowned for trying to get an honest
living? If the public like their metal goods better than your
wooden ones, can the Birmingham men help that ? Do you not
try to please your customers P And, besides, have not the
workmen who live in the town of Birmingham as much right to
live as yourself ? 
 Why, yes, said Job, feeling ashamed of his heat and un-
charitableness ;  I can't deny that.
 That's right, Job, said Mr. Timothy, rising and putting an
end to our visit:  now consider of it by to-morrow morning:
depend upon it the lad will do much better by entering my
office, than by staying with you to make wooden spoons.
Job considered; and Dorothy helped him : and the next
morning, in my holiday clothes—that I might be fit for the
company of gentlefolk, as Dorothy said—I hastened away, and
presented myself at the door of Mr. TJpham's counting-house.
CHAPTER XI.
Cain Colton describes his Introduction to some new Companions, briefly notes his
Studies, and sets out on a Holiday; whereupon the Author closes the First
Book.
Forth into a new and respectable world, it was with me now!
I had some glowing hopes, but a thousand fears, as I made the
venture. Above all I dreaded that Mr. Upham's  gentlemen
clerks, as they were always called in Quarrelton, should take
upon them to mortify me as an intruder into a rank that they
would not consider my own. Yet, I must confess, that from the
day I went among them I was for a long time pleased with every
one of them except the second clerk. This was a tall, sinister-
eyed man, who had not been long in Mr. Timothy's employ, and
was no great favourite with the other clerks, but was understood
to be highly valued by his employer for his skill with the pen
THE FAMILY FEUD.
29
and at figures. The first favour he bestowed on myself was to
give me a nickname, and that at my very entrance into the
office.
 Good morning, young man, said the chief clerk to me ;
 your name is Colton—is it not ? As for the other name,
Mr. Upham does not like it; and we are to change it for—for—
what the deuce was it, Mr. Crookit P and he turned to the tall,
sinister-eyed man.
 Wooden spoons, was the dry answer.
 Nonsense ! said the chief clerk,  we are to call you, not
Cain, but kik—kik—Canute—that's it! There's your stool—
next to Osberton—and he'll show you what to copy. Take your
place, and success to you! and he turned away, and I was soon
seated at my new employ.
So now I had two new names ! I certainly liked one of them
better than my own. I had read of the Danish king of England who
rebuked his courtiers, and all that; and I was pleased to receive
his name in lieu of that of the first murderer. Perhaps I should
have felt hurt at the other name, if the clerks in the office had
not echoed the words  Wooden spoons !  with such remarkable
good-humour. Besides, I thought now I had done with the
spoons the name could not hurt me ; and with that thought I
put down the dislike which sometimes arose within me when I
afterwards heard the nickname repeated. But I could not put
down my dislike to Mr. Crookit, the second clerk. The man
never spoke harshly to me : it was the extreme softness and
covert sarcasm of his manner which gradually filled me with
aversion for him.
The chief clerk, Mr. Elder, was a brisk little man, who had
served Mr. Timothy's father, and had been with the Upham
family nearly all his life. He was at least fifty years old—perhaps
nearer sixty—when I entered the office, but was as active and
limber as the youngest in the counting-house; and, though a
zealous preserver of order, was uniformly kind and cheerful.
Him I learned to regard with affection as well as respect, and I
gradually became a great favourite with Mr. Elder.
There were three other clerks, besides Mr. Elder and
Mr. Crookit, but none of them could be called a companion for
myself—for two of them had reached their majority, and wore
large whiskers ; and the other, Master Osberne Osberton, though
neither so old nor so tall as myself, soon gave me to know that
he came from London, and his father was a gentleman. So I
took the hint, and never sought to be intimate with him; never-
theless, excepting his little pride, there was nothing disagreeable
in his temper or disposition.
Nor, when out of the office, could I any longer associate plea-
30
TEE FAMILY FEUD.
santly with my companion the violin-player. He grew shy of
me, and threw out hints that a hook-keeper was a mock gentle-
man, and that he knew I began to think myself too^ grand to
keep company with him, who was only a poor mechanic's appren-
tice. The charge of pride was untrue, but I could not endure
this vulgar banter, and in the course of another year this youth
and I became comparative strangers to each other. At first I
felt sorry at our estrangement, for he was a good timist, and
quick at seizing every mechanical use of the bow; but he was
utterly without a musical soul, and I soon found there were
plenty of mechanical fiddlers in the world of Quarrelton, whose
company I could have if I needed it; but I found better.
What an army of old travellers, voyagers, and other brave
battlers with luck and loss, fortune and misfortune, I became
acquainted with as I took them down now, in lieu of novels,
from the shelves of the circulating library ! The world of history,
and the still greater world of Shakspere, were soon, too, my own.
Meanwhile I continued my practice on the violin; and in art was
advancing boldly, having become a landscape-painter in oil
colours. My occupation as a clerk had also charms for me
unexperienced by my colleagues—for does not Intelligence find
its pleasant food and stimulus where Dulness and Folly yawn
and say all is tasteless and tiresome ? The entry of the names
of multifarious articles of merchandize on bills, journals, and
ledgers, instead of wearying me, as it did Master Osberne Osber-
ton, only prompted me to inquire into their uses, or the mode of
their manufacture, or the manner and clime of their growth.
Mr. Elder could seldom answer my inquiries on these subjects,
and I would not ask Mr. Crookit: when I could find an oppor-
tunity to inquire of Mr. Upham, which I ventured to do in course
of time, the merchant not only afforded me considerable informa-
tion, but expressed pleasure with my curiosity, and charged me
to cultivate it.
I scarcely needed that kind of encouragement: what I wanted
was, the means of satisfying my curiosity, which was continually
growing. To botany, the only new science within my reach as
a student, I turned earnestly, with a book of elements, which I
had purchased. In the course of one summer, I became
acquainted with almost every variety of wild-flower, moss, and
grass, in the neighbourhood; and pursued my wandering studies,
before and after office hours, over field and hill, with a delight
that was as refining as it was new.
By the time that I had reached nineteen, I was conscious of
being so far a sort of altered existence that I looked back upon
my early boyhood as a kind of dream, or a story I had learned of
some other human creature's experience. The image of little Mary
THE FAMILY FEUD.
31
was that, simply, of a pleasing child ; and all my early pleasures
were either childish or so rude that they seemed to have been
the pleasures of a young barbarian. For a larger acquaintance
with science I had intense yearnings ; for painting and music I
was all passion : wherever I heard there was a picture—and
there were two or three small but good collections in and near
Quarrelton—I went to see it, and often repeated the visit, and I
was unwearied in my endeavour to excel as a painter. To Handel
I was attracted with a feeling of awe and worship, by the per-
formances of the church organist, who was ever finding an occa-
sion for introducing the music of the great master ; yet I could
not relish Handel's music on my violin, with my imperfect skill;
nothing but the organ itself—for I had never heard a full band
and choir—seemed fitted to realise his multiform colossal con-
ceptions. My musical practice was confined chiefly to the airs
of ballads ; but I yielded to their sweetness till I often played
myself into a nervous ecstasy.
I should have observed that though, for the first year of my
clerkship, I had continued to lodge with ancient Job and Dorothy,
I now lodged and boarded with Mr. Upham. This was a pri-
vilege he had never before conceded to a clerk : I was a favourite,
that was evident. I had rising hopes that Mr. Upham had a
secret knowledge of my birth, and that this, his marked act of
preference for me, would in time be followed by a decisive
declaration. But time wore on, and his bearing towards me was
still the same.
 Mr. Canute, he would say,  it is a firm maxim of mine—
indeed, I may say it is my great principle—that a merchant is a
gentleman. I am happy to see that you have the tastes of a
gentleman—I mean the mental tastes—and I wish to assist you
in cultivating them.
He never made any more pointed communication to me than
that, and never laid aside what I must call the commercial
manner in his behaviour to me. It was always  Mr. Canute 
this, and  Mr. Canute  the other, when he addressed me ; and
 Yes, sir, and  No, sir, when he answered me. In fine, he
spoke to me invariably as he did to the other clerks, and to men
of business ; and for the first four years of my being in his
service, I never heard him employ any other than business lan-
guage to anybody; it seemed as if commercial phrases were his
mother-tongue.
Mr. Timothy had been married ; but his wedded life was too
short to soften or otherwise alter his business constitution.
His wife had died within a year of their marriage, and soon
after the birth of a daughter. The child had never been in her
father's house from infancy. I learned from the old house-
32
THE FA.MILF FETID.
keeper that she was with rich relations abroad, and was to come
home ere long, for she was now a grown woman. But the time
was not fixed; her father never spoke of her, nor, indeed, of any
of his relatives, living or dead, and I often wondered whether,
when she came home, he would address her in his habitual
dialect of advices, journal, and ledger.
There is no need that I should be more diffuse in this part of
my recital. I must have been half-way, at least, into my
twentieth year, when I drooped from mental overtoil. My
trembling weakness and pale look drew forth tenderer expres-
sions of sympathy, day by day, from Mr. Upham. At last, in
spite of my reluctance, he sent for a medical man. I was pro-
nounced to be in imminent danger of a decline, if I had not
some immediate relaxation. A month's holiday was forced upon
me, by patron and physician. I was ordered to go out—to do
what I liked, wherever I liked. Mr. Timothy astonished and
overpowered me, by forcing a purse of fifty pounds into my
hands; and I bowed grateful acquiescence, while he said,
 Mr. Canute—I entreat—I insist—that you oblige me by—
making your arrangements.
And I  made my arrangements forthwith.
THE FAMILY FEUD.
33
BOOK II.
WHICH, AT FIRST SIGHT, LOOKS LIKE AN EPISODE; BUT THE READER, ON
BETTER ACQUAINTANCE WITH IT, WILL BECOME DOUBTFUL THAT IT IS
ONE.
CHAPTER I.
The young Artist.—The Stranger and his Daughter.—The Hermitage.
A young artist—or one who willed to become an artist—smitten
with admiration for the pictures of Gainsborough, deserted a
busy, trading town, at the beginning of a fine autumn, promising
himself a few weeks' pure enjoyment in an observant walk
through the quiet scenery of our midland counties. "With a
light knapsack strapped to his shoulders, and a portfolio in his
hand, he proceeded leisurely along, shunning towns, and only
halting in villages to rest for the night, or to sketch some little
church, attractive less by its architecture than the repose of its
situation. Thus pursuing a zig-zag course through three coun-
ties, by the middle of October he had reached the borders of
Shakspere's native shire, and was within a few miles of the
poet's birthplace.
As the softening influences of the season began to be shed
more deeply over field and hamlet, and foliage tints grew mel-
lower and more varied, the rambler felt less power to keep the
resolution with which he had set out: that of storing his mind,
rather than his portfolio, with images of rural life, and pic-
turesque fragments from the woodlands. With the poetic feeling
of a true artist, he often found it impossible to forego sketching
some grand gnarled oak, which called up associations of historic
interest; or a storm-broken elm, asserting its vigour by sending
forth new branches from the stump, and thus re-arraying itself
with a verdant diadem, like a proud chief refusing to acknow-
ledge conquest by a force which has inevitably shorn him of
Sre-eminence; or some hoary thorn, the barrenness of whose
ranches was concealed by embracing clusters of shining ivy, as
man's decaying age is gladdened by the affection and smiles of
D
34
the family feud.
Lis neighbours and friends. A group of cows, cooling themselves
in a stream, and sheltered from the sun's glare by a bank covered
with drooping alders, now and then moved him to resort to his
pencil; and still oftener did he feel compelled to make palpable
record of a peasant's child beheld at its gambols, of the coy
graces of a cottage-girl, or of the pictorial effect produced by a
band of sturdy labourers, surrounded with implements of their
rustic employ, and other accessories of rural life.
It was some hours past noon, and a wooden guide-post, marked
with the distance from Stratford-on-Avon, served as a monitor
to his conscience that, having so often broken his original reso-
lution, he ought to shut his eyes against further seducement,
and fix his thoughts on a serious subject. His thoughts ran
in sentimental vein, for the enthusiast had seen but twenty
summers.
A pilgrimage to the shrine of the greatest poet was one of
my purposes in setting out, he said to himself; "and I ought
now to abandon this paltry practice of making gross marks of
every pretty thing I see, and let the mind not only store up
pictures for herself, but be free for her nobler work of reflection.
I am now in Shakspere's own land. Great natures, it seems,
do not need to be born amidst what is called sublime scenery ;
mountains rising grandly out of lakes, crags browed with dark
pines, or rocks lashed by the foaming ocean. This is a realm of
quiet beauty, and breathes of comfort and home, the two words
bo truly and dearly English. This land of rich and smiling
softness nurtured Shakspere's great heart; and upon flowers
such as these he looked in his boyhood and youth—nay, upon
those very trees it may be, for those oaks must be three cen-
turies old, or near upon it. Oaks ! there are some finer still!—
why, that is the grandest old fellow I have ever seen ! I must
sketch him! I shall never forgive myself, if I lose the image' of
that glorious tree !
Shakspere and sentiment were at once forgotten, and our
eager artist sprang over a low fence, and began to advance
towards the giant oak, whose imposing stature and breadth had
thus suddenly dissipated his resolve to think instead of employing
himself so often with making manual records of what he saw.
One little enclosure crossed, however, and he came to a halt.
On the other side of a second fetice, there was a deep running
water, too wide for him to leap, and yet it only roused his zeal
to get over. Examining the line of hedge, he saw the trunk of
a large decayed willow bending over the water. With a little
effort he broke it off from the root, and placed it athwart the
brook. But in attempting to cross this rude bridge he failed,
and only escaped a complete bath in the stream by nimbleness.
THE FAMILY FEUD.
35
 Well done! But it is a bad omen. Better give it up !
He looked round, but could see no one; yet some voice ut-
tered these words. It cduld not be imagination; it must be
some one who was mocking him from a hiding-place : a thought
which only rendered him more resolute. So he placed the wil-
low trunk again across the stream, and this time so firmly, that
he quickly passed over.
Again he looked eagerly around for some human form, but
saw none. There were traces of a footpath near the oak, and a
wooden bench which enabled him to rest. He soon commenced
his sketch of this king of trees, and became so absorbed in his
work as to forget the voice, and not to perceive that he was
watched. His drawing was nearly completed, when he was
startled by a harsh voice which pronounced, close at his ear,—
"You are busy, my young friend ! 
He glanced behind him, and beheld a dark-visaged man,
dressed in a plain black suit, and having the unmistakeable
bearing of a gentleman, but whose penetrative look and features
seemed to him so forbidding, that they rendered him unable to
reply immediately; and when he did speak, he only said, faintly,
"Yes, sir.
 Go on ; do not let me interrupt you, said the stranger, in
the same sharp tone.
 Oh, I have finished, returned the youth, hurrying away
the sketch into his portfolio.
 Finished! And are you an artist? 
 I am—that is, I hope to be one, was the timid answer ;
for the gentleman conveyed so much reproof by the way in which
he uttered his last words, that the young man was confused not
a little; but the gentleman seemed to take no notice of it.
 You appear to have a budget of curiosities there, he went
on ;  may I be allowed to look at them ? 
And, without waiting for permission, he took out half a dozen
sketches from the case at a grasp, and turned them over quickly
and somewhat contemptuously, not bestowing more than a hasty
glance on each of them.
 So : trees, ploughmen, and cows! I find no pigs among
them, said the critic,  or I should have judged you were a
disciple of drunken George.
 Drunken George !  echoed the young man, in amazement
at both the language and manner of this disagreeable gentleman,
as he inwardly called the stranger.
 Ay, drunken George—poor Morland, I mean; he deserves
to bo mentioned with pity, for he was a clever savage. But he
is not your exemplar, I see. [Taking up another handful of
sketches.] Yet, you have chosen your school, I suppose ? By
d 2
36
THE FAMIIY FEUD.
whose godhead do you swear ? Not by that of Michael Angelo,
like garrulous old Vasari, I'll wager sixpence. {The second batch
of drawings was thrown down, and a third taken up.] Ah, I have
it! You worship the hasty dauber of whom Fuseli absurdly says,
'Nature was his teacher, and the woods of Suffolk his Sea-
demy.'—A foolish flourish ! but writing without the license of a
stroke of rhetoric would have been as tasteless to Fuseli as barley-
dumpling to my man Dick, without treacle and vinegar.
The oddity of the stranger's remarks would have provoked the
young artist's mirth under other circumstances; as it was, his
displeasure was so far lessened that he only replied, with a slight
petulance,—
 I think, sir, that Gainsborough was a great natural painter.
"Natural! Do you mean natural bornP There are plenty
of natural-born fools, my young friend, but no natural-born
painters, asserted the other, scornfully.
A challenge to reason out his dogmatic assertion would have
been hurled in the stranger's teeth, had not his quick look in the
direction of the footpath, and a sudden and pleasing change in
the expression of his face, checked the youth's temper and
tongue.
 Here comes my summoner to dinner! cried the gentleman;
 you are a trespasser, and the penalty is that you do not refuse
me your company for the evening. You must rest somewhere ;
and you will do me a favour if you will rest with me; we have
not far to go. Come, you must not deny me : I can show you a
few pictures by masters better worth your discipleship than is
the Suffolk academician of the woods.
A slenderly formed, but very graceful young woman, with long
and fair floating hair, was beheld hastening along the footpath
while the gentleman spoke; and as he ceased his daughter
stood by his side, and received his caress with words of fondness.
It might be that this sudden apparition seemed to harmonise so
agreeably with the sylvan scene around, in the imagination of
the young artist, or that the severe and cynical character of the
father rendered the vision of his daughter more captivating by
contrast; but, however it might be, the young man's purpose—
for he had entertained one—of rejecting the gentleman's invita-
tion, was gone; he was reluctant to quit the father, because he
desired to remain with the daughter : that was visible enough in
his eyes, though he did not speak.
 IJna, my love, said the father,  this young gentleman con-
sents to favour us with his company this evening; he is not
dumb, but only seems so for the nonce. I will carry his knap-
sack, if he will allow me to unstrap it; you take his portfolio,—.
there are some pretty things in it that you will like to see, if he
THE FAMILY FEUD.
37
will let you look at tliem, lie concluded, raising Ms eyebrows
sarcastically.
The young lady had hitherto looked shily at the artist; but
she smiled at the close of her father's speech, not as if she were
pleased at his raillery, but to express good nature. Her smile
at once relieved the youth from his embarrassment, and he then
readily found words to deprecate the idea of a lady carrying his
ortfolio, while he declared it would give him pleasure to show
er its contents, if she thought them worth looking at.
 Well, well; let him carry it himself, Una, and his knapsack
too, since he is so independent, said the gentleman, drawing
his daughter's hand under his left arm, and beginning to walk
with the young man on his right hand.
Commendations of the rich woodland scenery as they walked
through it and fresh glimpses of its beauty revealed themselves,
were uttered by the gentleman; his remarks not only showed
taste, but were made in a tone so natural and agreeable, and
were so pleasantly mingled with the occasional remarks of his
daughter, that their new acquaintance listened and assented with
delight. They soon came within sight of a large, low-built man-
sion or manor-house; the daughter gently interrupted her father
to draw the young man's attention to it; and the gentleman,
unasked, immediately related how he had returned from foreign
travel some years before, and had been so much charmed with
the estate as to enter on a lease of it; but that the period for
which he took it was now near expiry, and he purposed soon to
leave it and go abroad again.
A thought which was passing through the young man's mind
impelled him to turn his head and look at the young lady. Her
father noted it instantly, and answered as if it were an inquiry.
 Yes, Una goes with me, he said:  it will be but a return
to her native land; and she will see her mother's grave in Italy.
I can bear to look on it now; and Una has no remembrance of
her mother, so that she, happily, can feel little sorrow for the
early loss of one whom she never knew.
This was spoken in a voice that quivered with emotion, and
yet with an air and manner that betokened a stern and unyield-
ing struggle with deep-seated grief. The youth thought the
daughter stifled a sigh as her father ended, but he felt that it
would be irreverent to look at either her face or her father's at
such a moment; so the three walked on in silence, till they
reached a porch-door wMch opened into a little shrubbery, cMefly
of hollies, that spread out in front of the manor-house. The
gentleman closed the door so soon as they had passed it; and
the stillness, with the dark, close-set shrubs, gave the place a
prison-like character, the visitant thought.
38
THE FAMILY FETTl).
 It is but gloomy without, observed the gentleman, catching
the expression of the young man's face;  but I hope the interior
will atone for that. I have called our house ' The Hermitage,'
since we have lived in it, but it is likely the name will be changed
for a more cheerful one by our successors. The building is old,
but not so old as it looks to be; the builder, like myself, I guess,
loved the fashions of his own age less than those of the ages
before him.
As he spoke, he rang a bell by means of a large, old-fashioned
handle attached to a post which stood on one side of the moss-
grown path that led to the house-door ; and, after a little delay,
the door was opened by a white-headed old man, in a neat brown
suit without marks or badges. The wearer, too, looked so happy
and independent, that, if met without the gate, he would scarcely
have been taken for a servant. The young lady gave him her
hand, and he took it with a smile, and uttered something like a
blessing upon her.
 Did you fear you had lost her, Miles ?  said the gentleman,
playfully ;  why, she cannot have been out of your sight more
than half an hour. Come, we have brought home a visitor:
here, take his baggage upstairs, and he will follow you, to the
green bed-room. Please entrust your more valuable luggage to
me, he added, addressing the artist and extending his hand for
the portfolio ;  you shall find it safe in the dining-room, and we
shall be glad to see you there so soon as you can join us.
A heavy winding staircase led up from the entrance-hall; and
the old man, Miles, mounted it with an activity that surprised
him that followed. They left the staircase for a long gallery
which extended, the youth thought, throughout the whole length
of the building; and Miles then preceded the visitant into a large
bed-chamber, where the hangings and chair-covers, as well as
the paper on the walls, were all of dark green. There were
around the room several pictures, which would have fixed the
attention of our artist, had he not been warned very earnestly
by the old man, who was busily pouring out water from a ewer
which looked much like an Etruscan vase, not to loiter.
 G-et yourself washed as quick as ye can, urged Miles, look-
ing full of smiling kindness,  for the master does not iike to
wait for dinner; it puts him rather out, you understand, he
added with an intelligent nod:  shall I unbuckle your little
pack ? What a handy-sort of a thing it is to travel with! 
 If you please; and just give me out the clean shirt, and a
clean neckerchief"—
 Shirt! bless ye, you mustn't stay now to change shirts : I
tell ye, the dinner will be on the table in a minute; just hand
THE FAMILY FEUD.
39
me your coat, and I'll give it a brush, and you'll, do tben well
enough.
 Then you need not undo the knapsack.
 To be sure ; I'll buckle it up again. Really it's a handy sort
of a thing—just such a one as master used to strap about him
when he used to go off a artisting—sketching—what do they
call it P Like yourself, you know. I saw your portfolio.
"Artisting ! Has your master been an artist? 
The old man's face lost its brightness in a moment, and he
stopped short with his coat-brushing to gaze inquiringly at the
youth.
 Don't ye know Mr. Percival ?  he asked.
 Is that your master's name? I never saw him till to-day.
Miles's face fell, with an uneasy expression.
 Hum! he said, meditatively,  it's so seldom we have any
visitors that one forgets one's self. But, please look sharp, he
urged ;  put on your coat and let us be going.
They hastened away, Miles leading at a swift pace as before;
but when they had descended the staircase, and were about to
cross the entrance-hall, the old man stopped short.
 Pray, how shall I name you—that is—who shall I say—to
Mr. and Miss Percival? he asked, looking curiously at the
guest.
 Oh!—say—"Wilfred Harlow.
The young artist felt amazed at the change which was coming
over the old man's face ; and at the way in which his own face,
hands, stature, and clothes, seemed to be the objects of strange,
quick scrutiny by Miles.
 What name did you say, sir ?  repeated the old man ; and
the youth repeated the name he had already given.
 Oh, Harlow ! I beg pardon, sir !  said Miles, who seemed
to recover his presence of mind, turned, and led on to the dining-
room door, which he opened, and to the youth's surprise pro-
nounced, as he entered,—■
"The young artist gentleman, sir! and immediately pro-
ceeded to take the covers from the dishes in what seemed to be
his customary style of despatch.
Una was seated on her father's right hand, and Mr. Percival
motioned to Wilfred to take the empty chair on his left. Wil-
fred took it, glad that his host's attention to the dishes pre-
vented any observation of the uneasiness he felt from the mode
in which old Miles had ushered him into the room, after asking
his name, and then omitting it in such a peculiar way. The
dishes were plain, but Wilfred noted that several of the vessels
on the table were of costly material, and richly wrought.
A glance at Una served to show him that her face was saddened
40
THE FAMILY FEUD.
by what he believed to be the melancholy feeling created by the
conversation of her father before they entered the house. Her
eyes were downcast, and she did not speak during the dinner,
except to excuse herself when her father pressed her to partake
more heartily of what was before her. The guest's appetite was
keen ; and what with its cravings, and the wondering of his
curiosity as to the meaning of the behaviour of old Miles, he felt
unable to make any very pertinent replies to Mr. Percival's con-
versation, which was kept up almost unceasingly during the
meal; it was about art, and the superiority of the giants contem-
porary with Michael Angelo to all modern dwarfs of the pencil:
that the young artist knew; but he said little, partly for the
foregoing reasons, and also because the chief speaker seemed not
to expect much rejoinder.
So far as the busy occupation of his brain permitted him to
observe, Wilfred thought that Mr. Percival ate but little, and
drank still more sparingly. Yet, amidst the conversation, or
rather monologue, Mr. Percival continually encouraged Wilfred
to eat and drink; but our artist, being unused to wine, did not
venture beyond a second glass. When the meal was ended, and
before the cloth was removed, Una laid her hand gently on her
father's arm, and interrupted him in a critical descant on the
causes of the decline of high art.
 Going, love? he said, tenderly, and with a wistful glance
at her sad countenance;  charm away your trouble with a few
grand chords of Beethoven, on the organ; and send for us so
soon as you are revived. We will do our best to keep you
cheerful.
The daughter rose without replying; and as Wilfred stepped
to the room-door and opened it for her, he perceived that her
lip trembled, and tears were escaping from beneath her eyelids.
Una passed him without looking up, though she slightly ac-
knowledged his attention. He would have expressed his uneasi-
ness, but the entrance of two stout serving-women who began
hastily to assist Miles in clearing the table, together with his
recurring sense of mystery, contributed to restrain him. Miles
evidently expedited the clearance of the room, both of the table
furniture and the women; placed a box of cigars, a curiously
carved tobacco-jar, and a large Persian pipe on the table beside
the wine; lighted a lamp which swung from the ceiling, and,
placing a lighted taper beside his master, withdrew—making as
much despatch as if his life depended on the entire work being
accomplished in a given number of minutes.
Wilfred, meanwhile, had noted the old man's intent haste, and,
as unobtrusively as possible, coupled it with the evidences of
repressed excitability there were about the mouth and brow of
THE FAMILY FEUD.
41
Percival—drawing the inference that Miles knew his master's
character, and that there was something as mysterious in the
latter as there was in Miles's behaviour towards himself. Wil-
fred thus felt a natural increase of curiosity respecting the prin-
cipal inmates of the house to which his introduction had been
so unexpected and unsought for; and determined to make
strict observation of all he mieht see or hear while he remained
in it.
 Do you take a cigar ? asked Mr. Percival, seizing the long-
tubed pipe and beginning eagerly to fill it the moment that
Miles closed the door.
 Seldom—very seldom, answered Wilfred.
 Take one to oblige me; you'll find these excellent, said the
host; and Wilfred complied.
Percival had already lighted his pipe; and throwing himself
into a half-reclining position in his arm-chair, and placing his
feet on a stool, began to send forth the smoke in clouds, and
with an air of intense gratification. Wilfred thought his face,
compared with itself a few moments before, looked as if it were
not that of the same person. The conversation was started in
a way that took the visitor by surprise.
 Come, now that we are free and easy, said the happy-
looking smoker, "tell me your name. Mine is Percival. Your's
is—
 Harlow, answered Wilfred, instantly; and the next mo-
ment, wished he had given the Christian name as well,—but the
other was rattling on.
 Thank ye. Well now, Mr. Harlow, you say you seldom
smoke: I'm sorry for it, allow me to say. I should have had
a higher expectation of your intelligence, if you had been a
genuine smoker. But you are young yet; and you may
improve.
 I will improve, if you can show me that smoking will
strengthen my intelligence, said Wilfred, laughing, and desi-
rous of following the humour of one whom he wished to know
better.
 That is not my point, returned the other, joining in Wil-
fred's laughter; "I do not prescribe smoke as a recipe for
fortifying weak brains ; but only intimate that a love of smoking
is an unmistakeable sign that a man possesses brains worth
owning.
 And how does your wisdom arrive at such a self-comforting
conclusion P 
 Ipse dixit: by the authoritative declaration of a great man ;
and not by the exertion of my own understanding; for that
would be crossing a stile that would guide one into the bye-way
12
THE FAMILY FEUD.
of uncertainty for life. There is nothing like taking a great
man's dictum for a rule—
 If you wish to save yourself the labour of thinking—
 And to have ease of mind. You must know that I had the
honour of being seated in the company of the profoundly learned
Doctor Parr, when very young. I think I see the smoke-
tanned face, encompassed with the large wig, of the illustrious
old fellow, at this moment. My companions—there were seven
of them, all mature men, and we were waiting upon the magnate
of learning to obtain the patronage of his name for a literary
scheme—all accepted his invitation to smoke, when he had
ordered pipes and tobacco into the room. I, alone, did not
touch a pipe. The sage observed it, and darting an awful look
at me, he drew an immense breath, and raising a Yesuvian
column of vapour above his head, cried out, ' Young man, don't
you smoke?'—'No, Doctor Parr,' I answered. 'All men of
mind smoke,' pronounced that miracle of learning. Terror-
stricken with his frown and his thunder, I seized a pipe—and
have smoked ever since.
The reciter laughed at his own story; and before Wilfred
could make any comment, left the whimsical subject, and dashed
again into his favourite theme.
 Pray, Mr. Harlow, how came you to make choice of such
an imperfect model as the Suffolk man for imitation ? he
asked;  he was neither a great inventive genius, nor did lie
learn anything worth learning from those that went before him.
He is not worth your following. If you choose the humbler
walk of your art—and I grant you that there is little prospect
of encouragement for cultivating the great style in these days—
take painters such as these for your pattern,"—and he pointed
to the walls of the room which were enriched with a score, or
more, of works by the Flemish and Dutch masters.
 I was noting them while you were commemorating the wis-
dom of Doctor Parr, said Harlow;  and congratulate you, sir,
on the possession of such treasures of finish.
 Ay; finish! That's just what I want you to think about.
Gainsborough never knew that there was such a word in the
vocabulary of art. A scrawl—a dash—and a blurr of tricksy
tints—and he imagined all was done! 
 But if there be no real merit in him, why did Sir Joshua
commend him P 
 Mere good-nature, my friend. Besides, [Reynolds would
not say severe things of any living painter who happened to be
a favourite with the many. He was shrewd enough to know
that the world would have assailed him as envious, if he had
said them.
THE FAMILY FEUD.
43
 But how is it that succeeding times have confirmed Sir
Joshua's judgment ? 
"No true artist confirms it. Gainsborough's reputation,
like that of every flimsy painter for effect, becomes less every
day. But there, said Percival, pointing again emphatically to
the pictures,  you see excellences which are more warmly
appreciated every day.
 Granting them their high desert for perfect finish, wondrous
delicacy and transparency of colour, and most accurate and
patient imitation of objects not always the most dignified, per-
severed the other,  you cannot claim for them one attribute
you denied to Gainsborough: great inventive genius. Here,
among your treasures, are hawking-pieces of Wouvermans,
landscapes ofWynants and Both, and merry-makings of Teniers.
The first has his white horse, the second his withered tree, the
third his rock or clay bank with its shrubs, and the other some
indecency of the coarsest kind, slightly obscured and stuck in a
corner. I never saw a considerable picture of any one of these
artists into which these hackneyed marks of their lack of inven-
tion were not introduced.
 But I have, returned Percival, with some resumption of his
gravity;  yet, what if each had some favourite form, some chosen
symbol of his moral or artistic aim and meaning—why should
he not be allowed to insert it as invariably in his pictures, as
some affix their names or the initials thereof, so ostentatiously,
to their worthless daubings ? 
 I beg your pardon, sir ; but you are now becoming too
metaphysical for me, said Wilfred, with sincerity;  will you
be kind enough to repeat your question—or to put it in the
form of a proposition ? 
 Neither, to-night, an' it please your philosophy, replied
Percival, as old Miles opened the door and said tea was ready;
 we will resume the debate at that point early in the morning.
This was spoken with a spice of the old sarcasm which had
before annoyed Harlow; and he would have felt annoyed now,
had he not remembered that they were about to rejoin the fair
Una.
CHAPTER II.
The Organ.—The Songstress.—The Storm.—The mj-,terious Picture.
Miles preceded his master and the visitor along a lighted pas-
eage, and when he had opened a door at the end of it, Wilfred
u
THE FAMILY FEUD.
was surprised to see that he had conducted them, not into the
presence of Una, but to an elegant lavatory. On the side of the
room opposite the door, a stream of water rushed through a
trough lined with porcelain, and sparkled in the light of a lamp
which swung from the ceiling. On another side stood two
mirrors in richly inlaid frames; and opposite to them a bath
was partially discovered under a looped curtain of pale blue silk :
on two stands of marble lay towels of snowy whiteness, and
soaps of varied scents in ornately-cut vessels of Bohemian
coloured glass. The taste displayed in a small space, and the
eager zest with which Percival made his ablutions, gave Harlow
a new and pleasurable idea of the habits of his host.
The apartment in which they rejoined Una, and which Wil-
fred concluded to be the drawing-room of the Hermitage,
increased his admiration. Before quitting the dining-room he
had seen nothing about this retired mansion, except a few
valuable pictures, to give him any refined conception of the
taste of its tenant; but the room he now entered deserved, he
thought, to be styled magnificent. The richness of the furniture
both in pattern and material, the marquetry tables, and cabinets
of Buhl-work, the crimson satin covers of chairs, stools, and
couch, with the massive silver candlesticks and their elaborate
workmanship, all denoted wealth, he thought, as well as taste.
The pictures, too, with which the walls were stored, were set in
very expensive frames; but now, he observed, the subjects were
Madonnas and saints, creations of Italian and Spanish painters.
In a spacious recess, the gilded and adorned exterior of a large
organ reminded him of Percival's charge to Una when she left
the dinner-table.
The lady herself, elegantly, and even showily attired, received
him with a smile of sweetness; but he immediately saw that
there was yet a shade of sorrow in her face; and he sat down at
her request with a feeling of restraint. Her father, on the con-
trary, was all animation, expressed pleasure at his daughter's
recovery in somewhat rhapsodical language, and rallied her in a
way that grated a little on Wilfred's ears, on her dependence
upon sweet sounds for good spirits. Una answered pleasantly,
and smiled; but Harlow thought there was constraint in her
look; and, as if to relieve herself from Percival's raillery, she
observed that she hoped to have the pleasure of looking into the
portfolio during the evening.
 Let that remain till to-morrow, love, said Mr. Percival,
before Wilfred could deliver himself of the modest complaisance
he was framing;  our talk must be as free and vagrant as the
air to-night. The laborious gatherings by wood and field and
highway-side of Mr. Harlow—that is our young friend's name,
THE FAMILY FEUD.
45
my love—will need to be very seriously surveyed. Mr. Harlow
and I have already adjourned tbe discussion of one grave problem
till to-morrow morning.
 I am very deeply obliged to you, sir, said Wilfred, though
it cost him an effort to say so, while he observed the ripple of
scorn which again flitted over Percival's changeful features;
 but I must decline to accept your hospitality beyond breakfast
to-morrow, as I purpose being at Stratford, and staying to see
the house and tomb of the poet; and I must then hasten home.
I have spent too much time on the way, and I really must get
back; I must, indeed, without delay.
"You will not be able to travel to-morrow, said Mr.
Percival.
Harlow looked at him earnestly, without speaking, and thought
there might be some new mockery in his serious look.
 Look here! said Percival, striding to the end of the room,
drawing back a curtain, and opening a glass-door.
Harlow could see the strangely-discoloured and disturbed sky
where he sat; but he rose, and followed the other a few steps
into the shrubbery. Dense masses of lurid and sulphureous-
looking clouds were stretching over the heavens, and the gloom
they cast was deepened in effect by a stifling closeness in the
air, though trees moaned and boughs bent suddenly under the
gust. Wilfred uttered an exclamation of wonder, seeing that
the day had been so fine.
 Yet I knew it was coming hours ago, said Percival;  but
you are no great traveller, I imagine; and you are young and
strong, and can have had no heart-shocks—no wear and tear of the
nerves to make you sensitive to electric changes. Those quick,
hot gusts that make the boughs quake and the leaves quiver, are
electric. Indeed, the winds are all caused, it is most likely,
either by electricity or the earth's magnetism; but these gusts
are the very breath of lightning. The storm, which is approach-
ing, will be such a one as we seldom have in autumn, and the
rain will continue, very likely, for some days. At any rate,
there will be no travelling for you to-morrow. So set yourself
at rest, and make yourself as happy as you can while you remain
with us.
These last words were uttered in so kind a tone that Harlow
thanked his host warmly. Una had joined them, and Wilfred felt
flattered in hearing her say she was glad he would remain at the
Hermitage to-morrow. Her voice shook, however, as she spoke;
and when they had passed again into the room, and Percival was
closing the glass-door, and covering it again with the curtain,
Harlow felt some alarm at her paleness. Her hand trembled as
she extended it to the tea-urn; and though she evidently exercised
46
THE FAMILY FEUD.
great self-mastery, Percival observed bis daughter's agitation.
He took his own way in assisting her to subdue it, claiming his
cup of tea with playfulness, and asserting with glee, that scarcely
seemed affected,—
 Music will set you all right, darling! Beethoven, or your
own Handel, shall restore you very soon. Do you love music,
Mr. Harlow ? he asked, turning to their guest.
Wilfred answered with earnestness that he did; and noted
that Una looked pleased to hear him say so.
 But do you prove your love for it ?  pressed the father;  do
you sing ? do you play ? do you know anything of music as a
science P
 I scarcely dare say ' Yes' to any of your questions ; and yet
I fill up the twilight hour of an evening, usually, with my
violin, replied Harlow.
 Spoken discreetly, and like a student, observed Percival,
with a slight return to his old manner.
"What may be your lessons, Mr. Harlow? asked Una, with
growing interest.
"At twilight—when you cannot see the notes? added Per-
cival, with mock gravity.
"Nothing that requires them, since I know the strains by
heart, answered Wilfred, colouring, and wishing Una's father
could speak three sentences without biting;  they are only
trifles, such as the airs to Burns's songs, or the old Irish
melodies.
"Trifles! exclaimed Percival, setting down his cup and
saucer, and seeming impetuous to attack.
 But, father, said Una, looking intreatingly in his face,
 Mr. Harlow shows true musical taste in the selection of his
favourites.
 He does, darling, said the father, instantly subdued;  but,
my good friend, he went on, turning mildly to Harlow, "those
old Irish airs are miracles of art, viewed as expressions of feel-
ing; and the miracles are the greater, because they are the
mysterious creations of rude ages. And though the Scotch
melodies are less rapturously expressive, they are masterly
renderings of the poet's thought into a higher language.
 A higher language ?  repeated the young artist, who thought
the phrase questionable.
 That must be a higher language which gives greater power
to the first transcript of a poet's thought, affirmed Percival;
 we feel that Burns's own language is sweet—for it flowed from
one of the noblest and tenderest hearts that ever beat in a human
bosom; but how much sweeter it is to hear it sung, or to sing
it! The musician has, therefore, rendered it into a higher,
THE FAMILY FEUD.
47
because more powerful language; but we are to have no more
argument to-night: we are not to relapse into metaphysics, you
know. Music to-night, and metaphysics to-morrow. Una will
give us some music. Will you not, love?
Harlow confessed he had hoped for the gratification of hearing
Miss Percival play, so soon as he saw the instrument in the
room. Una's eyes kindled with a light that almost dazzled
Wilfred, now the moment was near that she was to touch the
keys of her organ. Handel and Beethoven were again mentioned:
the one with devotion by Una, and the other with passion by her
father. And then he rang the bell eagerly.
 Tell Miles I want him to serve the organ for your mistress,
he said to a young servant-girl who entered;  but stay! he
will be wearied to-night. You may send Dick in. It will help
to keep the sluggard awake.
 I hope you will let me come, sir, said old Miles, looking in
at the door;  Dick is too clumsy; and he does not understand
the bellows.
 Well, well, my dear old fellow, come to your old post, said
Percival kindly.
Miles had looked somewhat offended the moment before ; but
his face became radiant, and he looked fondly at Una, as he
went to the organ side, and laid hold of the bellows-handle.
Wilfred leaned against the organ-frame, and almost forgot
his own personal existence, while he listened to Una's voice,
and saw the wondrous manifestation of feeling in her face,
as she sang "Ah, Grammachree! "Kathleen Mavourneen,
 Savourna Deelish, and two or three other of the ancient Irish
airs. He had not looked at her father, or old Miles, or he would
have seen that they also showed intense enjoyment.
 A challenge !  said Percival, gleefully, when Una made a
momentary pause ;  Mr. Harlow can sing a Scotch song.
Wilfred deprecated the challenge ; but the other insisted, and
Una joined her father.
 Come, I will give you ' The Banks of Doon' first, she said ;
 you shall follow with ' Auld Lang Syne,' and we will join you
in the chorus. My father will then give us his favourite.
Wilfred could not now resist; and after Una had, with thril-
ling power and matchless sweetness, as he thought, sung Burns's
most beautiful love-lay, he chanted, in a full tenor, the poet's
delightful song of friendship with so much taste as to draw forth
the commendations of Una and her father. Percival not only
showed himself a musician by the manner in which he sang
 Highland Mary, but threw so much pathos into the notes, as
to cause Wilfred's wonder whether he were not really expressing
his own agonising emotions. Harlow's conjecture was strength-
48
THE FAMILY FEUD.
ened, when Percival turned so as to hide his face, and was
silent when the young artist commended his performance.
 Do you know anything of Handel, Mr. Harlow P asked
Una, seemingly with the intent of drawing off observation from
ker
"A little, answered Wilfred; "and I should like to know
more.
 Begin with the 'Pastoral Symphony,' love, entreated Per-
cival; "and give us what you please afterwards.
Una seemed to revel in the airs and choruses of the "Messiah,
notwithstanding that gleams of lightning frequently were dis-
cernible through the curtains of the glass-door and windows ; and
the roll of thunder was loud enough to be heard even above the
organ-music of the choruses. One tremendous crash made
Harlow start, as Una gave the last peal of the  Hallelujah,
and he thought that she also showed signs of alarm. Percival,
on the contrary, seemed to exult in the storm, and cried,—
"Now for the ' Hailstone Chorus,' and then ' The Horse and
his Bider!' 
Una performed the terrific description of the plague of fire
and hail with an energy which Wilfred, in his excitement,
deemed almost supernatural, as he gazed on her frail and slender
form. He accidentally glanced at old Miles, and saw that,
though attending carefully to the mechanical labour of supply-
ing air to the organ, the old man's eyes were fixed on Una, and
his look was full of anxious fear for her. A few moments proved
that Percival had urged her sensitive nature beyond its strength.
She delivered the solo to the next chorus with a magnificent
power that perfectly appalled Harlow ; an overwhelming peal of
thunder shook the very floor before she could again touch the
keys of the organ, and she fell back with a shriek.
Old Miles's anxiety had warned him of what might be expected,
and he caught her in his arms before her father could reach her.
Wilfred rang the bell, as Percival loudly requested him to do.
The servant-women hurried into the room ; and Percival, who
was now in a passion of tears, urged them to take his unconscious
daughter to her chamber. He closed the door as they, assisted
by old Miles, bore her away, and then strode about the room,
speaking as wildly as a man who is insane. Harlow ventured a
few words of condolence when his passion had subsided a little.
 Who are you, sir, that presume to soothe me ?  cried the
distracted man, glaring furiously at the youth; "lama brutal
wretch to have urged her beyond her strength for my own mean
gratification. You knew nothing of her mother, or that music
is a part of her very essence. I am a vile torturer, for having
roused the fire which will soon consume a frame so feeble,
THE FAMILY FEUD.
49
He stopped, and looked eagerly at Miles, who re-entered the
room.
"The dear child is better, said the old man, tremulously, and
talking of Una as if she were his own.  You had better quieten
yourself, sir; she wants to see you.
"Thank you, my dear old friend!—I'll go, said Percival, in
an altered and subdued tone, and hastened away.
Miles lifted up a hand significantly, and then said in a whisper
to Wilfred,—
 Excuse me, sir; but you had better leave master to himself,
—I know his ways. Hever mind staying to bid him good night.
He will be better pleased to be left alone. Shall I show you to
your room, sir ? 
 If you please, answered Harlow,—for he thought it wiser
to take the old man's counsel in such novel circumstances, than
to trust to his own.
Miles brought Wilfred again to the green bedroom, and when
he had set down the light, turned and surveyed the youth very
anxiously before quitting him.
"I must demand some explanation of this. Why do you
scrutinize me a second time in this strange manner? said the
youth.
 What did you say, sir, that your name was ? Is it your
name P 
The youth either could not or would not answer. Miles
regarded him with piercing eyes for a few moments, and then
turned, silently left the chamber, and closed the door.
 What on earth moved me to give them such a name ?  said
the solitary to himself;  what but dread mingled with infatua-
tion ? I could only have given them a name which is no more
mine than the one I have forged. And why not one false name
as well as another P Any name rather than the doomed true
one ! I will be Wilfred Harlow only, while I stay in this house.
And at what am I frightened P A shadow. What knowledge
can this old man have of me P It is most likely an oddity of
his,—for age has its peculiarities.
Harlow walked to and fro in the chamber revolving and thus
answering his own queries, and feeling indisposed to undress
himself; for the incessant glare and quiver of the lightning,
with the awful peals of thunder, contributed to render him
wakeful and restless. Thus an hour passed, and the fury of the
storm abated. Yery soon the lightning was no longer visible,
the thunder became very distant, and the wind sank, though the
rain continued to pour heavily. The cessation of the thunder
and lightning so much relieved him, that he took up the light
E
50
THE FAMILY FETTP.
which Miles had left, with the intent of whiling away a little
time by looking at the pictures on the walls of the room.
The first picture he approached was a small portrait. It was
that of a lady, young, and simply but elegantly dressed. It did
not make an instant impression upon him; but, as his eye
returned to the face of the portrait, after scanning the execution
of the drapery artist-wise, he thought he had some recognition
of the likeness. The next moment he chid himself as foolishly
imaginative, and passed on to the next picture. It was a small
and very beautifully-finished sketch of a landscape with cattle,
by Berghem. But the trees and figures wove themselves into a
mist before his eyes, for his mind was with the portrait; and he
was compelled to return to it. It seemed now as if the eyes of
the lady were filled with a meaning he had never before wit-
nessed in a human countenance ; and still his idea of recognition
increased in force. Yet it must be imagination, he thought,
since memory did not furnish the original of the picture.
Averting his head, and resolving to look no more at the por-
trait, he again and again felt drawn to gaze at it, till, in despera-
tion at the tantalising power it exercised over him, he put out
the light, thinking that the surest way of getting rid of his tor-
ment. Finding that the eyes of the portrait were still present
to his mind, he concluded that his imagination was disturbed by
the events of the evening. Gradually the distinctness of the
portrayed face faded, as memory wandered over the sayings of
Percival, and the changeful excitement with which he delivered
his sarcasms, and hurried from one subject to another. That
first forbidding look was recalled, and then the voice from the
hidden speaker, who doubtless was Percival, Harlow thought.
 I ought not to have accepted his invitation, "Wilfred said to
himself; it was, i'ndeed, a bad omen when the tree-trunk failed
me. But I have never been influenced by omens ; and he could
only be mocking me when he used the word. Yet, if there be
any danger here, it must arise from him. There is a mystery
about the man, and an unpleasant mystery too, from the sort of
dread which old Miles showed of him. And there is a mystery,
too, about the daughter, with all her attractiveness. They are
a pair of inexplicables, and are unlike any mortals I have ever
seen. But it is only the father who is really repulsive, he
interjected, checking any unkind thought of Una;  the daughter
has some secret sorrow,—that is clear; but she manifests the
utmost gentleness, save when Percival stimulates her excitable
nature. Yet, what a soul of fire music discovers in her! I shall
never forget her face while she sang the song of Miriam.
Harlow continued to soliloquize till his excitement yielded to
a feeling of exhaustion, and, at length, he undressed and sought
THE FAMILY FEUD.
51
sleep. His rest was, at the best, but a nervous slumber, and it
was filled, with terrifying dreams. He did not fully awake till
the morning was far advanced ; and bis first step on the floor of
the bedroom was beard by old Miles, who bad been listening for
it at the door, and now knocked for entrance.
 I did not wish to disturb you, sir, said the old man, looking
quietly at Harlow,  for I thought you might have bad only a
poor night. Miss Percival requests me to inform you that
master has gone on a journey, having been suddenly sent for,
and that she waits for you to take coffee. Do you want any-
thing that I can help you to, sir? 
"No, thank you, Miles, Harlow replied; and the old man
turned and departed in the most unconcerned way possible.
 I need not have frightened myself with the absurd sus-
picion that this old man guessed my secret, thought Harlow;
 he has relapsed into entire indifference as to who I may be.
It must have been the hesitation with which my own conscious-
ness of disguise caused me to pronounce the assumed name that
created a curious doubt in his mind.
Laying his apprehensions to sleep concerning the behaviour of
old Miles, and while refreshing his frame at the clear stream of
water—for the green bed-chamber was also furnished with an
apparatus for securing an indulgence in that most sensible of
luxuries—Harlow speculated on the delight he would experience
in Una's company, for the day ; and yet anticipated a feeling of
strangeness in being left in the company of a young woman,
and without the presence of her father. He reflected that he
knew comparatively little of the world, but he thought few
fathers would thus suddenly desert home, and leave such a
treasure to another's keeping, even on the most urgent necessity.
Percival, he concluded, must have unbounded confidence in
Una's strength and rectitude of character, or she would not thus
be trusted with a young stranger.
 My adventure is becoming more and more romantic, said
Harlow to himself, "but it will fall short of the romance of
love : I am a stranger to that whimsical passion, as yet; and I
hope I have too much common sense to be smitten by it. Be-
sides, pronounced his artist-thought,  her face is far from
beautiful, although her form is graceful enough ; she is not en-
dowed with outward attributes sufficiently perfect to make her
fascinating and loveable, as a woman. I shall merely draw out
her intellect; and I have no doubt the occupation will be
pleasing and edifying.
With these self-complacent musings, the young man did not
neglect to attend, with more than ordinary zeal, to the careful
adjustment of his dress, and the disposal of his hair. Was it
J e2
52
the family feud.
because bis sensory bad tbus become replete w ith tbe image be
bad been so industriously cultivating in tbe mirror, tbat be bad
tbat strange tbougbt, wben bis eye again cauglit tbe remarkable
portrait on tbe wall ?
 They are my own features—although a woman's !  be said,
almost audibly;  or am I as nerve-stricken as I was last night ? 
He stood gazing at tbe portrait, till a sense of shame at tbe
discourtesy be was committing, in making a young lady wait for
her breakfast, compelled bim to hurry down-stairs.
CHAPTEB III.
The Artist's Day With the Musical Enthusiast.—The End of his Holiday, and of the
Second Book.
Haklow was charmed with the unaffected and common-sense
way in which be was received by Una, now she was no longer
under tbe alternately depressing and exciting influence of her
father. His notion of Percival's character prohibited any belief
tbat her behaviour was tbe result of careful education ; and be
could only attribute tbe perfect union of natural freedom and
true modesty in her manners to womanly intuition. She did
not apologise for her father's abrupt departure from tbe Hermit-
age ; but intimated that it was not unusual with bim suddenly
to take horse and journey into "Wales, on account of tbe pro-
perty and connections be bad in tbat part of the kingdom.
Wilfred knew not what other rejoinder be could make, without
seeming rudely inquisitive, than tbat be was glad tbe weather
was clearing up, for Mr. Percival's sake, since tbe journey was
so urgent, and tbe distance considerable.
When Una came to apologise for herself, as having unwisely
yielded to tbe excitement of tbe music on tbe preceding night,
Harlow was in some danger of speaking out honest blame of
her father; but be happily checked bis tongue, and insisted tbat
tbe storm was a great cause of her distress, which, be sincerely
added, be was glad to see bad been but temporary.
But it was not in tbe mere interchange of courtesies tbat
Una and Harlow could remain companions through tbe hours of
half-a-day and a whole evening. Wilfred was compelled to
remain within doors, for though it was fair during tbe afternoon,
tbe rain bad fallen so heavily through tbe night tbat every path
around tbe manor-bouse was flooded. Una excused herself for
occasional absences during tbe afternoon; but they were only
THE FAMILY FEUD.
53
brief, and scarcely gave Harlow time to view critically tbe pic-
tures around the rooms. The portfolio was, of course, put into
requisition by Una; and the terms in which she expressed her
admiration of the sketches were such as the artist felt they did
not deserve, though he was flattered by her commendations of
them, and still more by her approval of his choice of subjects.
Her taste, he thought, was more delicate than her father's ; but
he did not say so. Indeed, he avoided the introduction of her
father's name, from very intensity of desire to hear her speak
of Percival, and fear lest she should deem him guilty of prurient
curiosity.
In the course of the afternoon, he pointed to Una's portrait
which he imagined he had discovered in one of the rooms; and
after eulogising the likeness, asked who was the artist.
 My father; but the portrait is not mine, she answered,
sadly ;  it is my mother's.
 Indeed!  exclaimed Wilfred ;  I could have sworn it was
your own. You must be strikingly like your mother.
 I have no remembrance of her, said Una;  she died when
I was an infant; but, from what I have heard my father say, I
must resemble her in spirit as well as form. She was famous as a
cantatrice in Italy, although she was Welsh by birth and blood ;
her passion for music, in spite of her light hair and fair com-
plexion, made many take her for a native Italian; she was all
abandon as a public singer—for my father could not persuade
her to leave her beloved profession. Nay, he says, the energy
she threw into it shortened her life : a source of deep sorrow it
has been to him ever since, and of more than he thinks of to
me. But I ought not to trouble you with such a mournful
story; let us talk of something more pleasant. You seemed
last night to doubt my father's position—that music is a higher
language than poetry.
 The thought was new to me, said Wilfred.
 You will, perhaps, think me fanciful, continued Una,  but,
do you know, I sometimes imagine that music will be the only
language of human beings in our happy after-state ; or, perhaps,
here on earth, when the great age of universal civilization and
refinement comes.
Wilfred felt puzzled to reply; but Una's face, he thought,
began now to look so intellectually beautiful, that he constrained
himself to say something, in order to incite her to go on.
"Your fancy, if it be one, is very delightful, he observed;
 and so it would be to look forward to the time when knowledge
will be universal, if we were certain it would arrive.
 My father, rejoined Una, quickly, "says that the universal
diffusion of knowledge is to be regarded as certain. Soience
54
THE FAMILY FEUD.
secures it: it is only a question of time, lie says. But I want
to talk about music ; did you ever think much about music as a
language—as a means of expression? 
"I cannot say that I have; yet it has expressed my own
feelings hundreds of times.
"But it expresses thought, it describes acts, it pictures all we
see and hear, and what we know,—much more intensely than
spoken language.
"You do not mean that there is any positive language in
music, said Harlow, growing too deeply interested to accord
with Una at once, and merely for the sake of pleasing her;
"how often are words, new words, set to an old air, and we feel
that the music expresses the sentiments as fitly as before, though
they are utterly diverse from those to which the air was originally
composed!
 It is not so if the melody were composed by a true musician.
You would perceive that, at least, permit me to say, if you
understood more of music—you would feel it to be a real bar-
barism, in such a case, to hear an air forced into the expression
of words which it wa3 never designed to express.
 I have sometimes felt that such a real barbarism had been
committed, granted Wilfred, "but yet I cannot—though it
may arise from my want of knowledge—I cannot conceive that
there is a positive, a fixed language in music.
"Fixed? You are adding a word which does not explain the
first, but gives another meaning. There is no fixed, no stereo-
typed language in your own art: a passion is not expressed in
the same way by any two painters. But though fear or sorrow
may be expressed by different modes in painting, the represen-
tation of either can never be mistaken for courage or joy—■
unless the artist were a dunce. Your art has no fixed, but has
it not a positive language ? And is it not the same with music ?
Can you imagine a corpse borne to the grave to the sound of the
college hornpipe ; or a company dancing to the chords of the
Old Hundredth ? And yet merriment has a thousand modes of
expression in music besides that of the hornpipe; and solemn
awe and trust in the Almighty have a thousand besides that of
Luther's incomparable psalm tune.
 I must confess I think I have been mistaken in one direc-
tion, said Harlow;  but if I yield that music has a positive
language, it is not clear to me that it has an independent one.
You say music expresses thought, describes what we see and
hear and know; but it is as an accompaniment to words that
we chiefly use music: she is, you know, the handmaid to
poetry.
"And do not your own art and sculpture bear the same nameP
THE FAMILY FEUD.
55
yet it does not describe their highest vocation; doubtless they
often serve poetry devoutly; as we agreed that music did, in the
instance of Burns's songs. And, sometimes, music, in her earnest-
ness, overdoes her work, and dwarfs the poet she was summoned
to serve; as in the instance of the grand air to Thomson's ' Hide
Britannia:' the language of the song is poor, and inflated; it
will be forgotten, or only remembered with a smile; while Arne's
glorious bravura will stir the blood for centuries to come.
"I agree with you there, said Harlow; but looked as if he
expected Una to continue.
 It is not often so, she went on ;  Handel failed—if it be
not profane to say that such a giant could fail—in attempting
to portray in music the vivid and rapturous thoughts of ' II
Penseroso' and ' L'Allegro.' But if he could not translate
Milton's own ineffable language into a higher, he transcends
Milton in his management of a great subject on which they
have, each, essayed his colossal genius independently.
 I do not exactly know to what you allude, said Wilfred.
"To the 'Messiah!' Handel's great musical epic. It is the
true ' Paradise Regained:' the proper sequel to the ' Paradise
Lost!'
 There is glorious poetry in the ' Paradise Regained,'  began
Wilfred,  glorious poetry 
 Such as none but our all-glorious Milton could write! in-
terjected Una.
"But yet I have always thought the attempts to overthrow
noble old Johnson's objection to it were unsuccessful. It is
founded on too narrow a basis; the theme required a wider
platform for full treatment than that afforded by the narrative
of the temptation in the wilderness. The stupendous event of
man's redemption demanded a more lofty and plenary effort
from Milton. But does the ' Messiah' fulfil the requisitions we
might put forth for the treatment of such a theme P
 All—all! replied Una, with triumphant enthusiasm.
 I had understood it to be a grand, but hasty creation,
thrown together in a hurry, and partly composed of adapta-
tions from some of the great master's early efforts : the anthems
composed for Christmas, and other festivals, in his youth. I
remember reading, somewhere or other, something to that
effect: I think it was in a published correspondence between
Zelter and Goethe ; but will you kindly interpret to me more at
large P
Harlow had now made a request, which at once flattered
Una, and roused all her intellectual strength. After a few pre-
liminary remarks, defining the subject of the "Messiah, she
showed that it was composed of eight sections.
56
THE FAMILY FEUD.
 The first, said she,  concluding with the magnificent
chorus, 'For unto us a child is born,' lias for its whole subject
the prophecies of the Old Testament directly prefiguring the
advent of Messiah.
 I have heard so much of the ' Messiah' performed con-
secutively, said Harlow ; "but of the remainder of the oratorio
I have only heard fragments.
 The delight you must have experienced in hearing the
introduction would have been increased a thousand times, if you
had heard the wondrous sequel entire, said Una, while her
eyes beamed with rapt enthusiasm; "but I proceed. The
second section narrates the birth of the Divine Child. It com-
mences with the pastoral symphony, and concludes with the
chorus of the angels, ' Glory to God in the highest!' 
 You have said that music has a positive language, in-
terrupted Wilfred,  and I think I felt that it had, while you
played the pastoral symphony on the organ last night. Does
it not describe the sweet calm, the rest, and peacefulness of
night P
"Yes, night—' Leila,' as the Arabs call it—night, so beautiful
in the East! with the flocks at rest, and the simple and happy
shepherds watching them. That sweetest of symphonies shows
that music has a higher vocation than that of being the mere
handmaid to poetry. Handel has proved to us there the in-
dependent power of music, and how rich it is in expression of
its own. He would not degrade his art by fitting the words,
' There were shepherds, &c.' to an air. He threw them care-
lessly into recitative, as not sufficiently poetical and richly de-
scriptive, though they are full of suggestion ; and created in the
independent language of his own art that lovely scene of the
happy night, when the beneficence of Heaven was about to be
realized for men.
Una stopped, and Harlow could see that her earnestness was
placing her again in danger of injurious excitement.
 I am doing wrong to require this explication of you, he
said;  to me who am but a smatterer in music, your interpreta-
tion is of more value than I can express ; but for your own sake
I must propose that we change the subject.
Una promised to go through the remaining part of her de-
scription calmly, and with brevity.
 I must hold you to your promise, said Harlow.
"I will keep it, rejoined Una; "the third section describes
the Saviour's ministerial life, commences with the air, ' Eejoice
greatly,' and concludes with the light, pleasing chorus, 'His
yoke is easy.' The fourth section, depicting with unequalled
THE FAMILY FEUD.
57
pathetic power the sufferings and death of Christ, commences
with the chorus, ' Behold the Lamb of God!' and concludes
with the recitative, ' He was cut off out of the land of the
living.' The fifth has for its subject, the resurrection and as-
cension of the Saviour: it bursts suddenly, in tones of returning
joyousness, on the ear, with the air, ' But thou didst not leave,'
and ends with the air, ' Thou art gone up on high.' The sixth,
describing the spread and universal triumph of Messiah's gospel,
in spite of earthly opposition, begins with the sprightly chorus,
' The Lord gave the word,' and ends with the splendid ' Halle-
lujali!' The seventh, portraying the Christian's steadfast con-
fidence in a resurrection, commences with the beautiful air, 'I
know that my Redeemer liveth,' and concludes with the air, ' If
God be for us.' The last section completes the grand epic, by
describing the eternal employment of the blessed in heaven ; it
contains but two choruses, ' Worthy is the Lamb,' and the
' Amen !'—and the great master, as a consummating proof of his
devotion, has almost exhausted his science in the construction of
the last piece.
 I cannot thank you sufficiently for the trouble yon have
taken; but must beg of you to solve me one mystery. You
speak of the ' Amen chorus' as a matchless piece of science ; but
to me it is a puzzle. I heard it once ; when, unlike the pastoral
symphony, it did not speak a positive language to me. I could
not comprehend the meaning of the variations on the one word,
' Amen!'
 You would have comprehended the meaning of the fugue,
if you had listened to a performance of the whole ' Messiah,'
thoughtfully. Handel is not saying 'Amen' in a whimsical
way, at the end of his lesson, like a quaint clerk responding to
the parson at the end of the prayers. He is expressing eternity:
the eternity of praise.
 I see it!—I see it! cried Wilfred, full of admiration at
once for the grand musician, and the fair panegyrist.
"Take the first opportunity you may have for hearing a full
performance of the ' Messiah,'  said Una, earnestly,  and you
will be wholly of my persuasion that Handel's work is the true
' Paradise Regained:' the only worthy sequel to the ' Paradise
Lost.'
 That I will, I promise you, pledged Harlow ; "but I sup-
pose it is only in the metropolis where such a feast can be
enjoyed, save very occasionally ; and I have never seen London
yet. He was about to add that he lived in a small provincial
town, but checked himself; and was wondering that Una had
shown no curiosity either as to who he was, or where he came
58
THE FAMILY FEUD.
from, when she uttered words that convinced him how truly he
had divined that she had some secret discontent, and had too
much absorbment in it to be curious about others.
 Nor have I, said she ;  yet I think I must see it before
long, whether my father consents or forbids. I cannot lead this
life of stifled nature much longer, and continue sane.
Harlow did not speak ; but gazed upon her face so full of
elevated and yet painful thought, and asked, not in words, but
by his look, what she meant.
 That face which you think so complete a semblance of
mine, she said, lifting her eyes to her mother's portrait,  seems
to beckon me to my destiny. My father thinks that he can
promote the exhaustion of my musical nature, by feeding its
over-indulgence in this obscurity ; but he is mistaken.
Harlow felt that Una had opened for him a new view of
Percival's character; and was struck with the subtlety which
enabled Percival, even while in a paroxysm of anguish, to con-
ceal the real motive which impelled the father to urge the
daughter into a dangerous state of excitement. He dared not
express his thoughts, and seized the opportune moment to ask a
question which had been haunting him for hours.
 Your recurrence to the subject of one portrait, reminds me,
he said, with as much indifference as he could command,  of
an imaginary idea I had of another : I mean the small portrait
of a lady in the room where I slept. I had a sort of teasing
impression, last night, that I must have seen the person it repre-
sents ; but it must be a false impression: of course, you know
whose portrait it is ?
 No more than yourself, answered Una ;  it cannot, how-
ever, be the portrait of any one known to you: at least, I think
not. Have you ever been in Wales, or resided in that land of
mountains, may I ask P
 Never: I have never seen a mountain in my life, answered
Wilfred.
 Then you have another indescribable treat to experience.
The portrait was in my Welsh nurse's house all through the
years of my childhood, and was brought hither when my father
took the Hermitage 
Una was interrupted by a gentle knock at the room-door, and
old Miles entered, saying with a smile,—
 The organ, now? There is but an hour.
 If you please, Miles, replied Una; yet Wilfred thought
she eyed the old man somewhat uneasily ; but her face was all
radiance the moment she touched the organ. She played and
sang rapturously, and induced Harlow to sing; and they were
THE FAMILY FEUD.
59
at tlie height of enjoyment, when an hour had flown, and a time-
piece in the room struck eleven. Old Miles suddenly let fall
the bellows-handle, and the organ soon was mute.
 Oh, cruel Miles ! said Una, when she found the sounds no
longer followed her pressure of the keys. She smiled at the old
man; but there was real pain in her tone. Miles did not smile,
yet his look was full of tenderness.
 We must keep our word, you know, he said ;  shall I send
supper in for you, sir? he asked, turning gravely to Wilfred,
 Miss Percival never takes any.
"No thank you, Miles, replied Harlow, with hesitation, and
a slight displeasure in his tone.
"Then, shall I light you to your room, sir? persevered
Miles, and seeming to insist, instead of ask a question.
Wilfred would have replied angrily, but was checked by
observing one of the maids enter ceremoniously with a taper for
her mistress. The next moment, Una curtseyed, and bade him
 Good night. She had turned before he could note the expres-
sion of her face, and was gone from the room immediately.
 Go on, if you please; I'll follow you, said Wilfred to
Miles, feeling vexed, but knowing that it would be useless to
show it.
 Shall I call you at peep of dawn, sir? asked the old man,
when they reached the green bed-room,  or would you like to
be awoke earlier? You will go away betimes, I suppose ?
"No, I shall remain for breakfast, sir, replied Harlow,
sharply.
The old man closed the chamber-door, and was gone without
another word.
 This is a strange sort of house—very, said Harlow to him-
self.  I have seen none but mysterious people since I came
into it; and it was strange that I ever came into it.
He sat down on the bed-side, or leaned against it, and repic-
tured all he had seen and heard since he attempted to cross the
brook on the broken willow. The changeful features of Percival,
the oddities of old Miles, soon faded from his inner vision; and
Una's image took up the entire space in his memory.
 I had no idea that there was a woman so intellectual in
existence, he soliloquized ;  but then, I never exchanged two
words with any intellectual woman before now. Do all women
of mind lack external beauty, I wonder? Except the mouth,
reasoned the artist,  there is not an attractive feature in her
face; her eyes are miracles of radiance when she touches her
favourite theme of music; but they are shy and inexpressive
when she loses that excitement. But what have I to do with
60
THE FAMILY FEUD.
her face, or with aught about this mysterious ' Hermitage,' as
they call it F I shall soon forget it all, when I get back from
my holiday, or cease to think of it, except as a romantic episode
in my life.
He raised his eyes abstractedly, and they fell on the portrait
of the lady. A quick imagination, and an instantaneous thrill of
feeling, impelled him to utter aloud' the words,  My mother ! 
and he immediately railed at his own folly. How could that be
the portrait of any one related to him, he reasoned, since it came
from Wales, and had been there all through Una's childhood P
It was, most likely, the likeness of some Welsh lady who lived
scores of years ago—for the picture had the deep mellowness of
age upon it—and the fashion of the drapery was old : yet the
features did resemble his own—that was undeniable. He took
the candle in his hand, and scrutinized them, with the will to
discover that there was, at least, a little unlikeness. He did
not succeed, and set down the light, and turned away with
increased uneasiness.
It could be nothing but a silly imagination, springing from
nervous excitement, he decided, resolutely, as he strode about
the room. The music had unstrung him. And where, after all,
was the wonder that he should be thus affected ? That mystery,
and the shuddering fears connected with it, hung over his birth ;
the picture did resemble himself, and it was but natural that he
should fall into these imaginings, he concluded. The wisest
way was to end them by force ; and he hastily stepped to the
portrait, and turned its face to the wall, that he might never see
it again, resolutely undressed himself, put out the candle as
resolutely, and declared he would sleep. How his eyelids ached
with the forcible closing of them! but he slept, at last, a fitful,
wild, dreamy sleep, as on the night before.
Harlow sprang up with the dawn, determined to surprise old
Miles, and also with the thought—his wish being father to it—
that Una might rise early, and they might renew their conver-
sation before the breakfast hour. To his chagrin, Miles met
him at the foot of the staircase, told him his coffee was ready,
and added,
 Miss Percival is too unwell to join you at breakfast, sir ; but
she bade me say that she wished you a good journey.
Harlow bit his lip with mortification, but saw that it was of
no use to show it, or put any question to Miles : the old man
looked so impenetrably firm. It would look foolish to linger,
he reflected, so he despatched his breakfast with the haste of a
traveller, accepted the help of Miles in buckling on his knap-
sack, and quickly left the Hermitage, following the old man's
THE FAMILY FEUD.
ol
direction as to tlie patli lie should keep in order to reach, the
high-road from the wooded enclosure.
His mind was in a somewhat unfavourable state for enjoying
his visit to Stratford; too many new and busy images thronged
it to afford due room for that of the mighty poet, but he spent
the day in the delightful little town. Towards dusk, he took a
last lingering look at the quaint old house where Shakspere was
cradled, and then slowly, and with such power of reflection as
he could command, bent his steps to his inn. The next morning
his face was homeward, and in three more days, his holiday was
at an end.
THE FAMILY FEUD.
BOOK III.
WHICH INTRODUCES SOME NEW CHARACTERS, DEVELOPES THE WILFUD DES-
POSITION OF TUB AUTHOR, AND CONTINUBS THE HERO:S AUTOBl OCJ It APll*
FOR A FEW BUT VERY IMPORTANT DAYS.
CHAPTER I.
A Contemplative Essay on the Changes of Human Feeling,  very delectable to
serious Minds, saith the Author, "and full of a pleasing Melancholy.
The mariner who hath, voyaged into far seas, returning after
years of toil and adventure, often finds all changed in the home
where his babes were wont to climb to his knee. The babes
may have been carried to their long home in the green church-
yard, following his white-headed sire who sat in the warm
corner; the very hearth-stone on which he expected to rest his
feet, and tell his stories of the sea and of foreign climes, have
been uprooted, and he may feel as if he knew not his own roof-
tree.
It has proved a melting story for many a poet, and will serve
to point the moral and adorn the tale of many another. But
thou knowest, reader, if thou art not a mere novice in life, that
this sense of desolateness and estrangement may be broughc
about in the mind much sooner than by years spent in voyaging
among the isles and coral reefs of the huge Pacific, or in
attempting the perilous North-West Passage. Nay, it needeth
not the loss of babes, or the removal of any signs of a former
home, to render it foreign and desolate to the home-corner. If
the heart bring with it a sense of homelessness, neither house
nor hearth can make a home for it; and a month's, or even a
few days' experience, may work out this new and unwelcome
sense in the young heart as completely as years may produce it
in the old.
That the young are more open to sudden and startling influ-
ences than their elders, some of us can testify truthfully. Faces
and voices which, in a moment, 6et all my spirits in most
admired disorder when I was a youth, would not affect me a
THE FAMILY FEUD.
„3
whit in this my sexagenarian age. Beauty would not fire my
cooler blood, nor quicken its sluggish course through my veins,
which now show their snaky sinuosities so plainly beneath the
skin of my shrunken hands, that a student of human physiology
might learn his lesson from them as perfectly as from his book
of plates.
Ah, no ! it was not thus when I was young. A glance from
a soft, bright eye shot a subtle fire through my marrow ; a few
words from a musical tongue sent a delicious thrill to the very
fountain of life, and the brain was set a day-dreaming, and on
planting new and ineffable Paradises. They were unreal and
unreachable ; but the heart refused to believe that, even when
the head perceived it, and bitter complaint was mine, that I was
doomed still to tenant a world so gross, compared with my
imaginary Eden.
What unbounded rights to happiness we conceive we have,
when we are young ! The old shake their heads, and tell us we
shall not find it; but they are unskilled to argue against our
notion of rights ; and so we cling to our theories, and believe we
shall realize them, and that others have failed for lack of the
higher discernment and higher aims which guide ourselves.
Well, no doubt this is all for the best, for I like that way of
thinking about human life ; it is a placid philosophy, at least, I
know it sets my heart at rest soonest. No doubt, it is for the
best that youth have their brilliant aspirations ; the entire race
would become a sorry set of jog-trot animals, I suspect, if we
had no more eagerness in the morning of life than when our
evening is come.
The most pitiable case of youth is that wherein they under-
value the real happiness they have—nay, conceive it to be
worthless—and mistakenly long for the possession of what would
make them miserable. The worst of it is that you can seldom
reach them by wdsdom in this condition. They reject your
estimate of the happiness in their possession, assure you you
know nought about it, tell you that they have no happiness, and
that misery is their only portion. . Poor things, how simple
they find they were forty years after !
I have not been moralising by the force of a foolish habit.
My hero is next to describe himself as falling into no very enviable
state of mind, and I hope I comprehend my duty, and the scope
of my vocation better than to permit him to enter on any new
description of himself, without showing that I understand  the
philosophy of the thing, if he does not. The reader will now
be pleased to give Cain Colton a courteous hearing, once more.
THE FAMILY FEUD.
CHAPTEE II
In which the Hero recommences his own Story with his Return from the Holiday,
and describes his Introduction to a matchless Beauty.
My holiday was over, and I returned to Quarrelton with a heart
so discontented that I felt ashamed of myself, and frowned upon
my own ingratitude. Was I not returning to my best f«uend
and benefactor P Would not his face beam with welcome, and
his delight be most manifest, to see health restored to my cheek,
and strength to my frame ? Could I doubt his goodness for the
future would be less bountiful than it had been in the past ?
Thus I questioned with myself, yet was sensible of a discon-
tent that would not be put down, but which increased the nearer
I drew to my patron's threshold, until I felt a repugnance at
crossing it again. My welcome there subdued my discontent for
the time : Mr. Timothy Upham received me not only with cheer-
ful and hearty words, but even with tenderness ; he could
scarcely have shown more if he had believed me to be of
his own lineage. Nor was there any change in his household,
save one, and that, so far from serving to discontent me, he
evidently believed, and delighted to believe, would give his house
a new charm for me.
 An agreeable surprise is in store for you, Mr. Canute, he
said, with a face all sunbeams, when he had unbuckled my knap-
sack with his own hands—for he insisted on doing so—and was
going before me to the drawing-room.  I am about to intro-
duce you, sir, to one who will be very happy to make your
acquaintance.
He flung open the drawing-room door, and introduced me
exactly as I might have been sure he would:
 Mr. Canute—my daughter Charlotte, named after her Most
Gracious Majesty, then living. My dear, our worthy young
friend, Mr. Canute Colton.
He might well couple the remembrance of majesty with the
name of his daughter: what a queenly woman stood before me !
I blushed and stammered; and I thought Mr. Timothy seemed
to enjoy it. But the queenly Charlotte was all graciousness, and
I quickly perceived that I had nothing to dread from her august
presence, but had every prospect of being established as a
favourite.
Settled around the tea-table—for it was two hours after sunset
when I arrived at Quarrelton—I had soon an opportunity of
THE FAMILY FEUD.
65
noting what higher attributes dwelt within a frame so beautiful
and imposing. I was disappointed; because I measured Char-
lotte by an intellectual standard which was not only fresh in my
recollection, but now forced itself almost painfully on my mind.
A few days ago, it had been the absence of external beauty that
I pleaded against the strong attractions of a powerfnl under-
standing and a high imagination; here was the outward nobility
of woman, but the inner nobleness was not conjoined with it. I
do not mean that Charlotte was a woman of inferior understand-
ing; my application of the gauge of prepossession led me to
undervalue her, mentally, at first. I afterwards did her justice,
I think, in my estimate; but, if ever I had included in it the
spirituality of genius, none would have protested more strongly
against my error than herself.
Charlotte was in the very bloom of womanhood, being in her
twenty-second year; and, despite my presumptuous criticism, I
felt that such a woman might sway a thousand hearts of men,
from whom a highly intellectual woman unpossessed of beauty
would meet but cold disregard. She was tall—that is to say, of
a height superior to what we usually deem the due stature of
woman; and though slenderness was a requisite in my own ideal
of grace, her full form would have asserted itself imperially over
my fastidiousness—if I had dared to call it up—as the perfect
mould of beauty. Her face I durst not scan, except stealthily,
for the first half-hour; and I could not meet her eyes with mine
in self-possession during any two consecutive moments of that
evening. Why should I attempt to describe her features, as so
many artist-items P They never became more to me, except that
they were the surpassingly beautiful attributes of a friend. I
looked upon that face of radiant fairness, when it was at rest,
without a thought of passion: I learned to sustain the melting
brilliance of her deep blue eyes, and to note the rich sweetness
of her mouth, still unmoved; only when she smiled did I feel
the power of her fascination—but hers was such a smile as I
never beheld on the face of another. You saw the commingled
waves of light and beauty begin to move, and the successive
undulations grow more and more dazzling and attractive, till it
seemed that unless they had subsided you must have fallen at
that woman's feet, and uttered words of mad passion. This may
seem overwrought, but I only regard it as a cold embodiment in
words of what I felt a thousand transient times in her presence.
Her voice was full-throated as that of the blackbird—rich and
mellow as that of the songster with the golden bill; but I had
recently heard a voice which, like that of the little brown cho-
rister of the night, was clear and spiritual, and anon earnest and
passionate; and which made the listener thrill through the
F
w
THE FAMILY FEUD.
nerves and marrow, whether it discoursed with reason or soared
into the ideal.
Only when Charlotte, in answer to her father's queries, spoke
of Paris, and Berlin, and Vienna, of Pome and Naples, Milan
and Florence, and described the buildings and streets, the cos-
tumes, amusements, and general modes of life in foreign cities,
did I forget to compare her with another. Her descriptions
were to me as charming as the chapters of a book written by
some quick-eyed traveller, who sees, or seems to see, everything
at a glance, and delights you with the vividness of his pictures,
until you come to perceive that all he described lay on the sur-
face, and he could afford you no philosophical vision into the
depths of social life. I had not this perception immediately:
Charlotte's conversation was both new and pleasing, and my
admiration of her as a converser increased as the evening
sped on.
It was near midnight, and though she talked admiringly of
La Scala, and the opera at Berlin and Vienna, she had—strange
as it may seem—neither uttered the distinct word  music, nor
indicated any feeling that I could interpret into a love of music.
Yet, what meant that as yet dumb though handsome stranger in
the room—a grand pianoforte, with its case of polished maple-
wood, inlaid with figures, and its light and tasteful carvings and
bosses ? I had not discovered it until I had been nearly an hour
in the room, owing to the presence there of the living and more
magnificent novelty, combined with my busy workings within.
No sign or token was given that I watched for, and I felt there
was nothing for it, at last, but to step boldly to the question—■
Would Miss Upham awaken the harmony that slumbered within
that splendid-looking instrument?—taking it for granted that
she could, for I imagined courtesy prescribed that I should take
it for granted: but I only guessed.
Her smile of compliance, with its ineffable fascination, had
passed, and she was seated at the piano, before the torment of
contrast again stirred to trouble me. I strove against it, but
only succeeded faintly. Her execution—as it is called—was con-
3ummate ; the keys were at her perfect command, having been
her playthings from childhood. She sang, and her roulades
3truck me with astonishment. Even her emphasis was judicious;
nay, it was faultless, so far as I could judge. But her voice,
though clear, powerful, and well-keyed, only pleased—save when
it astonished me; and in the latter case it was a result, in some
measure, of her subjects, which were compositions to which I
was an utter stranger, being chiefly selected from the operatic
music of Rossini. I had one pervading impression during the
hour she sang and played on that night, and ever afterwards;
THE FAMILY FEUD.
67
there was no soul in lier singing; I never left earth for heaven
while looking at her, or listening to her, as I did while witness-
ing that rapt look, and hearing but no more of this ! I
ought not to continue in this ungenerous strain, for Charlotte
was my true friend, and deserves commendation for many
sterling qualities, as well as for her beauty.
My language, I am afraid, runs all this time as if I were for-
getful that night of the presence of any other than Charlotte in
the drawing-room. Let not the reader do me that little injustice!
My good patron, Mr. Timothy, was so proud and happy in his
daughter that I could not forget him. I am sure, too, that his
happiness was augmented by my presence, and by the especial
fact that I was a witness of his possessing a daughter so beautiful
and accomplished.
CHAPTER III.
 Wooden Spoons  and a Day of Misery, followed by a still more miserable Night,
and a Day-break.
"Ah, Spoons ! how are you, my boy?—your hand! 
 Good morning, Wooden Spoons ! Egad, you look wonder-
fully recovered ! 
 Welcome home, Mr. Canute ! I am happy to see you return
so fresh and blooming.
Such were the salutes from Osberton and the two whiskered
clerks, from Crookit with the sinister eyes, and from Mr. Elder,
when I entered the counting-house next morning.
I had calculated on being received almost with the very words
from each party, respectively , and returned the several saluta-
tions with a cheerfulness that was not wholly real. My disgust
with the nickname, especially when pronounced with his old
silky sneer by the second clerk that morning, was stronger than
it had ever been before, though I still concealed it,—at least,
I thought I did: yet Crookit repeated the nickname with un-
accustomed frequency during that day, as if he were a cruel
surgeon taking his brutal delight in probing a newly-discovered
wound ; all the while, too, he was so unusually and success-
fully jocose, that the office rang with laughter—not at me, but
at the jokes. It was only at the end of some fresh, queer
recital, that he would repeat the nickname he had given me
along with the proper name of one or other of my colleagues,
Baying,—
 What d'ye think to that, Osberton? What d'ye think to
f 2
68
THE FAMILY FEUD.
that, Wooden Spoons ? "—or,  Did you ever hear the like of that,
Simpson ? Have you met with anything on your new travels
equal to that, Wooden Spoons ? 
Mr. Upham never joined us that day ; he was all over
Quarrelton, Bestvale and Slumbermead, Poppvdale and Dream-
field, introducing his magnificent daughter to choice friends of
the family and adherents of his party. His presence might
have checked the sport: but we knew he would not visit us;
and Mr. Elder was too good-natured to restrain mirth which
he thought excusable as a friendly commemoration of my
return.
The anguish of my wounded pride, and the struggle to hide it
with forced laughter, made me loathe the counting-house so
deeply before the day closed, that I laid down my pen and
shut up my books with a feeling, for the moment, which I think
must have resembled that of a galley-slave when his fetters are
knocked off and he is restored to liberty. Still, there was the
future to expect! but I knew that Mr. Timothy's business
habits would pretermit the possibility of his absence an entire
second day from the office; I reasoned that the license of com-
memoration could not be repeated; and I strove to encourage
the hope that I might find out a way of putting an end to the
use of the nickname on the part of my office companions.
But how to reach Crookit P there was the difficulty. Osber-
ton, I was confident, I could easily persuade to call me inva-
riably by my proper surname ; for he did not always apply the
now hateful sobriquet; I believed I had but to say a manly
word to him, joining it with an appeal to his darling notion
of being a born gentleman, and he would yield. I flattered
myself, too, that I could reach Simpson and Williams ; for
their whiskers did not give them so very evident a superiority
over me as heretofore : I now cultivated a neat growth myself.
But Crookit! I could not invent hook or crook to reach him ;
it would be childish to dream of measuring myself with him in
craft; he would laugh at my open anger,—he would despise an
entreatv, if I could have stooped to prefer it; I should become
an object of dislike and distrust with every one in the office, if
I complained to Mr. Upham, and he should use his authority
over Crookit; and Mr. Elder would only be rendered uneasy if
I appealed to him: he never uttered the nickname himself, and
thus tacitly testified his dislike to it; and I had never, through
these five years, shown or confessed dislike to it myself. Had
I not, therefore, given and sealed the license to use it, and
deprived myself of the right to complain ?
It was nothing new: neither the counting-house nor its officials
were altered since I went out on my holiday; it was I who had
THE FAMILY FEUD.
69
brought back with me a troublesome new sense, or, rather, a
squeamish and morbid sensitiveness, and a vague and un-
healthy discontent. Would it not be wiser to subdue and correct
the warring, jarring elements within, than to engage with the
fancied hostilities without P
I had plenty of time for these reasonings: Mr. Timothy and
Charlotte did not return from their round of visits till after
night, and I retired long before they came home. Adjoining
my bedchamber, I had a large convenient room, where, by the
indulgent providence of my patron, I had space for my books,
drawings, easel, music-stand, and papers. What hours of happy
enthusiasm I had experienced in that room ! and the room was
unaltered; its stores were as truly rich as ever they had been
when they seemed so rich to me. The spirits of the great dead,
by the magic of printing, were ready to pour out their opulence
of wisdom into my mind, if I would stretch my hand to the book-
shelves; unfinished sketches waited the last touches of the
pencil to become realizations of new triumph; my violin-case
needed but an act with my finger, and its long-valued treasure
would be disclosed.
But I was altered; and neither books, pencil, nor bow could I
bring myself to take up ; the only melancholy consolation the
old ioved chamber seemed to afford now, was that it closed me in
from observation by any of my fellow mortals. There was, indeed,
a sense of pleasure, though it was bitter, in the first thought that
I could there be alone with my misery, and have a fair, unhin-
dered battle with it.
I knew I could not sleep, and I thought I did not need it,—
for I had slept soundly and refreshingly the preceding night,
owing to my long day's walk and the exhaustion of my brain
with the attention I had afterwards given to the attractive no-
velties of beauty, charming conversation, and new and surprising
music. So I sat by the fire which the kind old housekeeper had
directed to be lighted in my chamber, and challenged the com-
bat with misery; but, instead of one mis-shapen form wearing the
hated nickname on its front, it became an increasing and multi-
plying throng of shapes, till I might say its name was Legion!
The fact forced itself on me that I had been miserable before
Crookit repeated the offensive name to-day; I had come home
wretched,—I knew it, and I must not shun to probe my real
wound—to lay bare my discontent, but search it that I • might
grapple with it, and wring out its poison before it festered through
my whole being.
M.y wretchedness could be traced backward one step without
mistake ; I was comparatively happy until the last week of my
holiday: it was the visit, so unsought for, to that House of Mystery,
70
THE FAMILY FEUD.
•which commenced my unhappiness. But what had I to do
with that strange inheritress of the ecstatic musical nature P
Her fine understanding and vivid ideality were rich endowments;
but they could not attract me to the wish for a life-long union
with her; I had no such wish. I was not deceiving myself, I
asserted: no such wish enthralled me. Sudden and unlooked-
for communion with such a woman had exercised a powerful
effect upon me: it was but natural, and I need not deny it; for
there was nothing to be ashamed of in the circumstance. Even
if the memory of that communion should endure, and rise now
and then pleasurably, I should be in no danger from it. Let it
prompt me to the enriching of my own understanding and fancy,
and it would then be a blessing instead of a curse.
No; it was not the woman, but an unseen and mysterious
hand about that house which had written new characters of tor-
ment, or deepened and darkly coloured anew the old frightful
and portentous hieroglyphics which had begun to grow dim, in
the crypts of my brain.
My mother! — the unknown image which ought to create
within me only the feeling of tenderness, was linked with my
consciousness of degradation. I was a peasant's son, by a rich
merchant's sister ; I had been apprenticed to a mean and paltry
handicraft; and, though taken from it by charity, it was still
flung in my teeth and kept mockingly before mine eyes. My
real birth was concealed ; and I was no better than a recipient
of alms where I had a right and title to consider wealth as my
own.
It was hard to drag out that last lurking imp of a thought with
its venomous trail, from its cavern in the brain ; but drag it out
I did, and branded it with the name that I insisted belonged to
it, and which was as the sin of witchcraft—ingratitude. Aright
and title to consider a part of Mr. Upham's wealth mine—for he
had my mother's share in his possession ! Why, what title had
my mother to a share P Had she not married a clown in disobe-
dience to the will of her father, and thus forfeited her inheri-
tance? Had I received aught but the richest kindness from
Mr. Timothy ? and should I not be a vile ingrate to brand him
with retaining what I had no claim to P
But, ought the child to suffer for the disobedience of the
parent ? Had there not already been expiation enough, in the way
of suffering? The mother dying broken-hearted — the father
murdered—the child subjected to innumerable humiliations—
regarded as a transgressor, though guiltless—degraded into a
recipient of charity—glad to bear a name that was not his own
•—driven to the meanness of concealing his name—tortured
with a name of mockery—bearing a doomed name, enough
the family feud.
71
itself to frighten him, if he did not know that it had been
given him by superstitious ignorance yearning for revenge.
Yet the doomed name was no serious misfortune now. I
had not heard it pronounced for years. Even Job and Dorothy,
whenever I visited them, and that was seldom, called me Canute ;
and latterly,  Mr. Canute, treating me with a ceremonious
respect, amounting to fear. How would the name sound in my
ear3 now ?
 Cain !  I uttered the doomed syllable audibly, though not
loudly ; and yet it made me shrink, as if a snake had stung me !
The old hag, Hell Brundell, with her devilish eyes, shrivelled
lips, and black broken teeth, started up in my imagination, and
repeated the old shuddering question to me, in that abhorrent
guttural whisper! And horrid fancies, long-buried, came to
life again, with the recollection of the scene in the pheasant pre-
serve, and the overheard conversation in the holt!
I quitted my chair, and began to walk about my room, to
shake off my nervousness. The sound of my footsteps was
startling; and, besides, I remembered that it must now be
very late, or, rather, early in the morning, and I might alarm
the old housekeeper who slept in the room beneath mine, and
who had light ears. So I pulled off my boots, and walked
softly.
It was sheer childishness—I told myself—to yield to these
hobgoblin fancies, which I had long ago banished. But did I
banish them ? I could not remember that they fled from me
by any effort I made to put them to flight. Hot at all. How
was it, then ? They had faded, with other childish pictures—
the frightful with the pleasing; because my mind had seized
upon more salutary familiars : the desire of knowledge, the
passion for art and music, had absorbed, raised, refined me:
my brain had found purer employ, and had been too busy with
high and noble realities, to cherish the old bugbears.
I saw this to be the true history of my mental state during
the last eight years. And why should I not be busy again,
and, in being busy, be happy ? I had been so wholly taken
up with the delight arising from intellectual advancement, that
I had cared little whether I should ever come to inherit
wealth, or to be acknowledged by Mr. Upkam as his relative.
The acquirement of knowledge, excellence in art — to reach
these I had viewed as far nobler than the possession of riches;
indeed, as the only objects worth living for. Could I not return
to my placid condition P Could I not regain the rest in my
happy obscurity P I would try. What I had done with feeble
strength, I could surely effect with greater. It only needed
effort; and I would make it.
72
THE FAMILY FEUD.
My feet were cold, the fire had gone out, and the candle was
sinking; so I entered nay bed-room, undressed, and crept into
bed; but I could not sleep. I must go on with the combat—
for Legion was gathering again, thick and fast, and in hostile
array.
Was this, then, all the spirit I had P Was I so spaniel-like
in nature, as to be content to be kicked by one and bear it
meekly; and to lick the hand of another that fed me — and
not bark or bite my way into independence and an equal stand-
jng with those who now lorded it over me P Why, I was but a
sneaking cur, a dumb dog, who deserved to be treated as a
degraded animal to the end of life!
Then I vowed I would visit old Job and Dorothy early, and
insist on their making a full revelation of all they knew about
my birth, and on their confirming the same before Mr. Upham.
They should not evade my demand. I would overwhelm them
with the fact that I had overheard that conversation of theirs
five years ago. But, Mr. Upham might discredit their story,
as but second-hand; and then Granger, the overlooker, would
have to be referred to. Was he alive ? and would he be willing
to state the truth P What a troublesome, harassing process I
should have to go through to produce clear proof to the mind
of Mr. Upham! and how all the details about my mother's
death, and my father's murder, and my grandfather's savage
affixing of such a name upon me, and his wild purpose in it
—would shock and disgust Mr. Timothy! He would thank
nobody who assisted me to draw aside the curtain from such
horrors. And could he ever look upon me, if the facts were
fully proven, without wishing that he had never seen me P
But who had so deep cause to lament that he was the slave of
all these facts as I had ? What a curse to have had such a
birth! Ay, the old hag had cursed me; and, perhaps, the
curse would be realised in some dark, mysterious way. What!
by my becoming a murderer P That could never be. I was
foolishly increasing my misery by yielding to first one ghastly
fancy and then another : I must struggle against this propensity,
or it would madden me.
And I did struggle ; but the threatening thought came back
again twenty times, I may say, and with increased horror—that
do what I would, there might be a real, and not an imaginary
power of doom in my name; and the man I was to murder,
though I knew him not, or where he was to be found, would be
wrought up into one terrible coil of destiny with me ; and the
day would come, and the hour, and I should do the deed !
Feverish, worn, faint, and desponding, as I was left by the
THE FAMILY FEUD.
73
terrible brain-fight of that night—what an unspeakable relief it
was when the light broke, and I could get out and breathe the
open air !
CHAPTEE IV.
The Author takes the Narrative into his own Hands for a while, fearing that the
Hero would not do justice to a new Character about to be introduced.
A slight break in my hero's autobiographic narrative—occa-
sioned, no doubt, by the heat in which he must have written
some of the pages immediately preceding—gives me an oppor-
tunity of introducing a new actor in this story, after my own
way. I knew him, and liked him; but I will not ask the
reader to like him till I present him.
Jossy Jessop belonged to an order of men which the railways
—the monsters!—threaten with extinction. He was the long-
established and time-honoured driver of the stage-coach from
Quarrelton to Eippleford. His order—I say it in defiance of
that frowning railway director! — generally deserved well of
society. They were a very useful and well-nigh indispensable
race in the times which have gone by. "What if you found,
now and then, a crabbed specimen of the coachee, and, some-
times, a not very sober one? You must own — at least I
contend that you ought to own—nay, you will, if you knew
the rare old coach times — that, as a class, the old stage-
coachmen were a respectable, kindly-attentive, good-humoured,
and pleasantly-communicative sort of men.
Jossy—his full name was Joscelyn, but all who knew him
well were too fond of him to call him by it—Jossy was a
genuine, thorough-bred member of the order; and considered
that his own claim to each of those attributes was indisput-
able. One need not hesitate to say that he would have felt
shocked if you had doubted his respectability, for instance.
That a man who, with four in hand, bore you over roads
rough or smooth, and amidst all weathers, with all the interests
concentered in yourself, and in hundreds more of the lieges of
the realm, and having the care of your life and limbs, a trust
which he discharged so worthily—that such a man could have
a question raised as to his respectability, never entered the
head of himself, at any rate ; and if he had heard that it had
entered into the head of any other man to raise such a ques-
tion, he would have pronounced that the man's head was not
worth carrying on a pair of human shoulders.
74
THE FAMILY FEUD.
And who tliat knew Jossy — I mean, knew him, as he
delighted to be known,  professionally, as he phrased it—
could be backward in bearing testimony to his kindly-atten-
tiveness P It was so much a habit with him as to seem a consti-
tutional part of himself, and to lead you to the belief that he
was born expressly to show kindly attentions to coach-pas-
sengers. Did he not take a peculiar pleasure in preserving
the seat on the box for an old customer and acquaintance,
or even for any smart, sensible young gemman who under-
stood  tip, and freely paid for an extra glass at the next
stage, and belike at the next after! And had he not a humane
store of old great coats to lend to thinly-clad  outsides
when it rained, or the wind grew keen? Granted, that he
silently calculated on sixpence each, or some such trifle, as a
sort of pepper-corn rent or petty acknowledgment for use of
said ancient protectives. That was but natural: it was not for
his humanity—he did not make a trade of that—but for the
loan of the coat, that he consented to take the money.
"Witness the unfeigned smile with which he would assure a
poor traveller who had not the sixpence to present— You're
very welcome, sir, all the same as if you'd given me a guinea.
I'm glad if it did you any good, sir. Do all your professed
philanthropists display equally good manners, if you refuse the
 little subscription  they ask for?
And then, as to Jossy's good-humour, why it would flow from
his heart and tongue in never-failing streams of cheery talk, if
you had but one drop to contribute to it, especially in the way of
commendation on his management of the horses. And that
compliment he would consider as enhanced tenfold if you had
a good word for the horses themselves, as well—putting it into
the shape of a knowing remark on the spirit and action of  that
off-leader, for instance. Thus, when you had opened the sluices
of his teeming communicativeness, he would tell you, if you
were a stranger in these parts, to whom the halls and ampler
farm-houses belonged, all along the road ; and season the infor-
mation with a smack of anecdote, or a descant on farmer Giles's
excellent mode of curing that piece of land by turnip culture,
or a burst, as you passed the next hall, into fervid praise of
Squire Harkaway's hospitality, and an assurance that the hall
was an open house for all callers, rich or poor, and that he had
often proved it by draining a horn of humming ale in the
squire's kitchen.
Did you desire to know something about that distant spire on
the right, or yonder high hill on the left ? He could give you
the name of the church, or he had it on the tip of his tongue
and would give ;t you, by and by. And he would assure you
THE FAMILY FEUD.
that the prospect from that hill was beautiful—nay, that  by all
account there was no view to equal it in all England! He
strove to find some new and simple pleasure for you all along the
journey ; and, indeed, to make you feel happier the farther you
went with him.
Jossy Jessop was a superlative sample of his order for
externals, as well as for the more valuable qualities of the inner
man. His size and figure—but he always looked best on the
box ; and so I will delay the description of his outer man, till I
have to place him there.
You could not, railway traveller—the railways, or one's
remembrances of them, are always haunting one's brain, even if
one sits miles away from them, and in a quiet nook where their
hurly-burly is never heard, and which, one devoutly hopes,
it will never disturb ! I say, you could not, if you happened to
'learn on your safe arrival at the end of a journey, how the
engineer, just before it was too late, had discovered that his
boiler was enduring the last degree of pressure, and how he had
opened the safety-valve, and saved you from an explosive death,—
you could not be more intensely thankful at such a moment,
than was my hero, when he entered Mr. Timothy's breakfast-
parlour, to hear his patron say, cheerfully, but with the old
characteristic quickness,—
 Good morning, Mr. Canute! You will oblige me by taking
coach to Bippleford, so soon as you have breakfasted, and hast-
ening the loading of the boats there with the linseed which went
by Whipster's wains lately. It is three days since the last
waggon-loads were sent off; and I am now advised that they are
delaying to ship the seed, from some stupid mistake or other.
Pray see the business expedited before you come away. Miss
Upham's compliments to you, Mr. Canute!—We shall have to
breakfast without her, this morning. She would have come
down; but I forbade her. I fairly wore her out, yesterday, by
dragging her about to see so many people. But, you know,
Mr. Canute, I wanted to get through -with it. I could not spare
two days together from business. That was out of the question.
Mr. Timothy had given the youth one quick, pleasant look,
with the good morning : but while he uttered the rest of his
speech, he was—Csesar like, for Mr. Timothy was a Cmsar in his
way—reading letters, and making notes upon them, for answers.
It was a merciful delivery for Cain, that there was no searching
look at his pale face either through or over the spectacles ; that
he had not to meet the brilliant gaze of Charlotte; above all,
that he was not to enter the counting-house that day, and
be scanned by the sinister eyes of Crookit. Credit me, sympa-
thising reader, for I have it on undoubted and undoubtable
76
THE FAMILY FEUD.
information, that Cain Colton drew his breath with a most
grateful sense of respite, while he took his breakfast, that
morning.
Mr. Timothy being so intent on his letters, Cain was happily
freed from the necessity of talking; and having quietly finished
his meal, the young man withdrew softly and without disturbing
the merchant, snatched his cloak from the peg in the passage,
and hurried away to the inn from whence, he knew, the coach
must soon start for llippleford.
Cain had taken his seat on the box some minutes before Jossy
Jessop came out of the inn, and while the ostlers were yet
holding the heads of the animals. Thi3 act of our hero was
prompted by the suspicious motions of a diminutive, sallow-
complexioned, big-moustached, foreign-looking traveller, who
seemed intent on removing Cain's cloak from the box, that he
might take possession of the front situation beside the driver
himself, contrary to the old-established laws of coach-passenger
honour.
'"The box is taken, sir! cried Cain, once; and it served to
stay the stranger's hand. But, anon, the stranger manifested a
renewal of intent to remove the representative of Cain's self, and
usurp his right; and so Cain prevented both by taking his seat,
which, he could not forbear observing, was altogether so offen-
sive to the traveller with the moustache that that personage
frowned and looked very angry.
Not so Jossy Jessop, when he appeared. Cain was cheered
by the fine broad face which shone with such sunny happiness,
as it always did. Jossy spoke cheerily to the ostlers, and made
them smile ; inspected knowingly the horses' bits, a caution he
never neglected; and shortened, very critically, and by one
link, the chain which held the  wheelers  to the coach-pole.
 Give me the ribbands, Bob, he said jovially to one of the
ostlers ; and having received the reins, he was on the coach and
in his seat with one active spring, looking, whip in hand, like a
very emperor of a coachee. He was not only the tallest and
stoutest man on the vehicle ; but he must have weighed as much
as the heaviest passenger with the little sallow-looking man
thrown into one scale. His wide-brimmed hat, under which
a smaller face would have looked ridiculous, seemed the only
meet associate for the ample visage of Jossy Jessop. The thick
throat-wrapper, too, which was worn so clumsily by many
coachmen, was like a graceful gorget as it loosely enveloped
Jossy's substantial neck. His top-coat, though wide enough to
have held two slender men, was  the very thing  for Jossy;
and almost led you to the belief that whoever invented buttons
of larger circumference than silver crown-pieces,—and that
THE FAMILY FEUD.
77
notable  cape  or tippet, of fifteen piles, eacb shrinking an inch
in dimensions as it lay nearer the surface, must have had
some such manly development of English stature, shoulders, and
thews, in his eye, as Jossy Jessop's.
The guard, for although it was not a mail-coach, there was
a trusty official perched in the basket above the hind-boot,
bearing that important title, had blown the starting summons on
his horn, and was tucking a spare great coat around his lower
limbs,—and Jossy was glancing behind to see that all the out-
sides were comfortably settled, when the small-statured traveller
snappishly demanded—
 Where is my portmanteau? 
 Eront boot, sir, answered one of the ostlers.
 Are you sure, fellow ?  questioned the other.
The  fellow  had replied, at first, very pleasantly, and had
touched his head with genuine ostler politeness; but now he only
curled his lip.
 You may believe him, sir, observed Jossy, with an assuring
smile.
 I don't know that, said the small man, very uncivilly.
Jossy measured him from head to foot, with a peculiar quiet
glance,—which had not the slightest ill-temper in it, but was
very provocative of laughter;—and replied mildly and with
dignity—
 But I know it, sirand then directed that pregnant con-
elusive question to the guard— All right? 
 All right;  responded the other, solemnly and sonorously,
as was his wont.
 Give 'em their heads, and strip 'em, lads !  commanded
Jossy.
The ostlers let go their hold of the horses' heads, and
drew the cloths from off the animals' backs ; and while another
flourish of the guard's horn drowned the snarling of the diminu-
tive passenger with the large mustachios, Jossy squared his
elbows ahd smiled at the landlady who stood at the inn-door—
and off went the coach, in grand style. All along the streets of
busy Quarrelton, men and youths, mothers and maidens, stepped
to door-stead, or looked out of window, and nodded and smiled
at Jossy ; and he nodded in return, and smiled too, but most
sweetly at the mothers and maidens.
Anybody could see that Jossy was a general favourite; and
though Cain's thoughts were beginning again to return to the
centre of self, he could not help wondering whether this open
and triumphant proof of Jossy's popularity had not made the
small passenger ashamed of himself. Cain glanced over his
shoulder at the little man, who sat on the next seat, and waB
73
the family feud.
rendered so uneasy, by the fierce expression of those keen
black eyes, that he turned his head in the forward direction
immediately.
Now Jossy and Cain Colton were by no means new acquaint-
ances. Cain had often before been on business journeys to
Rippleford. Jossy was always delighted to have him for a com-
panion, and now began to grow eloquent on the fine weather,
and on the blessing that the abundant harvest of that year
would prove to the poor, with other general topics. But from
these Jossy turned to others which soon grew personally
interesting to our hero. Let us begin a new chapter with their
conversation.
CHAPTER Y.
The Author conducts the Story for another Stage, but is speedily jostled out of his
Office by an Accident, or what was very near being one.
 Great changes coming about in the old town, I understand,
Mr. Canute, said Jossy.
Cain expressed a want of perfect acquaintance with his com-
panion's meaning.
 Oh, there is to be a grand contest next Tuesday night,
returned Jossy ; "Mr. Titus is to be thrown out o' the gover-
norship o' the hospital, and Mr. Timothy is to come in. I'm
glad on it, for the Downhams have been up sorely too long.
And I'm gladder still that I shall be at home, so that I can
attend the town-meeting. You know, Mr. Canute, I always
was a reg'lar Upham.
 I know that, Jossy, replied Cain;  but I really don't take
much interest in these party quarrels. I have never yet attended
the town-meetings, although I have heard so much excited talk
about them.
Jossy threw a look of large astonishment on the young man,
whipped his leaders with unusual smartness, and showed by his
next remark that he did not receive Cain's cool confession with
very great favour.
 Why, Mr. Canute, he said,  o'course it isn't for me to
dictate to you ; but I should have thought that you'd have been
of a different mind; for it's well known you're an uncommon
great favourite with Mr. Timothy.
 But, I never hear Mr. Timothy say anything against Mr.
Downham. Indeed, I never yet heard Mr. Upham mention his
name.
THE FAMILY FEUD.
79
 Why, as for that—no inore does Mr. Titus ever mention
Mr. Upham's. It's the way with both the gen'lemen, you see.
But then, everybody knows that the quarrel is not the less
because they don't talk of one another.
 But what is the quarrel about?—What is the cause of it?
 Blow did it begin, I suppose you mean, Mr. Canute. The
Lord in heaven knows! I can't tell. I never heard anybody
say, nor nobody ax such a question: but you know it's o' no
consequence,—not a fardin's worth. There's a quarrel now;
and has been for many generations. And, for my part, I think
it's very proper it should be kept up with spirit. I'm a reg'lar
Upkam — I am! and Jossy flourished his whip, and said,
 Chirrup, chirrup!  to his steeds, and squared his elbows, and
smiled, as if he felt confident that Cain would be smitten with
admiring conviction by his partisan logic.
Now, our hero had hitherto treated the quarrel of the two
families with indifference, though scarcely a day had passed
since that on which he had entered the town of Quarrelton
without his hearing mention of the quarrel. I know not how it
was: he could not explain it himself; but he began to feel dis-
posed to pursue the subject now. He has often assured me that
it was from no disposition to pique Jossy Jessop ; and I rely on
his veracity. Very likely, this awakening of curiosity in Cain
Colton's mind, on a subject to which he had hitherto been so
indifferent, arose from that sense of leisure, or "idlesse, which
is so common with travellers.
If they be journeying for pleasure there is the feeling of
merry idleness which enables them to laugh at straws, or to find
amusement in trifles light as air, none of which would have won
a moment's attention from them in their business hours. The
heart went out to be lightened; and to accomplish that the head
discerns it may be wisdom even to blow feathers about, or to
play at ticklenose with them. And, if business be the end and
aim of the journey, since the business lies at the end, there is
the feeling of leisure before the end be reached ; and that renders
travellers ready to take an interest in matters which are new to
them, or to join in argument on a subject concerning which they
have before felt no interest.
 Trying to find out deep causes for shallow effects "—does
some one say ? Truly, I fear that hundreds of philosophers are
guilty of the foolish habit; and so, prythee, dear reader, be not
hard upon Adam Hornbook. Are there not many men to whom
it would be a relief to make  Meditations on a Broomstick ? 
And why should any be so ill-natured as to forbid them relief?
Besides, Bobert Boyle was a better man than Jonathan Swift,—
but to go on.
so
THE FAMILY FETID.
 Come, now, Jossy, said Cain Colton;  tell me one thing.
I know you are a staunch. Upham. But how did you happen to
become so ? 
"Become soP Lor'bless ye, Mr. Canute, I was born so!
Why, my father was an Upham, before me; and so was my
mother. And he was a coachman, too; and she was a coach-
man's daughter. Her father was old Joe Toughcord, who was
on the great north road for five-and-forty year. Everybody
knowed him!—that's why I'm an Upham ; and that's why I'm
a coachman. I'm thoroughbred, Mr. Canute — I am! and
Jossy's laugh rang so clear and hearty that Cain was beguiled to
join in it.
 But you must have had some reason or reasons for con-
tinuing to be an Upham, insisted our hero, resolved to prove
whether there were any reason in one who was so amply endowed
with the enviable attribute of good humour. But this pertina-
cious sort of pressure seemed greatly to puzzle Jossy.
 Oh, why—as to that, Mr. Canute, he began, "you see —
why—I could mention things, you understand—providing it was
needful to mention 'em. I know nothing very pertikler against
Mr. Titus,—if his name wasn't 'Downham,' you understand.
But I know Mr. Timothy to be a gentleman. I always found
him to be one. And so my father said of Mr. Timothy's father.
The Uphams always wos gentlefolks,"—and Jossy laid as weighty
an emphasis on the bad preterite as if he felt that it must carry
irresistible conviction with it, and put his companion to silence.
 You don't expect me to question that, Jossy, persevered the
other:  but do you know anything against Mr. Downham, as
a gentleman ?—anything which proves he is not one ? 
 Well, I'm surprised at you, Mr. Canute! You that's a
regular Upham. But you're only a-roasting me; I know you
are "—and Jossy looked droll, and gave the youth a nudge with
his elbow.
 Indeed, I am not roasting you. I ask you if you have any
reason to call Mr. Titus anything less than a gentleman P He
is not known to me, except by sight. I never spoke to him in
my life.
 I should think not, Mr. Canute, interrupted Jossy, warmly;
 I should think a young gen'leman in your sittivation wouldn't
do anything o' the sort. N ow then, come, since you will have
it! "—and the coachman now warmed as if he felt irresistibly
provoked to speak out— D'ye think, now, that it's gentlemanly
of the Downhams to hint, as they do slily—for the scamps o'
that party never dare mention it openly, and like men—d'ye
think it's gentlemanly, I say, to throw out spiteful hints about
what happened twenty year ago, and about what Mr. Timothy
THE FAMILY FEUD.
81
couldn't help—that his father was hard-hearted to Mr. Timothy's
sister, and let her die o' starvation, because"—
The coach made a tremendous lunge on one side at the mo-
ment; and the passengers, who were eight in number on the
outside, were in danger of being thrown into the road. Some
cried out in alarm ; and the wearer of the moustache demanded,
very ferociously,  "What the"—black fellow with a queer name
and a bad character— the coachman meant by that? 
"Beg pardon, sir! answered Jossy, pulling up instantly;
 I meant nothing wrong, sir. But there must be something
wrong in the road. Jem, he said to the guard,  what's that
on the near side there, behind ?
 It's a horrible great hole, answered the guard ;  why, it's
the arch o' the runnel that's broken in ! 
 Lor' bless me!  exclaimed Jossv.
 Bless me !  exclaimed several of the outsides.
 Well, o' course, gen'lemen, appealed Jossy,  one couldn't
be expected to know that the arch was rotten, though I know its
old. I hope you acquit me of all blame, gen'lemen.
 O, yes, to be sure!  answered all, save the small passenger.
 Thank ye, gen'lemen ! I'm glad it has served us no worse,
said Jossy ; and yet he seemed to look down upbraidingly at the
broken old arch which had so long spanned one of the drains
under the road, and which, he declared, had borne up stoutly for
many a year under his coach-wheels, and with many a heavy load.
 It was sing'lar, he added, reflectingly,  very—very—very
sing'lar—that it should give way just now ! 
 Singular P what nonsense !  snarled the little moustached
man;  what is there singular about a piece of old brick-work
breaking in P—or in your endangering our lives by thinking
more of foolish gossip than of your horses ? Don't stop, staring
at a hole in the road in this foolish way—nor at me either, with
your impudence! Get on, and set me down at Byeham; and
you may stare or gossip as much as you like on the remainder
of your w-ay, for aught I care! Get on, sir! my carriage will be
waiting for me at the next stage.
Jossy's face had reddened, and his eyes had kindled, until he
looked as if he would be giving the small passenger a weighty
Rowland for his Oliver. But the foreign-looking man's last
words, about  my carriage, seemed to slay the gathering
gladiator in Jossy's capacious breast. He turned, and sat down
on the box without a word of reply, and recommenced the
journey, only chirruping in a snubbed sort of way, now and
then, and never attempting to renew the conversation with Cain,
until the remaining four miles to Byeham, where it was
customary to change horses, had been gone over.
a
82
THE FAMItY FEUD.
The sudden and unexpected broaching of a painful subject by
Jossy Jessop had a powerful effect on the mind of our hero ; but
it was not observed by the coachman, in the excitement he and
his passengers had experienced at the accident—or what might
have been a serious one. Cain's changeful and anxiously-medi-
tative look was not noticed, I say; but very uneasy thoughts,
raised by those few words of Jossy about Mr. Timothy and his
sister, occupied the youth while the coach was going over the
four miles to Byeham.
There Cain Colton shall again take up the thread of his own
story. There was a break in it, as I told the reader; and I have
filled it up, as was my duty. I am too anxious to furnish an
authentic history to wish to set a second-hand narrative before
the reader, when I have the least fragment of first-hand material
in my possession. And so, Cain Colton shall again begin, at
Byeham.
CHAPTER VI.
Cain Colton takes up the Description of his Journey, and listens with deep Interest
to a pathetic Relation of feeling-hearted Jossy Jessop.
At the inn-door stood a gentleman's carriage and pair, with
coachman on the hammercioth, and footman on the dickey, each
in a livery quaint and oldfashioned, and which I thought I knew.
The footman came quickly to the side of the stage-coach, looking
as if he expected the small passenger to command him. His
hand was at his hat, and he cringed as the moustached gentleman
said,
 Brown, take care that you have my portmanteau. They say
it is in the front boot, but I don't know that it is.
The footman almost flew to open the carriage-door, and our
small passenger alighted with the nimbleness of a monkey, gave
us a scowl as he turned away, and the next moment was seated
in his own carriage, and the footman had closed the door upon
him. Jossy called to one of the men whose office it was to attend
to the change of horses at Byeham, to take the gentleman's port-
manteau, as he himself handed it out of the boot, and to place it
in the care of the footman. Just as Jossy brought the large
black-leather portmanteau to light, I read a name upon its small
brass label, which caused me to send a quick gaze at the dimi-
nutive stranger who sat in the carriage. He marked it instantly,
threw up the glass shutter, and drew the curtain. The footman
quickly fastened the portmanteau upon the top of the fcarriage, said
THE FAMILY FEUD.
83
 Right!  to the driver, and all soon disappeared by a road to
the right; it was the road by which I had first journeyed from
the hall of the good old squire to enter Quarrelton, and become
the apprentice of the wooden-spoon maker.
The discourse, in half-suppressed tones, of Jossy Jessop and
the guard, when the carriage rolled away, ministered to my
awakened curiosity.
 You didn't like to move for the tip, Jem?  said Jossy, with
a snubbed, and yet knowing look.
 I didn't, Jossy, answered the guard;  he was such a cross-
looking customer ; and I thought he'd bite, on account of that
awkward lunge, which nobody could help.
 I'm glad you didn't, Jem, professed Jossy, holding his head
up independently ;  I don't like to be obliged to gentlefolks so
haughty as yon passenger. I suppose you guess who he is?
 Can't say I do, answered Jem.
 Why it's the young grasp-all of a squire that's been abroad
so long; him that now owns the Fernshawe estates, you know.
 What him that poor Mr. Granger told us about ? 
 Yon's the very man, Jem, depend upon't! 
 Then I don't wonder he's such a spiteful animal.
We were soon bowling along towards the next stage, and a
very slight hint served to induce Jossy to begin a more enlarged
commentary on the character and doings of our late not very
agreeable companion and his connections.
 I don't know the gentleman, Mr. Canute, he began;  and
I should think he's unbeknown to almost everybody in our part
of the country. But I've no doubt I'm right in my guess.
 You must be right, said I,  for there was ' Geoffrey Fern-
shawe, Esq.' on the portmanteau. I saw the name on it as you
took it out of the boot.
 I knew I was right, declared Jossy, slapping his broad
thigh,  I knew it, though I wasn't sharp enough to read the
name ; and to say the truth, the looks o' the man flustered me.
He seemed as vicious as a ferret when you're trying to catch it!
Geoffry—ay, poor Mr. Granger said that was the new squire's
name. Now I remember myself: the old gentleman's was Edward.
And there wasn't a gentleman with a heart like his in all the
world—without it be Mr. Timothy "—hastily added the stanch
partisan.
 I understand old squire Fernshawe bore a very high cha-
racter, I merely interjected, fearing to let the coachman dis-
cover that I knew anything of the good old squire personally
and believing that Jossy would voluntarily unfold all he knew.
He went on, speaking with so much emphasis as to show that
his heart was with his tongue.
84
THE FAMILY FEUD.
 His loss has been mourned, Mr. Canute, ever since he died,
and that's two years ago ; and it will be mourned a good deal
more—a dreadful deal, Mr. Canute,—now this young nephew of
his has come from abroad, and gone to live at the old hall. Few
of the old squire's servants are left; and they will now be driven
away by hard usage, I fear. He's a tyrant by natur, Mr.
Canute,—is this young squire. There's not a doubt on't, or he
wouldn't have served poor Mr. Granger as he did.
 Was that a servant of his ? I asked.
 He was overlooker for very many years to the old squire.
You don't know him, Mr. Canute, but I do; he has sat where
you're sitting now, twenty times, I'll warrant it, within the last
year and a half—for his business, poor fellow, led him often to
Itippleford; and he used to come from the hall to Byeham, and
take coach with us. You understand, Mr. Canute, the old
squire had so much respect for him, as a faithful servant, that
he was set down in the squire's will, to hold his cottage and a
little land, rent-free so long as he lived. A roguish lawyer,
however, employed by this young squire, said Granger could not
claim to live rent-free—though it was in the will. It was some-
thing about ' fee simple,' according to what Mr. Granger said—
but I don't understand their roguish language, Mr. Canute,—
not I!—nor I don't mean to larn, neither.
 I think I understand it, said I;  the lawyer maintained
that the smaller provision in the will, in favour of Mr. Granger,
was inconsistent with the larger, which gave the fee-simple, or
full estate, into the hands of the new squire, Fernshawe. But
if the heir insisted on coming into the holding of the whole estate
at once, why did he not give Mr. Granger an equivalent sum to
the life-rent, and persuade the overlooker to view the bequest in
the light of a legacy?
 That's just what Mr. Granger said, sir; he wasn't unreason-
able. He would have submitted to almost anything that could
be considered reasonable. But the lawyer said the new squire
wouldn't give him a groat; and he must turn out at once, and
lose everything. Meantime he was served with a notice to quit;
and then he was advised by another lawyer to go to law. To
cut it short, Mr. Canute,—for it's too sorrowful a story to dwell
upon,—poor Granger did go to law, and was ruined. He lost
the trial, has been driven from his house after being sold up,
and might have starved if he had not found a sittivation twenty
mile on the other side o' Itippleford ; but the sittivation is no-
thing like so good as the old one. The poor man takes on, too,
sorely about his misfortunes—for they didn't come alone, Mr.
Canute. He had nursed his poor blind old mother in the fire-
side corner for years ; she died of grief soon after his troubles
THE FAMILY FEUD.
85
began, and now bis wife bas died, and be bas nobody left to
comfort bim but bis daughter—a sweet young creatur sbe is, I
assure you, Mr. Canute ! Sbe was on tbe coacb to Rippleford
with ber poor father just when they bad been sold up, about two
months ago ; and it did one's heart good to see bow dutiful sbe
was to her poor father—and a sweeter young creatur, Mr.
Canute, I never saw.
Good, kind-hearted Jossy! Tbe tear fairly rolled down bis
large cheek, and bis voice faltered till be could scarcely utter the
last words. He was ashamed of what be thought I should
deem a weakness, and turned his head, and hemmed loudly;
and then looked behind bim, and affected to have remembered
to tell tbe guard about a parcel that was to be left for the
clergyman at the next stage. I am sure he marked tbe deep
concern that was in my own countenance,—for I could not bide
it,—when be resumed bis proper posture. And I believe it knit
bis heart to me, as to one who had a sympathy for tbe unfor-
tunate. He resumed bis story before I could say a word.
 It's very bard, Mr. Canute, for an upright and deserving
man to be treated so. To speak truth, I don't think poor
Mr. Granger will get over bis troubles. He seemed to have a
sort of foreboding that be shouldn't, the very last time be was
on the coacb with us; and be said that be bad but one conso-
lation in tbe thought o' leaving this troublesome world, and that
was that bis daughter would be well taken care of. Her mother
was a Downbam, you understand ; and I suppose poor Granger
meant that bis daughter would, if aught ailed himself so as to
bring bim to tbe churchyard, have to go and live with Mr. Titus,
as one of tbe family. Of course, I've nothing to do with that.
I dare say, it may be all very well; but, you know, Mr. Canute,
I've nothing to do with it "—ended the Upbam partisan with an
odd stiffness that would have provoked my mirth, if my heart
bad not begun to beat so violently.
 Of course not, said I, forcing myself to say something.
 No, sir; I'm a reg'lar Upbam—I am, resumed Jossy ;  I
never bad anything to do with tbe other party; and I never
will have. I'm none of your weathercocks—though there's
plenty of 'em in Quarrelton besides what's on the church
steeple !"—and be winked, with amazing shrewdness.
"It is said that the old Squire Fernsbawe was exceedingly
good to tbe poor, I hinted, thinking Jossy might add something
about the Grangers, if I prevented bim from quitting tbe story.
But be had told me all be knew respecting them; and only
dwelt with honest panegyric on the character of the old squire.
Jossy added nothing, however, to what I already knew of
that theme. He only helped to call up that venerable portrait
86
THE FAMILY FEUD.
which was so familiar to me in childhood, and to set my mind
on more fully comprehending its excellence, now I was able to
form a better estimate of it by comparing it with the living
images I had since seen.
CHAPTER VII.
Cain Colton describes his Return-journey with Jossy Jessop, and learns something
which gives the Heart-ache to Himself and the Relator of it.
Dullness would have stupified me in dreary Rippleford, had I
not been quickened by the anxious craving for more of Jossy
Jessop's relation; and which I felt resolved to draw out of him,
by some means or other, as we returned. It was "Wednesday
when I left Quarrelton, Thursday and Friday passed before I
had fully expedited the business on which I had been sent to
Rippleford; and it was not till Saturday that I returned with
Jossy.
On our way back to Quarrelton, some matters of gossip in the
former journey, which I have not mentioned, were resumed.
One of these was a rumour that the son of Mr. Downham was
coming home. I had occasionally heard him mentioned, in a
contemptuous way, in the counting-house. His name, it was
said, was Algernon: his father, Mr. Titus,—for reasons the very
opposite to those which had moved the loyal Mr. Timothy to
name his daughter after a living queen,—having named Algernon
after a dead patriot. Crookit, however, used to insist that
Mr. Titus was the most thorough aristocrat in existence; and
that he gave the name to his son as much because it was a
favourite with the Percies, and other families of proud nobility,
as because it belonged to the martyred republican, Sydney.
Jossy Jessop had no knowledge of these unreliable criticisms
of the sinister second clerk. He affected to be incapable of
pronouncing young Mr. Downham's christened name: it was so
outlandish! And the young gentleman, he severely opined,
would be as outlandish as his name; and, save that he was of
good height and shape, and was reported to stand well on his
legs, would very likely resemble that scaramouch of a new
squire who got off the coach at Byeham the other day, with as
many antics as if he had been a wild man of the woods!
"Is young Mr. Downham a physician, like his father? I
asked.
 Lor' bless ye, no! answered Jossy, spoiling his kind, hearty
THE FAMILY FEUD.
87
face, by a queer imitation of derision;  he's a gentleman, and
was years at college, and is now coming home from abroad,
where they all go, among the French and other foreigners, to
complete their education, as they call it—but it seems a queer
way of schooling young folks, to me, Mr. Canute. He's to be a
gen'leman, out and out; and he's to have a carriage, now
Mr. Titus knows that somebody else is to have one. Just out
of a spirit of opposition : it's owing to nothing else, Mr. Canute,
depend upon it !'*
 Spirit of opposition? I don't understand you, Jossy.
"Why, what in the name of fortin ! exclaimed Jossy, dealing
upon me another of his odd gestures of wonder, "how is it that
you don't know ?—but I forget. You said you had been out on
a month's holiday, or so. That accounts for it. You haven't
heard, then, that Miss Upham is to have a new coach?
 Indeed, I have not, I answered, really surprised, though I
knew Mr. Upham was so rich, and, I also believed, very secre-
tive. But I knew little, as yet, of the real amount of the latter
quality in his character.
 I could tell you something more that you have not heard of,
Mr. Canute, added Jossy, speaking in a whisper, though I was
now the only outside passenger, and the guard behind was
asleep.
I turned, and scrutinized Jossy's face, with that thought
gnawing at my heart so tormentingly for gratification. But I
saw, in a moment, that Jossy's secret had no likeness to mine.
His broad countenance was all joyousness. It seemed to declare
that his heart, so unlike mine, was running over with delight.
I had no need to ask for his new secret. He could not resist
telling it.
 Mr. Canute, he whispered on,  I'm going to leave the old
business. I'm going to be coachman to Miss Charlotte—I am:
Lor'! isn't she a queen ? Did ye ever see such a splendid
creatur, Mr. Canute ? I could almost kneel down and worship
her, if the parson wouldn't say it was a-breaking o' one o' the
Ten Commandments; and I wouldn't do that, if I knowed it,
Mr. Canute. But you must not say a word of it to anybody;
for Mr. Timothy charged me not to mention it till I gave warning
to our old proprietor—which I shall do to-night—and I've pro-
vided him beforehand with a reg'lar good whip, a steady young
chap that I've known for years. I wouldn't leave the old
governor shabby, you understand, not for the world—since he's
always been honour-bright to me. But, be sure you don't men-
tion it, Mr. Canute. I ought not to have told you. Jem doesn't
know, there behind. Lor'! how he will take on, when I tell
him to-night! We've been partners these fourteen years, Mr.
88
THE FAMILY FEUD.
Canute; and yet I haven't told him! But I couldn't help telling
you, because I'm uncommon partial to ye. Besides, you're a
reg'lar Upham—you are; and, I may say, almost as good as one
o' the family.
Now, thought I, as my heart heaved at those last words,—
now for pressing that question I could not muster courage to
put to this man on the journey the other day, and which I have
burned to shape in his ear every moment that I have sat beside
him this morning! I saw he would not voluntarily return to a
theme that he had approached so unwillingly, just before the
accident threatened us, on the Wednesday. I felt that, after
preparing a hundred times to utter my question lightly, and
with affected indifference, I could not succeed. And so I now
broke through all my hindrances, and said to Jossy, seriously,
 You say, Jossy, that you are partial to me. Now I intreat
you to prove it, by telling me what you really know—not what
malicious people say—but what you really know about Mr.
Timothy's sister, and the way in which she was treated.
The flood of joy ebbed away quickly from Jossy's honest face;
and he looked serious, indeed.
 Mr. Canute, he answered, in a low tone, and very slowly,
 I couldn't tell ye—I can't bring my mind to tell ye, what I
know—or to talk any more about that unfortinet circumstance,
now. I can't, indeed,"—and he glanced behind at the guard.
But that did not serve him. Jem was still asleep.
 You must tell me ! I urged, and looked at him with all the
earnestness I felt.
 Don't look at me in that way, Mr. Canute, I beg o' ye ! he
pleaded ;  I'll tell ye some other day—for I shall soon be more
in your company, I hope, Mr. Canute ; I shall be a good deal
on the premises—and, perhaps, inside 'em—for I've promised
Mr. Timothy to assist in the house, or do anything he wishes.
I'm a reg'lar Upham—I am, Mr. Canute, and he made a
ludicrous attempt to put me off with gaiety, but his face re-
mained grim.
 I know all that, Jossy; I believe it as much as if you were
to take a thousand oaths upon it. But don't try to put me off
with your old saying; you must answer my question. I am
more deeply interested in your answer than you can suppose.
My excitement, which was now the greater for having been
so long pent up, touched Jossy ; and yet, he evidently had not
the remotest suspicion of the cause why I was so empassioned.
"Well, Mr. Canute, he replied, "I don't wish to try your
feelings. And though you say I can't suppose, yet I can sup-
pose, and understand, that a young gen'elman in your sittivation
must feel all uneasy, like, and hurt, at the things people whisper
THE FAMILY FEUD.
89
about the poor young lady—so nearly related to Mr. Timothy
as she was. But I really don't like 
 You must and shall tell me ! 
I grasped his arm while I thus spoke; and I believe there
was such a light in my eyes, that he could not resist me.
 I knew the poor young lady; and I've reason to wish I
hadn't known her—for I helped her to ruin herself, he answered,
still in a whisper, while his lips quivered and his visage under-
went quick changes, with what must have been, to him, unwonted
emotion. He paused; and I still kept my'hand on his arm,
and my eyes on his. He soon went on more calmly, having got
over the first painful strife with old recollections.
 She was a beautiful young creatur, Mr. Canute—as fair as a
lily—and as sweet as the flowers in May. Everybody loved her;
and whatever she asked of anybody, they couldn't refuse her.
I drove her over in a gig several times—it was before I came
reg'larly on the road, and while my father drove the stage-coach
—I took her several times to Blythewick, the village by old
Squire Fernshawe's, to visit at Farmer Yarrell's. She used to
get into the gig at her father's door, at first; but, in course o'
time, she would have me to drive on and wait for her, a mile
out o' Quarrelton. She used to come up flurried, like ; and I
could not help telling her, at last, that I hoped all was right,
you understand. But she used to laugh, and tell me not to be
afraid, for I should come to no harm. Yet, I felt uneasy, Mr.
Canute, I assure ye—though I was only young, like herself,
then—for it's more than one and twenty year ago. But I'm
tiring ye with making such a long story of it 
 Don't omit anything, I beg of you ! 
 Well, sir, it was beknown to all the town of Quarrelton, at
last, that the poor young lady was acting contrairy to her father's
will; and I refused to drive her over to Blythewick any more.
But she bespoke me so sweetly, Mr. Canute, that I broke my
word—for I could not help it; there was no refusing her. She
gave me many a golden guinea—but, I declare t' ye, it wasn't
the guineas, Mr. Canute ! She cried and smiled together—and
I couldn't find in my heart to resist her, then—she looked so
pitiful, and yet so heavenly.
Jossy's words trembled in his throat; and he was fain to resort
to clearing it by hemming, before he could go on again.
 To make an end on't—for it's a sorrowful story, Mr. Canute
—the last time I fetched her back from Blythewick, I set her
down at the old place; and, the next day, it was all over Quar-
relton that her father had put her under lock and key, and
threatened to send her somewhere out of England. The town
rung with it a whole week; and then, one night, Job Oldstock—»
90
THE FAMILY FEUD.
I beg pardon, Mr. Canute, for mentioning liim to you—but that
was the very man 
 Gro on,—never mind, Jossy! I urged; for although he
blushed out of a tender fear that he would humiliate and hurt
me by recalling what everybody knew—that I had been Job's
apprentice—I scorned the thought of being humbled, or allowing
myself to feel so, at the eager moment when Jossy was approach-
ing the crisis in my mother's history.
 That was the very man, Mr. Canute! He came to me, and
desired me to come to his house, where, he said, one wanted to
see me : he would not tell me who it was ; but I went, from a
curiosity I couldn't resist. When, who should come downstairs,
when Job had locked the housedoor, but Mr. Timothy's sister!
She begged and prayed and cried, and looked as pale as a leaf,
and asked me to get a gig and drive her away, or she would soon
be missed, and her father would search for her, and find her,
and send her over the sea. I didn't want to do it, Mr. Canute;
I didn't: as true as I am a living man at this moment. But
Job and his wife Dolly over-persuaded me, and so did the young
lady. And they wrapped her up in Dolly's cloak; and she
went a mile out o' Quarrelton ; and I got a gig, and drove her
away that night—and a bitter bad night it was. It thundered
and lightened awful! and we were both soaked through and
through with the rain when we came near Blythewick. She
would get out before we entered the village; and insisted on my
going back—for, she said she wasn't going to farmer Yarrell's,
and she didn't wish me to see where she was going. I was
very loath to leave a tender, delicate young creatur, like her, in
the open road, and on such a desolate dolesome night; but she
would have it so, and I turned the horse's head, while she ran
off to the village—and I felt as if I was going to be hanged,
and deserved it, for what I had done, all the way back, and I've
repented it ever since.
Jossy sighed bitterly, paused, and looked really miserable.
"But is this all you know? "I asked, after Jossy's silence
had continued for some seconds.
 All I know of my own knowledge; you asked me for that
only, Mr. Canute.
"You are right, Jossy; so I did. But you have heard of
what followed P 
 Why, yes, I have, Mr. Canute; but it's very sorrowful to
talk of. What I've heard, you must have heard—for it's whis-
pered about so much that you must have heard it—and it's all
too true, depend upon it!—that the poor young lady married a
mean man, who was murdered, and that she was left in great
want, and died o' that and grief together, when she had brought
THE FAMILY FEUD.
91
a poor babe into the world. It's too shocking to talk about it,
Mr. Canute.
"And her father, and her brother, Mr. Timothy—you did not
say all about what they did, I urged, for my own torment was
too great to permit me to shrink from what I saw was indeed a
great torment to my companion. Jossy shook his head.
 Mr. Canute, I'd rather let the dead rest. Old Mr. Upham
has gone before the Great Judge—and may we all be ready
when it comes to our turn ! I must say, I think it was hard,
very hard, on the poor dear young creatur, to shut his door
against her, and disown her, for what she did. But, as I said—
let the dead rest! My father, and all the Upham party, always
said it was the only wrong thing that could be laid to his charge;
and I never heard that a Downham could deny it. He was
very kind to everybody else; he was a real gentleman every-
body said. They always wos gentlefolks—the Uphams! 
Poor Jossy—he was so serious that he could not have the
slightest perception of the bitter satire he was uttering!
I was perplexed, now, to know what to do with Jossy, in the
way of further questioning. I had reaped but a melancholy
satisfaction for my curiosity thus far, in wringing from him what
he had confessed so unwillingly; and I had reached no new
information that would aid me in substantiating my relationship
to Mr. Upham. I tried one more question:
 Permit me to ask you if you know how Mr. Timothy be-
haved in thi3 sorrowful business. Is it believed that he thought
as harshly of his sister as his father did ? 
 I don't know; but I don't believe it of him, Mr. Canute.
Besides, it's known that he made inquiry about his sister after
his father's death; but she had been dead and buried a long
time then.
 And her babe ?—you said she gave birth to one.
"Nothing could be learnt about it; so I understood. But
now, Mr. Canute, let us say no more about this unfortnit
business. I've told you all I know, and there can be but one
man in Quarrelton that knows more ; the man I needn't name
to ye again; I told ye he was the very man. And I should not
have taken the poor young lady to her doom that night, if he
hadn't drawn me into his house.
92
the family feud.
CHAPTEE VIII.
In which Miss Charlotte contributes to enthrone her Father's great Principle, and
Crookit plays a dazzling Part.
With firmer spirits than I had entered Quarrelton at the close
of my holiday, I returned to it now. Undoubtedly, Jossy's
narrative had some share in restoring me, without my perceiving
it, at first. It had given me a fuller knowledge of the history
of my mother, and it had assured me that I should soon have
one near me who loved her memory ; and, humble as he was, I
felt that Jossy's was a reliable nature, if I should need his help,
and help be in his power. I had a vague sense that I should
need it, and we cleave to the humblest in such apprehension of
need.
Mr. Timothy met me with his usual kindness ; and, when I
had rendered my account of the mode in which I had discharged
my errand, expressed his entire satisfaction. He then, with
glee that none of us had ever seen him demonstrate before Miss
Charlotte came home, informed me that the office had closed,
and that my colleagues were invited to form a party in the
drawing-room for the evening, pulled me playfully by my coat-
sleeve, and told me I had better prepare, forthwith, to meet the
company, giving a significant smile with the last word, to inti-
mate tliat it included his daughter, as well as the clerks.
I hastened to my room, and not 6nly prepared in the manner
which Mr. Timothy had pleasantly indicated—that is, by putting
mys#lf into my best outward array—but I gathered up my self-
possession.  Let me be calm, I said to myself.  All is in train-
ing for the assertion of my proper claims in the end ; at any rate,
Jessop's evidence will force the Oldstocks to speak truth, if they
be afraid to do it when the time comes. I have only to wait in
quiot confidence; all will be right eventually, and, perhaps,
sooner than I expected. Jossy's evidence is of more value than
I thought it was ; and how little I expected it was in store for
me, before the light broke after that dreadful night! Let me
be quiet and self-collected, and yet as natural as possible, to-
night. I shall have little need to talk, for there will be eagerness
enough to talk among the rest; it will look better for me to give
way to others ; and, besides, I shall have both pleasure and edi-
fication in observing my companions, so long as I observe them
M'ith unselfish and kindly feeling, and I will remind myself that
I must do so.
THE FAMILY FEUD.
93
Tlxe self-prescribed lesson may seem a bore to some readers
who are blase, as the phrase goes ; but I am dull enough to find
such self-lessoning useful still, and I think others would, if they
would try it. That, however, may be but a sort of prejudice with
me; yet how could the self-educated get on without this self-
lessoning ? They are compelled, by the very necessity of their
own desire to do right or to avoid wrong, to resort to it.
People, whose education has been provided for them, and who
are assured by the world that their minds and manners have
been duly disciplined, cultivated, and stored after the proper
model, go into company—I suppose, for I can only guess—without
the little trepidations which are felt by such of us as have the
discipline to find out by ourselves, as well as to enforce upon
our own practice.
The evening was full of instruction for me, with all its
mingled gaiety and good feeling, vanity and silliness, not to
dwell on some symptoms of evil-mindedness in one of the
company.
Charlotte was all urbanity and graciousness, and seemed to
have descended to the drawing-room with full intent to contri-
bute all in her power towards rendering the evening memorable
to her father's employes. Her almost life-long association with
fashionable people, if the old housekeeper's stories of her were
authentic, could not have fitted her for the task of that night;
she must have discharged it so admirably by dint of native good
sense. As a merchant's daughter, she saw it to be her duty to
support her father in enthroning his great principle—that mer-
chants were gentlemen. Mr. Timothy included merchants'
clerks in this category ; and he wished my colleagues to consider
the fact of their being invited to form the queenly Charlotte's
first levie, as a worthy and high-minded assertion on his part of
their equality with any of the so-called gentry of Quarrelton
who might be invited to form her second assembly.
Mr. Timothy's wish was fulfilled, I believe, to his heart's
desire. From our senior, Mr. Elder, to my junior, Osberne
Osberton, all proved, and each in his characteristic way, with
grateful and self-gratulatory pride, how fully Mr. Upham's
handsome championship of his order was estimated. The marked
urbanity of Charlotte heightened their sense of distinction; it
was as if a sovereign had been receiving those who were nearest
her in dignity and relationship. Every one saw that she could
have been far more the lofty lady, if she had chosen so to queen
it; it was her admirable tact in heightening their sense of
importance without lowering her own, which completed at once
their enjoyment, and that of her father.
Mr. Elder, towards whom she showed reverence, mingled
94
THE FAMILY FEUD.
with kindliness, was overcome with grateful admiration of her;
while Crookit and the rest surrounded Charlotte, who was
playing rapid Italian music on the piano, the senior clerk came
up to Mr. Timothy, with whom I was standing in the middle of
the room, grasped our patron's hand, and, with tears in his eyes,
expressed thankfulness to Heaven for Mr. Upham's happiness in
possessing such a daughter. If none of his colleagues felt free
to follow Mr. Elder's example, Mr. Timothy could not be left in
doubt how much they admired Miss Charlotte. Their looks
were unmistakeably eloquent of what they felt, and I think he
must have overheard some of their words, for they were often
too full of their subject to whisper.
"There isn't another such a woman in the world ! declared
Williams to Simpson, at another hour of the evening;  she
would grace a throne more than any queen living.
 You're right; she's fit to be an empress! was the echo.
"Dayvilish fine woman, Colton! said Osberton to me, with
swelling chest, and his own conviction of being himself a gentle-
man diffused through his whole person.
 She is very admirable, said I;  there cannot be more per-
feet female beauty, I imagine. But your phrase is new to me,
so applied.
 Ah ! why, Colton, you know, you haven't been much in the
best society. Devilish is there a—a—what do they call it ?—a
' term of endearment,'—that's it!
 Are you sure of that, Osberton P
 Certainly; I heard a well-bred lady use the very words
while I was in town on my last holiday.
 Then I must not question that they are in good taste.
 I should think not. I say, old fellow! you'll soon learn
good taste now. If the company of a first-rate woman doesn't
make a perfect gentleman of you, I'll be shot. But, I beg
pardon, Colton! you are a dayvilish deal more of a gentleman
than Crookit.
Osberton whispered this last sentence, and it pleased me
greatly, without valuing very highly the judgment that die
tated it.
"Doesn't he carry it off with wonderful impudence? said
Osberton, directing me to the group at the piano, which was
now composed of all the persons in the room, except Osberton
and myself. He did not wait for a reply, but sauntered towards
the company, and I followed him.
Osberne had been struck with a part of the second clerk's
behaviour, which had not so forcibly impressed me. It was not
so much the skilful assurance with which Crookit deported him-
self during the evening that raised my wonder, as the decided
THE FAMILY FEUD.
95
effect which he seemed to produce in the mind of Charlotte.
What amount of general knowledge Crookit possessed I had
never taken care to learn. In the counting-house he merely
demonstrated shrewdness, and fecundity of sarcasm and joke.
My prejudice against him had prevented me from recognizing,
beneath his mask of ridicule and cynicism, any higher capa-
bilities, or suspecting his possession of refined and cultivated
tastes. With surprise I now heard him speak critically of
music, yet it was in what I conceived to be the fashionable
mode, and not in the manner of a musician, or of one who
regards music with a passion. It was in language, however,
which pleased Charlotte, and led her to manifest delight.
Crookit also pointed his inquiries concerning foreign cities, like
one conversant with their manners, and quoted French and
Italian phrases with the facility and glibness of a traveller,
though I had never learned that he had travelled ; but I felt
sure that his ease and polish must have been acquired in a sphere
far removed from a merchant's office.
Charlotte not only deferred to him frequently, but seemed to
experience as much fascination from his manners as we from her
beauty. My colleagues, when their backs were turned towards
him, expressed to each other, by slight shrugs and certain eleva-
tions of the brow, their amazement at his success with Miss
Charlotte, and their utter inability to account for it; while I,
wickedly noting Crookit's squint, thought of Jack Wilkes and
his swaggering assertion that, in spite of his own ugliness, he
could in ten minutes be as high in the favour of a beautiful
woman as the handsomest man in her company. Yet I would
not allow Crookit the real cleverness of a man like Wilkes, and
must confess that I was ungallant enough to attribute Crookit's
success to Charlotte's shallowness. I did this the more decidedly
when he corrected a harmless blunder of mine, concerning
some foreign subject, with one of his old sneering jokes ; and
she did not perceive the sneer, but laughed merrily, and thanked
him for contributing so largely to the good-humour of the even-
ing. The glance of malicious triumph Crookit gave me I could
neither mistake nor forget.
But I need not describe more minutely the light memorabilia
of that evening, and would scarcely have dwelt on them thus far,
had they not furnished data from which I traced out some new
conclusions relative to the character and purposes of more than
one member of Miss Charlotte's first assembly.
96
THE FAMILY FJETJ».
BOOK IV.
CONTAINING A NARRATIVE OP ONLY A FEW DAYS* EVENTS, BUT CLOSING
WITH A SECOND AND MORE SERIOUS REMOVAL FOR THE HERO.
CHAPTEE I.
Cain Colton shows how he suddenly meets an old Acquaintance: he wins a
Victory over a Foe of whose Power over him in the Future he little calculates.
How completely the crowning happiness or irremediable misery
of a life may depend on the turn of a moment, and on the judg-
ment which another forms of some phase of thought or feeling
through which one is passing !
The organ music at the church on Sunday, the day following
the evening of Miss Upham's assembly, brought back my mental
disturbance, and was a torture to me instead of a delight, as in
the olden time. Charlotte's outward beauty, and her sprightly
conversation, likewise palled upon me, since they were not con-
joined with the fervid feeling and intellectual excellence of one
whose image those grand organ harmonies had renewed so
livingly. Favourable regard alone must have influenced Mr.
Timothy to attribute to imperfect recovery of health that absence
of mind which I showed while I sat with himself and daughter
after dinner. He rallied me once upon it, and I apologised.
Eut when I fell into it again, he fixed a somewhat mournful
look on me.
 You are dull, Mr. Canute, and you are not looking well,
though it is paying you no compliment to tell you so, he said.
 Throw your cloak about you,—or, at least, take it on your
arm. Have a brisk walk before the sun sets. It will give a
fillip to your blood, and you will be better company when you
come back.
I rose hastily, feeling at the same time ashamed and grateful,
and stammered an acknowledgment of his kindly consideration
for me. In a few minutes I was in the midst of one of my old
walks. It had been one of those fine autumnal days which in
our changeful climate often glow, even to November, with almost
THE FAMILY FEUD.
87
a sviminer softness and effulgence; and the evening was so warm,
that I soon sat down, to watch the sun set, by the side of a
piece of water whose banks were a favourite resort with me, by
reason of the variety and beauty of the plants which crested it
through summer and autumn. My thoughts began to be
dreamily divided between busy internal images and the gor-
geous hues and glittering shapes of the clouds assembled above
and around the sun's broad red disc, when I was suddenly awoke
to the presence of what appeared to be a somewhat sombre
reality, and a living one. I saw a young woman, dressed in
deep black, stop by the brink of the water, gaze upon its sur-
face, and then walk slowly on in the direction towards me, but
apparently without seeing me. Again she stopped, and again
walked on, looking on the water; and at length, with the hook
of her parasol, she seemed to be intent on getting possession of
a flower whose beauty the fine season had preserved to so late a
period of the year. Twice I saw her try for it unsuccessfully ;
but when she made a third trial, and narrowly escaped falling
into the water, I blamed myself for my listlessness, sprung up,
and was by her side in a moment.
 Permit me to reach the flower for you, I said, taking the
parasol from her hand. I seized the flower, and turned to pre-
sent it to her. But when our eyes met!—
 Mary!
 Cain! 
The mutual recognition was instantaneous ; but not another
word was uttered by either of us for many moments. Nor do I
remember how our conversation began. I only recollect that,
after a tearful narrative of the recent death and burial of her
father, poor Granger, she began to tell me of her mother's
decease, and their ruin by the new Squire Pernshawe; and I
interrupted her with the information that I knew of it all from
the sympathizing recital of Jossy Jessop. We walked hand-in-
hand, not arm-in-arm, by the margin of the stream, talking of
the days of childhood, till the stars came out, and she remem-
bered that her aunt and uncle Downham would be feeling alarm
on her account. So we turned towards the town, and I parted
with her at its entrance, since our roads diverged there ; and I
also began to remember that Mr. Upham would be expecting my
return.
Mary Granger had but just turned a corner of the street that
led to Mr. Downham's, and so passed out of sight, when Crookit
suddenly laid his hand on my shoulder.
 Soho, Wooden Spoons! was his irritating salute, "I did
not know that you had une affaire du cceur. I thought ycu
were too busy with your studies to think of women gear. And
H
138
TILE FAMILY FEUD.
a young widow, too, I guess, by her sable weeds ! Egad, you
are a riper lad than I had imagined ! 
"What d'ye mean, sir, by your insolent coarseness? I
demanded, confronting him with flashing eyes, I have no
doubt.
"Hay, nay, Spoons, be cool! There is no-reason why you
should be angry. I see no harm in your having a sweetheart,—
only you are so sly ! 
 I have no sweetheart, sir.
"Ho, ho! I understand!  he rejoined, with malicious glee;
 still don't be uneasy because I have found you out, Spoons.
I shall say nothing about it. I'll keep your secret, depend upon
it; though I must say you are very young to—to have a liaison
with a young widow.
 If you dare to charge me with such vileness, either in your
Trench gibberish or in any other way, said I, feeling my heat
subside into firm courage,  I'll fell you to the earth ! 
We were standing where a street-lamp threw its light on
Crookit's face, and I never felt prouder than while looking at
him in that moment. "Coward was stamped oh all his fea-
tures ; and yet this was the man whose sneers had -galled me to
the very heart so often and so long, and whose annoying in-
fluence I had despaired to break. There stood the tall cynic
white with fear, in the presence of the stripling whom he had so
often tortured; and when he spoke again, his faint quivering
tone showed how his soul quailed within him.
"Why, Colton, I meant no offence, he said,—"none in the
world.
 You do mean it. And it is not the first time you have
given me offence either, said I.  Apply nicknames to me no
more, sir, but address me in the way you address others.
 Oh, certainly, he answered—but there was a partial resus-
citation of his old sneering spirit now;  certainly, I will not
use the term you allude to, if that be your wish ; but you never
said so much before.
"You must have known that I did not wish to be
degraded
 Degraded! he repeated, interrupting me, and seeming to
have fully recovered his self-possession ;  a name cannot degrade
you. But if young men will meet young women, whom they
deny to be their lovers in an honourable sense—and that in sly
places, and after daylight—other people will apply degrading
terms to their conduct; and that will be more serious than a
word used in joke.
 The young person I just parted from is merely a friend, I
replied, promptly—for he piqued my moral pride so as to cool
THE FAMILY FEUD.
99
my anger now;  slie was my playmate when we were children ;
and surely there can be nothing blameable in listening to an
orphan's account of her father's death. She is the niece of
Mr. Titus Downham. I should suppose, sir, I need not say
another word as to the respectability of her character.
 Oh, indeed! exclaimed Crookit, and stopped with a mazed
look, so puzzling that I could not interpret it.  I beg pardon,
Mr. Colton, I will avoid giving you offence in future, depend
upon it! Good night, sir!
His last words were spoken gravely, and without the slightest
mixture of a sneer. He lifted his hat, and went off by the street
along which Mary had gone, and I hastened home.
I was glad that there was company at tea that night; the
attention of Mr. Timothy and Charlotte was so busily divided
among their visitors that they had little to spare for me ; and I
escaped as early as possible to my room, to brood over my
thoughts alone.
Crookit's espial: was it mischievously intentional ? I suspected
it was, at first; yet, he might have discovered my meeting with
Mary Granger accidentally. It could not be otherwise, I decided,
since I and my old playmate had met by accident. He had
gone off apparently with a sincere conviction that he had erred
in his conduct towards me; but how could I trust the old
sneerer, whose sinister eyes had, from the first moment that I
saw him, kindled such an instinctive antipathy in my nature ? I
had done wrong in mentioning Mary's relationship to the Down-
hams. What a blunderer I was not to have been more guarded!
He had been too cunning for me, in making that appeal to my
sense of moral reputation. But, it was of little consequence that
I had told him of Mary's relationship to Mr. Titus; he would
have found it out by one means or other.
Would he not watch whether I met Mary again ? I had pro-
mised to meet her on the spot where we met, by the water-side,
the next evening. Would he not whisper of what he had seen,
and might see, and create some mischief out of it for me—but
especially for dear Mary ? She was dear to me from the tender
friendship of childhood—from no other cause, I assured myself.
It was true she was as beautiful as Jossy's rude but hearty pane-
gyric had asserted her to be: she had no resemblance to the
imperial and commanding beauty of Charlotte, but there was not
an imperfect feature in her face; it was full of gentle loveliness
and sweet affection, to which her sorrow, perhaps, lent additional
charms; but I had no thought of love—as X conceived of the
passion—towards Mary Granger. The link between us seemed
too sacred to permit such a thought: it consisted of the pure
affection of childhood, and resembled that of brother and sister;
H 2
100
THE FAMILY FEUD.
her distress I shared as if it had been that of my closest relative,
and it seemed while she wept for the loss of her dear parents as
if they had been my own.
I could defend her with my life, as if she were my only sister;
but I must not l#ing her into deeper trouble. I must remember
that a niece of Mr. Titus Downham must not be seen to meet
a protege of Mr. Timothy Upham. Crookit's subtle and mali-
cious nature would bestir itself to secure her banishment from
the home she had found ; that was the evil to be dreaded more
than any injury he could do to myself.
The old, unreasonable feud of the two families, of which I had
always said, with self-complacency,  It is a stupid affair, which
can never be of any moment to me, thus, for the first time
stretched as a barrier across my life-path. I could have liked to
meet Mary, to aid in soothing her sorrow, and to revive a mutually
pleasing memory of the past; but I felt that I must forego what
would have been strengthening to the heart of my early playmate,
as well as beneficial to myself, inasmuch as I should have forgot
my own troubles in seeking to lighten Mary's—and all because a
silly, irrational quarrel existed between two families ; and either
this evil-natured Crookit, or some other mischief-maker, would
be sure to report our acquaintanceship if we were seen together,
and that might work Mary's ruin, and cause her to be driven
out homeless.
And some one would do this tale-bearing work, if Crookit did
not. His coarse insinuations were only what others would
repeat; they were only what the world did repeat of the young
of both sexes who were known to meet and walk together; it
was in vain to think of daring all these dangers. 1 might bear
a blow myself, but I must not let it fall on dear Mary. I could
not avert it from her by any other means than one: we must be
strangers to each other for the present. I must be careful for
Mary's welfare—and I would; the next meeting should be our
last, until circumstances altered.
I reconsidered our case, and viewed it in every possible shape,
but I still came to the same conclusion. This employment kept
me from brooding on older discontents, and I experienced no
sleepless strife with them that night.
My waking feeling next morning was one of admiration at the
fact that I appeared to have entered on a period of unusual
experience; and that, whereas months and years of my earlier
life had rolled away in placid sameness, now every day developed
some new or unexpected, and however small yet important,
event for me. Were these signs that a crisis was approaching
in my fate P If there were a shade of superstition in the thought,
let it be excused by the remembrance that there was a mystery
THE FAMILY FEUB.
101
surrounding my origin ; and that the exciting images, the doubts,
hopes, and fears, which had lately been my companions without
my own choice, had served to give my mind this tendency.
I had not been more than half an hour in the counting-house
before this thought was revived by a fresh unexpected incident.
We were all silently attending to our duties at the desk, when
Crookit suddenly hemmed, and then delivered himself thus:—
 Mr. Elder—I wish to say to you, in the hearing of my col-
rnagues, that our friend Colton has expressed to me a wish that I
should no longer name hiui in—in a sportive way. You know
what I mean, all of you, I have no doubt.
He stopped, but no one spoke ; all gazed at him in surprise
at his words and his unusually serious look.
 I have no wish to hurt Colton's feelings, he went on; "I
never had. I shall repeat the offensive term—since it is offen-
sive to Mr. Colton—no moreand again he paused.
 It gives me great pleasure to hear you say so, Mr. Crookit,
declared Mr. Elder;  and I hope other gentlemen will follow
your example. Indeed, I feel sure they will.
 Yes, I think it's very proper, said Osberne, frankly.
 Yes, yes, said Williams and Simpson, looking red and
confused.
 I hope Colton is satisfied, said Crookit.
 Perfectly, said I.
 I am happy that this has occurred, Mr. Canute, observed
Mr. Elder.
I bent my head towards the senior clerk, hut my heart was
too full to allow me to thank him for the benevolent regard
which shone from his eyes. My emotion must have been
observed, for I felt that the blood gathered quick to my face;
but every one bent his eyes on the bill, journal, or ledger that
was before him, and all were silent, and seemed deeply intent on
business for an hour after.
There was a gush of happiness within me that day which I
knew I must restrain ; indeed, the general feeling in the office
throughout that day was restraint. The behaviour of Crookit
was so new, and so unlike himself, that all were pondering upon
it in wonder.
102
THE FAMILY FEUD.
CHAPTER II.
Mary Granger and the Hero meet again.—Mr. Timothy's grand Party of Prepara-
tion.—Tactics.
Maby was already on the bank of the stream when I reached it;
and the sweet tenderness and confiding delight in her face at
meeting me again made my heart ache with the thought that I
must tell her we must meet no more. I hoped, however, to be
able to prepare her for it gradually, and so joined her with such
cheerfulness as I could assume.
We were soon so fully absorbed in reviving our early remem-
brances, that we forgot to note how time fled. It was not till
the dusk gathered thickly around us, that Mary observed she
must not be out so late as on the preceding night.
 But we can soon meet again, dear Cain, she said,  if not
to-morrow night, yet very soon; for we have many things to
talk over yet.
 Mary, I began, seriously, "youmust prepare to hear some-
thing from me that I would willingly avoid saying, for it will
grieve me as deeply as it will grieve you : but I must say it, and
you must bear it 
 What can you mean, Cain ?  she asked, in a tone of af-
fright.
 You must forget that name,—I am not called by it now: and
I am glad it is so ; I need not tell you why, for the name has no
recollections so pleasant that we should desire to call them up.
 I do not wish to call you by it; what shall I call you ? But
is this all you had to tell me ? surely there is nothing grievous in
this! 
 Mr. Upham has changed my name to Canute. I told you
that I lived with Mr. Timothy TJpham. You know that there is
a deep quarrel, which has lasted for generations, between his
family and Mr. Downham's ? 
"My uncle's family, do you mean, dear Cain—I mean, Canute?
I never heard of it.
 I forgot, dear Mary, that you said you were a stranger to
your uncle's family till last week: you are not likely, therefore,
to have heard anything of this deadly feud.
 Indeed I have not, dear Canute.—I like your new name very
much.
How her simple, fond, loving words cut me to the heart!
How was I to break the severe message to the poor, affec-
THE FAMILY FEUD.
103
tionate orphan girl? and she now unclasped her hand from
mine, and, in her apprehensive agitation, clung to my arm, as
if seeking a new relation to me; yet I knew I must fulfil what
I felt to be a duty.
 Dear Mary, I forced myself to say, for the darkness was
increasing,  hear what I say as calmly as you can: this must
be our last meeting until either this family quarrel is healed,
or some change in life, which we cannot foresee, destroys the bar
to our friendship.
 Oh, why are you saying these cruel words tome? she cried,
and burst into a flood of tears.
 Mary, dear Mary, my own distress is greater than I can de-
scribe, in being compelled to tell you this; but we must not give
way in this manner.
She did not hear me, but sobbed, and leaned her head against
my breast in helpless grief. And thus we stood under a group
of trees which we had now gained on our way to the town and
which was not far from it. She continued to sob and grieve dis-
tractedly, and I knew not how to soothe her, while the impro-
priety of our stay forced itself upon me and added to my misery,
as I thought of the blame that thus might be brought upon
Mary : at last she began to master her grief.
"You will not desert me, dear Canute? she said, faintly; "I
cannot bear this trouble after the many troubles I have lately
passed through.
I heard her entreaty with agony; but I dared not yield or
deceive her. Our stay under those trees had deepened my con-
viction of the danger that must arise from our meetings.
 It is for your own sake, dear Mary, I said,  that I must
repeat what I have said : your uncle would never forgive you if
he knew that you met any one belonging to the household of
Mr. Upham.
 I cannot understand it, said the poor girl; "what have we
to do with their quarrels ? 
 But there is impropriety—or they will say there is—in our
way of meeting,"—for I felt that I must urge some plain argu-
ment to move her.
 What can there be wrong in it ?  she said;  we meet as
friends from childhood : who has any right, or would be so hard-
hearted, as to prevent us ? 
A hand was laid on my shoulder, and I turned quickly, and
with my blood in an instant boil, expecting that I should hear
the hateful voice and see the tall shadow of Crookit behind me ;
but the voice was another's, though the figure was as tall as
his.
 May I ask your name, sir ?  said the stranger,  and why
104
THE FAMILY FEUD.
you are here with my cousin ? I have overheard part of your
"conversation; but it did not explain the cause of this strange
meeting. _ .
 My name is Canute Colton, sir, I replied, hesitating from
surprise. ...
 Dear Algernon, 1 will tell you all about it; there is nothing
wrong in it, cried Mary, leaving my arm and seizing that of her
cousin, who I was sure, from Jessop's account, must be young
Algernon Downham.
 lam sure there is not, dear cousin, was the rejoinder ; and
it was uttered in tones of such manly tenderness, that my heart
instantly cleaved to the speaker.
 But your absence till a late hour, and that a second time, he
went on, "alarmed my father and mother, and I was sent to seek
you. You just now questioned the right of any one to prevent
your meeting with your friend; but I beg of you to return homo
with me immediately. You can explain all to me afterwards, so
far as you wish it.
 Oh, I will go instantly, said Mary, and extended her hand
to me, but could not bid me farewell.
 Perhaps, sir, you would have no objection to meet me again,
said Mary's cousin, turning to me as they were about to go;
 at least, allow me to say, I will meet you if you wish it.
I assured him of my willingness, and he bade me good-night,
and hurried away with Mary. I lingered some time before I
returned towards the town; the evening had produced another
unexpected event,—and it was to present me with more.
 I am glad that you do not neglect your walks, Mr. Canute,
said Mr. Timothy, meeting me in the passage almost as soon as
I had recrossed the threshold of his mansion,  but you should
not prolong them beyond nightfall; your health demands care ;
I was anxiously expecting you. We receive some of our Quar-
relton friends in the drawing-room to-night, and it will be rather
a large and distinguished party ; only one of your colleagues is
to be of it, by my daughter's especial invitation ; and I beg that
you will forthwith prepare, also, to join us.
I withdrew to my chamber, and dressed as quickly as possible.
Was it Osberton, I asked myself, that was to be of the party ?
His genteel connections rendered it most likely that he would be
selected to meet a party of the Quarrelton grandees. Could it be
Crookit—who had won Charlotte's favour so very markedly on
the levee night? I denounced the suspicion as foolish; but, after
all, I went down stairs with the expectation that Crookit would
be the man.
And there was Crookit, seated by Miss Charlotte, as I entered
the room stifling my discontent, which swelled almost to disgust.
THE FAMILY FEUD.
105
He sprang up and came towards me instantly, shook hands with
as much seeming heartiness as if he had met an old and beloved
friend, and congratulated himself and me in the same breath, that
we should have the pleasure and honour—laying an especial stress
on that word—of meeting a second time in that room and in such
a presence, so soon after our former delightful meeting there.
The company began immediately to arrive, and all was bustle
and compliment for some time. Crookit and myself were alike
presented to each of the guests with impressive formality, by
Mr. Timothy; if we had been baronets or peers of the realm, he
could not have given us a more honorary introduction to the pomp-
ous old physician, Doctor Drenchem, and his fat wife and two fat
daughters,—to the lean, sharp-eyed Surgeon Fleam and his tall
maiden sister,—to the bland-looking little vicar, Doctor Smiles,
his courtly lady, and her genteel son and really handsome daugh-
ter,—to the vicar's curate, O'Frisk, a stout, brawny Milesian,
with high cheek-bones, turned-up nose, and a twinkle of genuine
Irish humour in his grey eyes,—to the organist, Doctor Minim,
from whose Handelian learning and harmonic skill I had so often
derived rich musical pleasures,—to the attorneys, Supple and
Snatch, with their wives and daughters, alike commonplace,—
and to an indescribable list of ten other respectables, three of
them considerable merchants, and seven of them principal trades-
men of the town, with their wives or sisters, sons or daughters.
The drawing-room was itself very large; but a wainscot
partition between it and another room adjoining had been re-
moved ; and the space was thus amply convenient for the enter-
tainment of the company, which was over forty in number.
Everything bade fair, I thought, for an entertaining evening:
I was determined to enjoy it; and thus accepted the challenge
to converse by whomsoever it was offered.
My disappointment was great when I found that the merchants
and tradesmen, with the sons of some of them, to a man, talked
of nothing but the great town-meeting that was to be held on
the next night. They vented personalities of the vaguest, and
yet most vulgar kind against the Downkam party; and breathed
the fiercest wishes for the downfall of Mr. Titus himself. I was
too much disgusted to remain with this group; and, after re-
turning a few generalities, moved towards another, which I
imagined must afford a different and really elevated sphere of
observation, being composed of the medical, divinity, and musical
men of diploma.
I knew Doctor Minim, and had been favoured with his friendly
advice respecting my violin studies. He had taken his degree
at Oxford ; was a man of real talent, if not genius; and seemed
to live so much in music, that I imagined it impossible for him
106
THE FAMILY FEUD.
to avoid introducing his favourite theme in either the present,
or any other company. Doctor Drenchem, with his short,
powdered wig and tail, and his gold-headed cane and snuff-box;
and the reverend vicar, with his bald, powdered head and soft
voice, seemed alike incapable to me, judging from their exterior
attributes, of participating in the mean and bitter spirit of
partisanship which characterized the group I had left.
But what was my disappointment, as I joined the titled
group, and the organist smiled and pulled me playfully by the
finger, to find that this act did not interrupt a speech which he
was just then delivering against the "insolent monopoly of
town honours and trusts by the Downhams ! He continued,
till he coughed for want of breath ; and the hiatus was eagerly
filled up by the grandiose man of physic, who made up for his
lack of logic by stronger and more violent epithets than Doctor
Minim had applied to the Downham party. Doctor Smiles
summed up in a voice which seemed the more hateful, because
its tones were so sweet, and yet it pronounced that all which
his friends had just said was perfectly true, and he only wished
that worse could not be said of the Downhams.
 [Respecting Mr. Titus himself, concluded he, very seriously,
"I must, on my conscience, declare my convictions on a subject,
concerning which yourself, Doctor Drenchem, and you, Doctor
Minim, are not, perhaps, so fully informed as I am. It is a
fact, gentlemen, and I regret, as a Christian and a clergyman, to
state it; but it is a fact, that this man, who affects to be so kind
to the poor, and so liberal to them in the matter of fees, has
permitted his own—his only sister, to die of a broken-heart, the
consequence of his refusal to aid her husband—a small farmer
somewhere in the next county—in surmounting the losses he
had in his way of business. Her husband is since dead—broken-
hearted also, I have no doubt, poor fellow!—and now, Mr.
Titus, to keep up his show of the benevolence which he prates
so much of, has taken their orphan daughter—his niece, of
course—into his house. And so the poor young woman—they
say she is a gentle, good creature—is to be fed by alms to save
her from distress. I say it is mean—it is detestably mean ; it's
inhuman, it's unchristian, in Mr. Titus !
I knew I must not interpose, or I could have liked the doctor
of divinity to have explained the meanness and inhumanity of,
at least, a part of the conduct which he had ascribed to Mr.
Titus; but there would not have been time for me to speak if I
had thought it prudent—for out burst Doctor Drenchem :—■
 The hypocritical wretch!  cried the rival physician;  it is
just like him. He keeps up a pretty game by his pretended
charity in declining a fee, now ana then—though I don't believe
THE FAMILY FEUD.
107
he does ifc as often as his party report—nor any oftener than a
person that I could name, but I will not: I scorn to do it. He
rejects a few half-crowns of the poor, to get guineas by monopo-
lising all the town trusts. I knew, all along, how the crafty
wretch was managing matters; but the blind fools, his dupes,
wouldn't believe me! and the doctor shook his head, ancl
sneered maliciously, while he paraded his gold box, -and finished
by taking a fierce pinch of snuff.
I had listened to these speeches, and more especially to the
vicar's, with an interest arising from a cause, which must be
evident to the reader. I have no doubt my face underwent
some change, which others might mistake for concern, that there
should be a man so wicked in existence as Mr. Titus. At any
rate, O'Frisk, the Irish curate, who had joined the group with-
out my observing him, touched my elbow with his own; and,
when I looked at him, gave me a leer so full of incredulity, and
yet so provokingly droll, that I was in danger of laughing in
the grave and indignant faces of the doctors. O'Frisk im-
mediately inclined has head to beckon me away, and I joined
him.
"Sure now, ye didn't take all that for Gospel? suggested
O'Frisk.
 I must confess I didn't, I replied.
 Faith, and I'm glad to hear ye say that! he returned;  I
was afraid ye did. This is a party night, ye understand. They're
loading their guns, and trying 'em too, against the great battle
that's to be fought in the town-hall to-morrow night! I hope
ye'll be there to see the fun P
 Indeed, I don't think there would be any fun there for me.
 "What! not in a row P
"Do you mean a fight ?
 Faith, and I shouldn't wonder if it turns out a fight! And
sure, it would be delightful, Misthur Canute, just to see a few
of 'em break heads, and give one another bloody noses, instead
of venting this viperous scandal.
I looked in O'Frisk's face, and it was so irresistibly droll, and
expressed so much cordiality of nature, that notwithstanding
the unparsonlike character of his speech, I could not forbear
laughing.
 By my soul, now, I like yer laugh ! protested the curate ;
 there's the ring of an honest heart in it. It isn't like the
cacophony that Crookit is making yonder: half devil's sneer,
and half yell of a wolf. That's a wolf in sheep clothing, or I'm
no true Irishman ! Come along with ye, Misthur Canute ; and
let us make our observations in company: I like ye.
I yielded my arm, tho curate threaded it with his, and we
108
THE FAMILY FEUD.
sauntered to tlie farther end of the room, where Crookit was
standing with Supple and Snatch, the lawyers.
 Policy suggests it! said Supple, just as we joined them.
 Say rather that Mr. Timothy's power to take it gives him a
right to it, said Snatch.
A man in Mr. Timothy's position should take every prudent
care to undermine the Downham interest, added Supple.
 He should knock them oft their perch, because he is able to
do it, asserted Snatch.
 Which mode of generalship do you recommend, Mr.
O'Frisk P asked Crookit ;  stratagem or force,—wiles or
blows ?
 Why, ye see, Misthur Crookit, I'm not a general at all, but
only a poor parson, replied O'Frisk, with a queer face of mock
reserve.
 Oh, of course, persevered Crookit;  but you may give
your opinion, my dear, sir. There can be no impropriety in
that.
 Is it my opinion regarding the wiles and the blows that yer
asking ? 
 Nothing more, my dear sir.
 Then I'd give the blows to the sarpints that use the wiles.
Crookit gave a faint laugh, but looked hard at the curate, as if
he suspected some personal meaning in the reply. But the
curate faced Snatch, and affected to feel interest in the conver-
sation.
 Yer a bold gentleman, Misthur Snatch, said he,  but who
is it that ye would knock off the perch? 
 Mr. Titus Downham, was the instant reply;  I would not
permit him any longer to be governor of the hospital; for,
although the office is termed ' honorary ' every one knows that it
gives him the disposal of patronage to the tune of five thousand
a year.
 And ye would have Mr. Timothy to knock Mr. Titus off the
perch, for what raison, now? 
 That he might sit upon it himself, answered the bold
Snatch.  Who has so proper a claim to it, sir, as the richest
man in Quarrelton? Why, sir, I undertake to say, that
Mr. Timothy could buy the wealth of every man in this room,
to-night—and there are some very well-to-do people here, sir.
 So that ye would translate the old proverb into 'Much
should have more,' quietly observed the curate.
 Nay, sir, I would do no such thing, said the hasty Snatch;
 the office could not make Mr. Timothy richer, since it is
merely honorary. The holding of it could not be of the least
importance to himself.
THE FAMILY FEUD.
109
 But only to his party, suggested O'Frisk, as quietly as
before.
 Just so, granted Snatch.
 That is, if the patronage were discreetly distributed, added
Supple;  and nobody doubts that it would be if Mr. Timothy
had the office, in which I hope we shall succeed in placing him,
to-morrow night.
 "We will place him in it, affirmed Snatch.
 It's myself and Misthur Canute that will be at the meeting,
said O'Frisk, squeezing my arm.
 I am happy to hear you say so, gentlemen declared Snatch,
seizing a hand of each of us.
 Yery happy: it will add two to our list of votes, said
Supple; and he took our hands likewise.
 Why did you promise for me?  said I to the curate, as we
moved off;  I really did not intend to go : I never go to any of
the town meetings.
 Now, Mr. Canute, say not another word about it, reasoned
my new friend, in easy English.  I hear that you are a book-
student, and I'm glad to hear it; but you need to look into the
world, now and then. Call at my lodging as you go down
the street, and we'll go together to the meeting. It will be a
treat to you—for there will be fun. And fun is good for health.
I get it in every harmless shape that I can; and that's why I
resort to the old brogue, now and then,—though English is, as I
may say, now more natural to me. You'll go, won't you ? 
I gave him my promise.
 That's right, said O'Frisk ; "but do you see what there is
particular in the course of transaction here, just now ? 
 To what do you allude ?  I asked.
 Can't you tell ? Look around! 
 I really don't know what you mean.
 Then you are short of sight, said O'Frisk;  whei'e's
Crookit, at this moment ? 
 By the side of Miss Charlotte.
 Where he has been the greater part of the night, whispered
the curate ;  have you no jealous thoughts ? But keep your
heart up! Mr. Timothy is on your side. But keep your
thoughts to yourself: we'll talk about them another time. Now
for a word or two, here and there, and then we'll make our way
to Miss Charlotte. I'll back you up—for I like fair play; and I
would not like another Eve to be beguiled by a serpent, for her
own sake.
I remember nothing of what O'Frisk said to various members
of the company a3 he led me, passively, by the arm towards the
end of the room where Charlotte sat, with Crookit by her side.
110
the family feud.
I was too much confounded by thoughts which the curate's last
whisper had raised. They were not new thoughts either; but
when I had had them before, I had put them aside as ridiculous
imaginations. My awkwardness must have been observed when
we reached the immediate presence of Charlotte. I could not
surmount it. Crookit evidently enjoyed my confusion. Charlotte
neglected me after thrice essaying in vain to brighten my dull-
ness. The curate forsook me; and the rest of the evening
passed away, and the company broke up, without my being
more than half conscious of what any party around me said,
or did.
CHAPTER III.
The Hero's Conversation with the Irish Curate.—The great Town Meeting.—The
General Mfilee.—Our Hero's Duel.—Crookit's clever speech, and Mr. Timothy's
Election.
I laughed at a few flitting thoughts I had some few days ago
*>-I said to myself, when alone in my room—and it looks like
ridiculous vanity still, for me to conclude that Mr. Timothy
wishes me to marry his daughter ; but it accounts for his pre-
ference of me. I cannot point to any unmistakeable sign that
he is cognisant of the fact that I am his sister's child. No: I
have construed his acts to mean what I hoped they meant;
but it has been a monstrous self-delusion. The curate can
read mankind; or, perhaps, he has heard something whispered
in an authoritative quarter. I must call on him early, as he
requested. He seems shrewd ; and I may learn something
from him; but I need not doubt the clearness of his per-
ception. Have I not heard Mr. Timothy say a hundred times
that merchants are gentlemen ? Do I not know that he esteems
every one of his clerks as his equal ? And is it not strikingly
consistent in such a man that he should disdain to seek union
for himself, through his child, with any of the Quarrelton
people of rank ?
The next moment I doubted every conclusion I had just
reached. Had not the elder Upham cast away his daughter
because  she had married a mean man ?  And what could I
be, in Mr. Timothy's eyes, if he did not know of my relation-
ship to him,—or, even if he did know that I was the child of
that  mean man ?  Jossy Jessop thought that the elder
TJpham's harsh judgment of his daughter was not shared by
his son; but Job Oldstock doubted on that point.
THE FAMILY FEUD.
Ill
And even if it were clear that Mr. Timothy had a wish that I
should be united to Charlotte, how could I be advantaged by his
wish, if his daughter preferred Crookit ? I would not marry a
woman unless I had her affections. Marry! I had had no
thought of marriage. I was absorbed in the desire for intel-
lectual advancement till these unexpected and late events had
distracted and turned me aside.
And Mary Granger ? Her troubles had been so much more
grievous than mine, that I had little cause to complain, com-
pared with her. She was under good and kind guardianship :
that was the most cheering reflection. As to the rest, she, like
myself, must be resigned to fate.
After such wandering soliloquies, and when I had reached
that Islamitish conclusion, I fell asleep, and had no dreams.
The next morning, and throughout the day, Mr. Timothy's
face, whenever I caught sight of it, indicated restless anxiety ;
and the conversation in the counting-house was all about the
great forthcoming town-meeting. Business closed early, and I
hastened away to keep my appointment with the curate.
O'Frisk received me very pleasantly, rallied me on my blun-
dering behaviour at the party of the preceding night, and
dashed into the subject I wished him to take up.
 If ye wish to win the race, he said, "it's bad jockeyship
ye're showing, Misthur Canute : the tall horse is already half-a-
length before ye. Were ye sleeping with your eyes open, now,
till I warned ye what Crookit was about ? 
 My dear sir, said I,  of what consequence is it to me
what Crookit is about—if you mean by that to assert that—but,
perhaps, I have misunderstood you, I ended, wishing him to
reveal for himself whether he was acting on his own imagina-
tion, or from what he had gathered from others. Sounds, not
very clerical, but exceedingly Irish—mingling a whoop and a
whistle—prefaced his rejoinder.
 Och! ye sly innocent!  cried the curate, with a face of
broad drollery;  and ye think, now, to play the lamb, when
it's only Crookit that's a keener wolf than yerself, and ye're
after the same game. Don't be after thinking that ye can
deceive Terry O'Frisk, Misthur Canute ! Doesn't the town
ring with yer name and Miss Charlotte's? And isn't it
yerself that Misthur Timothy has been training for a son-in-
jaw so long ? Bad luck to ye, if ye suffer yerself to be fooled by
Crookit!
It was not easy to persuade O'Frisk that my innocence was
unaffected ; and when I succeeded in convincing him that I was
ignorant of the reports in the town, and ignorant of the intent
he had attributed to Mr. Timothy, he declared himself to be
112
THE FAMILY FEUD.
amazed at my greenness, but congratulated liimsolf on having
discovered, the evening before, that that wa3 the colour of my
experience.^
 But ye'll ripen, Misthur Canute, he continued ;  and I
like ye none the worse because yer green. If a young man
begins with craft, he'll be the divel's own for over-reaching
by the time he's gray-haired. Never mind what ye didn't
see. I've lent ye the spectacles; and though ye've given me
small thanks, ye're welcome to the use of 'em. The game's yer
own, if ye take care to keep it.
 I am obliged to you for your friendly information, said I;
 but it really is a game I don't care for.
"Not care to marry Miss Charlotte ! — a first-rate beauty
and a big fortune ! 
 Indeed I do not. And I say it with all due respect for
Miss Upham, and—I confess — with admiration for her beauty.
Would you care to marry a woman, however beautiful or rich,
unless you felt that you loved her ? 
 Faith ! Misthur Canute, I love all the women ; but none in
particular. I never had a sweetheart — Och! there it is !
Ye've a sweetheart yerself! Ye've plighted yer troth, as they
say, in some other quarter ; and so ye're cold-hearted towards
Miss Charlotte.
 You are mistaken, sir, I assure you.
 Sure, then, I don't know what to make of it, Misthur
Canute, said O'Frisk ;  I took the liberty to call ye ignorant
of the world ; but, to speak the truth, I'm not deeply skilled in
its ways myself.
That was the truth: I had already discovered it before
O'Frisk had made the confession. Yet I felt warmly inclined
to cultivate the acquaintance of one whose guilelessness was so
apparent through the whimsical veil of affected shrewdness.
The harmless affectation was excusably Irish: the honest
nature was a jewel of price.
For an hour or more I enjoyed the curate's conversation,
and should have enjoyed it more had he not smoked, and
that very earnestly, all the time. He glided pleasantly into his
English, however, when I asked a few questions respecting
some of the books in his library. I found that he was a
scholar in the solid sense of the term, and wished I had made
his acquaintance earlier. Yet his Keltic excitability was ever
showing itself; and, as the time sped, he turned to the sub-
ject of the meeting, and forgot his scholarship in merry anti-
cipation of a row. He was now restless; and so we made our
way to the town-hall some twenty minutes before business-
time.
THE FAMILY FEUD.
113
The public room deserves no especial description. It was
larger than some of the old guildhalls, though it had none of
the attractions of those antique piles. Quarrelton was not a
corporation town; and the public room was a large but only
an ordinary-looking modern erection, furnished with a gallery, a
platform, and a store of benches on the ground-floor.
O'Frisk and I were so early that we obtained good seats in
the gallery, and were thus very favourably situated for seeing
and hearing the proceedings of the night, whether pertaining to
the orators on the platform or the body of voters. The rule, I
learned from the curate, was that none should be admitted but
householders—such, only, having a right to vote in the annual
election of the governor of their ancient hospital. But O'Frisk
also informed me that the rule was always broken, and the
infraction never complained of, except by the defeated party.
Accordingly, the body of the hall was soon crowded with a
multitude, half of whom were youths, and whose boisterous
challenges and party cries gave token of what would be the
spirit of the meeting, before the business began.
A few stragglers took their seats on the platform; but they
were severally assailed with such a storm of derisive or abusive
epithets that, first one and then another, quitted his seat and
retreated down the platform stairs to some inner room. At
length, and, as it seemed, by agreement, the chiefs of the two
great factions made their appearance on the platform at the
same moment; an instant and general cheer and waving of hats
welcomed them; and they were followed by their principal sup-
porters, who arranged themselves, with Mr. Titus on the right
of the chair, or with Mr. Timothy on the left. A large-framed,
grave, and elderly man stood behind the chair, until the cheering
subsided.
 I beg leave to move, said Mr. Titus, rising,  that Bargrave
Bumbleton, Esquire, burgess-bailiff and chief officer of the town
and parish of Quarrelton, do take the chair on this occasion.
 I beg to second that motion, said Mr. Timothy.
Mr. Titus, as the mover, put it to the vote,—every hand was
held up in approval,—and the large-framed, grave, and elderly
man who had stood behind the chair now took his seat in it,
according to the honorary custom which had been observed in
his own person for nearly thirty years. The next formal pro.
cedure was the reading over of the hospital accounts for the
year; and the grave chairman, in a deep voice, which was fitted
to control large assemblies, then signified that the governorship
of Titus Downham, Esquire, had closed, and that it lay with the
general body of householders there and then assembled to elect
a new governor, or re-eiect the old one. This was the signal for
114
THE FAMILY FEUD.
a terrific storm of shouts and "yells, expressive of dissatisfaction
at the word  re-elect. And when a stout, burly Downhamite
rose to address the meeting, it required all the thunder of the
chairman, Mr. Burgess-bailiff Bargrave Bumbleton, to secure
order while Mr. Bartlemy Biggs moved a formal vote of thanks
to Mr. Titus for his past services. Had the burly Biggs con-
tented himself with a slight compliment, the formal vote might
have been passed without much dissent. But he chose to
enlarge on the philanthropic character of Mr. Titus ; and there-
upon the shouts and yells were resumed and continued till Biggs
could no longer be heard. He sat down; and, together with
another Downhamite, rose Mr. Upham. There was a general
buzz expressive of wonder—for, as O'Frisk whispered in my
ear, this act of Mr. Timothy was unprecedented. The suppressed
sounds sank, the Downhamite sat down, and Mr. Timothy, to
the amazement of his own party, as well as of Mr. Downham's,
thus delivered himself.
 Mr. Burgess-bailiff, it may cause some surprise that I should
claim to second the vote of thanks for his past services to the
gentleman who has been named. Yet I do so heartily. I
think that gentleman merits the thanks of his fellow-townsmen.
That gentleman has held the governorship five years; and it
proves that that gentleman possesses no ordinary measure of
public spirit, or that gentleman would not have so long, so un-
weariedly, and so cheerfully, have given his services to the
public. It is not often, sir, that a town can boast of possessing
denizens so disinterested and public-spirited as that gentleman
has proved himself to be by this lengthened period of service;
and I beg therefore to second the vote of thanks to that gentle-
man for his past services.
There was a general hum, betokening applause, when Mr.
Timothy sat down; but O'Frisk leered and nudged my elbow;
and soon, the Downham party seemed to scent a trick in the
speech of Mr. Upham—for there were sounds of sneering sue*
ceeded by cries of "Gammon, Mr. Timothy !—but it's no go !
President Bumbleton took no notice of these cries, but ener-
getieally put the motion of thanks; and the Uphamites following
the example of Mr. Timothy, the vote was declared unanimous.
Then came the acknowledgment of the honour, conveyed in
the unanimous vote, by Mr. Titus. He was a better speaker, as
well as a more gentlemanly-looking personage, than Mr. Timo-
thy ; but the phrase  that gentleman  was always used when
he referred to Mr. Upham's mention of himself, and Mr.
Upham's  handsome conduct, as he declared it to be, in se-
conding the vote of thanks. I thought of Jossy Jessop's remark
that neither of the chiefs was in the habit of mentioning his
THE FAMILY FEUD.
opponent.^ There was such unmistakeable sincerity in Mr.
Downham's manner of referring to  that gentleman, with all its
stiffness, that he either did not believe in the  gammon, or was
too proud to show it. His speech was short, and already inhar-
monious notes began to rise from the ground floor.
Mr. Titus sat down; his stanch partisan, Mr. Josiah Jink-
worth, coal merchant, rose up, and in a voice as shrill and
piercing as the note of a trumpet, suddenly pronounced—
 I propose that Titus Downham, Esquire, be re-elected to
the—
The remaining words of his proposition could only be heard
on the platform, for a shriller and louder burst of disapproval
from hundreds of voices drowned the trumpet-tones of Jink-
worth. To describe all that followed, minutely, would be use-
less. The chairman having again obtained partial order, the
re-election of Mr. Titus was seconded; and then Dr. Drenchem,
started to his feet to propose, and the lean, sharp-eyed surgeon,
Eleam, to second, the election of Mr. Timothy; and then fol-
lowed attacks and rejoinders, questions and cross-questions,
innumerable. Dr. Drenchem was asked, sneeringly, by Bar-
tlemy Biggs, the burly Downhamite, if he didn't wish to be
governor of the hospital himself, although he had proposed
Mr. Timothy; to which Drenchem replied, in a furious pas-
sion, and shaking his wig till the powder flew about, that he
scorned to answer such a malignant, calumnious, libellous,
slanderous, evil-tongued, black-hearted, diabolical insinuation.
Trumpet-voiced Jinkworth assailed Fleam, as wishing to get
Mr. Timothy into the governorship that Mr. Timothy might
give him the surgeonship of the hospital; and the sharp-eyed
Fleam hurled daggers of looks at the accusing Jinkworth, as
desiring the re-election of Mr. Titus, that he might continue to
fill his dirty pocket by furnishing the hospital with dirty coals,
at his own dirty price, as he had already done for five dirty
years, and yet was not ashamed of his dirty monopoly ! Anon,
the bold Snatch, catching up the many-times martyred word
 monopoly, denounced Mr. Titus himself as a monopolist, and
an abetter of monopolies ; and then a Downhamite condemned
Mr. Timothy as the greatest monopolist of all.
But now when fierceness had raged till it began to cool from
exhaustion in the breasts of the belligerents, subtler and more
poisonous passions began to ooze forth. Supple, the lawyer,
with a viperous look, affected to deprecate the violence and un-
charitableness of his own party; and urged that some excuse
should be made for Mr. Titus, who might be anxious to continue
in the governorship of the hospital, that it might help to repair
losses Mr. Titus had suffered by poor relatives, and also enable
i 2
116
THE FAMILY FEUD.
that gentleman, to make a lady of the poor orphan niece just
taken into his house. _ . . ^
The great body of the meeting received this vile speech with
breathless silence,—either ashamed of the baseness it implied in
the speaker, or ignorant of his meaning and curious to learn it.
In a few seconds, cries of  Shame! shame! were uttered by
the Downham party on the platform; and suddenly the silence
was broken in the body of the meeting, by a tall man clad in the
blue linen coat of a butcher, who cried out—
 More credit to Mr. Titus for helping his poor relations, and
for taking the poor young woman into his house, than to Mr.
Timothy's father, who turned out his daughter, whom her bro-
ther, Mr. Timothy, didn't save from starving.
All eyes were upon the man who uttered this speech—mine
among the rest; and it was no sooner uttered than there was a
general rush of the Upham partisans upon him. The party of
Mr. Downham, of course, rushed to the rescue ; and the ground-
floor exhibited a general melee. The Burgess-bailiff, Bargrave
Bumbleton, in Boanerges tones, bawled  Order!  Mr. Timothy
cried  Order!  Mr. Titus cried  Order !  the whole platform
cried  Order! "—but without avail. As for my companion,
O'Frisk, he whooped, and whirled round his hat with enthusi-
astic glee. Amidst the distraction I caught sight of Jossy
Jessop for the first time that night,—or rather, O'Frisk drew
my attention to him.
 By the powers !  cried O'Frisk, forgetting his cassock en-
tirely; "look at brave Jossy the coachman! See—there are
four of 'em at him! Well done, Jossy ! go it, ye divil! shouted
O'Frisk, at the moment that Jossy had completed the  flooring 
of his four assailants. But Jossy's part in the general fray was
not yet ended. Several of the Downham party, enraged at his
overthrow of four of their number, closed round him, and after
a brief battle, laid him prostrate.
 Come on !  cried O'Frisk, springing up, and darting down
the gallery steps. I followed, for I must confess my blood was
stirred to see Jossy unfairly attacked by half-a-dozen new men,
after overthrowing four. O'Frisk, who was evidently acquainted
with the tactics of a row, made his way skilfully and quickly by
the use of his elbows ; and I was close at his heels. "We reached
the group, who were yet beating at Jossy with their fists, while
he, lying on his back, was defending himself both with hands
and feet. O'Frisk soon disposed of three of the Downhamites,
and Jossy was enabled to spring to his feet.
 Keep it up, Mr. Canute! he cried, observing me as he
rose ; and then charged, right and left, right valorously.
O'Frisk was still engaged in fight, but I had not struck a
THE FAMILY FEUD.
117
stroke as yet. No sooner liad Jossy spoken to me, however,
than I was impelled to strike in self-defence. A blow fell on my
shoulder, and, on turning round, I beheld my old companion,
the young violin-player, now become a sturdy man, presenting
himself a,s my antagonist. He looked full of malice, and would
have inflicted a telling blow on my face the next moment if I had
not parried it. We closed and I threw him; he was quicklv
covered by parties who trode over him; while I, amazed at my-
self, and seeing the passage open to the platform, retreated to it.
It was the first time in my life that I had so strangely been fired
with the fighting spirit; and I promised myself it should be the
last. In a few minutes the crowd had exhausted themselves,
and the fight ceased. There were cries that two or three were
seriously hurt; these were borne off to the hospital, and very
soon the business of the evening recommenced—the talking
business, I mean.
A few words of regret fell from the chairman as he re-opened;
but he soon passed over the subject of the row, since it was
almost invariably a part of the business of the annual meeting
about the governorship of the hospital. He next very seriously
chided Supple for introducing into the debate gross personal
reflections on the character of Mr. Downham, and declared he
would leave the chair, and break up the meeting if any adherent
of either party renewed the discord by conduct so condemnable.
The energy with which the Burgess-bailiff made this declaration
seemed to have a weightily sobering effect upon the meeting;
but it might be that the blows given and received in the affray
had contributed a good deal to sober the spirits of the greater
number.
The speeches were few, and mostly dull, after the chairman
had thus delivered himself. They did not interest me, and my
attention was irresistibly drawn to Mr. Upham; I wondered
what effect that remarkable speech of the butcher had upon him.
I could see his face at the spot I had gained on the platform,
and I watched its workings with wonder ; I had never before
seen it express misery, but that was its unequivocal expression
now. Half-an-hour had been consumed in dreary speeches, and
the meeting was giving signs of weariness when I was surprised
to see Crookit, who was on the platform, step softly to Mr.
Timothy and whisper in his ear. Mr. Timothy answered in the
same way, and the whispering continued till the person who was
addressing the meeting ceased.
Crookit now stepped in front of the chairman, bowed to him,
and began to speak. There were a few murmurs among the
Downham party when he began, but these subsided, and the
clever and insinuating style of Crookit soon won him favour.
118
THE FAMILY FEUD.
He had not proceeded far before several of the opposite party
joined in cheering him. He declared that he was authorised to
say that Mr. Upliam bad not the slightest ambition to be elected,
but had simply consented to be nominated at the earnest pressure
of friends. The only wise policy was to make such an election
as would serve the excellent institution over which the governor
ruled, and, at the same time, prevent the highest honour that
meeting could confer from being considered a sort of private
property.
Crookit's speech touched various topics with a skill that was
calculated to raise him in the esteem of his hearers; but his
peroration had the greatest interest for myself.
 But another word, gentlemen, and I have done. I am
authorised to say that no one regrets the personal observations
made by Mr. Supple more than myself—unless it be one I will
not name. (And he turned with a slight bow to Mr. Upham.)
Every man of benevolent feeling must applaud the conduct of
Mr. Downham towards his near relatives; and, gentlemen"—and
here Crookit slightly paused, and then continued, in a lower but
very impressive tone,  if any dear relative of another honour-
able person underwent harsh usage, let us reverently forbear to
judge the conduct of the dead ; but let all here rest assured that
what I say is a solemn truth when I declare that the living so
far from approving that harsh deed would give worlds that it
could be undone.
Mr. Timothy's head sank on his breast as Crookit spoke these
words; and I could see that he shook with deep emotion. The
silence that followed was a strange contrast to the tornado of
human passions which had preceded it, and showed how deeply
the meeting sympathised with Mr. Timothy, and in what gene-
ral estimation his character was held, in spite of partisanship,—
while it was a crowning proof of Crookit's power as a speaker.
At length, some one on the platform said "Vote—divide!
and the cry  Vote—vote! and "Divide—divide! soon be-
came general. The chairman, as is usual, put the amendment—
that is to say, the motion that Mr. Timothy should be governor
—first. At least two-thirds of the meeting held up their hands
—for either Crookit's speech, or the fight, had made many con-
verts from the Downham interest. The vote was also taken for
Mr. Titus; but he was so evidently in the minority, that not a
question, or a note of dissent was raised when the Burgess-
Bailiff thundered forth the proclamation—
 I do hereby declare that Timothy Upham, Esq., is duly
elected governor of the hospital of Quarrelton for the ensuing
year.
the family feud.
119
CHAPTEB IY.
Cain Colton's Disaster.—The Fears and Counsel of his Friends.—He flees from
threatened Danger, and closes his early Autobiography for the Present.
Crookit was a guest more tlian ever honoured at Mr. Timothy's
supper-table that night. I might have been sure that my patron
"would so honour him, but my gorge rose at it, and I was silently
busy with plans for defeating what I believed to be his real aim
in the speech he had made at the meeting. I did not doubt
that O'Erisk was right in his assertions that Crookit had marked
Charlotte for a prize ; and reproached myself for a craven if I
did not have a wrestle with him, and secure her for my own. It
was a disordered thought; but it took the transient shape of a
resolution while I heard his complimentary speeches to Charlotte,
and observed the pleasure with which she received them. Her
pleasure seemed in my distempered condition, to be expressed
so markedly, that I did not believe it to be mere complaisance.
It was a torture to me greater than the presence of Crookit, and
I was glad when I could escape to my own room.
There the fever went down. I reasoned myself out of the
foolish spirit of contradiction which had moved me to think of
becoming a rival for Charlotte's affections, since I did not covet
them. Yet I had difficulty in doing this ; convinced that Crookit
was a man of very evil nature, I almost felt it to be a desertion
of true chivalry not to offer love to Charlotte, and prevent her
becoming the husband of such a man. It seemed easy to do so
to one so inexperienced as I was. I wonder whether it was
sheer generosity that thus stirred me, or whether Charlotte's
beauty had a power over my heart that I did not perceive. I am
unable to say now. I only remember that I had a tough conflict
with myself before I could come to the resolution to trouble my-
self no more about either the lady or the sinister second clerk.
Crookit's declaration on the part of Mr. Timothy, at the
meeting, then began to fill my mind. Mr. Timothy  would give
worlds that the harsh deed were undone, by which his sister,
my mother, had been cast out to perish, for marrying a mean
man. Would he not then be glad to make restitution to his
harshly-used sister, by acknowledging her child ? I would sooner
be so acknowledged, and be placed in my rightful position in
society, than be elevated to competence by a union, which was
formed without passionate attachment: for those words, perhaps,
most clearly express the idea I had of love. I would rather
120
THE FAMILY FEtTD.
leave Charlotte to bestow her affections according to her own
choice—which, I doubted not, would be also her father s, on
whomsoever it might be placed—and make my own choice of a
life-companion.
Did I want one ? I assured myself that I should not have
thought about it, had not circumstances unexpected, and over
which I seemed to have no control, forced the thought upon
me. And I was not acquainted with any one who realized my
beau-ideal as the fit object of a passionate attachment—one to
enthral the eyes, the intellect, and the heart. There was perfect
external beauty in Charlotte ; understanding and imagination in
the young musical enthusiast; and I knew of a nearer image
whose gentle and truthful affection would make the heart
happy. The three conjoined in one would form perfection ; but
1 had no passion for the first; the second only attracted my
intellect; and I was startled at the thought which raised up the
soft image of Mary Granger as an object for the attachment of
a lover, rather than an old playmate and a brother. My waking
thoughts faded into dreams, in which the idle comparison was
fitfully carried on. I awoke to enter on realities, which made
me, for a time, more than ever the sport of circumstance.
We did little business in the counting-house the next day,
considering it a privileged occasion for rejoicing over our patron's
accession to high honours; and, to my gratification, we left
business early. I was crossing the court-yard behind Mr.
Timothy's mansion, after leaving the desk, when I met honest
Jossy Jessop.
 You are just the person I wanted to see, Mr. Canute, said
he, with a great deal of meaning in his face ;  would you walk
into the coach-house with me ? I have something very pertikler
to say to ye.
I turned immediately ; and when we had entered the building,
Jossy closed the door, and looking very serious, began to address
me in a low voice, and with much agitation in his manner.
 Mr. Canute, he said, "I fear there's some trouble brewing
for you. I wouldn't make you uneasy; but you know I'm
partial to ye, and I can't help feeling troubled on your account.
Did you hit young Fiddler George very hard last night?
 I knocked him down, I think; or, otherwise I threw him,
for I think we closed, I replied, trying to be clear about the
confused combat.
"I saw him strike you, and I saw you turn round and strike
again, said Jossy;  but I saw no more of you, till I observed
you on the platform, and glad enough I felt that you had got
out of the fray without hurt. You could not have sparred with
ihis young varment of a fiddler long, I should think P
THE FAMILY FEUD.
121
 Certainly, not more than three minutes, I should say ; but
why do you ask me, Jossy P
 For a very serious reason, Mr. Canute. This young fellow
was trampled upon, and I helped to raise him. He was hurt,
and severely, I have no doubt; but he's known to be a bag o'
lies and mischief. Fiddling's all very well, Mr. Canute, and I
know you're fond of it; but when young fellows, like this here
George, gives over working for their honest bread, and goes
shooling about, scraping for an idle living, they get into wicked
ways, you understand ! 
 But how does his wickedness concern me, Jossy, except that
he struck me, and I paid him in his own coin P
 I don't want to alarm you, Mr. Canute; but he says you
overpaid him. He lies in the hospital: the surgeon finds that
two of his ribs are broken; and he says that you broke 'em.
And the worst of it is that the surgeon says his life is in danger;
and the Downham party are so mad with losing the election,
that they say you shall be tried for your life, if Fiddler George
dies!
Jossy stopped, and looked very sorrowful; and I was so
shocked, at the moment, that I also was silent.
 It's a serious matter, went on Jossy again;  and I feel
much concerned about you, Mr. Canute. I don't believe a word
of what the young fellow says ; for I'm sure you, that's unused
to striking, could not break his ribs: it's not possible. They
must have been broken by people trampling upon him, when he
was down. And as he attacked you first, you couldn't help his
going down : it was his own fault, and not yours.
"Indeed, I had no wish to hurt him, said I;  I only struck
in self-defence ; but I'm sure I did not give him any serious
injury; yet I shall be miserable if George dies. We used to
practise on the violin together when I was younger. He took
offence when I came to Mr. Upham's; but I never gave him
any.
 I see it, Mr. Canute, interrupted Jossy ; "he's been spite-
ful against you because you got above him, and no fault of yours
cither ; but wicked-hearted creatures always act in that way.
It's nat'ral to 'em, you understand. Well, said Jossy, after a
pause, during which he read my face very compassionately, for
I was really feeling miserable, not from fear, but on the young
fiddler's account; "don't give way to uneasiness about it, Mr.
Canute. The young fellow may get well again, and, perhaps,
very soon. There never was anybody got their death yet at
a town-meeting about the hospital, though ribs have been broken
before. Don't meet sorrow half-way, Mr. Canute: there will
be nothing to do about it if he gets better: there never is. A
122
THE FAMILY FEUD.
few wounds is a matter o' course at such times: everybody
knows that, and says so.
 But if be should not get better I shall be miserable for life,
Jossy. As for trying me for my life, I don't see how they could
do that: I don't feel afraid of it. I only wish I had not gone
to the town-meeting; and I should not have gone if it had not
been for Mr. O'Frisk.
 He's a right good fellow, is that Irish parson! cried Jossy,
forgetting the serious subject, and expanding into his old jovial
humour;  I would stick by him in any tussle for our party.
Why, he'd lick a mile-laneful of Downhams by himself! As
for not wishing you had been at the meeting, Mr. Canute, I
hope you'll not wish anything o' the sort. It was your duty to
be there. And you only did your duty in knocking this spiteful
varment of a fiddler down. I thought it my duty to tell you
about him, and what I hear he says, and what the Downhams
say ; but don't let your heart down upon it, Mr. Canute. Let
us hope for the best! I'm just going into the town again, and
shall learn how the young fellow is, and I'll tell you. Hope for
the best, Mr. Canute !
So saying, Jossy opened the door, took my band, and gave it
a kindly squeeze, and then walked away out of the court-yard,
at an earnest pace. I knew that Mr. Timothy was at the
hospital, receiving the actual trust from the last governor ; and
on entering the house, I learned from the old housekeeper that
Miss Charlotte had gone out with a party of friends. I mounted,
with a heavy step, to my old study, thinking of the many happy
hours I used to enjoy in it, and of the new misery I was carry-
ing into it. Wearied with walking to and fro, and reckoning
up my troubles, I turned, with the sudden thought that it
would relieve me, to open my violin case; but I stopped as
suddenly.
"Let it rest, I said to myself; "a false charge of causing
that wretched old woman's death caused my banishment from
Squire Fernshawe's : how do I know but this false charge may
have a similar or more grievous—nay, a fatal result? A dread,
superstitious gloom fell upon me ; and as I sank into a chair, I
thought it foreboded some great evil. I wrestled with the''
haunting superstition a long time, but in vain ; and, at length,
rose up for a walk, believing I could shake it off in the open air.
I knew I was not guilty, and yet the fear of being looked at by
some of the Downham party, if I passed through the street,
made me steal, like a guilty thing, through our court-yard, and
oy a solitary lane, into the fields. There I sat down by the
side of that favourite piece of water, which had so often been
my pleasant resort, feeling that I could not shake off my misery,
THE FAMILY FEITD.
123
and brooded over it till I was startled by tbe presence of young
Algernon Downham.
 Mr. Colton, be began, with a look even more agitated than
that with which Jossy Jessop had met me so recently; "we
must wave all ceremony. I thought I might meet you here-
about, and I have come to warn you that your liberty may be
in danger; and the danger, perhaps, not end there, if you do
not quit Quarrelton and conceal yourself. I have just learned,
from the visit of some of my father's friends to our house, that
it is intended to get a warrant, and place you in custody forth-
with, until the case of a young musician lying in the hospital is
determined. It is said you struck him fatally at the town-
meeting last night. I know not whether the report be true;
but, I entreat you, take care of yourself! Can I assist you
in any way ? What shall we do ?
I could not answer; and he took my hand, and seemed re-
solved to raise me out of my stupor.
 Mr. Colton, he said,  I am sure, from my cousin's account
of you, that you are utterly incapable of a malevolent act. If
you have really injured this young man, he must have provoked
you to strike him in self-defence. But my father's friends,
while counselling your arrest, confessed themselves incredulous
of the wounded man's story. My father did not consent to
your arrest; but the party will do it, and you have a right to
prevent them. Don't distress yourself, say what you think
shall be done; I will help you in any way, and at any risk.
The generosity of the speaker overcame me, as much as the
sense of danger renewed by his speech. I attempted to thank
him; but he impatiently urged me to consider what I would
do. My answer was a helpless one, for I was like one paralysed,
for some time. He drew me on to the group of trees where I
had parted with him and Mary Granger but two nights before;
and there we stood nearly concealed, now it was growing dusk.
 Have you no friend in the country to whose house you could
retire? "he asked; "the danger may soon be over: you need
not go far. Is there none on whom you could rely in the
neighbourhood ? 
"Hone, said I, gloomily; "I am friendless altogether, if it
were not for Mr. Upham.
"Do not say so, was the earnest rejoinder; "you have a
Downham also for a friend, strange as it might seem to learn
that, with all the mad partisans in Quarrelton. But it may not
seem so strange when the time comes that this madness is
ended.
 I wish it were come !  said I, despairingly.
 It will come !  affirmed my new friend, with an emphasis
124
THE FAMILY FEUD.
that left a strong impression on my memory;  but wo must
think of your escape—for escape you must. Think, Mr. Colton;
is there no quarter to which you can retire for concealment ? 
"None, I replied; and yet the idea of one refuge-place
crossed me; but the thought seemed wild, and I rejected it.
"Then I must decide for you that you immediately quit
Quarrelton; and you have only to choose in which direction
you will go—go you must. And if you have no acquaintance
at whose house you can stay, you can remove from place to
place, remaining only to lodge in retired places; I know not
what other advice to offer. Favour me by accepting this—nay,
my dear sir, only as a loan, then, urged this generous son of
one whom the Upham party charged with every meanness;  you
must not go back to Quarrelton. And pray take my cloak, since
you are without your own 
 It need not be so, sir,—hoping no offence !—though I don't
know who you are, sir; but I've brought Mr. Canute's cloak,
and something else that he may want.
These words were Jossy Jessop's; and before either young
Algernon or I could recover from our surprise, Jossy was going
on to explain—
 You must be off, Mr. Canute, as the gentleman says; and
I suppose he knows the reason why, though I haven't heard
him say as much. I thought you might be in the old walk,
which the housekeeper says you're so fond of. I was obliged
to tell her all about it, Mr. Canute, when I couldn't find you.
But she's a good old soul, and sharper than many young folks.
I told her you'd better get out o' the way, when I heard the
spiteful Downhams were a-going to have you taken up ; and she
said I was right. And then she guessed where I might find
you. 'But stop, Jossy,' says she, 'the dear boy will want his
cloak—his mind's disturbed with what you told him, and so he's
gone out without it; and I'll fetch the little portmantle that
he took with him when he went a-holidaying, and put a shirt or
two, and other things in it. And give him this, Jossy,' says
she,"—and he held out a little purse.
If the tears came into my eyes while Jossy held out this
proof of the kind old housekeeper's sympathy on the one hand,
and a stranger proffered me a weightier purse on the other,
I trust it will not be deemed a weakness. I subdued it,
however, and conceiving an instant belief that these unexpected
succours amidst danger foreshowed that there was a happier
destiny for me than that which I had lately foreboded, I desired
Jossy to return the purse to the good old housekeeper, and con-
sented to accept that of Algernon as a loan.
 Now, then, let me buckle the portmantle on, Mr. Canute,
THE FAMILY FEUD.
125
said Jossy,  and the sooner you're moving the better. I hope
you've made up your mind as to which way you're going ? 
 I shall go by Dreamfield, I answered,  the village lies this
way, you know; and I shall thus avoid the town.
 Very good, Mr. Canute. I would like to go a mile or so,
a-gait'ards, with you. But I must be back to Mr. Timothy's,
or it might cause some suspicion.
 You are right, Jossy. Good bye ! "—
"Just one word with you, Mr. Canute! You'll excuse me,
sir ? 
 Oh, certainly!  answered Algernon Downham.
 This gentleman is a stranger to me, said Jossy, in a whisper,
as we stood aside;  I don't want to be inquisitive, you under-
stand 
"I think, under the circumstances, you had better not know
who he is, Jossy.
 Oh ! why may be you're right. Of course, as I don't know
the gentleman, I can't say in whose company I saw you last.
 Just so. You shall know who he is some time, but you had
better not know at present.
 I hope you'll not be long away, Mr. Canute. I shall feel
very—very"—but Jossy's good, feeling heart could not sustain
the thought of parting. His tongue ceased, and he could only
wring my hand.
 You shall hear from me, Jossy, said I.  Good bye ! 
He tried to return the fond old parting word—to which we
all resort when the parting is really regretted—but could not;
and hastened away, wishing to hide his distress, as well as to
get back quickly to Mr. Timothy's.
Young Algernon Downham and I now struck over the fields
to get into the road through the village of Dreamfield.
 That good fellow seems much attached to you, said my
new friend,  I suppose he is an old servant of Mr. Upbam's.
 Not an old servant, I replied;  he was stage-coachman to
Tlippleford for many year3; but is now coachman to Mr.
Timothy—or rather to Miss Charlotte. But no old servant
could be more attached to Mr. Upham than is Jossy Jessop.
He is an out-and-out partisan of Mr. Timothy; so much so that
I thought it better not to tell him who you were.
 He does not know me, then. And I am glad you did not
tell him ; it is every way desirable that our little adventure
should be kept secret. It might, should it be known, cause my
father some unpleasantness; though I am sure he would not
censure me, if I were to tell him all about it.
 I can understand that easily. I have always thought there
must be less of the spirit of partisanship in Mr. Timothy and
126
THE EAMIIil FEUD.
your father, than in any who reckon themselves of the party of
either.
 I believe you are right, Mr. Colton, if we speak of my father
and Mr. Upham, in their cool reflective moments. But setting
aside the bad stimulus of their partisans, this stupid feud of
many generations so habitually influences them, that it will re-
quire some new and cogent influence to destroy the old one. I
think I know how the change will be brought about; but we
will not enter on that subject now. When you return to Quar-
relton, Mr. Colton, I shall be happy to cultivate your friendship;
and we may then find it convenient to discuss that matter.
Why do you stop ? 
 I fear I am doing wrong, said I, having suddenly come to
a halt;  I ought to have seen Mr. Timothy, and toid him of
what had occurred. He will take my stealthy flight for a proof
of guilt.
 On the contrary, I believe he will be glad that you have
taken this step, and so shunned the danger of arrest. It would
only have fed the flame of party if you had remained and suf-
fered yourself to be arrested. And I take it that Mr. Upham
does not wish to pass the term of his governorship amidst per-
petual broils. Be persuaded to go on; you will not have to
remain out of Quarrelton very long. I feel warranted in saying
that, since my father has examined this young musician in the
hospital, and declares that the case is not dangerous, if the
man be properly treated. The surgeon to the institution pre-
tends—and only pretends, my father says—to be of a different
judgment. You will write to Mr. Upham, of course; and if
he disapproves of your withdrawal from Quarrelton, you can
return.
"And I will return, if he does, said I, beginning to move on
again;  and if young George dies, I will return and offer
myself for trial, if they choose to try me.
 Do not decide hastily; there would be time for decision
should such an untoward event come to pass. But I do not
expect it: I am sure it will be for your own safety, and for the
true interests of all in Quarrelton, that you go away; and so
make yourself as easy as possible. And now, let us settle a
few necessary points before parting—for I must return when we
get a little beyond Dreamfield. I have a call to make in the
village as I return, and I must not be later than the hour ap-
pointed.
We stood now under a large old tree, and where two roads
branched off from that by which we had passed out of Dreamfield.
 Which road do you take P  asked my new friend.
 That to Oakford, I replied;  I purpose sleeping at the
THE FAMILY FEUD.
127
little inn there to-night, and getting off from thence, by coach,
in the morning: I believe it starts early.
 I will not ask what are your other intents. But now, is
there any commission, secret or open, that 1 can perform for
you in Quarrelton ? and will you write to me P 
 You are kind, Mr. Downiiam 
 Call me Algernon, and I will call you Canute.
He grasped my hand, and I felt, as I returned the hearty
pressure, that I had secured a true and valuable friend. "We
agreed to correspond, whether my exile were long or short; 1
desired him to entrust Mary Granger with the secret of my
flight, and to assure her of my brotherly affection, when he
again took my hand, pressed it very warmly, and said—
 Thank you, thank you, Canute, for remembering Mary.
If I had told her that you could go away from Quarrelton
without showing that she bad a place in your thoughts, it would
have grieved and distressed her.
 I could not forget her, I replied;  she is to me as a
sister ■
 What's that ?  said Algernon, with a start;  did you not
hear it P 
 Hear what? I heard nothing—nothing but the sound of my
own voice.
We both listened breathlessly.
 I could have sworn that I heard alow laugh, said Algernon;
 but it must have been imagination.
 Can it be possible that some one is behind the hedge ?  said
I, having caught the sensitiveness of my companion.
 No; 1 should think not, he replied ;  think no more of it.
I will detain you no longer from your journey ; you have four
hours' stout walk. Had you not better write me from Oak-
lord, certifying me of your safe arrival there, and informing me
where I shall address you ? 
 I will write to you to-morrow morning, before I leave Oai-
ford, I answered ; and we again shook bauds and parted.
128
the family feud,
BOOK Y.
IN WHICH THE AUTHOR CONDUCTS THE STORY IN THE THIRD PERSON, KEEPS'
THE HERO OUT OF THE WAY, SINCE HE CHOSE TO TAKE TO HIS HEELS, AND
BUSTLES ABOUT AMONG A VARIETY OF PEOPLE AT A MELO-DRAMATIC PACE,
CHAPTEE I.
The Secret Loves of Algernon and a great Lady.—Their Conversation about the
Hero, and about Family Dignity.
Algernon Downham, having bid farewell to our hero, returned
to make his call at Dreamfield. Was it at the house of some
stout partisan of his father ? He passed several houses in which
he might have found one, and received a welcome. The burly
Biggs had a smart villa there, and so had the trumpet-voiced
Jinkworth. And there were sweet voices of the young—he
heard some of them at their pianos—which would have given
him a welcome, accompanied with a fluttering of the heart, even
more enthusiastic than that of their elders. But he passed by
the villas, glad that the window-blinds were down; and that he
could see no more than the transient shadows of the tenants
within, while they could see nought of him.
Diverging a few yards from the village street, passengerless as
it was, now rustics were home from labour and merchants from
business, he pushed by a little swing-gate, and entered the still
churchyard. He stepped softly on a few paces ; and then stood
still and listened. There was no sound save that of the faint
breeze toying with a few scattered leaves which remained on the
elms. The listener walked on again, and again stopped; and,
though it was but a few seconds beyond the appointed hour,
began impatiently to fear that he had kept the appointment in
vain.
A few more seconds, and there was a light step. His heart
bounded, and he hastened on.
They met.
Let the reader fill up the ecstatic idea conveyed in those two
THE FAMILY FEUD.
129
little words ! Oh, blissful moments of pure young affection! old
Adam Hornbook can recal bis own experience of ye, and will
not profane or vulgarize the memory of ye, by more words.
******
 Let us go this way, Charlotte, said Algernon to the beauty,
whose graceful and imposing form was disguised by a cloak and
hood;  we have not trodden it before, but it is the most
secluded walk I have found. You will be surprised when I
tell you in whose interesting company I left it, half an hour
ago.
 Interesting company, sir ! Permit me to hear the name of
my rival before we go further, said Charlotte, affecting to
withdraw her arm from that of her lover. But he held it fast.
 What you are saying playfully, I might have said in earnest,
if you had been here, and in the company of young Colton, half
an hour ago, observed Algernon.
 Canute! Have you met him again so soon P And have
you heard of the reports there are in the town concerning
Charlotte asked the last question very anxiously; but her
anxiety was painfully increased as she listened to her lover's
account of the more alarming report which had come to his ears.
There was some relief for her in the after part of Algernon's
narrative ; yet her anxiety was not dispelled, but only altered in
kind, when she had heard the relation to an end, and came to
regard Canute as a run-away.
 This is really a very unpleasant occurrence, Algernon, she
said reflectively;  I am sure you have done what you have
done for the best. Indeed, your act is worthy of yourself, so far
as your heart has guided you ; but do you think your head has
performed its proper service P Colton is too great a favourite
with my father to be easily unseated in his esteem. But this
sudden and secret absconding—for such it is;—and then the
guilt which the mischievous and evil-speakers will say it con-
firms ;—what effect will all this have on my father's mind ?
But stop, she said, preventing her companion, who was about to
reply, "my father may be thrown into real distress: he may
conclude that some fatality has befallen Canute. How is that to
be prevented ? It must be prevented, Algernon "—and Charlotte
leaned more heavily on the arm of her lover.
 I had not thought of the possibility of that, answered the
young man, feeling confused;  and, I must say, I think you are
a little imaginative.
 I am not usually reckoned imaginative, sir! 
 Dear Charlotte, forgive me ! I hardly knew what I said. I
]aad not thought of the possibility,"—
ic
130
THE FAMILY FETJD.
 But it is possible; and it must be prevented. So let us
think about it. Is Jessop to be secret, as to the part be has,
taken?
 I suppose he intends to be so. But neither Canute nor
I requested him to be secret. Yet will he not fear to be
otherwise ?  _
"Never mind what he fears! I see how it must be. I
must hasten home, and draw Jossy's secret out of him myself.
 But how can you do that without betraying your knowledge
of the secret? 
 Leave me alone for that! Have I not always insisted that
we women are more practical in our schemes for getting over a
difficulty than men. Yet when you see it, or ought to see it, you
■—all of you—call us imaginative, and tbink you pay us a com-
pliment.' I will have Jossy's secret, and then enforce my
command that he unfolds all, and the part the old housekeeper
lias taken too—bless her fond, foolish old heart!—to my
father.
 Why, my dear Charlotte, you will bring them both into
trouble.
 Then I must get them out. But my father will excuse the
weakness of their heads for the goodness of their hearts.
 Am I to apply the compliment to myself?  asked the lover,
in a tone of real mortification.
 I must ask forgiveness, now, dear Algernon. But, remember*
that although I told you I would never be united to a fool; yet
when I acknowledged you had won my heart, I confessed it was
by the goodness of your own.
• The passionate lover was made too happy by the sweet
reminder to retain his feeling of mortification a moment longer.
A few sentences of tenderness were exchanged, and the conver-
sation went on.
 I must acknowledge, Algernon, said the fair one,  that
I think there is great force in your conclusion, that my father
will judge it better, after he has time to reflect, that Canute
is out of the way of arrest. But, at first, this secret absconding
■—I must call it so—will shock him.
 I am sure he will be glad of it, on reflection, rejoined the
soothed lover ; "Colton's arrest would have set the mad parties
all in a flame. The whole town would have raged with it; and it
would have added as much to your father's unhappiness as to our
misery, at home. Do you not pray for the happy day when our
union shall end this madness, dear Charlotte? 
 "R° .Y0U your impatience, and learn to wait, while you
pray for it ?  was the rejoinder.
 I must wait, it seems, answered the lover, fretfully but
THE FAMILY FEUD.
131
1 cannot say that I improve in patience. In spite of your
oft-repeated interdict, I am often on the point of confessing all to
my lather, and suing for his making an overture to Mr. Timothy.
I know he could not resist me.
 But you forget, sir, that you might defeat your own wish in
so doing"—
 You do not mean, Charlotte, that the warmth of my affec-
tion would render you faithless to your word ? 
 Faithless! do not talk such nonsense! When Charlotte
Upham yielded her heart to Algernon Downham, she was too
deeply convinced of the propriety of that act to retract from
fickleness. But take care you do not prolong the waiting that
you complain of! Do you suppose, even if this hateful family
feud were at an end, and our fathers had become fast friends,
instead of foes by the inherited prejudice of generations, that I
would be hurried into a union brought about by weakness ? Do
not feel wounded, dear Algernon, entreated the woman whose
attachment was as deep as that of her lover, and who quickly
saw that he was again hurt,  but I desire to see you brave in
the endurance of difficulty.
 But why endure it, if by any sensible and honourable means
we can sweep it away ? 
 My dear Algernou, you would cease to think the means so
sensible and honourable after you had employed them, even
if they were quickly successful. Think of what I have often
said—nay, of your own reasonings, when these fits of impatience
are not on you. Suppose the family feud were ostensibly ended
to-morrow, would you choose to hear it repeated that the puling
love of a boy and girl had ended it? Why, the ballad-singers
would chronicle us in the streets ! Have you not often confessed
to me that you see it to be right and proper that the pride
of families should be preserved—even their pride of feuds—and
that these should not be broken down without dignity ? 
 Dear Charlotte, do not be vexed because I laugh! But
really I—I begin to think "—
 Algernon, do not begin to think it excusable to laugh at
what your understanding approves. The pride of a family—
I mean that pride which secures it respect and attachment—is
not reared in a day, and should not be rashly destroyed. Let
this quarrel disappear on rational, dignified, and commanding
grounds!
 But, my dear Charlotte, how is that to be brought about ? 
 It will be brought about, Algernon. You have often
professed with me that such-is your faith. Hold it fast! 
 I will endeavour so to do. Love shall help me, dearest.
 There is your oath ! How be no more a recreant! I see we
132
THE FAMILY FEUD.
are close on Quarrelton ; and I must hasten home, or my father
will be there before me. I wanted to ask after your sweet
cousin, and to know when we are to meet—but I must away —
 To-morrow night, dear Charlotte ? 
 Not three nights together, Algernon. We must be
cautious.
 The next night, then ? 
There was a soft consent.
CHAPTEE II.
Miss Charlotte extracts the Secret from Jossy and the old Housekeeper.—Her
Conversation with her Father.
 We must keep it to ourselves, said the old housekeeper, as she
sat by the kitchen fireside with Jossy Jessop;  they shall have
my last tooth—and I have not many left in my poor old head—
before they learn a word of it from me.
Mrs. Phoebe tried to look as firm as a rock while she spoke
thus; but she fidgetted a good deal in her arm-chair, and did
not communicate the spirit of firmness to her companion.
"I feel ashamed to say so, Mrs. Phoebe, confessed Jossy,
after sundry twists to find an easy spot in his chair in the oppo-
site corner;  but I know I shall be hard set to get through
with it, if Mr. Timothy questions me hard through them there
spectacles,—but more especially if he pulls 'em off. I can't
stand him then, I feel blessed sure.
 Tut! what nonsense, Jessop ; why, I always took you for a
man who could keep your own counsel! 
 It was your counsel more than mine ; though I don't want
to lay the blame on your shoulders, Mrs. Phcebe. I did it
myself, I know. And, besides, he would have gone, had I not
persuaded him ; for he was taking the gentleman's advice when
I found him. I wonder who the gentleman was ? 
 Most likely one of the most sensible of our party. And a
very sensible thing it was of him. You need not feel ashamed
of what you did, Jessop. You ought to feel glad that the dear
boy has got out of the way of the spiteful wretches. All you
have to do is to keep your own counsel. That's Mr. Timothy,
—nay, it's Miss Charlotte! said the old woman, starting, as
she heard the sounds of the knacker and bell at the street
door.
Presently the housekeeper's bell was rung, and Mrs. Phcebe
hastened to her young mistress.
THE FAMILY FETID.
133
 Is Mr. Canute in his room ?  asked Charlotte ;  there are
strange reports in the town : but most likely you have heard of
them ? 
 Reports ? Oh dear, yes !  answered the aged Phoebe, trem-
bling from head to toot,—"yes, strange reports! I'll go and
see if Mr. Canute be upstairs.
 But you know whether he be there, Phcebe ? 
Charlotte's eyes eonfounded the old woman.
"Well, then, he isn't there, she answered.
 Do you know where he is ? 
 No, Miss Charlotte, indeed I don't!  protested the quaking
Phcebe ;  on my Christian word, I don't ! I can say that
truly.
 Is Jessop in the house ? Perhaps he has seen Mr. Canute.
 Yes, Miss Charlotte. He's in the kitchen. Shall I send
him to you ? 
 Do so, Phcebe ; send him immediately.
And the old housekeeper gladly escaped, and sent in Jossy
Jessop.
Jossy entered the parlour with his large face strangely flus-
tered ; for Phcebe had not closed the room-door while she stood
to be questioned by her young mistress, and he had heard every
word of both.
 Have you seen Mr. Canute this evening ?  began Charlotte ;
and Jossy quailed before her eyes more timidly than old Phoebe.
 Why—yes—Miss Charlotte ; I did see him with a gen'le-
man, answered Jossy, unable to conceal the truth, and yet
thinking he could escape making a clear confession;  but I
didn't know who the gen'leman was.
 I did not ask about the gentleman. It does not matter who
he is. I want to know where you saw Mr. Canute ? 
"Why—then—Miss Charlotte—it was in the—the Daisy
Meads—I think they call 'em : but Mrs. Phoebe knows the name
of 'em.
 The Daisy Meads ! why, how happened you to see him
there, Jessop p What were you doing there ? 
 Lor', Miss Charlotte!  exclaimed Jossy,  I don't know
what to do about it. I shouldn't have gone, hadn't it been for
Mrs. Phcebe; and yet it's only cowardly of me to blame her,—
it was my own fault, after all.
 Sit you down, Jossy. I must know the meaning of this,
said Charlotte, who had difficulty in refraining from laughter;
 there is something very strange in your answers ; and with
these alarming reports in the town, I must know why you and
Phoebe reply to me in such a mysterious way.
Phcebe was again summoned; and the whole truth was soon
134
THE FAMILY FEUD.
extracted from bolli Jossy and lierself, amidst protestations of
their good intentions.
 I was afraid the dear boy should come to harm, said Phcebe,
weeping.
 I'm partial to Mr. Canute, and I can't help it, said Jossy;
 and I thought it would be better to prevent the spiteful Down-
hams from putting him into the gaol.
 Come, distress yourselves no more, said their young mis-
tress;  depend upon it, you have done the very wisest thing
you could do, in telling me the whole truth. I can now com-
municate it to my father, and also prepare him to hear it. I
will secure you from harm ; and so comfort yourselves.
Jossy and Phcebe, with lightened hearts, began to pour out
their thanks.
 Stop! there is one thing to be taken care of, said Char-
lotte ;  you need not incur blame that does not belong to you,
should my father think you blameable. Mr. Canute would have
gone away, it seems, if you, Jossy, had not found him in the
Daisy Mead. Say nothing, therefore, of where you found him,
or of a gentleman you don't know, for that may seem suspicious.
It need only be said that Mr. Canute resolved to go, and that
Phoebe packed up his portmanteau, and you, Jossy, carried it a
part of the way for him towards Dreamfield. The simpler the
account, the better. There is my father at the door! Away
with you to the kitchen ! and take care that you don't talk
about this to others. I will answer for you to my father.
 What a conjuror's task Algernon thought it was to make
these honest creatures tell their secret!  said Charlotte to her-
self;  the real difficulty is now to be encountered.
 Where is Mr. Canute, my dear ? asked Mr. Timothy,
looking excitedly round the parlour as he entered it;  is he in
his own room, think you P 
 He is not, dear father, answered the daughter, putting her
arm round Mr. Timothy; "sit down, and I will tell you
something ; but you must prepare to hear it calmly and consi-
derately.
Mr. Timothy expressed great uneasiness from a report he had
heard before leaving the hospital. There were groups of people,
too, in the streets, he said, as he came along; and they were
hushed, and looked at him strangely as he passed, although they
were talking loudly and confusedly before he reached them.
Charlotte gradually and skilfully unfolded the fact of our
hero's retreat from Quarrelton, and attributed the share Jossy
and the housekeeper had taken in assisting him to their praise-
worthy attachment and simplicity. Mr. Timothy's nature was
too magnanimous to permit him to indulge displeasure towards
THE FAMILY FEUD.
135
either of them. But he called them into the room, and charged
them to communicate what they knew to none beyond his own
household.
 Thank ye, Mr. Timothy, said Phoebe, with a double curtsy;
 they shall have my last tooth—and I have not many left in my
poor old head—before they learn a word of it from me.
"I meant it for the best, Mr. Timothy, said Jossy, "and
you 're a gen'leman, as you always was, for looking over
it. I'll keep it close, depend upon it, Mr. Timothy. I'll
see the Downhams' coffins walk afore they shall have it out
o' me !  and Jossy withdrew with his shrewdest coachman's
look.
Neither Jossy nor the old housekeeper, it may be observed,
vowed greater secrecy than they were able to practise. Their
faithful hearts would not allow their heads to keep secrets from
their master; but neither torture nor temptation would easily
have driven them to tell the secrets of his family to the
world.
Mr. Timothy became very thoughtful when again left with
his daughter. He took several turns silently through the room,
with his hands behind his back ; and Charlotte's quick observa-
tion had made her too well acquainted with her father to dis-
pose her officiously to break in upon his reflections.
"You see, my dear, he said, stopping and looking at her
very seriously,  there is such a colour of cowardice in this dis-
appearance of Mr. Canute, that I cannot help regarding it with
great distaste. Why should a man who knows that he can pre-
sent a fair folio of his moral ledger to the world refuse to
appear in open court? I have every reason to believe, from
Dr. Drenchem's confidential communication to me at the hos-
pital an hour ago, that there is more of pretence than reality in
this charge against Mr. Canute. He has not injured the young
musician to the extent that some mischievous people say he has.
And since he must know that—or, at least, that it was not his
intention to injure the young man seriously,—why should he
sneak out of the way ? It is moral cowardice. I can give it no
better name. I am shocked at it; and I could not have sus-
pected Mr. Canute to be capable of it.
 But, my dear father, pleaded Charlotte,  though I would
not set up my poor judgment against yours, I cannot help think-
ing that Mr. Canute's intelligence has foreseen what thejudg-
ment of the world would be respecting him. You know he
possesses no inferior understanding; is it not possible that he
may have resolved to brave the charge of want of spirit, with an
intent that may be creditable to him?
Mr. Timothy looked over his spectacles very thoughtfully a
136
THE FAMILY FEUD.
moment of two, and then desired his daughter to expfess herself
more dearly. .
 He may have considered that his arrest would only inflame
the minds of parties, and cause yourself greater disturbance of
mind; while, on the other hand, this excitement may subside in
a few days, the charge against him be withdrawn, and he may
find, on his return, that he has really contributed to your peace,
and the peace of the town, by getting out of the way.
Mr. Timothy's face glowed with a feeling of kindly satis-
faction.
 I trust, my dear, he said,  you have rightly interpreted
this act of Mr. Canute. If this be his intent it is indeed highly
creditable to him; and if it be not, you do honour to yourself,
my love, in thus interpreting his conduct.
Mr. Timothy took another silent turn or two, to subdue a little
emotion; but he stopped again.
 I think you are right, love, he said ;  such must have been
Mr. Canute's feeling and intent; it accounts at once for his not
consulting myself. I felt really angry at him at first, and almost
judged him guilty of contempt; but I wronged him—I have no
doubt that I did. He deemed it better, with his praiseworthy
and considerate views, to make no appeal to me; for I think he
knows me well enough to conclude that no personal considera-
tion for myself would have led me to desire his absence. Yet I
have need enough of relief from these quarrels—indeed, I have!
and Mr. Timothy sighed.
 Is there no sensible and dignified way of ending them,
father? asked Charlotte ;  I am sure you must be weary of
them.
Mr. Timothy looked admiringly at his fair daughter—admir-
ingly at what he deemed her proper and sagacious pride, which
yet did not crush gentler feelings ; but how he would have
started had he discovered the more deep-seated impulse that
prompted her question!
 If every quarrel in which I have been condemned to share
could be ended with dignity, I should be the happiest man in
Quarrelton.
The solemn emphasis with which her father uttered that sen-
tence filled Charlotte with so much surprise and delight that she
could not hasten to express her gratification; and, the next
moment, she dared not—for he to whom a family feud had
descended as an heir-loom turned away with an altered coun-
tenance, and seemed impatient with himself for what he had
said.
Charlotte was too shrewd to recall that sentence to her father's
mind that night; but treasured it up for what she would have
THE FAMILY FEUD.
137
deemed philanthropic strategy in the future. Over the supper-
table, Mr. Timothy expressed his confidence that Mr. Canute
would, unless circumstances rendered it impossible, write by the
first post.
 I have no doubt of it, father, remarked Charlotte ;  for I
am sure he will be uneasy till he has given you his reasons for
absenting himself, and obtained your approval of them.
 No doubt, my dear; but whether I approve or disapprove
his reasons, I shall be very uneasy till I have furnished him with
pocket arguments ; a man should never absent himself from home
without them.
CHAPTER III.
Speculations in the Counting-house regarding our Hero's Disappearance.—'Mr.
Crookit is hurt, but takes a generous Labour upon himself.
How Cain's colleagues of the desk bore themselves in conversing
on his retreat from Quarrelton may be easily imagined. Mr.Elder
was all deep concern ; he affirmed that Mr. Canute was inca-
pable of seriously and maliciously injuring any one ; and there-
fore he did not see why Mr. Canute should have gone away.
Perhaps Mr. Timothy had full knowledge of it, and would explain
the affair to them when he came into the office. But the mer-
chant never entered the counting-house on the day succeeding
Cain's flight, and so the chief clerk remained in his perplexity.
The two large-wliiskered clerks, from throwing out hints in
the morning, audaciously declared their full conviction in the
afternoon, that Col ton was deficient in  pluck and Simpson
went so far as to say, that it was not the first time he had
thought so. At which young Osberton fired up, and said
Simpson ought to be ashamed of saying so; that there wasn't a
pluckier fellow in the town of Quarrelton than Colton ; and he,
Osberne Osberton, defied Simpson to prove the contrary ; fur-
thermore, that it was mean, low, and ungentlemanly in Simpson
to insinuate such a base charge against Colton in his absence.
 Gentlemen, gentlemen, cried Mr. Elder,  I must entreat
—nay I must, as the chief clerk in this office, insist—that this
dispute do cease. Let us wait quietly, and I hope I may say con-
sistently, till we have some further information. There may
be weighty reasons—reasons which are not apparent as yet, but
which may be very evident after a time—for Mr. Canute's sudden
disappearance.
138
THE FAMILY FEtTD.
 Hah ! yes, there may ! echoed Crookit; and they were the
first words he had uttered relative to the matter in dispute.
The moment alter, Mr. Timothy's footman brought a note to
Mr. Elder. It was very brief, yet the chief clerk read it over
several times before he communicated its contents to his
colleagues.
 Gentlemen, said he,  Mr. Timothy directs me—he says
not a word more, so we are in the dark as to what distinct
knowledge he has of this matter—but he directs me to place
Mr. Canute's share of duty in proper hands.
 That would seem to signify that Colton will not soon return,
in Mr. Timothy's calculation, observed Crookit, quickly.
 You're right! responded Simpson;  and the management
of two sets of books would be no joke, even for a week; you've
proved that.
 Well, gentlemen, observed Mr. Elder, gravely,  somebody
must take Mr. Canute's books ; it is Mr. Timothy's order.
 Osberne, of course, will take 'em; he so loves Colton, said
Simpson, with a sneer.
 I'm not able to take 'em all, answered Osberne.  but I'll
take part of 'em; and that's more than you'll be willing to do,
sir!
 Gentlemen, once more I insist that you keep order, cried
the chief clerk, with unusual sternness. "We cannot trifle
where business is concerned, remember. I am obliged to you,
Mr. Osberne, but we must not divide any set of books; and
Mr. Canute's department is a very important one, and would be
above your strength, and so I can only thank you. Mr. Simpson,
I must, if you please, commit the books to your care—at least
for the present.
Simpson remonstrated; showed how greatly the labour of his
department had increased of late; how he was a good deal in
arrear with his posting; and, finally, put Mr. Elder to dis-
comfiture.
 Then, Mr. Williams, you must positively take them, said
Mr. Elder,  for I cannot, in conscience, impose them again on
Mr. Crookit; he had this double labour for the whole month
that Mr. Canute was on holiday, and now his own department
is more heavy than it was, and will be increasingly heavy till the
wood sales are over. You must take them, Mr. Williams.
But this wearer of warlike whiskers was as stout and skilful
of defence as the other. The chief clerk kept up the attack long,
but he was again signally worsted.
 Mr. Crookit, I am ashamed—I really am ashamed—to make
the proposition to you—but what can. I doP asked the chief
clerk, helplessly.
THE FAMILY FEUD.
139
The sinister-looking second clerk looked really vexed and
hurt. Mr. Elder Baw he was hurt, Osberne saw he was hurt,
and so did the two other clerks—they all were sure he was hurt.
And young Osberne at last said  it was too bad.
 It is too bad! repeated Crookit; and he looked so deeply
hurt, that Mr. Elder was hurt, and said—
 I know it's too bad, Mr. Crookit; but what can I do ? 
 Why, Mr. Elder—I can only say,"—and Mr. Crookit seemed
to have to drag himself to say it with as much effort as if it were
consenting to the loss of half his salary,— that—in short,—
there is—nothing for it—but that—I must take 'em as before.
 Thank you, Mr. Crookit! I am more deeply obliged to you
than I can express ; and I think it right and proper to say in the
hearing of others, that I shall make a proper representation of
your great kindness to Mr. Timothy.
That closing speech of Mr. Elder, Crookit did not hear,—his
thoughts were flown; but the whiskered clerks heard and marked
it, and one handed a bit of paper to the other on which was
scribbled— That means that Crookit is to have some extra tin
for the job; I wish we had taken it,—we could have found a
way to share both the work and the tin. And the other having
read the scribble, looked at the scribbler and made a Erench
shrug and a lengthened face, which were hieroglyphics for
 We're too late ! 
The closing hour came, and the two whiskered clerks locked
up their books, and took their hats and departed; and Osberton
followed; Mr. Elder also locked up his books, but delayed a
little, seeing Crookit so busy with his pen. At length Mr. Elder
hinted that it was fifteen minutes after closing time.
 You really must leave me to perform your office to-night,
my dear sir, said Crookit; I have been looking over Colton's
books, and I find he is greatly in arrear with his posting: I must
work three extra hours at least, this evening, and get through
the thick of it.
 Eeally, sir, I am ashamed that you should have to say
so 
 Never mind it, my dear sir! The business must not be
neglected, though young men take freaks into their heads. What
I undertake to do I will do, Mr. Elder; and I think you will
bear me out in saying that such is my character as a man of
business.
 I will, most cheerfully, because I can do so truly, answered
the honest chief clerk.
 Good evening to you, sir, for the present! I will call and
leave the keys at your lodging on my way to my own quarters,
140
the family feud.
said Crookit, and his pen was again rapidly coursing over the
iolio as Mr. Elder was making for the door.
But the pen ceased when the office-door closed. Crookit
turned to a more thorough inspection of Cain Colton's accounts.
An hour was passed in an unflinching tracing of entries in
journals, cash-book, and ledger, but not the flaw of a fraction
was found in the figures. Another hour, and the generous
inquiry presented the same result; and a third hour was equally
fruitless of the detection of even a fractionary error. Crookit
closed the books, took his hat, put out the light, locked the
office-door, and walked away to leave the key at Mr. Elder's.
How came it that so generous a man felt savagely dissatisfied at
the proofs he had met of Cain Colton's correctness—and still
more at his own folly in spending three hours so fruitlessly,
when, he bethought him, that five minutes skilfully employed,
would have answered his own generous ends much better P
CHAPTER IV.
Crookit encounters an o.d Comrade, and is opportunely enabled to form a Scheme
for accomplishing the End on which his Heart is set.
If the Evil One doth not  go about as a roaring lion seeking
whom he may devour, depend upon it, reader, some Power
very much in the spirit of that foul personage performs the
part of the infernal beast! But let none fear that they shall
become a prey to his teeth, unless they be waiting to be
snapped up; and then, let him not blame the Evil One. Re-
member,  Every man is tempted when he is drawn away of
his own lust, and enticed.
Crookit had just left the keys at the chief clerk's lodging and
was hastening, moodily, towards his own, when he encountered
an old acquaintance, and one with whom the reader is also
slightly acquainted. That may be true—I crave the reader's
pardon !—of the fearful personage above named; but I had no
such impolite meaning.
 Dick! you are the very man I have been trying to find;
why, have you forgot me ? said a small, foreign-looking,
moustached man.
 Eernshawe!  exclaimed Crookit, with a stare of wonder
and some hesitation begot by fear;  why, is it you P I thought
you were dead.
 You thought!—you always were a liar, Dick ; you mean you
THE FAMILY FEUD.
141
hoped I was. But, come along! I suppose you are for your
lodging in the next street ? 
 In the next street! 
 Now, why are you shamming after the old style?—but how
can you help it now, it has become so natural by practice? Come
along! I'll show you the house.
They had met before a tradesman's shop, from whence an un-
usually glaring light was thrown upon the causeway.
 We need not stand here, at any rate, said Crookit, timidly;
 I'd rather we went into the fields.
 Bah! none of your gipsy tricks! We'll go under cover.
You've nothing to fear from me, man—I give you my word of
that, and I know you'll take it, though I wouldn't take yours.
Come along ! I tell you you've nothing to fear from me, and I'll
soon convince you of it.
Our skilful accountant consented to be led to his own lodging.
His acquaintance seemed a transformed man in deportment,
when they reached the door, and impressed a conviction on the
mind of Crookit's landlady that though the gentleman was ex-
cessively foreign, he was  a very genteel man for all that. The
very foreign-looking gentleman gave her money for wine, and a
little for herself, and her impression that the gentleman was a
gentleman became profound.
Crookit and his acquaintance were soon pledging glasses, and
their talk was earnest, though itwas far from loud. Crookit knew
that the wainscot next the stairs was very slight.
 Lower!  he said to his companion,  I am not deaf; and I
don't believe that woman is so hard of hearing as she sometimes
pretends to be.
 I'll observe. And so you really did not hear that my foolish
old uncle had slipped his wind, and that I had become a country
squire and your neighbour?  said Fernshawe.
 Not a word of it, answered Crookit;  but I congratulate
you on the squireship. I wish I were as well off.
 Not so fast, Dick; I am not in clover yet, I assure you ; but
you must be doing well, from what I hear.
 From what you hear! why, what can you have heard about
me P I thought you said you had not been many days in Eng-
land, and only came down the other day to take possession of
your hall and estate P 
 True enough; but I passed through Quarrelton on my way to
the hall : I was in it again two days after, and now I am here a
third time. You never caught me asleep—did you? 
 Except like a weasel—with your eyes open.
 A habit that proved serviceable to me, you know, on one
particular occasion.
142
THE FAMILY FEUD.
 Fernshawe, I protest, said Crookit, with so much excite-
ment that he forgot to preserve the low tone in which they had
been conversing, "you wrong me there! and so I always told
you.
 But I never believed you, rejoined the other, in the same
scornful manner he had hitherto used;  I should have been
swept out as clean as you swept out Percival that night, if I had
not been of a wakeful habit. Of course, you don't want to know
—but do you happen to know where he is P 
"Not the slightest guess, answered Crookit, affecting an in-
difference he was far from feeling.
 Then I can tell you—but you don't care to know.
 Where?  asked Crookit, with great agitation.
 I knew I could wake you up!  said Fernshawe, whose dark,
fiendish eyes seemed to revel with delight at the writhing of his
guilty comrade's face ;  but, I say ! keep to the flat keys; we
are not in the fields, you know.
 You don't mean to say that Percival is in England, said
Crookit, very earnestly, but observing the other's caution to speak
lower.
 I do; and I am off to see him so soon as I shall have de-
spatched a little business with your governor to-morrow—Upham
the merchant.
 What d'ye mean P  exclaimed Crookit, his face growing ash-
colour with alarm.
Fernshawe uttered an execration, and then poured heavier
contempt on his old acquaintance.
 You always were a paltry coward, he said, "with all your
craft; why, what ails you now? have you been at your old tricks
with Upham ? 
Crookit took an oath that he had not.
 Oh, I see, went on the other, penetrating the meaning of
Crookit's fear-stricken face;  did not I tell you you had nothing
to fear from me P would I take the dirty, troublesome office of an
informer, d'ye suppose ? What is it to me whether you deal
fairly or foully by others, so long as I take care you don't pick
my pocket ? Now, let me lift you fairly off the gridiron : I shall
neither give Percival the least hint that I know where you are.
nor shall I, when I see Upham to-morrow, claim the honour of
being acquainted with his clerk,—there's my hand on it.
Crookit grasped the offered hand eagerly, and breathed with
greater freedom.
 Come, let us attend to the bottle, said Fernshawe, in a tone
that approached cordiality;  I did not seek you out, Dick, with
the intent to torture you; you provoked it by that hang-dog
face. But away with it! and let us enjoy ourselves. I am stay-
THE FAMILY FEUD.
143
ing in this dirty little town to-night, on purpose to see you, old
fellow! 
Crookit gulped tlie wine, increasingly relieved by the change
in his companion's behaviour ; but felt eager to be informed as
to the deeper purposes he suspected to lie in the heart of Pern-
shawe.
"And in what direction do you journey to-morrow P  he
asked, trying to put a question calmly, and reserving others.
 For the skirts of Warwickshire, Dick. Our old comrade
has a house there, called ' the Hermitage,' not far from Strat-
ford-on-Avon. And from what I learn, he's now so well off,
and so much changed in temper— except when that old hallu-
cination comes on him—you know what I mean ? 
Crookit nodded : he would not delay the reply, by one word.
 That I don't think he would hurt a hair of your head,
even if you were to put yourself in his power.
 I shall not throw the temptation in his way, observed
Crookit, quietly.
"Just so. I wasn't advising you so to do, Dick. I was
only telling you what I had learned ; and I thought it might
interest you.
"Thank you, Fernshawe! Did you learn whether he has
married again ? or is he living alone, at the place you men-
tioned P 
 How, why don't you put the question you wish to be
answered ? "—andFernsliawe's eyes rekindled with some of the
fiendish fire that seemed most native to them :— Out with it I
I'll not answer by anticipation.
 Well, then: is Una with him, do you know P 
 He tells me, in his letter, that she is ; and that she is more
' high fantastical' and bent on perpetual spinsterhood than
ever. So, old fellow, you would still have had no chance in
that quarter, even if you had not made the slip ; but I'll not
touch the sore again, Dick. I suppose you are an altered man
now. My man, Brown—he's at the inn, for he drives me in
the gig to-morrow—says that the tradesfolk here give you a
most unquestionable character. They say, too, that you are in
high favour with Mr. Timothy—as they call this Upham. I
hope to hear of your becoming comfortable yet, Dick.
Crookit's sinister eye scanned the face while he listened to
the tongue ; but, for once, his craft failed. He concluded
Fernshawe was sincere.
 I am an altered man, he replied—and stopped, for he
thought there was a gleam of the old fiendish derision in Fern-
shawe's look; but, no !—it was really sincere!
 And, Fernshawe, he went on,  I mean to give proof of it,
144
THE FAMILY FE0D.
if I live and prosper. Percival shall lose nothing by me, in the
end. You have promised to be secret as to your knowledge of
where I am—and I thank you for it. But in the lapse of three
or four more years, I hope to make use of your kind help to bring
us together, that I may discharge myself of my—my—
 Cease your lies and cant, you pitiful hypocrite! said
Pernshawe, cutting short Crookit's stumbling profession, with
indescribable gall;  I would think you a better man, if you
swore to remain a rogue, than I do now I hear you profess pious
honesty. Oh, Dick, Dick ! 
"Nay, Pernshawe: this is too bad! and Crookit's ash-
colour-and-hang-dog face again forced a drop of commiseration
to mingle with the gall of Pernshawe's nature.
 Never mind it, Dick!  said he;  come, come, push the
bottle. Well, Crookit, if you have no more questions to ask
me, let me now ask one of you!—and I shall want a little
roguish advice with it—you can give that, old fellow! 
Though mortified to his heart's core, Crookit simulated a grin
of pleasure, and desired his old acquaintance to go on.
 I must introduce the question, Dick, by a fragment of an
adventure. I ordered Brown to meet me with my old uncle's
coach, at Byeham, when I first came down here, the other day.
Of course, I was on the stage-coach from hence to Byeham. I
wanted the box ; but a pale-faced, feminine-featured lad got it,
and kept it, with most persevering impudence. I learned, from
his prattle with the garrulous driver, that he belonged to the
establishment of this Mr. Upham. ' Mister Canute,' the coach-
man called the lad. Can it possibly be true, Crookit—but it
can't!—that Upham intends to give his immense wealth and
his handsome daughter—for I'm told she's a devilish fine-
looking woman — to this white-faced lad, who is said to be
some mere beggar's brat?—Why, in the fiend's name, do
you gape and stare in that way, Crookit. What ails you,
now? 
Ah, young Squire Fernshawe, you don't reck of the devour-
ing lion that stands beside Crookit, and of the strange thoughts
which are gathering within your wicked acquaintance, and
rendering him willing to become a prey !
 Why don't you speak, Crookit ? 
 You said you wanted my advice. On what? 
 You know on what. Your rogue's head can't be at a loss
there. Of course, I aim to make this handsome girl ' my lady'
at the hall. Upham would bite at that bait of an alliance, I
should think; and his chandlery savings would be a desirable
thing to me. You won't speak! Well, I mean to introduce
myself to-morrow morning, for I've three hundred pounds to
THE FAMILY feud
i45
pay the merchant for seed and other gear. My lawyer has put
it off a long time, and says it must now be paid, since he told
Uphan I would pay as soon as I came home. Yet I would not
have paid the old dirt-rake yet, if I thought I could not play
this game and win—for I can ill spare the money.
.Now the temptation for which you were waiting is complete,
v rookit! you are fully  enticed  by your own desires; and
you put your head into the infernal lion's mouth! He will
.nave you safe now!
Fernshawe was piqued—for the most callous-hearted and
ost scornful natures have their weak place, and can be made
o wince with the scorn of others, if you touch the weak place,
or even if they deem you are touching it—the young forbidding-
-uoking devotee of vice was piqued because, he thought, Crookit
was expressing astonishment at his intent, and incredulity of his
success with a beautiful woman. He knew that women had
•shrunk from him often; but the mortification he had thus
experienced only disposed his vanity to do battle the more
strongly when any one seemed to throw a doubt on his chance
ji future success with the sex. In his pique, his tongue ran
loose, as Crookit knew it would, and waited to gather more
nght for those vile purposes already forming in the caverns of
vnat dark soul. Crookit now set himself for mastery over one
who had often beaten him at the gaming-table : resolute to win
where craft and villany had no outward aids — nothing that
couid be handled dexterously to baffle success.
 Fernshawe, you call me a rogue, he began,  but I never
called you a fool. Now, just toss over your false lading, and
let me see if I cannot help you to better merchandise. Have
you seen this handsome woman, as you call her ? 
*•' Never. I only told you my informant said she was
handsome.
'• And you know nothing of Upham's real wealth ? 
'• Nothing. But he must be rich—
 I imagine I must have some likely guess about that, having
had all his accounts under my eyes daily for some years.
 But isn't he rich ? 
;e No more than you are—and your old uncle's charities set
-gainst your post-obits cannot have brought you into clover yet,
as you phrased it.
•'Never mind that, Crookit, said Fernshawe, impatiently;
 then Upham is not rich ? 
•• Nor his daughter handsome. Some Upham partisan has
been stuffing you, Fernshawe. But, don't take my word ! Go,
and pay him the three hundred pounds—he'll be glad to have
it i and test the truth of what I say for yourself. I don't
&
146
THE FAMILY FEHH.
think you'll have any difficulty in seeing the girl—for Upham
shows her off to everybody. In short, he wants to get a good
match for her. As for the other report you mentioned, it *s
mere fudge; and has been set afloat by the impudent young
puppy himself, I have no doubt—the white-faced lad, I mean.
By the way, I may just tell you, that so far from t>o\ng
chosen for a son-in-law by Upham, the young scoundrel lias
just been sent away in disgrace. So the coast's clear—iivt#i
like to throw away your three hundred pounds upon i% and
have a stare at the girl.
 Not I, said Fernshawe, who was deceived in turn, though
he also had been paying keen attention to his fellow-villain's
face ;  I'm overmuch in need of money, just now. I'll ne;tner
call, nor pay Upham the money at present. He may wait.'
Crookit bent over the small table that was between them, and
whispered—
There was a knock at the room-door, and the next moment it
was opened by Crookit's landlady. Did the gentlemen know it
was getting late ? They assured her they would be through
their business very soon. The woman withdrew—to the outside
of the wainscot; but to her vexation, she could only catch mere
snatches of the remaining part of the dialogue, since Croov.t
spoke chiefly in whispers.
"No, I won't, said Fernshawe, "nor shall my lawyer.
 Why, yes, Dick, he said, in answer to another whisner,
 I would rather get out of paying the money at all.
 There's my hand on it that I'll not betray you, Dick, either
by word or deed, he said, again; "but, remember!—you do it
all yourself. I'll not be committed, in any way.
 Bather an unfair bargain, though, Fernshawe, said Crookiv;
 but you'll keep your pledge ? 
 You don't doubt me, I know. Only take care that I am
not committed, and then you know you are safe, so far as I am
concerned. I tell you, I don't care who the devil you skin, so
that you don't skin me. Are you satisfied P 
 1 am, said Crookit.
 Oh, you double-dipped rogue and hypocrite!  cried Fprn-
shawe;  you're an 4 altered man!' 
The mocking, up-turned eyes, and then the fiendish laugh, of
his old acquaintance, staggered Crookit, and the old hanc-dog
look came over his face. °
 Pshaw, man!  said the other;  do it bravely, if you mean
to do it—or give it up, altogether.
Again there was whispering—another pledging of hands—and
they parted.
THE FAMILY FEUD.
147
CHAPTER V.
ana i.geruon meet again.—The Lady shows that she differs from her
jl m aer Notions of the sound Mode of estimating Character.
xHE '.overs have met again, have regained the secluded walk
wnere they before discoursed of Cain's flight, and have resumed
their talk about it. Charlotte describes lier father's uneasiness
at having received no letter from the runaway; and since Alger-
lion has received none, he thus expresses his alarm:
 Surely no accident has befallen him; what excuse can I
make to myself, if any fatality should attend the course he has
taken by my rash persuasion ? 
 It is you who are imaginative, now, said the lady;  only
two days have gone over: I see no great cause for alarm, as yet.
I did expect that Canute would write at the first opportunity;
indeed, that he would have made an opportunity to write early;
'out some unavoidable difficulty may have prevented him.
"Nothing ought to have prevented him, except absolute inca-
pability by illness, affirmed Algernon;  yet I would not utter
one harsh word against the poor fellow. I am more inclined to
blame myself.
 That cannot remedy your error, if you have committed
one, urged Charlotte ; . and why torment yourself with fears
that may be, and most likely are, utterly groundless ? I chid you
for the part you had taken, the other night; but, you know, I
afterwards told you that I took a more favourable view of the
ease.
 And you know how it gratified me, Charlotte.
 Then you will be more gratified to hear that my father
adopts the view of Canute's conduct I suggested to him; and
expresses a sort of satisfaction that Canute went away to prevent
the increase of party broils.
 Why, love, that should encourage our hope that he is weary
of them !  said the eager wooer.
 There is more than hope, Algernon. In words, the meaning
of which I could not misunderstand, he declared that it would
render him the happiest man in Quarrelton, if the old family
feud itself were ended.
The lover would have broken out into a speech very much like
a rhapsody, if Charlotte had not checked him.
 Stop !  she said;  hear the other word,—it will sober your
L 2
148
THE FAftLItA FEtTO.
impatient expectation. ' If it could be ended witb dig?li&f/ U0
said.
 Dignity!  cried the lover, mortified at the check given to
his pleasant anticipations ;  why, Charlotte, I begin to feel as
if you were mocking me when you use that word. Is there any
dignity in people being absurd? And yet what can be more
absurd than to keep up a family quarrel for generations—*y,
and a town quarrel; for a reason that no one can g-'es The
Only dignity, I think, would be in laying the ansurdity aside.
 Why don't you say the same of all the absurdities of nan-
kind? Who likes to acknowledge an absurdity? "iou see
people persevere in their follies though they are laughed at;
and even cling to them the more on that account. When one
gives up a habit or practice because others call it absurd, you
know that is acknowledging they were right. Pray what dig-
nity is there in acknowledging that one either is, or has been, a
fool ? 
 But the folly of this family quarrel will have to be acknow-
ledged, Charlotte.
 I don't see that to be so clear. It may come to be cocsi-
dered honourable, good, and advantageous to both families, and
for the general good of the town, to lay it aside. But I, for one,
have no desire to hear all my forefathers proclaimed to have
been simpletons—have you ? 
 Let us give it up, dear Charlotte, said the lover;  you
know the feud of Upham with Downham is to cease with us.
 It shall, dear Algernon ; but with dignity.
 You are a true Upham, said Algernon, laughing.
 No more than that? whispered Charlotte, with her face
turned towards her lover.
 And will be a true Downham, he added, making a sweeter-
addition which the beautiful face invited.
 When shall I see your cousin, Mary Granger ? Does she
grieve much for her runaway friend?  asked Charlotte.
 So much that I am now convinced hers is more than a
friend's grief. But you will be the better judge of her griefs
meaning. Shall I bring her with me to our usual meeting-place
to-morrow night ? 
 We must not meet to-morrow night. My father's spirits
have lost their even flow; and I could not have left him to-night
if Mr. Crookit had not called to condole with him about
Canute.
 You told me that this Mr. Crookit was an agreeable person.
I heard his name pronounced in a bookseller's shop this morn-
ing; and I turned to look at the person addressed by his name.
Do you retain your favourable impression of that man, Char-
THE FAMILY FEUD.
119
lotte? I must say, Lis countenance roused a strange antipathy
in mv nature.
"Nonsense, Algernon! you will be as poetical as Colton,
soon. I had almost said it is well that he is gone away. If you
get closely acquainted, on his return, he will make you as sen-
timental as himself, if you don't take care. Mind, I say nothing
against the qualities of Canute's heart—I mean against his moral
worth—but he is sentimental to a weakness. He talks just in
that way about natural antipathies to faces.
 But, my dear Charlotte, have not you, have not we all, our
peculiar impressions respecting people's characters, from our first
ujight of their faces ? 
 No ; it is only sentimental people—or, those who are said to
be of the poetical or nervous temperament—who have such pe-
culiar impressions. They, like yourself, judge that others have
these instant sympathies and antipathies, because they themselves
are thus impulsive, rather than discriminative, in construing
character. I never judge people's characters by their faces ; and
I have no intuition of character. I must be acquainted with
people to form anything like a proper estimate of them ; and I
never allow myself to pronounce against their character at first
sight.
 Well: your's is the most just way of estimating character,
doubtless. Yet I cannot help what I have described to be my
own experience; and I suppose it is constitutional, as you say.
But you did not answer me, Charlotte, I asked you if you re-
tained your favourable impression of this Mr. Crookit.
 Be pleased to remember what were the items of what you
call my favourable impression.
 I will endeavour to recount them. You observed that he
was evidently a man who had travelled, and who had seen a good
deal of society. Next, that he could make himself very agree-
able "—
 For he had no sentimentalities.
 I remember, also, that he was exceedingly smart at re-
partee "—
 Though, I told you, he was sometimes so caustic as, I feared,
to give pain to those against whom his wit was turned.
"Yes. Well, I think, that is about all. You did not give me
any opinion as to the whole moral nature of the man.
 I did not concern myself with that. I took it upon trust, as
I thought I was bound to do.
 From your father, you mean. But I doubt whether we
ought to take character upon trust from any one, my dear
Charlotte.
 Js it not gs rational as taking it by intuition, or by sym-
150
the family feud.
pathy or antipathy at the first sight of a face, my dear Algernon ?
I considered that my father's experience was greater than mine,
and that he would not take or retain a man without a good moral
character as his assistant.
 I cannot gainsay your belief there, dear Charlotte. May I
ask whether Mr. Crookit twas among Canute's natural anti-
pathies?
 I believe Colton had a feeling almost amounting to abhor-
rence of the man. He did not express quite so much; but it
was quite perceptible that he had to restrain himself when speak-
ing of Crookit. Why do you ask?
 It was only a sudden thought, arising from what you had
said about Canute, I suppose.
 Yet Mr. Crookit's manner of speaking about Canute is
always kind and considerate, continued Charlotte.  I have
tried to bring them together where their minds could play, partly
with a hope of dispelling Canute's prejudice against Mr. Crookit,
but, I must confess, more with the aim of enlivening conversa-
tion—for, although Colton is so excellent at heart, and, indeed,
superior in mind, I must repeat that he is often sentimental to
weariness.
 Well, I cannot shake off the revolting impression of that
man's face when I saw him to-day in the bookseller's shop, said
Algernon;  but I will tease you no more with what you have
half persuaded me to regard as a folly.
 And yet your earnestness has made me form the resolution
to observe this Mr. Crookit closely, said Charlotte;  but we
are near the town, and I must return to my father; he will be
expecting me.
Their next meeting, in company with Mary Granger, was fixled,
and the lovers once more separated.
CHAPTER VI.
Crookit's signal Success in his opening Move for effecting his dark Purpose.
Many days have gone, and there is no letter from the runaway.
Mr. Timothy is very sad, and Charlotte is haunted with distress-
ing apprehensions, which she cannot disguise when in company
with her lover, whose mind is tortured with the conviction that
he was a rash counsellor in advising Cain's flight. Jossy Jessop
and ancient Phoebe mingle their sorrows, and Jossy generously
strives to mitigate the old housekeeper's grief, by insisting that
THE FAMILY FEED.
151
not she but himself is chiefly blameable for the fatality which
they fear has now befallen  poor dear Mr. Canute.
From the night when Crookit delivered the famous speech, he
has been marked for grateful favour by Mr. Timothy ; and Mr.
Elder's testimony to his zeal and earnestness, in taking upon
himself a double portion of business care, has seated him still
more firmly in Mr. Timothy's esteem. Every evening after
business hours Mr. Timothy requires the society of Crookit, and
since Charlotte has now the friendship of Mary Granger to cul-
tivate, as well as to keep appointments for meeting Algernon
Downham, Crookit's evenings with his principal lead to conver-
sations of a confidential nature.
Three weeks after Cain Colton's retreat from Quarrelton,
Crookit, seated in his patron's parlour, had received, with ready
apprehension and easy grasp, every detail and complex commu-
nication relative to business, and drew forth from Mr. Timothy
a declaration which the second clerk could not hear with indif-
ference.
 Mr. Crookit, began the merchant,  I have now a commu-
nication of the highest importance to make to you, as it regards
myself; and I beg you to regard it as the result of your own
meritorious—I may say generous—conduct. Mr. Elder is an
old and valued servant of our house ; but his age renders him
unable to superintend office business with the energy that our
extending transactions demand.
Crookit heard this statement with surprise, knowing, as he did,
that there was no very discernible decay of energy in the senior
clerk. But Crookit did not interpose a word of dissent. He
listened with eager anticipation to what might follow.
 I have spoken with Mr. Elder, continued Mr. Timothy,
 and he adopts my views. You will be pleased to take his
place, and I shall feel it to be my duty to name a higher figure
for your salary than that at which. Mr. Elder's stands.
 Oh, sir, you are too good !
 Don't say a word of that nature, Mr. Crpokit! Your active
and self-sacrificing care for my interest demands that it be thus.
I should be guilty of injustice if I were not to insist upon it.
Mr. Elder will remain in the office. He begs to be allowed to
do so. And you will please to let him choose to assist you, in
any way that may be most agreeable to him ; only prevent him
from taking too great a portion of care and labour for his increas-
ing infirmities.—To-morrow, Mr. Elder expects you to enter on
the full superintendence of the office. I am sure, sir, you will
discharge your part worthily.
Crookit was voluble in professions of unworthiness; but
checked himself, lest they should be received for truth, and be-
152
THE FAMILY FEUD.
came eloquent in professions of gratitude. Mr. Timothy hastened
to turn the discourse on a topic which was very unwelcome to
himself, and which the new chief clerk knew must be skilfully
handled on his own part.
 We must return to the melancholy subject which has en-
grossed so much of our thought for these last three weeks, Mr.
Crookit, said the merchant, with a heavy sigh;  I must tell
you that, notwithstanding the arguments you have so often urged
to the contrary, that I think it is now time to make some active
inquiry. What can have become of this poor young man ? I
cannot bear this dreadful suspense and uncertainty any longer.
I cannot"—
Mr. Timothy's voice failed him, and he sat struggling with
his grief.
 My dear sir, said Crookit, in a low, gentle voice, which the
jaerchant regarded as expressive of the purest and most generous
sympathy,  do not give way to your distress. You cannot
blame yourself for the unfortunate young man's conduct. Your
part towards him has been marked by the most munificent kind-,
ness. Where, in the world, would he ever have found a friend
such as you have been to him P
 Yes, Mr. Crookit, said the merchant, trying to stifle his
sorrow,  I know what you mean: I know it's all true; but I
cannot help feeling wretched.
"But, my dear sir, you have nothing to reproach yourself
with on the young man's account. He was but a poor village
orphan you assured me in confidence.
 True: I had the information from Job Oldstock soon after
I took him.
 And he was always treated well while in your house ? 
 As well as if he had been my own, Mr. Crookit. That is all
very true; but it does not lessen my anxiety for him: he was
worthy of it all. There was so much that was noble in his
behaviour, that, combined with his singular intelligence and
gentlemanly tastes, 1 could not withhold from him the help I
rendered him. I must have some active search instituted for
him. A young man of his worth must not be lost for want of
inquiry.
 Will you pardon me, my dear sir, if I interrupt the strain
in which you are speaking ? asked Crookit, with a voice and
look that stopped Mr. Timothy as quickly as if paralysis had
seized him.  Prepare, my dear sir, I most respectfully entreat
you, proceeded Crookit, now in a broken voice which seemed
to indicate that some mysterious trouble affected him ;  prepare,
X most humbly beg of you, to hear me announce a grave and
THE FAMILY FEUD.
153
most lamentable fact, which duty, at length, compels me to lay
before you.
Crookit stopped, and the other gasped, saying,—
 Gracious Heaven! what have you learnt about the poor
young man P What—what—are you about to say, Mr. Crookit ?
 What I would leave unsaid, if by undergoing any amount
of personal suffering, I could leave it unsaid, and yet discharge
my bounden duty as your honest servant, now almost over-
wnelmed as I am with your favours.
In this strain Crookit went on at great length, till he thought
he had fully prepared his own way for the villainy he was about
to endeavour to consummate. The astounding shock came at
last. Mr. Timothy heard the youth he had so long and generously
fostered accused of robbery ; and then beheld what appeared to
be indubitable proof of the dreadful fact. The debit account of
 Geoffrey Fernshawe, Esq. for three hundred pounds, was in
the books kept heretofore by Cain Colton. Crookit intimated
that, having heard of the new squire's arrival on the estate at
Blythewick, and finding a promise of payment of the account by
the lawyer when that event should take place, he had written to
Mr. Fernshawe for the money. Crookit then produced a letter
purporting to be in the name of Fernshawe, and declaring that
the writer had paid the account to Canute Colton in the inn at
Byeham, on a given day, and had the young man's receipt for
the same. The letter also stated that the writer would be in
the town of Quarrelton on a certain day, and would produce the
receipt. And then Crookit detailed the proof which seemed so
unquestionable.
 To-day, said he,  I waited on Mr. Fernshawe, at the
George Inn, when he not only produced the receipt; but ex-
pressed his resolution to come and present it for your inspection.
My fear for the shock such a visit, under such circumstances,
might give you, made me conjure Mr. Fernshawe to abandon
such a purpose. I was obliged to explain to him that you would,
by necessity, be very deeply affected. And Mr. Fernshawe,
who is in every way a gentleman, most honourably and con-
fidingly entrusted the receipt to my hands. There, sir, I deeply
and most sorrowfully regret to say, is the conclusive evidence of
this unfortunate young man's guilt!
The merchant took it into his trembling hands, as he had just
before taken Cain's cash-book. He could, not mistake the hand-
writing of the receipt. And there was the well-known signature,
 Canute Colton !  He gazed on it, his hands contracted, his
head sunk ; and, with a groan, he fell senseless on the floor !
Crookit would not ring for assistance, though he was alarmed ;
but raised the swooned man, and laid him on the sofa; propped
154
THE FAMILY FEUD.
up his head, took water, and bathed his temples. There were
signs of reanimation, but they were convulsive. Suddenly, the
knocker and bell at the street-door told the guilty practiser that
Miss Charlotte was at hand ; and he bethought him to secure
the receipt. There the clutch of the convulsed man baffled him:
the more he attempted to wrest the crumpled paper from the
contorted closed hand, the more knotted seemed the fingers,
while his own grew powerless with fear, and at last they refused
to assist him.in his agony of desire to retrieve possession of the
paper.
The footman opened the door, and the next moment Charlotte
was in the room. 1
"Oh, dear, Miss Upham! cried Crookit; "your father has
fainted! Do, pray, help !
Charlotte gave a slight shriek, and flew to her father's side'.
Her nerves, by their very constitution, only gathered power
with the sense of danger. The footman fetched the old housed
keeper ; and Jossy and the two maids also followed the footman,
 Eun for Doctor Drenchem, Jossy, run! cried Charlotte,
and he was off in a twinkling.
Some minutes elapsed before Mr. Timothy's convulsions sub-
sided. After the first shock, Charlotte had full presence of
mind, and was all activity in endeavouring to contribute to her
father's restoration. Observing Crookit struggle to open the
clenched hand, but fail with trembling, she put him authorita-
tively aside. He yielded very unwillingly ; but his coward heart
shrunk, as she opened her father's hand, and took out of it
the crumpled paper.
 Give it to me !  said Crookit, endeavouring to grasp it; but
the action was so rude, and the speaker's eyes so abhorrent in
their expression, that she drew back, and withheld the paper.
 Give it me, I say ! insisted Crookit; but this time his
rudeness was so violent that Charlotte's pride, in spite of her
father's situation, took fire, and she darted such a look at the
sinister-eyed clerk as caused him to shrink back abashed.
 I am surprised at your behaviour, Mr. Crookit, she said;
but he could not answer.
Detaining the paper in her hand, Charlotte returned to the
care of her father. He openedEis eyes ; but it was long before
their gaze was that of full consciousness. Doctor Drenchem
arrived: Crookit related that Mr. Timothy suddenly swooned
and fell down, while they were talking over some important
rivate business. Drenchem tested his patient's pulse, shook
is head, and seemed puzzled.
 Was the business of a nature to affect the mind, Mr.
Crookit; I mean to cause pain and distress ?  he asked.
THE FAMILY FEED.
155
It was : very great pain and distress, replied Crookit, and
gave Charlotte a timid look wliicli he meant should express
sorrow and compassion.
 We must have Mr. Timothy to bed immediately, said
Drenchem; "Mr. Crookit, may I ask you to accompany me?
You may be of service. Let me beg of you to remain here,
Miss Charlotte. You shall be warned in a moment if there be
any danger; but I hope we shall be able to bring Mr. Timothy
round again in a short time.
Jossy Jessop took up his master in his arms, as lightly and
tenderly as if the merchant had been a child. He would not be
assisted by the footman ; and the physician said it was better
that he should not. Jossy soon laid the patient gently in bed.
Left alone in the parlour, Charlotte began to ruminate on that
question and answer, and their meaning.  Business of a nature
to cause great pain and distress of mind—talking over some im-
portant, private business! What could it be? Had Crookit
revealed some sudden news to her father about the runaway ?
Had Crookit heard of some dreadful accident which had befallen
him P Pondering thus, she remembered the paper that was
crumpled up in her hand, and before she had opened it, was
struck with the thought as sudden as a lightning flash, that
the paper had some fearful connection with her father's afflic-
tion, or Crookit would not have asked for it with such wild
urgency.
She opened it, and saw that it was a stamped receipt for three
hundred pounds, signed by Canute, and that the money was
received from  Geoffrey Fernshawe, Esq. Charlotte had heard
of Fernshawe from mothers and daughters among her father's
partisans. The news of the young squire's arrival atBlythewick
Hall had not only become public talk at Quarrelton, but Fern-
shawe had been seen in the town, had made calls at a few dis-
tinguished houses, and had become a speculation with some
mothers on account of his supposed wealth, and with some
daughters on account of his dashing foreign look and confident
manners. That very day he had been seen ; for Crookit's state-
ment to Mr. Timothy of the interview at the George Inn was a
fact, as it regarded the interview, though it was not of the kind
Crookit had described it to be.
Charlotte's quick common sense led her to apprehend the
worst about tbis receipt, iberc was a deialcation on tbe part of
Canute that was what she feared. She did not suspect—she
had not a glimpse of suspicion, that there was any practising on
the part of Crookit. The signature was Canute's—of that Char-
lotto could not entertain a doubt. Then she ran over the writing ;
 Fleece Inn, Byeham, was at the top, and she had heard Bye-
156
THE FAMILY FEUD.
ham mentioned as a coach stage on the way to Bippleford, where
her father had large and frequent business transactions. The
date, too, she noted; and remembered it was on that day—
the third day after his return from the holiday, when she first
saw him—that Cain had been despatched to Rippleford by her
father. So, then, the fearful truth was, that the young man had
received and secreted this large sum, and absconded with it. He
had not really fled because of the fray at the town meeting; he
would have gone off without Algernon's persuasion, and most
likely would never again appear in Quarrelton, unless brought
thither a3 a criminal and a prisoner. How could this be ? Could
he be such a person ?
But, character could not be ascertained without experience of
a person's deeds—that was Charlotte's maxim. Canute's manners
might have deceived her; she set it down hardly against him,
and yet how distressing it was to think that all this was true !
For though one guilty of such baseness was unworthy of sym-
pathy, let him suffer what he might, and the discovery that he
had really fled because of his guilty embezzlement of his patron's
property, would relieve her lover from all feeling of self-reproach
about Canute—yet how the opening of this base transaction
would grieve and distract her friend, Mary Granger!
Such thoughts having flitted rapidly through her mind, Char-
lotte was summoned by Jossy Jessop to come to her father's
bed-side. He was conscious, and now able to speak faintly ; but
Drenchem insisted that he should be kept quiet, prepared to
take his leave, and motioned to Crookit also to quit the
chamber.
 I beg pardon! just one moment, doctor, said Crookit; and
then approached Mr. Timothy's pillow, and whispered that it
was necessary he should have the receipt, having promised to
restore it to Mr. Fernshawe that night, but that Miss Charlotte
now had it.
Mr. Timothy burst into grief at the mention of the receipt;
and Drenchem, who had not heard Crookit's words, again inter-
posed to insist that his patient should be left undisturbed.
 But, doctor, this is a matter in which both my honour and
Mr. Upham's are involved, said Crookit, and then looked
imploringly at the sick man.
Mr. Timothy beckoned to his daughter, she bent her ear, he
whispered, and she immediately gave Crookit the paper, without
a word, yet with a look of searching inquiry. Crookit's eyes
filled with tears, and he slowly shook his head, to signify that
the person inquired after by her look was a lost man! Crookit
placed the receipt in his pocket-book, pressed Mr- Timothy's
THE FAMILY FETTD.
157
hand delicately, bowed to Charlotte, and withdrew with the
doctor,
Charlotte faithfully and affectionately took all means for
securing her father's quiet during that night; but it was a night
more disquieted for herself than she had ever known before.
Cain's moral tall—for she could not bring herself to view his act
in any other light than a sudden yielding to a powerful tempta-
tion—distressed her deeply; but Mary Granger! Charlotte
feared she would scarcely survive this blow, or it would, perhaps,
drive her into a state of derangement.
CHAPTER VII.
Miss Charlotte is intrusted with an unexpected and important Embassage.—
Crookit fears he has exposed himself to  fool's mate  at the beginning of the
Game.
Me. Timothy's good constitution enabled him so far to recover
the mental shock he had sustained as to rise the next day; but
Drencliem would not hear of the patient quitting wis chamber.
AVith his daughter, the merchant entered on the harrowing
subject of the receipt which was not accounted fw in Cain's
cash-book, and declared his reluctant conviction of Cain's
delinquency.
 The temptation has proved too powerful for him, he said;
 but I take more than half of his guilt to myself; I ought not
to have put so much trust in the poor young man ; I ought not
to have taken him into my house, and encouraged his tastes—
and yet they were not expensive—he was economical; I made
him otherwise, I fear, by forcing money upon him. I had also
formed purposes towards him—purposes, my dear, which I will
not disclose to you now—I cannot bear to talk of them at pre-
sent. It is dreadful to think that instead of becoming what I
hoped he would become, this young man may, by this one trans-
gression, be lost to moral recovery; may be driven on some
unlawful course, in some distant place—perhaps, in the metro-
polis, where the fallen so often betake themselves for a hiding-
place. It is dreadful—dreadful to think of!
 But, father, pleaded Charlotte, against her own persuasion,
 may there not be some mistake in all this?
 There can be none, my dear, answered her father, sorrow-
fully •  everything is confirmative of the worst. Letting alone
the receipt, and Mr. Fernshawe's personal assurance to Mr.
158
THE FAMILY FEUD.
Crookit, there is the fact of no letter having been sent by the
culprit. And how could he have lived all this time without
money? You see he has had an unlawful supply—that accounts
for it.
Charlotte knew that Cain had a kindly supply from a source
that could not be called unlawful, but she dared not say so.
Besides, the evidence cumulative overpowered her ; yet her good
heart forced her to venture another plea.
 But, dear father, may not some closer inquiry—some
examination by yourself of the cash-book, for instance, serve to
clear up the matter in the young man's favour? she suggested.
 My dear, I have seen the cash-book, answered the mer-
chant;  and there is not the least mention or entry of any such
sum, either under the date of the receipt or near it, though every
item of the young man's expenses to and from Bippleford are
entered with his customary exactness ; nor is this sum accounted
for in any totals that follow.
Charlotte knew not what to say; and her father now addressed
her, somewhat earnestly, on a new but correlative point.
"Now one thing remains to be done, he said ; "and I must
ask your service in it, love. Mr. Crookit promised Mr. Fern-
shawe—who entrusted the receipt to him with the confiding
honour of a gentleman—that my acknowledgment and apology
should be sent back with the document. I was unable last night
to write, nor am I able now. Mr. Fernshawe remains to-day at
the George Inn. It is a new service, my dear; but you are
neither weak nor a child; and you must render it to me. The
perfect honour of our house must be maintained. The idea of
our demanding a payment twice is disgraceful. Mr. Crookit,
too—and it was very right under the apparent circumstances,—■
made the demand in somewhat strong terms. Every possible
apology should be made to Mr. Fernshawe for the unintentional
insult which has been offered him, even although it was uninten-
tional. Mr. Crookit, also, feels uncomfortable, from having been
the instrument. Will you, my love, so far indulge your poor
father as to go to the George yourself, and convey the assu-
ranee of my regret to Mr. Fernshawe, and of my respect for his
honourable behaviour ? 
 Most cheerfully, my dear father! 
 Then, my love, order your carriage, and discharge your
commission with dignity, said Mr. Timothy, and sunk back in
his pillowed chair, gratified but exhausted.
Jossy was summoned, the carriage was soon ready, and Miss
Charlotte set forth for the George. The errand was strange;
but Charlotte was a sensible woman of the world, who ever kept
in mind that she was a merchant's daughter; that her father
THE FAMILY FEUD.
159
had peculiar notions of honour, and it was her duty to conform
to them, and to assist in carrying them out. There might be
some slight sense of embarrassment accompanying her entrance
on this mission ; but she soon subdued it. Above all, she had
no sensitiveness about meeting one whom the mothers and
daughters in Quarrelton had talked so much about. The world
was not new to her.
Fernshawe was expecting Crookit with a note of acknowledg-
ment and apology in Mr. Timothy's own hand. It had been
stipulated that Fernshawe was not to have the custody of the
receipt, Crookit fearing to trust that out of the hands which had
forged it. Fernshawe had seen a lady step out of a carriage,
as he stood at the inn-window impatiently expecting Crookit;
but.to hear  Miss Upham announced as his visitor amazed him.
Skilled as he was in self-disguise, he was so stricken with that
imperial form and beautiful face, that he had scarcely presence
of mind to reach Charlotte a chair. He received her announce-
ment of her father's regret and delivery of the apology without
half comprehending what she said, distracted by thought of
Crookit's falsehood in decrying Charlotte's beauty, and cursed
himself for trusting the word of one whom he knew to be so
false, and only fully recovered his wits when Charlotte, having
delivered her message, rose to go.
He entreated her to remain a few moments, and she again sat
down. With glib politeness, he affected to regret that Mr.
Upham should have taken so much trouble about such an unim-
portant matter, yet was delighted that it had brought him the
high gratification of that visit. He skilfully touched on foreign
travel, and Charlotte became interested. But she was too exact
a devotee of the proprieties to remain a minute longer with
Fernshawe than strict courtesy demanded. She again rose,
accepted Fernshawe's arm, and was handed into her carriage
with a grace she had never seen excelled. Fernshawe, his pre-
sence of mind fully regained, begged that he might be allowed to
pay his respects to Mr. Upham, and to inquire after that gentle-
man's health the next time he should visitQuarrelton, which would
be early. Charlotte politely assured him that her father would
feel honoured by his so doing. Fernshawe bowed, and Jossy
received the word for  home.
Another carriage had stopped near the George. Charlotte
saw it, and knew to whom it belonged ; and, glancing earnestly,
she caught sight of Algernon Downham, pale as death, looking
out of the carriage window. He had seen Charlotte Upham
handed in by that keen-eyed, moustachioed, foreign-looking
man! Charlotte looked for one furtive but ecstatic love-glance ;
but Algernon looked as if he could have liked to gripe the throat
160
THE FAMII/t FEUD.
of that foreign-looking man ; and Charlotte rode home in a very*
perturbed condition. She was too busy with her own thoughts
to note the demon-like expression of another face, when Crookit
bowed to her before she got out of her carriage.
Crookit had just been with his patron to receive the promised
writing, and had received instead the confounding information
that Miss Charlotte was gone in person to Eernshawe to express
Mr. Timothy's regret. The schemer dared not, in the sick
chamber, give way to the rage he felt; nor durst he make a call,
as he had promised, at the George Inn. The clerks in the office
—who had so often had their sly laugh of derision at the gen-
tleness and good-nature of Mr. Elder—were that day so miserable
under the rule of their new chief, that they might be likened to
the frogs feeling the tooth of the water-serpent, and regretting
the despised King Log. The allusion is old, but not the less apt.
CHAPTER VIII.
•tossy sent on a new Errand, which recalls the Memory of an old one.^-His Coil,
ference with Mrs. Phoebe, on the strange State of Things.
Drenchem was frequent in his visits to Mr. Timothy during
the day ; and though he had permitted his patient to sit up till
evening, became imperative when the candles were brought into
the chamber. So Mr. Timothy had to take a sedative potion,
and was charged to compose himself, since he must be now com-
pletely exhausted. Charlotte, too, was recommended to let the
patient be quiet, and not to remain in the chamber, but only to
visit it at intervals. Charlotte's sense of duty forbade her to
quit the house ; so she summoned Jossy Jessop to the parlour,
and bade him close the door.
"Jessop, she said, in a low tone,  I have confidence in you,
from what I have observed of your conduct"—it was Jossy's
fidelity to Cain Colton that she meant, but she would not name
it more plainly,— and I am about to impose a service on you
which rrquires secresy.
Jossy's heart leaped, and his memory went back in a moment
to another beautiful face which had sued for his secret service—
alas ! to her own ruin. Jossy felt that he could go through
fire and water for that queen of a woman before whom he now
stood ; but that old memory  made him feel queer, as he after-
wards said.
The family feed.
161
"Lou know Miss Granger, said Charlotte; "I have heard
her mention you.
Jossy stared, and was speechless at first with wonder.
 She was your passenger, in her father's lifetime, from Bye-
ham to ^Rippleford. I know very well that you know her,
Jessop, added Charlotte with significant emphasis.
"Lor! yes, Miss Charlotte! confessed Jossy, and would
have added,  the sweet young creatur! but he checked
himself.
 Go direct to the gate leading into the Daisy Mead. She
will be there expecting to meet me. Tell her that I cannot
come to her, on account of my father's illness ; but that I desire
she will come here and spend the evening with me. You will
attend her to the door, Jossy ; and you need not knock or ring.
I will take care that Mrs. Phoebe is there to receive Miss
Granger. Go immediately, Jossy; and say nothing about this
to anybody, unless it be to Mrs. Phoebe.
"Yes, Miss Charlotte, said Jossy, too much puzzled and
wonder-stricken to say more, and disappeared immediately.
Jossy speedily performed his errand, Mary Granger was re-
ceived in the parlour by Charlotte, and Jossy, entering the old
housekeeper's room, closed the door, and sat down to discuss
home politics with Mrs. Phoebe. They commenced with the
language of signs'—Mrs. Phoebe lifting up her hands and raising
her eyes, and Jossy arching his eyebrows, and puckering hie
mouth, and shaking his head, very portentously.
"Lor' bless me! ejaculated Jossy at last, in a faint tone;
 I don't know what to think o' things now; they grow queerer
and queerer!
 Ay, the Lord bless us and preserve us, they do, indeed!
echoed Phoebe, whose wits began to run all into a confusion,  to
think of poor Mr. Timothy being in such a state as he is—and
this young lady coming here in such a sly way. Who is she ?
do you know, Jessop ?—and poor, dear Mr. Canute—and what
could Mr. Crookit mean when he told Dr. Drenchem that some
painful business had driven Mr. Timothy out of his mind ?—
and 
 Lor' bless me !  entreated Jossy,  don't go on at such a
pace, Mrs. Phoebe. It's worse than ten miles an hour with
double insides and out. Mr. Crookit didn't say nothing o the
sort.
 Well, it matters nought, Jessop, what he said, affirmed Mrs.
Phoebe peremptorily ;  poor Mr. Timothy was out of his mind,
I'm sure : I'm very thankful that he's better to-day ; but some-
thin"- has given him a sore shaking. I wonder what Mr. Crookit
and lie could have been talking about to make him fall into
M
162
THE FAMILY FEUD.
that shocking fit ? Mr. Timothy never had a fit before in ktfl
life. I have known him from his cradle, and it's true, on my
Christian word, Jessop.
"I'm afraid, Mrs. Phoebe—but I wish you wouldn't talk so
fast—that they've had some unlucky news about poor Mr.
Canute.
 That's what I fear. It's been on my poor old heart like
lead all the day, Jessop. But you were telling me yesterday
that there's no danger now for the poor dear boy. You say
that young fiddler George has got out of the hospital.
 The lying varment! so he has; but how is poor Mr. Canute
to know that P 
 Ay, true, Jessop ! I had forgot that; but my poor old head
begins to wander among so much trouble—for I haven't been
used to it since the time that Mr. Timothy's poor sister—but,
Lord bless me! what was I going to say ? 
 Better say nothing about that, Mrs. Phoebe, said Jossy;
 it's too solemn a thing to talk about now we're full o' new
trouble.
.  Ay, true, Jessop ! I hoped we should have no more troubles;
but we seem hardly to have been without 'em since Miss Char-
lotte came home 
 Lor' bless me! Mrs. Phoebe, you don't mean that Miss
Charlotte's the cause of these troubles ? 
 No, no, Jessop. Bless her good heart, no ! But who is this
young lady that you've brought in to-night to see her? and
why does Miss Charlotte wish us not to mention her name P 
 Well, I might as well tell you, and have done with it—for
you'll never rest till you know, said Jossy, "and then you'll
see it must be kept a secret.
 It shall, Jessop : they shall not get it out o' me ; they shall
have every tooth out of my poor old head first; and I have not
many left.
 And nobody would be much obliged to ye for 'em, Mrs.
Phoebe. But now be quiet, and I'll tell ye in a few words.
So Jossy began his story; but Mrs. Phoebe was unspeakably
shocked when she learned that there was a born Downham in
the house: her aged blood almost curdled at the impropriety.
She declared she did not know but that it was her bounden
duty to go upstairs at once, and tell Mr. Timothy of it, only
his poor dear head was so bad, and it might make him worse.
Jossy assured Mrs. Phoebe that he felt very uncommon queer
about it himself; but who could disoblige Miss Charlotte?
And, besides, the poor young lady was known to him; and she
could not help being related to Mr. Titus; and the sweet young
creatur was to be pitied for her misfortunes; and most likely
THE FAMILY FETID.
163
Miss Charlotte's good heart had taken pity on her, and that
was why she was now in the house.
And then Jossy had to unbudget, and tell the tale of pity
about Mary Granger's father and mother, and grandmother;
and how the family had been so vilely used by young Squire
Fernshawe ; and how dutifully Mary had behaved to her poor
father. And the issue was that ancient Phoebe's tears witnessed
that her heart was won for the feat-looking, poor young lady.
Jossy's heart was gratified that another heart was won to sym-
pathise with the poor orphan ; and then he imparted other news
in confidence to the old housekeeper. How that when the
coach was ordered, in the forenoon, they had driven to the
George Inn; that Miss Charlotte had called there; and that,
when she came out, it was with this young Squire Fernshawe,
who had handed her into the carriage. He could not understand
it—it made the hair of his head stand on end. And more thaD
that: this scaramouch of a young squire talked of coming to
Mr. Timothy's to visit!
 Lor' bless us ! cried Jossy,  what will this world come to?
I don't know what to make o' things; they grow queerer and
queerer.
 Why, bless us and preserve us, they do, indeed! echoed
Mrs. Phoebe. But we must leave Jossy and the old housekeeper
to finish their wondering, in their simple, honest way, and attend
to that other secret dialogue in the parlour.
CHAPTER IX.
Charlotte's Conference with Mary Grander.—Mary discovers the State of her own
Heart towards an absent Person.
Chablotte and Mary were already into the heart of the afflictive
story about Cain Colton before the old housekeeper began to
draw that pitiful narrative of the Granger family from Jossy
Jessop.
 It is utterly impossible that it can be true, affirmed Mary,
vehemently;  you may think it irreverent in me to say so—
but if my own father and mother were to rise from the dead,
and tell me that Cain Colton had embezzled this money, I could
n°^ary'seiook was so thrilling, that Charlotte felt bereft of
power to respond to her. Nor was it until the name  Cain '
had been repeated by Mary Granger that her friend remarked it.
M 2
164
THl! FAMILY FEtTD.
 Cain—Cain—did you sayP I beg pardon, said Charlotte,
observing tbe sudden change in Mary's face ;  but why do you
call him Cain ? 
 My dear friend, answered Mary ;  this strange news has
made me forget a certain caution which was given me. I ought
to have called him Canute.
 But is not his name Canute?—Nay, dear Mary, then I will
not ask you any more about it, said Charlotte, seeing her new
friend looked distressed.
 It cannot be wrong to tell you the truth, dear Charlotte,
said the other ;  I knew him by no other name than Cain, till
we re-met so lately, and in the way that Algernon described to
you,—when he told me that your father had changed his name
to Canute, and requested me never again to pronounce the name
by which I used to call him when we were children and play-
mates.
 Well, I don't wonder, said Charlotte,  that he was desirous
of not hearing such a name repeated. The strangest thing to
me is, that his parents should have given him such a name.
Did you know his parents, Mary ? 
 No, answered Mary ;  nor had he any personal knowledge
of them himself. His early history, so far as I know it, would
only shock you to hear it. Indeed, he can never bear to hear
it referred to himself.
 But if you will tell it to me, and can tell it me without pain,
it will greatly interest me to hear it.
 I will relate it then, in few words. His mother was wooed
by two young men ; and the one who married her—that is to
say Cain's father—was murdered, it was believed, by the father
and mother of the other young man. This took place before
Cain's birth. His mother died soon after he was born ; and he
was christened ' Cain' by the demand of his grandfather and
against the will of the clergyman. The most repulsive part of
the story is, that the old man gave as a reason for thus naming
the child, that it was born to be the murderer of Abel Brundrell,
the young man who had courted Cain's mother and been disap-
pointed, and whose parents were believed to be the murderers of
the child's father.
 What a horrible story!  said Charlotte.
 I did not learn it, continued Mary,  till about four years
ago, when my mother and father related it to me. Canute first
became my playmate in the garden and grounds of good old
Squire Fernshawe 
 Fernshawe! 
 Yes,—the uncle of this young squire whose money it is now
falsely said, Canute has purloined; Canute was taken to the ball
THE FAMILY FEUD.
165
after his grandfather's death. We were then, each of us, about
six years old; Canute left Squire Fernshawe's when about twelve.
My father brought him to Quarrelton, and apprenticed him to
some mechanic—I do not know whom, but perhaps you have
heard your father say P 
 I heard him say only this morning, that Job Oldstock was
the person from whom he had Canute; but who Job Oldstock is,
I do not know.
 I wish he had never come to Quarrelton ; but some strange
power of misfortune seems to haunt him. He left the hall on a
false charge of having fired at, with the intent to kill, the old
woman who was said to have been one of his father's mur-
derers ; but he was utterly innocent,—he solemnly declared it
himself, my mother and father were convinced of his innocence,
and the good old squire on his death-bed, assured my father he
was sorry for having ever sent the boy away.
Charlotte sat and fixed her eyes on the fire, in very uneasy
thought. These details were revolting to one whose life had
been passed as hers had been ; in a romance she might have
read them without being repulsed by them ; but to be brought
into contact, to know that she had held intimate converse with
the young man to whom so much of savage interest apper-
tained, repelled—nay, disgusted her.
 My dear Mary, she said, breaking a silence which she felt
must be torturous to her friend,  will you receive my advice P
I am young to become an adviser—we are both young ; but
will you allow me to speak to you with the freedom and affec-
tion of a sister P for, since Algernon regards and loves you as a
sister, I must also claim you for mine.
 Do not keep one thought from me, dear Charlotte,—speak
your whole heart to me ! 
 I think, then, you had better try to surmount your anxiety
on account of this young man.
 What do you mean ? how can I cease to feel troubled for one
whom I have known so long, and who is now, I fear, not only in
deep trouble, but for whom deeper trouble seems preparing ? I
cannot rest—I shall never be able to rest 
 Then you love him, Mary ? 
 If it be love to feel that I cannot be happy so long as he is
in trouble—to feel that I would gladly share his misery, or re-
lieve him by taking its whole burthen on myself—that I must
seek him out, if I die in the effort—then I love him ! 
 Hush, hush, Mary!  said Charlotte, throwing her arm
round the neck of the excited girl, "this is the very madness of
passion!
 J cannot help it, Charlotte; I did not know that I loved him
166
the family feud.
as you mean; and I felt ashamed when you jested me upon it
but a few nights ago; but I feel now that I can only be happy
with him, and shall never be happy without him and without
seeing him happy.
Tears and sobs followed this outburst of passion from one who
had hitherto shown nothing but retiring and bashful gentleness.
Charlotte supported the agonised girl, and tried to soothe her.
When they broke up the interview, Mary seemed restored to
some degree of calmness, and said she felt firmness enough to
relate the entire story of the receipt, false as it was, to Algernon,
when she reached home.
 You will not forget to tell him, dear, said Charlotte,  that
I went at my father's order to the George Inn, and that I could
not, under the very peculiar circumstances, refuse Mr. Fern-
shawe's politeuess in handing me into my carriage.
CHAPTER X.
The Villains together again.—Crookit having escaped  Fool's Mate, confides
that he shall eventually check-mate his real Adversary, and carry the Game.
Cbookit had only just reached his lodging that night, and seated
himself moodily by the fire, when he was startled by a quick step
on the stair, and in less than a minute, Fernshawe opened the
door of his room. Crookit sprung up with a ghastly look.
 Sit you down, Dick, said the intruder;  your landlady
wanted to announce me, but I would not let her scare you into
some hiding-hole. I suppose you know that I have found you
out in another infernal lie ; but I am not come to quarrel with
you; only to acknowledge what a baby I was to believe you.
 What do you mean, Fernshawe ? what can you mean ? 
 How your face betrays your villain's—I mean, your fool's
heart!—for your silliness must be greater than your roguishness,
or you would not so idiotishly try to carry out your hypocrisy,
or imagine it will pass ! 
 I protest, Fernshawe, you use me ill; I have not the slightest
glimpse of a guess at your meaning.
 Then I'll let the light into your innocent soul, said Fern-
shawe, putting his moustachioed face with its most demon-like
expression, close to Crookit's,— I am to visit her at her father's
house, and with a welcome! 
"You dare not! cried Ci'ookit, springing at Fernshawe's
THE FAMILY FEUD.
167
throat, and immediately relaxing his hold, and sinking hack into
his chair with a face as livid as that of a corpse.
 You poor, pitiful, contemptible coward !  said Rernshawe,
in his throat, and with other epithets too disgusting and profane
to set down ;  take care that you never give way to your native
devil again in that manner ! he is a dirty, craven spirit, or he
would not tenant a mean hound's heart such as yours. Re-
member that another such weakness may cost you dear! Look!
do you think my sojourn in the South was as useless to me in
the way of experience, of a valuable kind, as yours ?  and he
drew out a glittering stiletto from its sheath which was worked
within his vest—brandished it—and concealed it again with a
deft rapidity that shewed he kept his hand in practice.
 Come, throw away your fear and mortification together,
Dick, went on Rernshawe;  I will not hurt you either by
deed or word, so long as you do not bring harm on yourself.
Why, now, did you tell me this scandalous lie, Dick P surely,
you have not been indulging such a dream as that you were to
win and wed a diamond of a woman like this Charlotte Up-
ham? 
 I—I—dream of it ? 
 You did,—you know you did, returned Rernshawe, and
reiterated his string of bitter and revolting epithets ;  but give
it up and be wise ; the beauty is for me : believe that as firmly
as that you will have hot quarters in the next world, Dick.
But either stand out of my way,—or give me a lifting hand, and
you shall share the rhino—for it's there, Dick! none of your
lies will hold ! 
The foul dialogue lasted an hour; and Crookit was glad when
it was ended and Rernshawe withdrew ; although, nearly the
last words the latter uttered were a threat that his old comrade
should receive the steel unawares, if Crookit attempted to
thwart the young Squire's purpose of winning Charlotte for
himself.
 I will have her, or kill the man who gets her !  Rernshawe
avowed, his eye3 gleaming with unearthly fire ; "I would even
have a woman of her perfect beauty—for it is such as I never
saw before—if she were pennyless, and in rags ! 
"Will you have her?  thought Crookit, when left alone; "we
will see. There is a way to use a dagger, or a pistol-ball, with-
out threatening, like a lunatic. But I must not think of that!
His madness will subside, as I have known it die out, before
now, when some beauty has mocked him, and derided him.
And then Crookit recalled guilty scenes in the south of
Europe, wherein he had been the comrade of Rernshawe; and in
which Percival had been their companion in riot, but not in
168
THE FAMILY FEED.
guilt. That robbery of the weighty purse of gold from Percival
who lay asleep, and the disappointed, attempt on the watchful
Fernshawe, were also recalled—but he dashed aside the images
of the Past, to fix his calculations on the Present and the
Future.
 Yet I had become an altered man, he went on ;  that
dreadful illness I had in London sobered me; and when I sue-
ceeded in getting into ITpham's employ I was bent on a new
life. And, if this dazzling woman had not appeared, to tempt
me, and that paltry lad had not stood in my way—but I am only
practising self-deceit! My heart was not altered. It was only
frightened by the fear I had of hell, during that illness—for
I am a contemptible coward—the fiend Fernshawe is right
there. My hankering after theft was never cured. The many
petty pilferings that might be detected in my accounts would
prove that—if all around me were not dunces. But I shall
never be found out! I have the trick of throwing dust in their
eyes, so that they cannot perceive my sleight of hand. And
now, how stands the game ? I have safely put the youngster
out of the way ; but I did not expect this new competitor.
Never mind! I must, and will, trip up his heels, and win
the prize myself. If I am not skilled at a daring assault, I can
work unweariedly at a slow siege that must compel the garrison
to capitulate, at length.
the family feud.
169
BOOK VI.
ffUICH, LIKE A FORMER PORTION OF THIS HISTORY, WEARS THE AIR OF AN
EPISODE, BUT IS, MOST ASSUREDLY, AS PROPER A TART OF THE KFIC AS ANY
OF ITS FELLOWS.
CHAPTER I.
Wilfred Harlow, a Fugitive.—The Letter.—Second Visit to the House of Mystery.
—Whom he saw there.—Sets out for London.
Only a few days had gone over since Wilfred Harlow returned
from that journey on which he set out for holiday, and now he
was a fugitive from fear. In the chamber of a small r oad-side
inn, he had passed an almost sleepless night, and now, hearing
somebody astir, rose and groped his way down the narrow stair.
A homely maiden was scouring her kitchen floor; and he asked
her for an early breakfast, that he might be ready for the stage-
coach, when it came up at day-light.
 I will get you some as soon as the kettle boils, said the
girl;  but here is a man enquiring for you. I think it must be
you that he means.
Wilfred had not observed a low figure clad in a coarse garb,
seated on a bench at the darker side of the kitchen, but the man
now approached him, and said in a rough under tone,
 Are you expecting a letter from——?  and he mentioned a
name which Harlow knew.
"Not exactly, replied Harlow ;  but have you a letter from
him ? For whom is it addressed ? 
The man whispered.
 Let me see it; it is for me, said Wilfred.
On opening the letter, Harlow found it signed by the name
which the man had mentioned. The information it contained
threw the reader into a state of so much agitation, that he
turned his face from the man who had brought it. and tried
to reperuse it more calmly. The writer stated that danger had
thickened in the quarter Wilfred had fled from on the preceding
night; that the patron on whom he had leaned as his best friend
170
THE FAMILY FETTD.
had angrily denounced him ; and that he had better seek some
remote and obscure concealment, as rapidly as possible. Above
all, Wilfred was conjured to correspond with none but the
writer, whom he must address by a feigned name, until he was
assured that danger was past, and the way open for making an
effectual appeal to his patron.
Harlow's first impression from this unexpected letter was to
spurn its advice, and to return immediately, and dare all peril.
But his confidence in the name attached to the letter, the sensi-
tiveness of his nature, and the gloom and doubt which pervaded
his mind with superstitious force, overcame and banished his
more healthy and courageous first thought. He was roused to a
remembrance of the necessity of prompt decision, by the maid
informing him that his breakfast was ready ; and hinting that
he had better be quick with it, or the coach would be at the door
before he was ready.
 Thank you, he said, and was about to commence his meal,
when the thought struck him that there might be some trick
intended.  I have never seen his hand-writing, he said to
himself,  and how can I be sure that he wrote this letter ?
Yet—no one knows that I am in this place but he.
 I was to take a letter back, sir, whispered the messenger;
 he said you promised him one last night, as you stood under
the old oak ; and I was to be sure to ask you for it.
Wilfred's doubt fled in a moment. But there was some diffl-
culty as to writing a letter. The maid did not know where the
inkstand was: it was so seldom used; and she did not think
there was an inch of writing-paper in the house. Harlow opened
his portable travelling-case, so much valued by him in his former
journey; but the friend who had packed it up had stowed away
nothing in it but wearing apparel; and he was compelled to tear
out a blank leaf from his pocket-book, and write upon it with his
pencil. He had no means of sealing this rude note, and was
about to give it to the man, after simply folding it, when the
man observed,
 It does not matter being open, sir—since I can't read; but
it had better be tied up in a piece o' brown paper, or some at o*
that sort, that I may keep it clean, until I can give it to the
young gentleman.
The maid furnished a piece of sugar-paper and a string, and
Wilfred was about to write on the outside of the parcel.
 Need not do that, sir, said the man,  I shall give it into
the proper hands.
The man gave Wilfred a significant look as he said this ; and
the letter was handed to him with a gratuity, at which he seemed
pleased. He instantly placed the letter in the inner pocket of
THE FAMILY FEUD.
171
his jacket, which, he buttoned up, touched his head to Harlow,
and hastened off.
In another quarter of an hour, Harlow was on the stage-
coach; and was soon miles away from the little inn, and had
forgotten it—so little did he imagine that the few incidents just
narrated had determined his fate for some time to come. He
experienced, externally, only the ordinary incidents of a coach-
journey, during the day; and alighted, an hour before sun-set,
at the door of another village inn, where the coach stopped to
change horses, for the last time, on its way to Warwick.
 You leave us here, sir, I think you said, observed the
coachman, with whom Wilfred had exchanged few words on
the way.
Wilfred answered that he did, and gave the driver an bono-
rary fee. It was handsome, and made coachee's face shine ;
and Wilfred thought it was some relief to be able to make
others glad while his own heart was so sorrowful.
"Do you stay here all night, sir? asked the coachman ;
 it is a comfortable place; but it will make it no worse if I
speak a good word for you to the landlady.
 I will thank you to do so, answered Wilfred ;  but more
especially, if you can secure me a private room.
 Why, sir—that will be difficult, I fear—but I can do it, if
anybody can, said the coachman; and he preceded his pas-
senger into the house.
The fugitive found his recommendations not to be despised.
Mine host, or hostess, when the coachman himself was a
favourite, always looked with favour on the passenger he
introduced with a favourable word, in those days—as old
coach-travellers can testify. Wilfred noted that the landlady
eyed him very curiously, and, ^is he imagined, suspiciously;
and that she seemed, at first, resolutely disposed to deny the
grant of a private apartment. But it was granted at last; and
the coachman smiled radiantly at Wilfred, as he turned to leave
the house, and said,  All's right, sir; you'll be made as com-
fortable as you can wish for.
And truly the comforts of that little inn were great, if peace
of mind had enabled the young traveller to enjoy them fully.
You might see your face in the bright oak tables ; and the arm-
chair was so softly-cushioned, and so sensibly constructed for
ease-^unlikeyour expensive  cheap modern kickshaws; and
the new-laid eggs were so fine; and the broiled ham so deli-
cious • and the tea so good and refreshing—that Harlow's
mind imperceptibly—both as to the exact time when, and the
reasons why—found itself hopeful instead of desponding ; and
two hours after tea he had—happy fellow!—forgot that he had
172
THE FAMILY FEUD.
a mind at all; for the landlady, who just took the liberty to
look in, found him asleep.
Harlow thanked her, when she roused him up, though he
really wished she had let him alone ; and he took her advice
when she advised him to have  something hot and go to
bed. Then he realised the blessed English word  comfort-
able  in all the fulness which the coachman had promised.
The feathers—true "goose-coats"—were so light, and the
pillow so soft; and the sheets smelt so much like new-mown
hay; and the long ride and the hot cup had disposed him so
happily for sleep—that he sank into it like a babe, and escaped
from all tyrannous troubles, real or imaginary.
He did not rise till the sun was up; and the landlady unasked
joined him at breakfast. Harlow did not express any displea-
sure at this ; but he begged she would spare herself the trouble
of making those apologies for having been too busy with other
guests to attend to him before. He did not like the curiosity
expressed either in her eyes, or by her tongue; but she was
evidently bent on gratifying it. Before Wilfred had settled it in
his mind whether to divulge to her in what direction he was
journeying, she had asked the question—in a tone, too, which
showed that she expected a direct answer.
 To a gentleman's mansion, several miles off, replied Wil-
fred, slowly. ,
 But what gentleman's mansion ? demanded the buxom
hostess ;  the gentleman must have a name.
Harlow coloured, and she saw he was not pleased; but she
only smiled, and pressed him to partake of the buttered toast.
He thought he would not gratify her, however, either for her
coaxing or rudeness.
 The house is several miles off, he repeated evasively,  it
is a place not much known, *1 imagine; and is called ' the
Hermitage.' 
 Indeed! Do you know Mr. Percival ?  she asked, sharply;
and as, in his wonder, he met her keen gray eyes, Harlow began
to think there was something remarkable about the woman.
She repeated her question, and preserved the same searching
look.
 I have only a slight acquaintance with him, answered
Harlow;  indeed, I have only seen him once in mv life. I
passed merely two nights and a day at his house, a short time
aS°
 Without seeing him in one of his fits, then, most likely.
His crazy fits, added the landlady, observing that her guest
looked bewildered,  don't you know that he is often stark
mad P
Tflfi FAMILY FEtTD.
173
 No, replied the guest,  mad! You must be mistaken.
He is—I should say—somewhat eccentric in his manners and
discourse—but he has too strong a mind to be subject to occa-
sional derangement. You must be mistaken.
 That cannot be. Miles Gilson, who manages almost every-
thing at the Hermitage, is an old fellow-servant of mine, when I
was younger; and I have had the account from him. He per-
suaded me to let my little daughter go to live with Mr. Per-
cival; but she was obliged to leave: she was so frightened
with the poor gentleman's goings on — and especially his
behaviour to his daughter, when the mad fit came on him.
Ah! I see you know Miss TJna!  said the quick-eyed dame,
marking the blush which instantly spread over Wilfred's face.
 I have merely an acquaintanceship of a few hours with the
young lady, said Wilfred, mastering his confusion.
 A few hours are often sufficient to make sore work with
young people's hearts when they come together, sir, perse-
vered the landlady;  Miss Una is a very kindly person ; but
you may take my word for it that her father is but ill to live
with for a young lady like her.
Wilfred believed this was true ; but he wished to check the
dame's freedom ; and so busied himself with the hearty table-
fare, instead of replying.
 And did you never hear of his madness ?  recommenced
the landlady, who was not to be drawn off her talk either by
indifference or any other stratagem.
 Never, answered Harlow;  do you mean that he is
sometimes really insane, or only that he is subject to strong fits
of anger P
 I mean that he is often mad—insane—crazed—call it what
you like. They say he is usually so at full and change
o'th'moon—when he fancies he sees somebody following him,
and threatening to murder him—and then he goes into fits, and
cries and moans dreadful! At other times, he will ride off sud-
denly—miles and miles away. This he does when he has a
warning sort of a feeling that a fit is coming on; and he thus
prevents it: so Miles Gilson told me. But he does not always
know that his trouble is coming; and he grows dreadful then
—all in a minute ! Yet, they say, that a sensibler gentleman
isn't to be found in all England than he is when he's him-
elf—nor a more high-larnt. He's been all over foreign
parts, too; and he's known to be very rich. No doubt the
young gentleman who has the luck to marry Miss Una will have
all Mr. Percival's fortune.
With all the landlady's kind attentions, these sordid hints of
her's wearied and disgusted Wilfred ; and having breakfasted,
1U
tse family eetjo.
he rose and buckled 011 his knapsack, paid his reckoning, and
took his leave. He walked, at first, slowly, and scarcely with a
resolution, now, to visit Percival's house, after the unpleasant
relation given him at the inn. That it was true he could not
doubt, from the circumstantial manner in which it was given,
and also from that sudden departure of Percival—into Wales,
as Una said it was.
 But whither, then, shall I go? thought the wanderer, his
heart sinking with a sense of wretchedness;  I seem to be the
sport of some unseen evil power. The years of earnest and
happy aspiration for mental excellence which I knew before the
strange changes of these last few days—are they for ever fled ?
I must not give way to despair ; for I am young, and may yet
see every cloud of trouble disappear, and my sun of happiness
shine clear and steadfast. . ...
Then again his heart sank with the thought that he should
have lost the good esteem of one who had shown him so much
fostering kindness through so many years.
 And do I not deserve this ?  he reasoned against himself;
 I could not be contented even while surrounded, as I was,
with so much that ought to have made heart and mind content.
Yet I do not deserve the blame with which I am now charged ;
and for which I am now an outcast. Why did I not stay and
challenge accusation, endure imprisonment, dare all threatened
peril, with the consciousness that I had only exerted the,right
of self-defence? It is too late now to regret that I took advice
which, if it were cowardly, was meant to be kind. To go back
now would but expose me to double derision and blame. I must
go on. But why go again to this house of mystery? I may
date the commencement of these recent troubles to my former
visit there. Still, some of them might have arisen had I never
gone there.
In this state of questioning and indecision Harlow went on for
miles, never having the resolution to turn aside or to go back,
till he struck into the road along which he had formerly travelled,
and saw before him the guide-post marking the distance from
Stratford-on-Avon.
And now a thought arose in him that it .would be wiser to
walk on to the poet's birth-place, and write to his friend with the
feigned name from thence, and remain in the interesting town
till he could receive a letter in reply. Beply might disclose the
pleasing fact that all danger was over; and he could, until the
letter arrived, pass the time in Stratford, he thought, very agree-
ably. ■■■■■.'
His purpose was formed temporarily to act on the prompting
of this thought; out when he came in sight of the grand old o,ak»
THE FAMILY FEtJt).
175
flow stripped of the greater richness of its robes, and thought
of the interview with the fair musical enthusiast, to which his
sketch of that tree had led, it was impossible for him to go for-
ward. His resolution was fixed; but he thought he only wavered,
and that his heart joined his fancy in making that whimsical
bargain with himself.
"I will go and see if the old willow trunk is yet where I placed
it, he said inwardly, when he saw the gap in the hedge, by
■which he had passed out of the high road, was unrepaired ;  if
it be removed, I will take it for an omen that I am to avoid the
hermitage ; if it be yet across the brook, I will traverse it, and
venture to call and try to see Una Percival once more.
The willow—the omen of his own creation—the bridge, re-
mained ; and Harlow bounded over it, and hastened along the
footpath where he had first caught sight of Una's light form
tripping on to meet her father. He doubted of the propriety
of going on, and began to ask himself what reason he should
give to Percival—Una, he hoped, would need none—for calling
at the Hermitage, and being in that part of the country again so
soon. But it would suffice, he thought, to say that he was again
visiting Stratford to survey the town, and all that rendered it
interesting, more closely than his leisure allowed him to do
before; and that he had taken the liberty to make a passing
call at the house where he was formerly so hospitably received.
His heart beat fast, as he drew near the old manor-house ; and
he felt an indefinable dread at opening the door which led into
the dark shrubbery. There was not a living thing to be seen,
except the quiet sheep grazing in the enclosure ; nor were there
any signs of human life when he summoned resolution enough to
open the door. He thought the shrubbery looked more gloomy
than before. Very feebly he pulled the oldfashioned handle of
the bell, and could hear his heart beat violently against his ribs
as he waited at the house door ; it was not opened immediately.
Wilfred thought it trebly longer than it was before it was opened,
and, if he had not felt so full of vague apprehension, would have
pulled the bell-handle again.
Not old Miles, whom he expected to see, but Percival himself
opened the door. But how changed he was—and with what a
wild look of horror he regarded Harlow! The young man's
blood chilled at sight of him, as he stood, wrapped in a long
foreign-looking morning gown, lined with furs, his hair disordered,
his beard unshaven, his mouth disparted, and his eyes glaring at
the young visitor. Wilfred could not move ; he felt real fear at
bein^ in the presence of an insane man; for the story of the
landfady at the inn rushed on his mind. The arm over which he
had thrown his cloak fell while he thus stood, and the cloak
176
THE FAMILY FEUD.
dropped on the ground—at which Percival started back, stretched
out his hands, and suddenly cried—
 He is come! the Avenger of Blood has found me at last I '*
■—and then fell on his face, and writhed in epileptic convulsions.
Old Miles and the man Dick, with two servant women, were
in the passage almost in an instant, having heard Percival's out-
cry and his groans. They were immediately busied with raising
their master, though Miles cast a forbidding look at Harlow, by
way of recognition. Dick, who was a large-boned, sturdy-built
man, bore Percival into the house in his arms, and the women
attended him. But Miles stepped to the threshold, and confront-
ing Harlow, said—
 What do you want here, sir? 
 I merely—took the liberty to—to call—as I passed by—to
Stratford, stammered Harlow.
 Then, Mr. Percival was not expecting you ?
 Certainly not; and I am exceedingly sorry to have alarmed
him.
 He has been ill for the last two or three days, or he would
not have been thus affected—but why did you not ring P 
 I did; but I believe I only pulled the handle slightly.
 We did not hear the bell in the kitchen. Well, sir, if you
wish to come in you can do so. But there is nobody to receive
you ; and it is likely that this relapse into which you have thrown
Mr. Percival—though, of course, you did not intend it—will last
several days.
 I will bid you' good day,' then, said Harlow,  only begging
that you will express my sorrow for what I have so inadvertently
done, to Mr. Percival, when he recovers ; and "—
 You must excuse my not doing that; it would only distress
him, and he never knows what he say3 or does in his fits, nor
remembers it afterwards.
 Be pleased, then, to give my respectful regards to Miss
Percival"—
 I wish I could either do that, or learn where to assure her
of my own, said old Miles, with deep sorrow in his face.
 Is she not at home P asked Wilfred.
 No : nor will she ever return, I fear. We know not where
she has gone; but it is only the end I expected "—and the old
man moved his head respectfully, and slowly closed the door as
Harlow turned away to pursue his journey to Stratford.
On arriving, once more, in that town, Wilfred, without delay,
despatched a letter to the friend who bad so zealously under-
taken to watch the course of events for him in the quarter where
he was menaced with danger. He remained till the third day
to await the receipt of a letter in return; and, meanwhile,
THE FAMILY FEUD.
177
examined anew, and more leisurely, the house where the world-
poet was born, and the beautiful church where he is buried, and
that speaking bust, and the strange inscription on the slab ; at-
tractions so irresistible alike for the curious and the reflective.
But however strongly assisting outward associations may be for
profitable reflection, personal trouble disables us from thinking
with profit. Harlow's thoughts were often far away from
Shakspere, even while surrounded with so much that calls him
up almost to the eye.
Harlow dwelt on the thought that Una was now a fugitive,
like himself. He had but one belief as to whither she had fled.
It must be to London. Her own declaration that she must flee
thither, sooner or later, was fresh in his memory. Pondering
on this remembrance, he wished to follow her. No doubt his
desire to see her again was quickened by the disappointment he
had just undergone at the door of the Hermitage. He eagerly
wished, one moment, that the contents of the letter he expected
from his friend might be such as to drive him to London, and the
next, reproached himself for his folly. But the letter arrived,—
assured him that danger at home was greater than ever—and
urged him, expressly, to seek a hiding-place in some of the wil-
dernesses of the metropolis. Harlow received the letter as the
fiat of destiny ; and was soon on his way to London.
CHAPTER II.
Renewal of the Acquaintance of Wilfred with the Fair Musical Enthusiast.
A week after Wilfred Harlow quitted Stratford-on-Avon, he
wound his way from Temple-Bar through Bell-alley, and threaded
several streets till he found an obscure court amidst the crowded
mass of buildings behind the south-west corner of Lincoln's-Inn-
Pields. Enquiring for a lodger at a half-dilapidated, dingy-
looking house, he was shown up a narrow, creaking stair, to the
second floor. Una opened the door of a room, the instant that
he knocked at it; and the next moment he was her sole com-
panion in the dreary apartment. The evening before he had
discovered her as a singer, under a feigned name, at a concert;
had contrived to speak with her as she was leaving the room
where the concert had been held, and made an appointment to
see her.
Una expressed gratification at seeing Harlow^ but her words
seemed formal and cold to one who could not see her without
N
178
THE FAMILY EETTD.
fervid excitement, although, he believed he had schooled down
his feelings into strict sobriety. He felt chilled by her manner,
and glanced discontentedly round the beggarly room, with its
dirty-papered walls, and in which the few articles of furniture
were all either broken, or worn and discoloured, save a new;
plain-looking piano-forte, which was evidently a new lodger
there.
 This is a great change, you will be thinking, Mr. Harlow,
said Una, observing the employment of his eyes;  but you will
remember what I told you, when I saw you in a very different
looking room. And you will guess, at once, that concealment
is my object in choosing a place like this for my lodging, and in
such a neighbourhood.
 I had concluded it was so, said Wilfred;  but does not the
contrast and change sadden you? 
. "I care nothing about the contrast, answered Una; "hand-
some rooms cannot make happy hearts and contented minds.
And if I am not happy here, it is not the look of the room that
prevents me from being so. I may have other causes for sad-
ness; but I shall master them in time.
 May I ask if you do not think of returning soon to the
Hermitage ?  said Harlow.
 I have no thought of returning, either soon or late, she
replied;  why should I return thither to be always miserable,
or, eventually, mad?
Harlow looked at her compassionately, but knew not how to
reply. Una broke the embarrassment, by asking how Wilfred
had enjoyed his first visit to London, and whether his stay in it
would be long. And these questions led to the confession that
he was uncertain as to his stay; and that he had done little or
nothing since his arrival but visit all places of musical entertain-
ment, whether famous or obscure, in the hope of meeting with
herself. Una received the confession in the most unimpassioned
manner, apparently.
 You thought, then, that I should soon be here, she re-
marked,  from what I told you.
 I also reasoned that you would be here, said Wilfred,
 when I learned, some nine or ten days ago, that you had left
the Hermitage. I called there.
He felt vexed at the self-command she manifested; for he
could see it was not indifference, as he thus spoke.
 Did you see my father ?  she asked.
 He was unwell; and I did not stay, when I learned that.
I did not even cross the threshold. Miles told me that you had
left home, and he knew not whither you had gone; and X
walked on to Stratford at once.
THE FAMILY FETID.
179
Harlow had evaded Una's question, and she did not appear to
observe it; but immediately turned the conversation away from
remembrances which, it was plain, were disagreeable to her.
 You will have an opportunity of hearing the grand musical
epic to-night, she said ; here is a ticket for the performance
of the ' Messiah.' It is mine, by way of performer's privilege.
Will you be pleased to accept it ? 
 Most gratefully, answered Wilfred.  Then you are again
to give me a glimpse of Paradise1  he added; and the next
moment thought the lady would deem him very foolish; but
she only fixed a melancholy look upon him, and then said,—
 I wish we could enter an eternal Paradise, instead of getting
mere glimpses of it. I often approach it, on the wings of music ;
but the pinions fail, and I drop down before the gates of light
are gained.
 Yet, it we catch a glimpse of refined delight, of pure hap-
piness, but, occasionally, said Harlow, trying to console him-
self as well as the person he was addressing, and whom he
believed to be enduring great mental conflict while endeavouring
to conceal it;  should we not reckon ourselves privileged above
the majority of mankind, and also recompensed for the suffering
we may undergo at other seasons ? 
 Perhaps we ought, she replied;  but trouble becomes more
poignant after rapture; and ths grossness of the sources of our
trouble I often feel to be almost unendurably repulsive.
The conversation gradually became just of the rapt and fan-
ciful nature to absorb the mind of Harlow. How treating of
the ideally beautiful, and then dealing with some metaphysical
abstraction, Una's eloquence and enthusiasm were so fully
revived, that he thought her as intellectually worshipful, as
when they conversed together that live-long delightful day at
the Hermitage. He never noted how the time sped; and the
lady herself had, at length, to give a hint that she must prepare
for her engagement of the night. Wilfred, to his delight, was
invited to repeat his call; and promised to repeat it on the
morrow. Pull of the refined pleasure this meeting had given
him, and expectant of even higher rapture for the evening, he
defied distant forms of menacing trouble, a3 he walked buoyantly
away from Una's lodging.
180
THE FAMILY FEED.
CHAPTER III.
Harlow's Rapture receives a Check.—He becomes a Subject for the Moral Surgery
of London.—The Effects of his Confidence in the Secret Letter-Writer.
It was not all rapture with. Harlow—his letters from the zealous
friend at a distance continued to be of a gloomy description, and
the torture they gave him was often so irksome—particularly
when they hinted at some new and impending, but vague trouble
—that he was often on the point of writing to his patron direct,
in spite of his friend's warning. In other tormenting moments
he was ready to dash off from London, and enter the old scene
of danger, but the fascination of Una's society held him fast.
He saw her daily after that first visit, and whenever she had no
 professional engagement"—for she used the phrase herself—
their conversation, varied by Una's singing and performances on
the piano, were prolonged till a late hour of the night.
Three weeks had now passed away, and though his intellec-
tual estimate of Una had risen, it was not so with the moral. He
reflected that it was very strange she should never evince any
curiosity respecting his circumstances or connections, and never
inquire a second time how long he purposed remaining in London.
He remarked, too, that she never again mentioned her father;
and when he was intending to mention Percival, she seemed to
divine his intention, and thwart it by raising his enthusiasm for
some fresh flight in ideality or metaphysic speculation, or for
some new beauty in music, and thereby leading him to forget
almost the existence of Percival.
One day he went to Una's lodging resolved to introduce her
father's name in the course of his visit. Her look and language
astonished him when he uttered the syllables.
 Let me beg of you, Mr. Harlow, she said,  never to pro-
nounce that name again in my hearing !
 Hot the name of your father! exclaimed Wilfred.
 I renounce him! she replied—not with seeming anger, but
coldly and deliberately, and with eyes that almost resembled
those of a statue.  Mr. Harlow, she went on,  please to
listen to me this once on this subject, and then let it never
again be mentioned by either of us. I cannot be happy with the
person you have mentioned, nor can I make him happy—no
ower on earth can. Why, then, should I lose the happiness
can find without being where he is? I can find it in
music, if I be absent from him; I can do without his help, for
THE FAMILY FEUD.
181
I can live by music, as a profession. I took nothing from him
when I left his house but the bare means of coming hither,
together with her picture, and a few other small memorials of
my mother; and I have earned sufficient for my wants hitherto,
and do not fear for the future. I leave him to the fate I cannot
avert from him, to find the happiness which is my right in
music—X am devoted to it alone henceforth—I will live and die
for it! Let us forget what we have been talking about
What say you to this aria of Beethoven's ? Listen !
Her face became radiant, the stony eye rekindled with rapt
fire, and she seemed to throw a power that was unearthly into
the notes she uttered to the instrumental chords, which were
superb in their enchantment. Harlow sat transfixed with
wonder, but felt disinclined to renew the conversation when the
music ceased. Una terminated the visit abruptly by reminding
him that she must prepare for her evening's engagement, which
would be of an unusually arduous nature, and Harlow hastily
took his leave.
 What heartless selfishness ! said Wilfred to himself, as he
walked back to his lodging.  Could I, if my father were alive,
and fated to wrrithe in those horrible fits to the end of life, for-
sake him and abjure his name, to seek my own happiness, as she
calls it ? How can she be happy in leaving him to his misery ?
A father, too, so fondly indulgent as Percival was—doting on
this strange unnatural child of his—surrounding her with ease
and elegance! It is abhorrent to think of. She must be touched
with insanity, like her parent.
And then he checked himself, remembering the high endow-
ments of Una, and again regarded her as a creature to be almost
worshipped for them. But what were intellect and lofty
imagination, his heart pleaded again, without natural affection,
and tender pity, even for the miserable you might meet in the
street, much more for a father ?
A limping beggar just then accosted him ; he was jostled by
the crowd, who pressed on, refusing to notice the beggar; but
Wilfred stopped, determined he would not imitate the careless
crowd, or the unnatural daughter. The beggar's pitiful story
moved him, and he took out his purse from the left fob—Wilfred
was shrewdly careful to keep it there, and to carry his loose
silver in the right, calculating that the thieves, with whom he
had been told London abounded, would direct their depredating
hands to the right fob, as that which was most likely to contain
a man's money—he took his purse from the left fob, and, with a
heart of generous indignation at Una and the pitiless crowd,
gave the cripple lialf-a-guinea. How the beggar's eyes brigh-
tened, and how eloquent he grew with gratitude ! But Harlow
182
THE FAMILY FEUD.
did not stay to hear lnm come to an end ; lie hurried on to reach
his lodging, in Cecil Court, St. Martin's Lane, remembering
that his distant friend had promised a letter divulging the mean-
ing of those vague hints at new trouble, and he would have to
read it, and acknowledge the receipt of it, and that it was now
near post time.
At the crossing into St. Martin's Lane, however, he was baffled
in his desire to get over by a crowd assembled round a dead
horse; for the last week had been one of keen frost, and the
dead-horse-spectacle was now frequent; so frequent that Harlow
was disgusted with the vulgar curiosity of the crowd, and began
to elbow his way somewhat unceremoniously.
"What d'ye mean, sir? demanded a tall showily-dressed
nlan, planting himself before Harlow, and looking fierce;  what
d'ye mean, sir, by treading on a gentleman's toes ?
 I did not tread on your toes, sir, replied Harlow.
 I say you did, sir, asserted the other, with an oath.
Harlow's temper was rising, and he would have answered
very angrily, but felt some one pull so strongly at his coat tail
that he turned to look behind him. It was the crippled beggar,
who held up his pocket-handkerchief, and cried—
 Heaven bless yer honour ! I saw it drop jist as you left that
precious bit o' goold in my hand, and I've hurried after ye to
give it ye. Bless yer good kind heart! ye've saved me and my
Eoor wife, and seven small children—the youngest was only born
ist week—from starvation ! I could go to the end o' the world,
and farther, to serve a gintleman like yer honour ! May all the
powers 
 Stand out o' the way, you fool! cried a porter, with a
big load resting on his head, and the stuffed pad, or  knot, on
his shoulders.
And Harlow would have been laid sprawling in the street, had
he not by one agile spring reached the foot-pavement. He did
not turn to look behind him, or think of the beggar, though he
had in his hand his recovered pocket-handkerchief—recovered,
because the beggar had, the minute before, taken it out of his
pocket to give it him, byway of assisting the tall showily-dressed
man to manage a little professional business. Harlow strode
away up the lane, into the court, to his lodging ; a letter was
given him by his landlady, and he was soon in his own room,
had broken open the letter and begun to read it.
What could be the meaning of the letter ? It congratulated
him so oddly on having made so good provision for his journey
before he set out upon it; hoped he would husband his wealth, and
especially take care of the sharpers with which London swarmed;
and advised him, if he joined the profession, to learn it well.
THE FAMILY FEUD.
183
He did not finish the letter, but felt so much in a maze, that
he began to read it over again. By a sort of instinct, when he
again came to the word  sharpers, he put his hand into the
left pocket, where he had replaced his purse after relieving the
beggar. The purse was gone ! He dropped the letter, sprung
tip in alarm, and searched every pocket he had; but there was
no purse,—nothing but the seven-and-sixpence in silver in the
right-hand pocket of his trowsers !
He turned hot and cold; his head swum; and when he was
able to rally his senses a little, he felt at once chagrined, ashamed,
and wretched. The truth flashed on him that the beggar was
no cripple, but an impostor, and that the flashy-dressed fellow who
charged him so falsely with treading on his toes was an accom-
plice, and that one had robbed him while the other drew his
attention to the handkerchief. He seized his hat, with the
intent to run out and try to seize one of the thieves ; but put it
down again, with a conviction that he would only lose his
labour by attempting to find either of them.
And now Wilfred sank into the chair, and felt for the moment
the weakness of a child. A cast-out adventurer in London,—
a friendless orphan in the vast human wilderness, with only
seven-and-sixpence in his pocket! That purse held twenty-five
guineas when presented to him by his distant friend, under the
generous name of  loan. In spite of occasional lavishness, it
had lasted well; for Harlow had really been economical with its
contents, paying for his feasts of charity to others by imposing
fasts on himself. That afternoon, when he took it out to relieve
the beggar, he knew that it held twelve guineas and a half, so
that he had not to reproach himself with criminal waste; he had
only erred weakly, and not wickedly.
Yet he sat pondering and confusing himself till the woman of
the house brought a candle into his room, and asked if he needed
anything. He stared, but did not speak ; and the woman drew
back, and asked him what was the matter : was he ill P—he looked
so white ! He mustered recollection enough to reply that he
was not ill, and that he would want nothing except to have a
letter taken to the post as soon as he could write it. It was too
late by an hour the woman said, and then left the room. Harlow
relapsed into stupefaction.
The misery of that night was indescribable. He had never
but once in his life experienced such wretchedness. When he
recovered a little self-command, he again read the mysterious
letter ; but it did not add to his comfort. How could he apply
to his distant friend for more money, if he read that letter
aright P His friend seemed to hint at some dishonesty. Was
that the true meaning of these late hints about a new trouble ?
184
THE FAMILY FETTP.
Who could dare to charge him with dishonesty ? Once a light
thought flickered across his mind, from hope's lantern, that his
friend was rallying him with the words  good provision for the
journey before you set out, and meant it as a generous hint
that he was over economical, and should have asked for more
money. But the feeble ray of light died out as he turned to the
other part of the letter.
Yet, to whom could he apply for help but to his distant friend P
He had not a single acquaintance in London, except Una; and
he could not have asked or accepted pecuniary help from her,
even if she had not told him that she was living solely by her
own exertions. He would write to his friend, at any rate, and
would demand an explanation of this strange letter, and also tell
the whole story of the loss of the purse, and how helpless it had
left him.
Was he so helpless ? A ray of truer light broke in upon
him. He would, so soon as the shops were open in the morn-
ing, go and purchase a small canvas stretcher, dash off a sketch,
and take it to a picture-dealer. He could do something in
that way. He should not be left to perish yet. For one hour,
he experienced a bright relief to his misery. He even dreamt
of fame and independence. It might be that this his extremity
might prove the source of his fortune. It was not the first
thought he had had of making his way by art; but he had
hitherto put it aside,—partly through the expectation of speedily
leaving London, but mainly through his strange infatuation
with Una. That spell was now broken, he told himself.
Then he reminded himself that he had more need to think of
his own critical situation than of Una's faults. His own faults,
too,—the memory of them ought to keep him from judging
others. His discontent, even while surrounded with indulgence,
how criminal that was ; and did he not deserve the punishment
that had now fallen on him? To justify himself was the next
thought: and thus he went on, revolving old memories, and the
mystery of his birth, till grim and fearful images arose, and
harassed and tormented him ; and he tried to find a refuge from
them in sleep, but without success.
In the morning he wrote and posted a letter, couched in as
mild phrase as he could command ; and then, without delay,
procured the requisite materials for his purposed labour. The
grand oak in Percival's grounds presented itself to his memory
—for he had not the portfolio at command,—and he traced an
elderly man and a youth standing beneath it, and a light female
figure hastening towards them. The accessories were few and
slight; but they helped well to give effect to the principal sub-
ject. He worked with resolution, keeping down querulous and
THE FAMILY FETID.
185
desponding thoughts ; and on the second day, he hastened away
to seek a purchaser for his hasty performance. He was told it
was hasty by the first shopman he tested; and yet the man who
depreciated his work retained it until he offered it for a price
only half-a-crown above the cost of the materials; and Harlow
received the pittance, and took another piece of canvass back to
his lodging, resolved to continue the struggle he had begun.
At the door his landlady handed him two letters. One was
from his distant friend,—for the handwriting of the superscrip-
tion was the same with that of all the letters he had received
since his flight. A gloom fell over him before he opened it;
and he never felt himself so degraded as when he had read it.
He was a detected thief, his correspondent told him in terms of
the greatest insult. He had embezzled moneys from his bene-
ficent patron to a large amount; and it was now clear that this
had been the real cause of his absconding. No relief would be
sent to such a base ingrate. The warning was given him, from
sheer pity on the part of his correspondent, to quit his lodging,
and conceal himself from search, or he would soon have to pay
the penalty of his crimes.
_ Harlow dashed the letter on the floor of his room, and gnashed
his teeth in frenzy. The folly he had been guilty of, in taking
the counsel of such a friend—a mere stranger—one who could
believe him to be so vile—how it smote him ! How could he
have been so contemptibly credulous as to trust to sudden pro-
fessions from one whom he had never met but twice in his
life; and why had he acted so untruthfully to himself as to
abscond like a criminal! But the remedy was in his own power:
it was to leave London instantly—to walk all the way back to
the place he had deserted in a moment of folly, and dare the
proof of these vile accusations. He was not in his landlady's
debt; and, scanty as his money was, he could subsist upon it.
The other and unopened letter caught his eye on the table.
He snatched it up, and found that it was from Tina. She
complained that he had not called to see her on the preceding
day—the day which he had spent in working so resolutely at
the sketch. Should he see her again ?—to what purpose ? His
fascination with her was only another of his follies,—he doubted
whether it was not the chief.
But Una in her letter, demanded that Wilfred should not
think harshly of her for the rash words she had uttered about
her father;—there was the name, notwithstanding that wild
declaration of having abjured her parent; and she acknowledged
she had spoken erringly. But there was other matter in Una's
letter which tended to soften the heart of Wilfred : she asked
if any trouble had befallen him, and if it were in her power to
186
THE FAMILY FEUD.
help him. In conclusion, she besought him to come to her the
instant that he should receive her letter, or, he was warned, she
would be at the door of his lodging within an hour after the time
at which she knew the letter must reach him.
Harlow wished to prevent that,—determined to go and call on
her by way of farewell,—thrust both the letters into his pocket,
and walked away to Una's lodging. She received him with more
of welcome expectancy in her eyes than had hitherto been
vouchsafed to Wilfred since the renewal of their acquaintance
in the great city. Harlow's agitation was too great to be con-
cealed, and his heart was too ill at ease to be relieved by the
welcome she gave him; his look was as haggard as if he had
been tossed about by a sea tempest, and the wild angered gleam
of his eyes, and his few broken words, were taken by Una as
tokens that he was deeply offended with her.
 You are angry, very angry with me, I see: is it not so F 
she asked, with quivering under-lip.
,  I shall quit London in another hour, he said, without an-
swering her;  and I have simply come to bid you farewell.
Una's eyes filled with tears.
 Because I have given you so much offence that you cannot
forgive me, although I acknowledge I was wrong ?  she said.
 Indeed, it is not on your account that I am going, he re-
plied ;  I have nothing to forgive, and have no unkind feeling
towards you since you feel you were wrong ; I have other and
imperative reasons for leaving London immediately.
The expression of her face changed marvellously in Wilfred's
eyes.
 Then you are in some grievous trouble, said she, with
earnest sympathy,— I know you are: your looks betray it.
Will you not tell me what it is ? do not, I pray you, conceal
it from me; I shall be wretched if you leave me in this
manner.
Harlow's heart was touched; he was too miserable to be dis-
dainful of sympathy. Without opening more of his own history
than seemed immediately necessary, he first described, and then
read to her the letter which had so strongly wrought on him«
Una's sympathy with his indignation was strong ; and the con-
versation led to the discovery by her of Wilfred's condition of
dependence upon the kindness of his patron for so many years
of his life, and how he had thus been able to pursue his inclina-
tion for Art.
 But you cannot prefer to be dependent on another, she
observed, significantly,  surely you would feel it nobler to be-
come the architect of your own fortunes.
Harlow was silent; but he felt stirred by that appeal to his
THE FAMILY FETTE.
187
independence, which was expressed more vividly in Una's look
than by her words.
 I think you would not do wisely, she continued,  to go
down to this distant place and throw yourself on the precarious
favour of those who have hitherto been your friends, but who
must now be prejudiced against you; much less ought you to
venture into the toils of your enemies : they must be cunning
and malignant from the nature of this vile accusation, and they
may ruin you irrecoverably. You are conscious of your own
innocence, remain out of their reach, and let them rave on with-
out troubling yourself more about them. Make your own way
here, as an artist; you can do it with resolution: your art is
nobler than a kingdom ; I would not relinquish mine to be an
empress!
Her enthusiasm struck on a well-tried chord that always re-
sponded in his nature ; and he would have been led captive by
it without help, only he had the remembrance of having made
but half-a-crown by the work of more than a day : he told her
of it, with a faint smile.
 Why did you not bring it to me ?  she asked, with excite-
ment;  let me beg of you to go instantly and try to recover it
from the picture-dealer. If you leave London, I wish to pre-
serve it as a remembrance of you ; and if you remain—as I
believe you ought and trust you will—it will still be pleasing to
possess the first fruits of your genius 
 The sketch shews no genius: it is not worth possess-
ing 
 But I wish to possess it; and, surely, you would not wish
to prevent me. Here is money ! I entreat you, take it and go
at once to the picture-dealer; give him any price for it 
 Indeed I will not, said Harlow ;  but I will go and ask
him if he will take a trifle more for it than it cost him, if you
like; or he may have ticketed it, and put it in his window. It
is not very far from where we sit.
Una became more importunate; and, in order to gratify her,
Wilfred rose and set oil' for the picture-dealer's.
188
tHE FAMIlY FEtTD.
CHAPTER IV.
The Intimacy of Wilfred and Una is terminated by an unexpected Emit.
Harlow examined the picture-dealer's window ; but bis sketch
of the grand oak was not there. The dealer met him with a
pleasant look as he entered the shop.
 I am glad you have called again so soon, said the trades-
man;  i have capital news for you. Mr. Minderhout, a great
judge of pictures, and a very liberal buyer, looked in only a
quarter of an hour ago, and bought your little sketch the instant
that he saw it. He seemed mightily taken with it, and desired
me to send you to him when you called again. Here is his card.
Go, and call on him without delay. He is very rich, and an
introduction to him may be the making of you.
To the dealer's surprise, the young artist refused to take the
card, and said the gentleman's patronage would be useless to
him, since he was about to leave London.
"Leave London! said the other ;  why, where else do you
expect to make your way as an artist ? Of course, I can't tell
what prospects may have been held out to you of success else-
where ; but, I should say, unless you have some certain de-
pendence in another quarter, you had better stay where you are.
It will be difficult for you to make bread and salt out of London
as an artist.
 I did not make more than that by the sketch I sold you.
"Never mind that! said the tradesman, reddening; "you
could not expect to make much by a first sketch; but you should
not be discouraged: much more, now you have the offer of an
introduction to a gentleman like Mr. Minderhout.
"Who is Mr. Minderhout? It is a foreign name, said
Harlowe ;  I have either heard it, or read of it.
 You have read of Minderhout Hobbima, replied the picture-
dealer;  Hobbima, the celebrated Dutch painter. This gentle-
man is said to be a descendant of his. Be that as it may, he
is a great collector of Hobbimas, insomuch that, in the trade, we
call him Hobbima Minderhout. He is a very clever person, as
well as very rich: he has more judgment of a picture than any
one I know. Take his card, and go to him immediately, if
you be wise. You will enjoy his company very much. He has
no pride in him, and is sure to receive you well.
The picture-dealer's account of this Mr. Minderhout interested
THE FAMILY FEUD.
189
Wilfred, and also encouraged him to hope that he might get
back the sketch for the gratification of Una. A judge of high
art, he thought, could not place any real value on that raw
sketch. Mr. Minderhout was close at hand ; for the address on
the card was,  Hotel, Leicester Square. So Wilfred
took the card and hastened thither.
He was shown up the wide staircase to the first floor of the
hotel. A room-door opened, and there stood Percival! Harlow
started, and might have been disposed to run down the stair-
case, and escape from one whom he wished so little to see, had
he felt strength to do so. Percival, on the contrary, seized
Harlow's hand eagerly, drew him into the room, placed him in
a chair, and closed the door; and with flushed and exhilarated
looks declared it was delightful to see him.
 But I am not surprised, Mr. Harlow, he said;  I knew it
must be you. I was sure you were in London the moment I
saw that sketch ; but you did not expect to see me here, I sup-
ose? Why, what is the matter with you? Are you ill, or
ave I frightened you ? I'm sure I'm very glad to see you.
 Thank you, sir! returned Harlow, very faintly ;  I—I did
not—expect to see you—especially under an—an assumed name!
 Oh, Mr. Harlow, I am not the only man who occasionally
goes under a name which is not his own, replied Percival.
At the instant, Wilfred observed old Miles sitting by the fire,
and keenly looking at him. That searching look, Percival's
significant speech, and the bitter mocking tone in which it was
uttered, and his own consciousness of disguise together, rendered
him speechless with confusion. He did not understand Per-
cival's talk for some moments after. Yet the appearance of
Percival was not calculated to give Harlow any increased
alarm. His dress and air were such as they were when Wilfred
saw him the first time, at the foot of the grand oak, save that
the expression of his eyes was softer. All traces of the lunatic
were gone, and any stranger coming into the room would have
regarded him simply as an intelligent and gentlemanly lodger
at the hotel. Such was Harlow's impression, and he would
have felt no uneasiness had it not been for that sense of per-
plexity about the way in which a certain question was to be
answered, should Percival put it to him. ^
 Have you been long in London, Mr. Harlow ? asked
Percival.
 Only a very short time, sir. Hot three weeks.
 And is it really ti*ue that you only made your first venture
on the hard career of an artist, this very day, as the picture-
dealer tells me ? 
 It is true that I sold him that paltrv sketch to-day, sir, and
190
THE FAMILY FETID.
I am surprised that you bought it; hut if I had any thought of
entering on the career of an artist, it is gone. I purpose quitting
London to-night: and as I have some little preparation to make,
I must, if you please, take my leave, sirand "Wilfred rose from
the chair with intent to make a quick exit.
"Nonsense, nonsense, my young friend! cried Percival,
gaily, and pushed Harlow back into the chair ;  I won't hear of
that. You must not despair of making your way, because you
have received but a beggarly price for your first sketch. I had
my way to make in the world from as lowly a beginning as
yourself: and I have a long story to tell you by way of
encouragement.
 I have no doubt, sir, that the story would be interesting,
said Harlow, bent on effecting his escape from the room;  but
I must forego the hearing of it. I have a long journey to per-
form ; and I must, absolutely, set off to-night.
 Whither are you journeying in such haste, Mr. Harlow? 
The question was suddenly put, and Wilfred, in his perplexity,
named the town from which he had fled. A remarkable change
came over the countenance of Percival at the mention of that
town, and the youth noted it.
 It is too late by several hours, observed Percival, taking
out his watch; "all the North coaches have gone: you cannot
go till to-morrow.
 I have to make the journey on foot, sir ; and I must leave
you at once, insisted Harlow, finding his case becoming more
desperate.
 On foot, my young friend!  exclaimed Percival, with a face
of serious sympathy ;  that you never shall! Come, Mr.
Harlow, he continued, placing his chair beside "Wilfred's, and
in such a direction that the young man could not now reach the
door without positive rudeness ;  you must receive me into
your confidence. You are in trouble : I see it by your manner.
If money be your difficulty, oblige me by accepting my help. I
can give you help, without any inconvenience to myself, and
shall yield it with pleasure.
Harlow's uneasiness was now greater than ever. He believed
Percival to be actuated by real kindness; but his feeling of
honour towards Una forbad his giving way; and he sat in per-
plexed silence.
 I see your diffidence prevents you from complying with my
entreaty, at once, went on the other, in a still more kindly
tone;  consent, at any rate, to put off your journey till to-
morrow ; and, perhaps, when you have had the night for consi-
deration, you may be inclined to honour me with your confi-
dence, and oblige me by accepting some little assistance.
THE FAMILY FEUD.
191
 I will defer tlie journey till to-morrow, answered Wilfred,
thinking the concession might help him to make his way out of
the room more readily.
 Thank you, my young friend, thank you! I am come up to
London on a somewhat painful business.
Wilfred felt as if he should sink through the chair!
 Indeed, a very painful business. By the way, Mr. Harlow,
you did not ask after my daughter.
Wilfred caught a sign from old Miles's finger, which was
meant for an injunction not to reveal the fact of that last call at
the door of the Hermitage; but he mistook it to mean only a
caution to conceal the unpleasant attending circumstances.
 I did not ask after her, sir, he stammered,  since I
learned, by a very hasty call at' your house, about three weeks
ago, that—that—she had left you.
 Indeed!  exclaimed Percival, and threw a wild glance at
old Miles.
 Yes ; Mr. Harlow called, said Miles, slowly, and with a
look which Percival evidently well understood;  but, I thought
the circumstance of too little importance to mention it to you.
Mr. Harlow was in great haste; and was only at the door for a
few minutes.
Percival now rose and began to walk about the room in great
agitation. Harlow mustered all his resolution, and said, in a
decided tone, that he would take his leave ; and Percival, much
to his gratification, approached him, and said, while taking his
hand,—
 Well, Mr. Harlow, I will not detain you to-night. I am
greatly obliged by your call; be pleased to repeat it early to-
morrow morning.
Wilfred bowed and quitted the room; and glided down the
hotel stairs with the feeling of one who has escaped from some
dreadful snare. In a few minutes he was at the door of Una's
lodging ; but the landlady answered his breathless inquiry by
saying, that the young lady had gone out a few minutes
before.
 She had grown apprehensive at my stay, and has gone on
to my lodging, thought Harlow, and hurried on towards St.
Martin's-lane. He met her returning thence, and drawing her
arm within his, urged lier to regain ber own room quickly,
beginning to relate to ber, vritb great excitement, the trial be
had just undergone in the presence of her father. Una trem-
bled as she listened ; but had recovered firmness by the time
they had reached her lodging.
 No : I shall not—I cannot yield to your wish, she said;
 J entertain no harsh feelings towards my father. But I
192
THE FAMILY FEED
cannot go and place myself again in his power. Do not urge
me to do so, against my conviction, that it would be a folly. ^
 I could not urge you to commit either a folly or a fault,
answered Wilfred;  I only urge you to consider of it,
calmly.
 I have considered. Do not, I pray you, urge me further.
Only let me rely on you to conceal your knowledge that I am
in London.
 You need not fear that. If I could have betrayed you, it
must have been while in your father's presence.
 Hark ! it is all over!  cried Una, while heavy footsteps
were heard on the creaking stairs ; and, in a few moments,
Percival and old Miles, Harlow and Una, formed a groupe of
faces in that dingy little room which might have tasked the pencil
of a Spagnuoletto to embody their exaggerated and yet varied
expressions of excitement.
CHAPTEE Y.
Which concludes the Sixth Book, and leaves Wilfred Harlow alone in London.
Foe a few moments the occupants of that little room stood at
gaze upon each other. Percival was the first to speak.
 Let us sit down!  said he, in a tone of command; and
then locked the door, and took possession of the key.  And
now, young man, he continued, in a deep restrained voice,
though his entire frame writhed with passion,  now for your
defence! You have, as a reward for my foolish trustfulness in
welcoming you to my house, persuaded my daughter to desert
me.
 I deserted it without persuasion. Mr. Harlow did not
persuade me to desert it. He neither knew that I had left it,
before he called a second time; nor that I was in London
till he—
Percival waved his hand, peremptorily ; and Una ceased.
 Speak, sir!  he demanded of Wilfred,  if you have not
had some purpose in doing this so guilty that you dare not
answer for conscious shame! 
 I have no guilty purpose to make me ashamed, sir,
answered Harlow, firmly;  your daughter has spoken the
truth, so far as you have allowed her to speak.
 Do you mean to deny that you are in London together by
pre-arrangement? 
THE FAMILY FEUD.
193
 I do. You invited me to your house most unexpected]}-,
and treated me kindly. I am not capable of abusing your
or any other man's hospitality, in the way you attribute
to me.
Percival scanned Harlow's face fiercely; but read not a
syllable of guilt, disguise, or fear in it.
 How many days have you been together here?  he asked,
with less offensiveness in his manner.
 I found Miss Percival at a concert, something more than a
fortnight ago; and I have seen her every day since, except
yesterday.
 You answer as if you spoke truth, observed Percival,
stopping to weigh the words;  but did you not learn from Una
that she was a runaway from her father ? 
 He did, broke in Una,  and counselled me to return
to you.
 Am I to conclude then, said Percival, speaking now in a
tolerably even tone to Harlow,  that you concealed your know-
ledge of my daughter being here from a false sense of honour ?
Is that what you would wish me to believe ? that you thought
it mean to betray her secret; and yet had not conscience enough
to* reflect that you were abetting her in an error ? 
 I may have been wrong, sir, replied Harlow, respectfully,
and wishing to allay the anger of one who he knew had too
great cause to feel aggrieved ;  but my sole reason for not tell-
ing you that I knew Miss Percival was here was, that I had
not her leave to do so.
"Well, sir, said Percival, deliberating a few moments with
himself,  I must have a few words with you, by way of more
complete explanation. But this is not the place for them,"—
and he glanced at Una—"I shall, on your honour, expect you
to give me that explanation to-morrow morning at my hotel,"—
and he rose and unlocked the door, and signed to Wilfred to
withdraw.
Harlow returned to his lodging with the fear of passing another
night of tormenting and distracting wakefulness ; but his over-
wrought nerves were so jaded that he sunk, soon after getting
into bed, into a heavy dreamless sleep. He felt such a renewal
of strength and spirit when he rose next morning, that he
thought himself brave enough to fight the Battle of Life, what-
ever hardship it might yet unfold for him. He went early to
Percival's hotel, and was received with formal, if not with real
respectfulness. Una, he was informed by her father, would
return to the Hermitage for the present. She had consented to
do so; and Percival hoped to persuade her to forego her wish
0
194
THE FAMILY FEUD.
for a more public life. If lie could not be would return with
ber to London.
"You must bave anticipated tbe private explanation I should
require of you, continued Percival;  I could not find my
daughter in tbe company of a young man, and under circum-
stances of secresy, without having suspicions of a certain nature.
I find, however, that you have made no professions of attachment
.—of a tender attachment, I mean—to Una; and, by her own
confession, she harbours only an intellectual friendship for your-
self. Enough on that subject. My daughter has entreated me
to give you some counsel respecting the troublous circumstances
in which you are cast. Will you allow me to look at the letter
you have received from the country ? 
 Yery willingly, sir, answered Harlow, and sought for the
letter with some appearance of dismay, till he noted the old sar-
casm—the only mark of coarseness there was in the manners of
the man—about Percival's mouth.
"I have the letter, said Percival, "and also this, which you
had from my daughter : you left them both at her lodging—I
suppose you will be at no loss to account for your forgetful-
ness. That I will return to you, he continued, giving Una's
letter into Harlow's hand;  but I am glad that I caught
sight of it. It prepared me to open the expostulation with
Una so gently last night, that she quickly yielded, and all was
soon forgiven.
"I.am happy to hear that, sir, said Harlow, while the father
stopped and mastered a little natural feeling.
"And now for your own business, went on Percival; "I
have read this letter—and I should know this hand, with all its
disguises, though they are many. Have you no suspicion as to
who wrote this letter ? 
 Suspicion!—the person who wrote it—that is not his true
name—but—what do you mean P 
 My daughter has given me the name of your late patron,
said Percival, while his face worked with intense feeling;  who
is about him? who have been your acquaintances? 
Wilfred pronounced several names ; and Percival grew livid
in the face, insomuch that Harlow became alarmed, and expected
to see a return of his distressing malady; but he seemed to
overcome the threatening power of insanity, as a strong wrestler
prostrates his foe.
 Young man, he said,  there is an evil influence at work
against you, which is too powerful for you to be able to cope
with it! Do not return whence you came; flee to the ends
of the earth, rather! But why not remain where you are, and
THE FAMILY FEUD.
195
work your way out by your own endeavours? he said, more
quietly.
 There seems little likelihood of my being able to do that,
answered Harlow;  and besides, you see the letter warns me
that I may soon be apprehended as a criminal if I remain in
London. I may as well go and dare danger as wait for that.
 Do not_ be misled by that part of the letter, rejoined
Percival quickly;  if you be innocent, as I believe you are,
you will not be molested in London. Eemain, I tell you; do
not even remove from your present lodging. If you discern any
danger—but there will be none if you remain—send to me ; I
may be able to give you help. Meantime, accept this : it will
afford you something to fall back upon,' should you find it
harder to win your way than I think you will.
 No, sir, I thank you, replied Wilfred, refusing to take the
money which Percival offered,  if I stay in London I will sup-
port myself or starve. I am as grateful for your kindness as if
I were to take it; but I so much regret taking money before—
 Eight!  said Percival;  instead of hope, I have now con-
fidence that you will succeed; you cannot fail with that spirit.
And now, farewell, we have fixed to go home this morning.
I will give your friendly remembrances to Una—but she had
better not see you—1—
 Give me one explanation, entreated the youth earnestly,
 do you believe the letter to be a trick ? What base influence
is it that you believe would be too strong for me ? 
 Ask me no more, answered Percival, growing dark again
with returning passion, and pressing his hand upon his fore-
head ;  ask me no more: I cannot bear it. Go back into the
toils of the fiend who wrote that letter, and you will be ruined
inevitably. Nor will this patron of yours come to your help ;
he is an unnatural monster—his father was one before him, for
he cast out his own child to starve—the whole family are un-
natural. He has cherished you, only with the intent to inflict
some cruelty upon you, and he has a fit instrument in his service.
I cannot,—I cannot! "—and with his hand still upon his fore-
head in which the veins seemed ready to burst, he rushed out of
the room.
Harlow remained almost terror-stricken, but it was only for
a few seconds. Old Miles appeared with an angry look, shook
his head, and pointed to the door; and Wilfred quitted the
hotel without either of them exchanging a syllable. Having
regained his lodging, the young artist sat and ruminated till he
felt as if he were in danger of lapsing into insanity, like the
mysterious being he had just qubted.
196
THE FAMILY FEUD.
 I must break away from thinking, he said to himself,  and
act, or I shall go mad.
For the present he resolved to remain in London, and try to
work out his way independently ; and immediately took up a
crayon, and placed himself before the fragment of canvass he
had bought on the preceding day.
THE FAMILY FETTD.
197
BOOK VII.
IV WHICH THE REAL HEROINE IN THIS HISTORY BEGINS TO SHOW HER METTLE,
AND THE ACTION OF THE EPIC REACHES ITS CLIMAX".
CHAPTER I.
In which the Heroine, in the true Spirit of Chivalry, sets out on an Expedition for
discovering: and recovering her strayed and dishonoured Knight.
It is New Year's eve. There has been a grand party at Mr.
Timothy Upliam's, where Crookit has figured with vivacity
among the guests, and kept up their good-humour: neither the
merchant nor his daughter seeming to be in very good spirits.
At Mr. Titus Downham's they have also the usual festivities of
the season, and the partisans of that side are busy in the draw-
ing-room : the elders in discussing the ways and means for
recovering town influence, and the younger in conversing on
the lighter affairs more interesting to themselves. A group of
the fairest surround young Algernon Downham ; Mary Granger
is among them. The young ladies are delighted with Algernon ;
but they think his cousin Mary only dull and poor spirited.
Some of the kindest whisper to each other that she is to be
pitied; and that, no doubt, she has an unpleasant sense of
dependence in the house of her uncle; while others, who are
envious of her gentle beauty, censure her sadness as a proof of
her pride ; and say that instead of feeling mortified at the idea
of her orphan dependence, she ought to be gratefully happy
under such kind and handsome treatment as she receives from
her relatives.
The light vanities little know how busily her heart and brain
have been at work since the conversation she had, the day
before, with her cousin about his parting with Cain Colton under
the oak; of the determination she has formed, since she could
not persuade Algernon to act; and how she is now husbanding
her strength to put her own resolve into action.
The festive party at Mr. Titus Downham's broke up about an
198
THE FAMILY FEUD.
hour after midnight; and, soon after, every inmate of the house
had retired to their wonted places of rest. Mary also went to
her chamber; but it was to put off the gay garments she had
worn for the evening, to clothe herself in warmer and plainer
attire, and to collect together and tie up in a handkerchief
such few articles for change, as she deemed necessary for a
journey.
By two in the morning she stole softly down stairs, let herself
out by the back-door into the garden, which skirted a lane that
led into the road to Dreamfield, and had soon reached the oak
where the two roads branched out. She had learned from her
cousin that the road to the right led to Oakford; and she took
it with a firm heart and a steady foot.
It was a beautiful, clear, star-light night; and Mary thought
it pleasant travelling, though the air was keen, and frozen snow
covered the ground. No sense of loneliness did she feel: no
fears haunted her. It was not remarkable that she was unmet
by a single passenger at such a season, and in a part of the
country where there was no throng either of business or of
population, except in the town she had left. Besides, the fes-
tivity of the eve had rendered the multitude heavy slumberers
during the first hours of the New Year. A confidence that she
was nearing the magnet of her heart, however distant he might
yet be, gave her strength ; her pure purpose in seeking him,—
to support him if he were in sickness or in trouble; to bring him
out of the way of error if he had fallen into it, or, as her truth-
ful spirit confided it would be, to lead him back pure to confront
his accusers, and triumph over them—endowed her with un-
flagging energy, and she bounded over the sixteen miles to
Oakford with increasing faith in the happy issue of her solitary
enterprise.
Mary drew near the little roadside inn as a distant church
clock struck six. There was a light in the upper room towards
the back of the house, she could see as she approached. It
moved, and it now shone through the chinks of the window-
shutters in front, as she stood and gave a gentle knock.
 Who's there ? asked a girl's voice.
 I want a breakfast before the coach comes up; please to let
me in, answered Mary.
 What, a woman first, on New Year's morn ! Nay, that'll
never do!  was the rejoinder;  we should have bad luck all
the year round.
 But you must let me in ; I have walked all the way from
Quarrelton, ar c! want refreshment,—besides, it is cold standing
here.
 I don't care; you may walk on, and keep yourself warm,
THE FAMILY FEUD.
199
till the coach overtakes you. I durst not let a woman in first
on New-Year's morn for as much as my life's worth ! 
 Come, come, open the door; you shall have a New-Year's
gift.
 A New-Year's gift!—how much? 
Mary promised the maiden a shilling; and there was a quick
and more musical response.
 "Well, if ye'll keep your word,—but will ye ?
 Never fear it;—only open the door.
Bolts and bars soon gave way: and Mary and the servant
maid smiled, as the one gave and the other received the shining
bit of silver.
 Well, it can't be a sign o' bad luck, said Sally,  to begin
the year so well!  and the hearty lass spat on the silver token
 for good luck, as she said.
Mary's sweet face, glowing with the keen air and the long
walk, also pleased Sally, hugely ; and she busily wiped the dust
off a chair with her apron, and welcomed Mary to be seated in
it while she made a fire, which she boasted she would do, and
have the kettle boiled too, in a quarter of an hour. Sally kept
her word, by the help of the bellows; and forthwith began to
spread out a substantial breakfast for herself and the traveller.
Let it not be supposed that Sally's tongue had lain still while
she was thus bustling about and blowing. She had the catalogue
of her own labours and virtues as milkmaid, dairymaid, house-
maid, chambermaid, and maid of all work, to run over; and she
ran through it glibly, too, by frequent practice. Mary did not
interrupt her by questioning her excellences; and waited to
see her settled at the breakfast table before putting some par-
ticular questions to her.
 Do either your master or mistress get up before the coach
passes ?  asked Mary.
 Not they, indeed, answered Sally ;  they leave all th' work
to me: they know I can get through it.
 I've no doubt of it, said Mary;  but it would be lonely
for you to be so long by yourself in the dark mornings, if pas-
sengers for the coach didn't bear you company now and then.
Yet, I suppose you haven't many of them? 
 Hardly one in a week, responded Sally ;  and seldom one
who has walked all the way from Quarrelton, like yourself,—
though there was one only a few weeks ago,
 Indeed! Do you know his name, and where he went to ? 
 Why, how do you know that it was a young man ?  asked
Sally, looking as keen as a cat when you scratch under the
table, and stopping short in conveying the spoonful of porridge
to her mouth.
200
THF FAMILY FETTD.
Mary did not answer. She felt that she had betrayed herself
for want of practice in cunning. But she was in the presence
of a lenient critic. Sally sympathised, for a tender reason, with
Mary's blushes.
 You needn't be afraid o' speaking about it to me, said the
soft-hearted maiden; I know what it is to—to feel a respect like
—for a young man, though one isn't always used kindly by 'em.
You may speak your mind to me.
And Mary spoke her mind, in the honest and open way that
was so much more congenial to her nature than a lame attempt
at cunning, and so far as she thought Sally could comprehend
her mind. And Sally showed the utmost desire to be of use to
her. The young man's name Sally did not know, for he never
told it; but she described Cain's features, and his cloak and his
' portmantle,' all so graphically that Mary was sure the clue for
finding him—or at least, the beginning of it—was now in her
own hands. Sally also remembered perfectly well that the
young man took his seat on the box, and mentioned to the coach-
man the place on this side of Warwick that he was going to;
and after a little endeavour she recalled the name of the village,
and told it to Mary.
 Then he has given over writing to you, I reckon, continued
Sally ;  that's just as I was sarved. But it's only like young
men, when they go away into another part—though they're full
o' promises never to forget one. But there's so many fresh faces,
you know; and most young men are very changeable. I've
proved it more than once. But I suppose the letter he gave to
the man would be for you ? He wrote it with a pencil on a bit
of a leaf he tore out of his pocket-book, for we've seldom any
writing-paper, or a pen-and-ink i' th' house; and we had
nought to seal it up with; and so I gave him a piece o' sugar-
paper and a string, and he made it up into a parcel—you would
think it a roughish sort of a love-letter! 
 Indeed, he never sent such a letter to me, said Mary, who
had listened to this portion of Sally's prate with very strong
and uneasy interest,  are you sure "—
 Sure, bless your soul! I remember it as well as if it were
only yesterday morning. It was such a particular odd sort of a
thing, you know, that I could not forget it.
To Mary's inquiries about the appearance of the man to whom
Cain had given the letter, Sally gave an honest but by no means
cheering answer. Honest Sally did not like his looks, or his
whispering; and she remembered, too, that he brought a letter
for the young man ; and that the young man turned away from
him to read it; and that she stole a glance at the young mans
THE FAMILY FEUD.
201
face—slie did not like to say that afore—and that she thought
the letter made the young man look very uneasy.
 Then he did not write the letter that you tied up in sugar-
paper till he had read the letter which the man brought ? said
Mary, trying to get a clear understanding out of Sally's reversed
story.
 No, nor until the man had asked him to write it, I think,
answered Sally ;  but they whispered so low that I could hardly
catch a word they said—though I'm as quick o' hearing as here
and there one.
Mary could gather no more that seemed useful to her from
the maiden ; and while Sally, pouring out meantime a hortative
of condolence, cleared away the breakfast things, Mary sat and
ruminated on the mysterious facts of that receipt and writing of
letters, and the appearance of that whispering messenger. For
a moment her heart sank with the fear that there was some guilt
in this mystery ; but she spurned the thought, as base and un-
worthy, and clung devotedly to the faith that she would find a
key to the mystery by perseverance, and that it would throw
open the proofs of Cain's unsullied honour to the clear view of
the world.
The sound of the coach-horn roused Mary from this reverie
which had closed her mental ears to Sally's sympathetic prattle,
and she sprang up with alacrity to resume her journey.
 Take the shilling back, said Sally, with the tear gathering
in her eye,  you 're, may be, scarce—and will have need of it.
Mary shook the honest maiden by the hand, and assured her
there was no need to return the New Year's gift which she had
said was so lucky, and it must not be thought of.
 Then I'll speak a good word for ye to the coachman, said
Sally.
But Sally did more. She whispered to the driver  that the
young woman was going to the place 011 this side Warwick,
where the young man went to a few weeks ago—him with the
cloak and the portmantle; and that the young man was this
young woman's sweetheart, and the young woman was going in
search of him.
The coachman secured Mary for his companion on the box,
wrapped an old great coat about her feet before he drew the
coach apron over them, folded another of more respectable ap-
pearance abont her shoulders, and—in short—took as much care
of her, and talked as kindly to her, as if she had been his own
child.' Mary was reminded of Jossy Jessop, and told him of it,
and it gave her pleasure to learn that he knew Jossy well, and
to hear his hearty commendations of Jossy's manly character,
and bold declaration that Jossy was a first-rate whip, and could
202
THE FAMILY FEUD.
not be beaten by any man on the road, in any part of England,
be did not care who the man might be.
But with all his cheering gossip, the coachman kept silence
about what Sally had told him in whisper. Cain had shown so
little disposition to talk during his journey, that the coachman
had learned nothing of his character. And as he knew not how
to cheer the young woman by talking about a lover he had not
been able to fathom, the coachman never mentioned the lover.
But when they drew up at the little inn where Cain had got
down, the coachman not only performed the promise he had given
to Mary to speak kindly for her to the landlady, but he repeated
Sally's part, and whispered to the landlady that he understood
the young woman was going after her lover, the young gentle-
man whom he had set down there a few weeks ago—the young
gentleman who asked for a private room. It was not from mis-
chief, or a want of reticence that the coachman thus acted. What
he could not do he thought the shrewd landlady might be able
to do; either give the young woman good advice, and persuade
her to go home again, or a likely direction for discovering the
object of her search.
Mary did not ask for a private room, but the landlady con-
ducted her to one, very promptly and kindly,—cast one search-
ing look at her, without attracting Mary s notice,—and told-her
tea should be sent in immediately. Mary was a little surprised
when the landlady herself brought in the tea, and sat down to
partake with her. They had not been seated many seconds before
their eyes met, and a mutual sense of recognition began to
strengthen so fast, that Mary at length said—
 I think—pray excuse me if I be wrong—but I think I must
have seen you somewhere before.
 And I'm thinking the same, answered the landlady;  what
part of the country do you come from? Quarrelton!  she
continued, catching Mary's answer,  that's not so many miles
from Squire Fernshawe's and Blythwick Hall.—Why, I vow and
declare it's little Mary Granger, that used to be! 
 Oh, Patty Wickham!  cried Mary,  I remember you,
now!
And the landlady accepted Mary's friendly kiss; but told
Mary she was no longer Patty Wickham, but Mrs. Martha
Tomlinson, a widow, and mother of a daughter as tall and good-
looking as Mary's self, though Patty the younger was scarcely
fourteen—and yet she had been in service a couple of years, for
all that.
 And how are your father and mother ?  asked Mrs. Martha;
 and how is the good old squire ? Is he still living P He must
be a great age if he be. Bless me, how well I remember you,
THE FAMILY FEUD.
203
now, though you were only a little thing when I left the hall to
come to my father's. I did not expect it would be so; but I
married poor dear Tomlinson a month after; and then he was
soon taken away from me—but he left me very well to do, I'm
thankful!
And then followed Mary's tearful story of the loss of her
father and mother, and of the death of the good old squire, and
of the changes which had taken place at the hall by which
Mrs. Martha's old fellow-servants had all been dispersed. The
narrative took up much time, owing to Mrs. Martha's frequent
interjections and numerous questionings; and then Mary had to
answer the closer inquiry where she had been since her father's
death; and the trying question came at last,—where was she
going now, and what was the object of her journey ?
But to this Mary only answered by a confused blush, and a
more confused evasive profession that she would like another
cup of tea. Mrs. Martha was compassionate, and was disposed
to assist Mary in answering the interesting enquiry, and observed
that the last time she herself took a cup of tea in that room,
it was with a young person whom she now could not help
thinking that she knew, and Mary knew too, at the old squire's.
Mary's suffused cheek and earnest look told the landlady that
she was understood; and so she, forthwith, went straight to
work, and said,—
 I feel sure it was Cain Colton—the same whom the squire
took under his protection, with his good heart, when the boy's
grandfather, old John, died on the moor; though I could not,
for the life of me, call to mind who he was when he was here—
and he was in such a hurry to get away, that I could not gather
my memory, or draw it out of him.
 Do you know where he has gone?  asked Mary, unable to
restrain herself.
 I see how it is, answered the landlady ;  now, my dear
girl, you have neither father nor mother left to give you advice ;
and I must be plain with you. Have you left your uncle's
house, without his knowledge, to go a wild-goose chase after
this young man? Ah! it is as I feared, went on Mrs. Martha,
taking Mary's downcast eyes for an affirmative answer;  you
may have become attached to young Cain from being together—
though you have not told me how long you were companions—
but take my advice, my dear girl, and go back again, Leave
him to go after them he likes best. He must like them better
than you, or he would not have left you without telling you
whither he was going "—
 You are wrong—you don't know why he went away,
affirmed Mary, impatient of Mrs. Martha's well-meant exhorta-
204
THE FAMILY FEUD.
tion ;  lie has been wronged—grievously wronged, and driven
away—and I must search for him, and bring him back, that he
may justify himself.
The landlady shook her head, bit her lip, and smiled incredu-
lously.
 I shall be like to tell you the truth, she said;  though it will
pain your mind. But it had better be so. The lightest trouble
is that which prevents more.
Mary kept silence, but looked eagerly at her friend, with
an undefined dread that she was about to hear some disastrous
news. Mrs. Martha related that Cain had stated he was going
to the Hermitage, the retired country seat, a few miles off, of a
gentleman called Percival, but had not unfolded his object in
going thither—yet, had confessed that he was acquainted with
Miss Una, the gentleman's daughter, and had not denied that he
liked her.
Mary's heart misgave her, yet her love was unwilling to
misgive.
 There must be some mistake, she insisted ;  how could he
have become acquainted with such a person, or have ever seen
her ? 
 Nay, he said so himself—though he only confessed to having
spent a day and two nights at the Hermitage, a short time
before. But he had time enough to get smitten, even then. I
only saw poor dear Tomlinson the day I came home; and we
were married in a month.
 It must have been when he was out on the holiday that he
told me of, said Mary remembering herself, and not heeding
Mrs. Martha's charming revelation of the electric course of her
own courtship;  is the young lady famous for music ? 
 The same—then I hear he has told you of her! 
 He did. But he had formed no attachment for her. He
said she was a very plain-looking person, though so clever.
And her father was a very odd sort of gentleman.
 So he is; and Miss Una is plain-featured. He spoke
honestly there. But then, her father is very rich; and young
men have an eye for money.
 It is not so with Cain : he's above it, declared Mary, indig-
nantly—and then checked herself, and added,  but I am
grateful for what you have been saying to me ; for I'm sure your
intention is good and kind.
The dialogue was long. And since one of the parties in it was
a genuine descendant of Eve, in that curiosity formed a large
ingredient in her character, she drew from Mary a complete
history of the cause of Cain's flight; of the charge laid against
him by Crookit; and lastly, of Sally's revelation about the whis-
the family feud.
'205
pering messenger and the letters. Mrs. Martha was not only
a woman of the world, and therefore able to give Mary some
shrewd guesses as to the villany there was in the sending of the
letter to the inn at Oakford; but she also possessed great
strength and real generosity of character; and the result of the
whole conference was, that she avowed her full approval of Mary's
conduct, and encouraged Mary to pursue the errand of love and
generosity, with due caution as well as resolve.
The next morning, Mrs. Martha accompanied Mary, and
carried her bundle, two or three miles on the way to the Her-
mitage: and duly instructed her as to the nearest point of
entrance into Percival's grounds. Mrs. Martha observed, too,
that old Miles Gilson, (whom Mary remembered, but somewhat
dimly, as a servant of old Squire Fernshawe's,) might afford
some information respecting Cain, should Mr. Percival be unwell,
or his daughter be from home. Finally, she extracted the fact
from Mary that five guineas—the gift of Mr. Titus, and which
had been husbanded instead of spent on dress—constituted her
entire travelling store; and compelled her to accept a loan of ten
more ; and made Mary promise to write if the journey took up
more than a few days.
CHAPTER II.
Mary Granger and Una Percival in company; and the Consequences of Mary's
Visit to the Hermitage begin to threaten.
Had not Mary Granger's heart been so trustful, she would have
been tortured with that hint of Mrs. Martha about Cain not
denying a tender interest in Una Percival. A few qualms of
fear crossed her ; but she would not yield to them. Her delight
was great that she had succeeded so well hitherto in tracing
Cain's route ; and she sped on her journey full of faith, not only
that she would be equally successful at the next step, but that
her purpose would be fully realized. And then, she thought,
Cain, whom she now felt she loved deeply, and as no other
could love him, would soon acknowledge, if he had not acknow-
ledged it to himself already, that he could never love any but
Mary Granger.
She found the entrance to Percival's grounds easily by Mrs.
Martha's direction ; and a walk along a footpath of half a mile
brought in view the large oak which Cain had formerly sketched,
and a male and female figure on the bench near it. The foot-
206
THE FAMILY FEUD.
path, which. Mary had been instructed to keep led, she perceived,
straight towards the persons who were sitting on the bench;
and she began to speculate, apprehensively, who they might be,
and how she should address them, if it were needful. But Una
and old Miles rose from the bench, and advanced to meet her,
and both courteously bade her  Good morning. Mary returned
the salutation, and, naturally addressing herself to Una, asked
if that were the right path to Mr. Percival's, of the Her*
mitage.
 It is, answered Una; "are you going thither? My father
is not at home. Perhaps, if you have business with him, I can
give you an answer.
Mary instantly knew that she was in the presence of Una;
and her embarrassment became so evident, that Una began to
eye her with some curiosity. The earnestness of her purpose,
and her perception that promptitude only could secure it, ena-
bled Mary quickly to overcome her diffidence.
 I wanted to ask after a person who visited Mr. Percival a
short time ago, she said.
 Visited him !  repeated Una;  no one has visited my father
very lately. We only returned from London a few days ago;
and no one has visited us since.
 Four weeks ago, said Mary.
 Four weeks ago!—who was it P What person was it that
you say visited my father ? 
 His name was—Canute Colton, answered Mary, with only
just sufficient presence of mind to avoid uttering the word
 Cain, and feeling it very difficult to answer, now Una's eyes
looked so penetrative.
 There has been no such person at the Hermitage,—at least
not that I ever heard of, returned Una, with a face quite
relieved ;  you must be under some mistake.
 Indeed, I am not mistaken ; he has been here twice,
affirmed Mary; and feeling that she must not trifle, but must
urge her search in the most earnest manner, however strange
her earnestness might seem in the eyes of others, she added,  I
had the account of his first visit from his own mouth, and of
your singing and playing on the organ, and of his conversation
with you.
 What! Wilfred Harlow ?—but you called him by another
name. Who are you ?—and what did you call him ?  demanded
Una, and laid her hand on Mary's arm.
The action was quick and impetuous, yet could scarcely be
called violent. But Una's eyes were now so searching, that
Mary avoided their scrutiny, and for a few moments felt like a
guilty thing, while she stammered-^
THE FAMILY FEUD.
207
 I—I called liim—Canute Colton. That—that is the person
—I am seeking.
 But I know no one by that name. Is it a young artist that
you are in search of? 
 Yes ; he is fond of painting and drawing.
 And has fled from Quarrelton on account of—of trouble ?
"Yes, yes! Oh, tell me where he is! Do you know?
 I do know, answered Una, taking her hand from Mary's
arm, and gazing at the excited girl, whose expectant eagerness
had dissipated all weaker feeling;  but who are you ? You
are not his sister, for he told me he had none, she went on,
since Mary did not at once reply, being too sensible of the pecu-
liarity of her situation, now she stood before Una;  and you
cannot be Miss Upham, the daughter of his patron, whom he
spoke of.
 No, no; we were playmates when children, and—and I am
his friend, replied Mary, summoning her wits and courage,
 and I want to find him, that I may bring him back to Quarrel-
ton to clear himself of the vile charge which is laid against
him. I know he is innocent, and I want him to establish his
honour.
Una could not doubt that this chivalrous profession on the
part of Mary was truthful; but she was instinctively certain of
the tender motive which alone could prompt such chivalry.
Una's nature was really generous. That temporary desertion
of her father was but an aberration from the path of duty ; and
it would have ended in repentance and a return to her father,
had he not found her. Her nature was generous, and she felt
that the stranger girl's conduct was devoted and noble; but
she was displeased with it, and disquieted. For the first time
she was sensible that a tender interest existed in her own heart
towards this Wilfred Harlow or Canute Colton. So long as the
question was only put by her father, she could conscientiously
answer  No, because she answered the question by asking
herself whether she loved man or music ; and her imagination,
understanding, passion, all were so wound, blent, and knit toge-
ther in worship of music, and devotion to it, that she could not
think she loved man. Cain's rapt admiration of music, and his
intellectual conversation and appreciation of it, had attracted
her; but that his attraction for her was more than that of intellec-
tuality, or that it was more than friendship that made his society
£tgr66Jibl6j slic did not know; slio li&d no suspicion of it.
But now Una saw that another woman—and a beautiful
•woman loved him ; she was jealous, and could not resist the
wish to thwart this intruder. Una was weighing in her mind
whether to act haughtily, and tell Mary that the professed search
208
THE FAMILY FEUD.
was unseemly in a young woman, or whether, since she felt she
could hardly assume haughtiness towards one who looked so
gentle and truthful, she should attempt to turn Mary back from
the journey by persuasion, when old Miles—the changes of whose
face during the dialogue, and in their own excited interest in
each other, had not been noted either by Mary or Una—said,
with a voice which was quiet only because he exercised great
restraint over himself,—
 Miss Una has not told you where to find the young gentle-
man; but, of course, she will do so, since your object is so
praiseworthy ;  and then, turning to Una, he added,  you had
better give the young woman his address, as she will, most
likely, wish to get on to Stratford, and take the coach to
London, that she may recover her friend as quickly as pos-
sible.
Una wished old Miles one hundred miles off at that moment.
She dare not now refuse to give Mary the direction for finding
the young artist; but she sought to find some cause for delaying
Mary's prosecution of the journey.
 Is it not too late for the coach to-day ?—or would it not be
too late by the time that any one could walk to Stratford ?  she
asked.
Old Miles was obliged to confess that it was already too late
for that day; but stated that the coach left Stratford at eight
the next morning.
 Then let me beg of you to favour me with your company at
the Hermitage to-day, she said to Mary,  and Miles, I am
sure, will take a pleasure in driving you over to Stratford early
enough to take the coach to-morrow.
 That I will, very cheerfully, answered Miles ; and, remark-
ing that he wished to look at one of the fences higher up in the
grounds, and would be at the Hermitage by dinner-time, the old
man hurried away, and left Una with Mary.
The latter part of the conversation had been so rapid between
Miles and Una, that Mary, with all her impetuous desire to
arrive at the place where she should find Cain, could not express
it, and her unwillingness to be delayed even for an hour, till
Miles had hurried out of hearing. Una, from an intense wish
to know more of Wilfred Harlow's friend, urged Mary to
consider that to walk on at once to Stratford would be a
mere waste of strength, and taking the little bundle from her
hand with a smile, winningly insisted on having her company
for the day.
 Besides, said Una,  I wish to talk with you about your
friend; and I also may be able to give you some information
respecting him that may be useful to you,—for I saw him almost
iSE FAMILY FEtTD.
209
every day for more than a fortnight during the time I was in
London.
 Then he has been there so long P 
 I will tell you all about it,—only come along with me to the
Hermitage. You will not gain time by refusing me. Miles
will not fail of his word. He is sure to convey you away early
in the morning.
And so Mary yielded, and they proceeded together to Perci-
val's mansion. On the way thither, and for some time after they
reached the house, Una endeavoured to turn the conversation on
the beauty of the grounds, the situation of the dwelling, or on
any general topic, thinking meanwhile to win time for forming
some plan whereby the stranger might be turned from her
journey; but the ungenerous thought soon faded. Before they
had been two hours together, Una, who had never had a bosom
friend of her own sex, felt that she could have given the world,
had it been in her possession, to have a sister like Mary Granger.
And she would passionately have expressed so much, had not the
stirrings of her own jealous love for Wilfred Harlow prevented
her.
How artlessly this gentle stranger girl told her own history—
so happy in the beginning, and of late so sorrowful; and how
confidingly she uttered all the attachment she felt for Cain, now
there was one who listened with apparent interest and sym-
pathy! Mary had no knowledge of art, but she admired pictures,
and her face glowed with beautiful expression while she listened
to Una's singing and the grand chords of the organ. But it was
when the object of her search was mentioned that Mary's face
had most interest for Una, and especially when Una described
Cain's agitation on the receipt of that detestable letter just
before Una left London.
 Why did he not write immediately to Mr. Upham—or leave
London at once for Quarrelton, and put his accusers to shame?
cried Mary, with earnest eyes :  I wonder that he did not do
either one or the other!
 My father advised him to do neither, replied Una;  and
I wish my father were at home that you might hear the reasons
from himself; but he has gone out for several days, and, I fear,
it would not be possible to persuade you to stay with me till he
comes home.
 I cannot do so—nor would I have stayed at all, had you not
promised me that I should be at Stratford to-morrow early
enough. . .
 The promise shall be kept, do not fear it. I wish I were
able to give you my father's reasons for advising your friend
neither to write to Quarrelton nor to return thither, but I can-
F
m
TflE FAMILY FEtrD.
not; he refused to give them to me, and only assured me that
they were weighty, and he believed they would be esteemed so
by the party to whom he gave them.
 I cannot imagine what they could be, persevered Mary;
 did you not say that Cain, when he first showed you the letter
expressed himself resolved to leave London that night, and "—
 I beg pardon, you called him ' Cain,' just now; I thought
you named Wilfred Harlow, as he called himself while here and
in London, Canute Colton.
 I ought to have called him Canute, said Mary, blushing
deeply, and feeling vexed with herself for not being able always
to avoid uttering the name so familiar to her from childhood.
 But is his real name Cain P I must do you the justice to say
that you seem incapable of disguise ; I am convinced you would
fail in it if you were to try it; but what is the meaning of all this
mystery on the part of your friend ? If there were cause for
disguise when he fled to London, I cannot see why he should
have given himself a false name when my father first invited
him here.
 Hor can I assign any reason that he could have for doing so,
except his dislike of the dreadful name by which he was bap-
tize'd. Tet he might as well have called himself Canute when
he first came here; I thought he had done so.
 Your unconnected reply makes me more desirous of having
a better. You seem to signify that he was baptized ' Cain,' and
the name is dreadful enough in its associations, but how came
his parents to give him such a name in baptism?
The question led to the narrative which Mary had formerly
given to Charlotte Upham; and Una, prepossessed as she was in
Cain's favour, declared, when she had heard the shuddering
story throughout, that she did not wonder the subject of it
should assume any name rather than that which, by the very
sound of it, must call up not only such unpleasant recollections
of the past, but the remembrance of such a horrible prophecy
for fulfilment in the future.
The day and evening were spent by Mary and Una chiefly in
rehearsing and listening to these revelations about Cain; and
they parted, late at night, with an assurance of mutual regard,
which Una was resolved she would strive to preserve for one
who was so worthy of affection. But Mary loved the young
artist, and perhaps was loved by him in return—and yet Una
had not dared to ask Mary if it were not so—though she longed
to do it. How different it was with Mary! She had forgotten
Mrs. Martha's hints, and, with entire trust in Cain's heart,
believed he never could love any but the little Mary who had
loved him all her life.
THE FAMILY FEUD.
211
Long before daylight Mary was seated in tbe gig, beside old
Miles, and they were on their way to Stratford. The old man
seemed so reserved that it was with some timidity Mary asked
him if he did not recollect her. He affected surprise at the
question; but affected it no longer when Mary told him that
Mrs Martha, his old fellow-servant at Squire Fernshawe's, had
forewarned her she would see him at the Hermitage.
 Then it was she who directed you to come to the Hermitage,
said Miles, quickly:  I hope you did not tell Miss Percival
that you knew me.
 1 did not. We had so much to talk about.
 About Cain, I suppose. I hope you did not tell Miss Una
his right name ?
 I could not help it—it escaped me unawares.
 And did you tell her Cain's real history?
 Yes. Mary had scarcely answered, when Miles uttered a
groan and an exclamation that really frightened her, and he
drove on in silence for some time.
 My poor child, he said at last,  you cannot help what you
have done. Excuse my behaviour! When you reach London,
get Cain Colton back with you to Quarrelton as soon as ever
you can.
 But what harm have I done by telling Miss Percival the
truth about Cain P
 I hope to prevent the harm when I get back, said old
Miles.
But it was not to be so. The old man saw Mary safe on the
coach, saw it depart, and turned to go back; but before he
reached the extremity of the town, he caused the horse to
stumble by trying to hasten the animal, was thrown out of the
gig, and was taken up senseless.
Percival, meantime, with the caprice tjiat was so habitual
with him, returned suddenly to the Hermitage; and, over the
breakfast table with his daughter, received from her the account
of Mary Granger's visit, and listened to so much of Una's recapi-
tulation of Cain Colton's true history as caused him to rush out
wildly into the grounds, and wander insanely amidst the snow
for hours.
212
THE FAMILY FEU®.
CHAPTER III.
A Meeting of Joy suddenly turned to Sorrow.—Mary's Pleadings with Cam are
unsuccessful.—The Strength of her Spirit made manifest.
About noon of the day succeeding that on which Mary Granger
left Stratford-on-Avon, our hero, on returning elate from the
shop of a picture-dealer, to whom he had disposed of a new
sketch at what he regarded as a good price, was surprised to
learn from his landlady that there was a young woman waiting
for him in his room upstairs.
 A young woman! he repeated.
 Yes; a young person from the country, I imagine, said the
landlady ;  she says she knows you very well, and insisted on
going up to wait for you till you came in.
 Is it the young lady who called to ask for me that night,
about a week ago? he asked, thinking the act was charac-
teristic of Una, and that she must thus suddenly have returned
to London.
 No, it is a stranger, answered the landlady, and turned to
go into her own room.
He sprang up the stairs with hut one conjecture as to who his
visitor could be, and found it realized.
 Oh, Cain, I have found you at last! cried Mary;  get
ready, and go back with me, directly!
She was in his arms in a moment. But when he answered,
 Go back with you, Mary !—what, to Quarrelton ? I cannot,
she shrunk from hipa.
"I cannot, he repeated; "I can never go back to
Quarrelton!
His look was wild and haggard, and, combining her impres-
sion from his jaded and unhappy appearance with his answer,
the thought smote her. for the instant that he was guilty, and
she burst into bitter grief, and hid her face with her hands, as if
she dare no longer look at him. With her disappointment a sense
of having pursued an unmaidenlike errand, and of the severity
with which others would condemn her for it, rushed on her
mind, and her misery on her own account and Cain's was over-
whelming. Cain besought and entreated, but she did not hear
or understand him. He seated her in a chair, for she seemed
helpless in her grief, and he still endeavoured to hush her sobs
and stifled cries.
THE FAMILY FEUD.
213
"Mary—dear Mary! lie said; "do not distract yourself
and me. I am lialf mad already! Let me see you quiet, and
then hear me.
"No, I must leave you, and never see you more, Cain !  she
cried ;  oh, I did not think it could be true!
 True! You do not think that I am guilty of that vile
charge? exclaimed Cain, springing back from her chair, and
standing erect with an air of inexpressible defiance.
 Oh, no, no, dear, Cain ! not if all the world said it, would I
now believe it!  she replied, her face becoming as radiant as the
sun when it suddenly shoots forth from behind a mountain of
black cloud ;  then you will go back with me?
Cain shook his head, and the dark cloud again came over
Mary's mind and face.
 No!  she said, with bewilderment;  but you must, Cain.
You cannot think of doing otherwise. 5Tou must justsfy your-
self to Mr. Upham. And how can you live here in concealment,
bearing a charge of dishonour?
The appeal went to the centre of his brain, and he writhed
under the shock; but the warnings of Percival came back on
his memory, and his own reasonings and disgust at the thought
of going back to Quarrelton returned.
"Why do you not answer me, Cain? demanded Mary,
amazed at his silence, and the painful agitation she saw he was
undergoing.
 I cannot answer you at once, Mary, he struggled to say;
"it would take hours.
 Hours ! it surely does not require a minute's consideration
to see that you ought to clear yourself of this base charge.
 If you will hear what I have to say, Mary, I will tell it you ;
but if you judge me thus unkindly without hearing me, I shall
never believe in the real kindness of any human being so long
as I live.
 Oh, Cain, I am not unkind if you knew all; but how could
I be your true friend, if I advised you to live here with a dis-
honoured character, hiding yourself as if you deserved it, and
were afraid to meet your accusers ? 
 Mary, I have had so many advisers, and have undergone so
much harassment by taking their advice, that I am almost at
my wit's end. If you will calmly talk over my difficulties with
me, I will take any course that you point out, should you con-
vince me that it is the right one. If nothing but this base
choree were in tlio of my £?oing Id&cIc to Quarrelton, X would
not hesitate to return with you this hour. When you know all,
you will not wonder that I refuse to go with you without further
consideration.
214
THE FAMILY FEUD.
Tiicre must, surely, be something that needed consideration,
Mary began to think, or one who lay under so heinous a charge,
and was so guiltless, would not hesitate to face his false accusers.
Lore helped the plea for a full hearing ; and Mary consented to
hear, but requested that it might be forthwith.
Cain promised Mary that there should be no more delay than
was absolutely necessary ; but reminded her that-she must need
refreshment, having drawn from her the fact that she had been
wandering about London some hours from misdirection, or mis-
understanding, and had tasted no food during the day. While
he went out to order their meal, Mary consented to be intro-
duced more formally to the landlady, opened her bundle, and
made her unassuming toilette, and also arranged with the land-
lady to ensure her a temporary lodging in a neighbouring court,
judging it impossible, now, to quit London before the morrow.
Throughout the remainder of the day, and far into the even-
ing, Cain and Mary anxiously prolonged their conversation. A
twofold summary of it will suffice.
Cain Colton learned from Mary that Crookit had first charged
him with secreting the receipt of the three hundred pounds
said to have been paid him by Fernshawe; that Fernshawe had
produced the pretended receipt, entrusted it to Crookit to show
to Mr. Timothy ; and that Mr. Timothy had apologised to
Fernshawe, having sent Miss Charlotte as the messenger. That
Mary had learnt all this of Charlotte, and had vehemently pro-
tested the base charge was false. That her interview with
Charlotte had taken place at Mr. Timothy's house, whither she
had been conducted by Jossy Jessop; but that she had had
several interviews with Charlotte before, which had been brought
about by her cousin, young Algernon Downham. That Algernon
was Charlotte's secret but faithful betrothed lover, having become
acquainted with her in Italy, at least two years before either
returned to Quarrelton. That Algernon had met Charlotte,
by appointment, immediately after bidding Cain farewell, and
had acquainted her with Cain's flight; that Charlotte had con-
trived to get Jossy and Phoebe to confess that they had helped
Cain to escape, and that Mr. Timothy had only mildly censured
them, and by his daughter's persuasion had regarded Cain's
flight favourably, until Crookit presented the fatal receipt, which
had plunged Mr. Timothy into deep affliction. That Crookit
was now in high favour with Mr. Timothy; that Fernshawe
was a visitor at Mr. Timothy's; and that Charlotte already
perceived both Fernshawe and Crookit had rival designs of
securing her for a wife. That Charlotte was compelled to
practise a very shrewd and watchful policy towards the design-
ing rivals, especially as her father's mind was so much shaken
THE FAMILY FEUD.
215
that she could not, until he should recover, fully explain her
situation to him. That the false alarm about the young fiddler
had died away, the pretender being, long ago, out of the hospital,
and at his fiddling again. That the people of Quarrelton were
in possession of the false fact of the robbery, though not of the
details; that Algernon said the report had taken the most
monstrous shapes, such as that the robbery extended to a thou-
sand pounds, or more; but that Fernshawe's name was not
mixed up with these wild rumours.
Such was the sum of Mary's communications to Cain, relative
to others ; but she also gave liim an account of her own motives
in making the journey in search of him, and of what had befallen
her on the way. She had striven, she said, when Algernon had
given her the particulars of his last interview with Cain, to
persuade him to commence a search; but he had refused—and
though neither he nor Charlotte said so, yet they both evidently
inclined to the belief that Cain was guilty, and both endeavoured
to persuade her to give up Cain to his fate; but that she could
not, and had secretly got away in the night and walked to
Oakford; had extracted the facts of the whispering messenger
bringing and receiving letters from the maid at the little inn ;
and had then journeyed by coach to the place where Cain had
passed the second night. Mary then recalled Mrs. Martha to
Cain's recollection, and rehearsed how Mrs. Martha remembered
Cain, had told her of Cain's visit to the Hermitage, and assigned
a reason for it, which made Cain blush when Mary recounted
it. Mrs. Martha was also shown to have, at first, tried to
persuade Mary to go back; but to have approved of Mary's
errand when she had considered it more maturely ; and to have
very kindly forced a loan of money upon Mary at parting. Her
meeting with IJna and old Miles Gilson was then described by
Mary, and her visit to the Hermitage, where she learnt from
Una that Percival, by reasons unknown to his daughter, had
persuaded Cain to remain in London. Mary, lastly, described
her journey to Stratford with old Miles, and how he had ex-
pressed his hope so anxiously, that she had not told Cain's real
name and history to Una; and ended by relating how the old
man groaned, and afterwards said he must hasten back, and try
to prevent the harm Mary might cause, by the revelation she
had made to Una respecting Cain.
With what strange alternations of thought and feeling Cain
Colton received Mary's narrative, the reader may easily imagine.
Again and again he interrupted her by some exclamation of
wonder, of indignation, and sometimes of pleasure and gratifica-
tion. There were questionings, too, and exchanges of conjee-
turc and opinion, as to the conduct of some of the personages in
216
THE FAMILY FEUD.
Mary's story. The dramatic effect of these must also be left to
the reader's imagination; and we must attend to the second
part of what we ventured, somewhat in formalistic mode, to
term a summary of the conversation of Cain and Mary.
Mary Granger, in turn, learned from Cain that he knew him-
self to be the child of Mr. Timothy's sister, and had often
supposed that Mr. Timothy must know it, and had therefore
befriended him so munificently as it seemed to the world —
though, in reality, Mr. Timothy was barely rendering him an
act of justice. The way he came to this knowledge, by over-
hearing the dialogue of Job and Dorothy, was related by Cain;
and also how he had learned that Jossy had taken his mother
from Oldstock's house, when she went to her ruin at Blythe-
wick. How miserable he had felt on his return to Mr. Upham's
after the holiday, and the uneasiness he had felt at the Hermit-
age under the observant eye of old Miles Gilson, he next
described. But now Cain's excitement grew till he trembled,
and Mary's apprehensive fear became nearly as great as his
own. That picture at the Hermitage !—his mother ?—yes : it
must be the likeness of his mother ! The fearful truth flashed
on him, at last! Percival was none other than Abel Brundrell.
It must be so. He had taken that striking likeness of Cain's
mother, before her marriage; and, while a rival for her affec-
tions, of Andrew Colton, Cam's father. Did not the woman in the
holt say, that Brundrell  went away on his painting business ? 
And Percival had a knowledge of the doomed name, and felt
the power of it—like himself! Most likely, Percival's dread of
it had been strengthened when he was over at Blythewick to
bury his mother, and had learned that old Eleanor had died
charging the boy, Cain Colton, with murdering her. Percival's
fits of insanity were thus accounted for—and did he not even
exclaim while in one of them,  The Avenger of Blood is come P
Old Miles, Cain now discerned clearly, had recognised him on
his first visit to the Hermitage; and knowing the dreadful
effect a like discovery would have on the mind of Percival,
had striven to get him out of the house. But now Una was
in possession of Cain's real history, Miles's dread would be
increased that Percival would come to the knowledge of who
his visitor, Wilfred Harlow, was; and it.might madden Per-
cival outright, with the fear that his doom would come.
That feeling of mystery, too, which hung about him while
in the Hermitage, Cain now regarded as no superstition; but
a proof of the truth that there were mystic spiritual warnings
given to men. And when he came to relate the conduct of
Percival in London, and what persuasion Percival had employed
to dissuade him from returning to Quarrelton, both himself
THE FAMILY FEUD.
217
and his listener were more deeply and uneasily assured of
Percival's identity with Abel Brundrell. The Uphams were an
unnatural family, Percival had said: and the elder Upham had
cast out an only daughter to starve. And Percival had not
said this as an uninterested person would have said it; but
with wild agitation that developed his own near interest in the
person cast out.
Then the abominable letter — Percival had taken it in his
hand, had read it, and affirmed that he knew the disguised
writing, and warned Cain not to put himself in the diabolical
power of the writer, by returning to Quarrelton. Of course, all
the letters, and the whispering messenger, had been despatched
by the same dangerous agent. He could be none other than
Crookit who had first made the vile charge against Cain to
Mr. Timothy; for Percival had asked who was about Mr.
Timothy, and Cain had mentioned Crookit's name with others;
and Percival became the more affirmative when the names were
mentioned.
Suddenly, Cain remembered Algernon Downham's alarm,
while they stood under the oak, near the hedge, at the  low
laugh which Cain had not heard. The laugh could only be
Crookit's; it was like his nature; and he had hired the whis-
pering messenger, and transacted all this villany. But, how
to account for Fernshawe's receipt? How could Crookit have
managed to bring a stranger into his devilish scheme? But
were Crookit and Fernshawe strangers to each oalier? Crookit
had travelled: Cain was sure of that from those conversations
with Charlotte; and Crookit might have known Fernshawe
abroad. But would a man in Fernshawe's station be likely to
join Crookit in a scheme so vile ?
Mary answered that young Squire Fernshawe, who had
broken the hearts of her father and mother, was capable of
any mean villany. And Cain rejoined that he believed it from
the very face of the man, and from the antipathy he felt
towards Fernshawe as his fellow-traveller on the coach : it was
the same kind of warning impression he had always had from
Crookit's face.
The rest of Cain's narrative, as it only related to his acquaint-
ance with Una in London, and ended with the declaration that
he had no tender attachment towards the young lady, and that
her father knew it, and had owned that Una denied a.ny tender
attachment on her part, served to relieve Mary, instead of
increasing her inquietude. _
But now came the decisive question again: "Would not
Cain return to-morrow to Quarrelton, dare the accuser or
accusers to meet him, and, at whatever risk, struggle till he
218
THE FAMILY FEUD.
had unravelled their wicked web, confounded them, and cleared
himself of imputed crime ? 
No: be avowed that be could not take tbe trouble, from
sbeer disgust. He would not, even if be could clear himself
without trouble, return to experience tbe feeling of uncertainty
and degradation be bad formerly experienced. And proudly,
be showed Mary five gold pieces which he bad that day received
for bis sketch; and declared be would remain and support him-
self by art, to which be was devoted, and would let bis foes
revel, if they were able, in tbe success of their vile plot against
him. And Mary must remain, and they would be happy in
spite of tbe wickedness there was in tbe world. There needed
no plainer confession of her love than she had already made by
her conduct; and he felt, now, that he had always loved her.
She alone could make him happy; and she must be his own
true wife.
Mary heard that last outburst calmly, but her grave and
sorrowful look shook the lover's confidence even before she
answered.
 What, Cain ! the wife of a man labouring under dishonour,
and who can sit down under it, and try to be content!  she
replied ;  I cannot disguise it, from either myself or you, that
my happiness is bound up in you. I would welcome poverty,
hardship, or suffering, in union with you—or for you—if you
had cleared yourself of this false stain. But I could not
reverence you, if you retained it, from cowardice or careless-
ness; and I must reverence you, to love you. We part, for
ever, Cain, unless you consent to go back to Quarrelton ! 
The tears streamed down her pale cheeks, and she shook witli
the tempest of the heart; but she seemed otherwise calm—and
Cain was so much smitten with disappointment, as well as
overawed by the dignity she manifested—so new and unex-
pected in the gentle little Mary of his childhood that he sat
awhile speechless.. And when he attempted to renew his
reasonings, and urged for further consideration, she would
only consent to give him a promise that she would hear his
final determination the next morning. She rose to prepare for
retiring to her lodging; and Cain accompanied her to the door ;
but a pressure of the hand was all the pledge of affection she
would either give or receive, when he parted with her there.
THE FAMILY FEUD.
219
CHAPTER IV.
Mary, after many Struggles, about to leave our Hero to his Fate.—The Bar to
her Steps, and a hasty Conclusion of the Seventh Book.
Maey Gkakgee did not leave London the next day, nor the day
after. . Cain Colton's objections against returning to Quarrelton,
remained; and yet they often seemed, so Mary thought, on the
point of giving way, under the force of her appeals. She was
thus induced to prolong her stay with the hope that at the next
interview, his mind might be fully made up to go bach and brave
all the machinations of his enemies. But on the third morning,
his aversion to her pleading was expressed so bitterly and de-
cidedly, that she cut short her early visit, went back to her
lodging and wrote a letter to Mrs. Martha, avowing her intent
to leave London, with or without Cain, the next morning.
She had never written home—that is to say, to her Uncle
Downham or her Cousin Algernon ; she knew not how to do it,
and always put the thought of it away as an irksome duty ; yet
it was a duty, she knew; and now she had sealed up her letter
for Mrs. Martha, and was about to take it to the post-office, she
halted to consider whether it would not be better to write also
to Quarrelton ; it might prepare her way and subject her to less
censure, than she would otherwise receive ; for there would be
censure: censure P—there might be a repulse ! Was it ever
heard of befoTe, that a reputable young woman should go after a
young man, in the way that she had done ? stealthily departing
from the home which had so generously been opened for an
orphan, and where her uncle and aunt had treated her with all
the indulgent tenderness of a father and mother, and Algernon
had behaved to her as kindly as if she had been his own sister?
Besides, the Downhams had their high family pride; and it
would be held disgraceful in their eyes, and a dark reflection on
their house that one pertaining to it should have gone after a
criminal—since a criminal Cain was, in their view, and would
remain, if he did not return and clear himself. Who would
hear her defence with favour, when she returned and rendered
her account of the journey made in quest of one who was either
guilty, or content to remain in his imputed dishonour?
No;' she had better leave it all to personal explanation, painful
as that would be to herself, and trust to the paternal heart of
her uncle to forgive it all. The family loved her, and must be
220
THE FAMILY FEUD.
distressed on her account, and they would be more distressed by
her delay ; but she could not write ; she would go direct home
on the morrow. And Mary hastened away with the letter and
then returned to Cain, gathering up all the strength of her heart
to tell him she had come for the final pai'ley, and he must either
give her his faithful pledge to go back to Quarrelton with her on
the morrow, or she would go back without him.
Mary did tell him so; but the parley was long ; and when he
accompanied her to the door of her lodging at night, her resolu-
tion gave way to his entreaties for another day's delay.
A week elapsed ; and Mary found it harder than ever to say
 farewell;  for now she had reviewed her own difficulties so
often and so thoroughly, that she regarded herself as a trans-
gressor against whose return to Quarrelton there were almost as
strong bars as to Cain's. She was really a criminal herself; her
uncle and aunt, Algernon and Charlotte, would alike deem her
to be one ; and the busy-tongued, censorious world of Quarrel-
ton would—she started to think—very likely apply to her the
name of an abandoned woman, even if she gave the simplest and
most veracious account of her journey on her return. She was
terrified now, not only at the thought of going back to Quarrel-
ton, but at the idea that she remained in London.
What if she were to be sought for and found, and then re-
proached and badged with a name of shame P Pure as she felt
her purpose had been, her journey was so rash and blameful,
that Mary was now ashamed of herself for making it. And
then a still more tormenting thought arose—what could Cain
really think of her, if she continued to stay P He knew she was
a transgressor, though he had always soothed her, and turned
the conversation when she poured out the misgivings of her
heart to him, as to her own impropriety and what the Downhams
would think of her. But, if she continued thus to transgress,
how could she sermonize Cain on his want of resolution, and his
moral cowardice and littleness in not determining to arise and
clear himself of dishonour ?
During all this time it was but a deceptive consolation that
Cain received from his interviews with Marv and the sense of
her loved presence. In his solitary seasons, and through sleep-
less hours of his nights, he was tossing to and fro in his mind,
with the goading feeling of undeserved disgrace, with the accu-
mulated weight of fear and dread forebodings of greater evil to
arise both from his supposed enemy Crookit, and from Percival;
with uneasiness about Mary, and with the wish to clear up the
mystery of his birth, insomuch that he often felt existence a
burthen, and scarcely shrunk from pronouncing it a curse.
He had glimpses of a better state of mind when all seemed
THE FAMILY FEUi>.
221
clear and easy to him; and he longed for the morning light that
he might rise and tell Mary they would depart at once and go
to Quarrelton, whether he might triumph there or only meet
deeper disgrace. But either a last unhealthy slumber dissipated
his resolves by grim, tormenting dreams, filled with abhorrent
shapes, old and new, and which haunted him with superstitious
power when he woke, or his fevered resolve cooled down with
the morning grey light and the chill hour that intervened before
Mary's earliest visit.
A loDg letter of reproof from Mrs. Martha, at length roused
Mary from the torpid despondency into which she was sinking.
She glowed with hot shame as she read the first page; and
when she reached the second, there was a proposal that made
her heart leap, for it suggested a practical way to lessen the
terror of returning at once to Quarrelton, and yet to escape
from her present questionable position. Mrs. Martha, entering
into all Mary's dread of a severe reception from her uncle,
besought her to come and make her friend's house a refuge
until some correspondence could be had with her uncle. The
tone of the correspondence Mrs. Martha, as a woman of ex-
perience, proposed herself to dictate, and thought she could
bring it to a good issue. But if she could not, she assured
Mary that the orphan niece whom Mr. Titus Downham might
disown, should find a welcome asylum with Mrs. Martha
Tomlinson.
This letter did more than rouse Mary temporarily, its whole
contents sank deep into her heart and understanding, and con-
vinced her that if she meant to shun ruin and life-long misery,
there was now a path open and the means offered for help; but
that if she delayed, it might soon be too late.
Mary entered Cain's studio the hour after reading that letter,
and weighing its contents, with a decision that she thought could
not be shaken. Cain was soon informed of all that Mrs. Martha
reasoned against and condemned in Mary's conduct, and of all
that she offered ; and then Mary firmly declared her resolution
to take her friend's offer and advice, and told Cain she would
leave him the next morning, unless he would also decide to go
back to Quarrelton.
And again she essayed her old appeal to his sense of honour;
but, although he smarted under it, he resisted it; and once more
called up all the ghosts of his terrors and disgusts, and paraded
them before Mary's imagination; but she held firmly to her
resolution, while her frame trembled and she wept bitterly.
 Then it is at an end, Cain, she said, while the words tore
her with agony ;  we must part, and meet no more in this
world.
222
TUB FAMILY FEtTEi.
 Why should it be so, Mary P why should you leave me
to linger out life in misery, and also increase your own
wretchedness? Do you love your Downham relatives better
than me ? 
 I need not answer your cruel question, Cain ; they deserve
both my love and gratitude; but if they withdraw their love
from me as a punishment for my rashness and folly, it will be no
more than I deserve.
 But why subject yourself to the painful chance of being
abandoned by them? 
 Cain, it is my duty to acknowledge to them that I have
erred; and though forgiveness may be refused, I am determined
to seek it.
 And if you do not obtain it, Mary, what then?
 Then I can remain with Mrs. Martha ; I can earn my own
living, and shall not be dependent on her for a morsel of bread;
but I shall have in her a kind and true friend 
 A kind and true friend, Mary ! is there no other friend who
is kind and true ? You cannot intend to remain at Mrs.
Martha's if your uncle refuses to receive you ; you must—you
will then return and make me happy ! 
 Happy, Cain ! I could not make you happy—you never can
be happy under such a weight of imputed dishonour. I could
could not be happy with you. I could not respect you—and I
must respect my husband to be able to love him. No, Cain!
it is at an end. I can never be your wife—nor the wife of any
man who does not think it worth his while to clear himself from
dishonour. Good bye, Cain ! 
She had risen, and was moving towards the door, when Cain,
who had become fully convinced of the reality of her determina-
tion, but had been paralyzed by it, suddenly seized her arm—
and, at the same moment there was a respectful knock at the
studio door.
 Come in! said Cain—while Mary stood still, in deep em-
barrassment whether to wait, or to tear herself from Cain's hold,
and rush out of the room when the door opened.
It was the landlady that appeared.
 An artist gentleman who knows you, sir, wishes to speak to
you, shall 1 show him up ?  asked the landlady.
 Yes, if you please, answered Cain mechanically—for his
brain was with Mary, and he was anxious to get the landlady
away, for he was mortified, and he saw that Mary was mortified
with her broad gaze at the agitation she marked in that pale face.
The landlady went down—leaving the door open—and Cain,
breathlessly, besought Mary to abandon her resolve; but she
THE FAMILY FEUD.
223
Tefused. Would she, then, allow him to call on her, when the
artist gentleman—who could it be ?—had gone ; and let him take
a final farewell ?—and still he held her arm.
 I tell you, Cain, it is an end, she repeated, excitedly,  we
must part—and that for ever ! 
She had unloosened Cain's hold on her arm, and stepped to
the door—but her progress was stayed ! She knew not the power-
ful-eyed visage of the stranger, though she quailed under his
glance. And Cain—he shrieked with horror, and retreated from
that face and figure !
 What you said, young woman, was well and wisely said,
began the stranger, seeming unmoved and undisturbed by Cain's
agitation;  pass out—keep your word—and I will close the
door upon you—for I have business with your late friend here
—and we must transact it by ourselves.
 Oh, no, no, Mary !—for mercy's sake do not leave me with
him!—it is Percival—it is Brundrell!  gasped Cain.
She sank into a chair, neither able nor willing to move, when
she heard that name, saw Cain's horror, and remembered that
such a presence might work she knew not what changes for woe
or weal in the fate of the man she loved. All thought of herself
and care for reputation were forgotten.
 Be it so, said Percival, closing the door, and seating himself,
while Cain also dropped into a chair;  perhaps it is as well that
this young woman remains. If she have so much of a woman's
weakness as to wish to retract that prudent resolution, I shall
soon convince her that her weakness will only have life-long
misery for its reward.
He stopped, and fixed his glistening eyes on Cain Colton, who
thought they betokened determined insanity ; and yet Percival
sat firm and erect, and seemed filled with iron self-possession.
His voice, too, was strong and deep, and without agitation. Cain
ceased to think him insane, and began to regard him as a potent
messenger, bearing some stern fiat, to which all who heard it
must bend.
 Yes, he resumed,  I am Percival to the world, but to you
I am Abel Brundrell; and you are not Wilfred Harlow, but
Cain Colton. And we are now face to face, and must look our
doom in the face. It has followed me in every clime, under all
fortunes, never given me rest for long, but always returned and
assured me that I could not escape from it, unless the cry of
' Yengeance for blood !' were appeased by sacrifice ; or by homage
done to the plea of nature in the case of new claimants for its
rights. Are you prepared to make one in a party to prefer these
claims—for your face assures me now, if the concealment of your
224
THE FAMILY FEUD.
name did not before, tbat you also are miserable under the
dread of this doom ? 
Cain did not answer. He would not have been able to answer
even if be had comprehended Percival's meaning.
 I will explain, continued the iron speaker;  my daughter
loves you; she confesses it now, though she denied it before;
and she believes she has your affections, or that you might be
able to yield them. I propose that you be united to her. The
feud of blood will then be ended, and I can rest without fear. It
will also deliver you from what you dread. I shall regard you
as my son, not as my possible murderer. You will regard me as
a father, not as the son of those who took your father's life. I
say not that you have any wish to take my life; but I feel that
without this union neither I nor you can avert the hand of
Destiny. What say you ? 
There was still no answer.
 I ask no more than you are bound in honour to yield, he
went on ;  you stole my daughter's affections, and you have no
right to slight her for another. You ought to have known what
you were about when you spent hours with her, here in London,
day after day; and she is not a prize to be slighted. Her under-
standing, her soul for art, are jewels above outward beauty. I
have riches, they shall be yours. I will establish your claim to
honourable birth. I will clear you oLthis foul charge against
your honesty. Fernshawe and I are old acquaintances. He
was with me at the Hermitage only two days ago ; I drew the
base secret from him, and I can fulfil my promise.
Another pause, but there was no reply.
 Hear the alternative. You discard me and my offer; then
I will bring on you the hounds of the law. You shall be dragged
before a judge and jury. Your enemies will not fail to secure
your condemnation. You will be sentenced to transportation
for life, put in chains, and taken across the ocean to groan out
your life in ignominious wretchedness—made bitter by the re-
memhrance that you could have delivered yourself and seized
happiness by one word. Will you speak it ? 
But Cain could sooner have bit off his own tongue and spat it
at the feet of him who asked the question.
 You do not answer. I give you time for reflection; you
cannot escape me, do what you may, go where you will. I call
on you again to-morrow night; if you be not here I shall still
find you.
And he rose without hurry, and closed the door as he departed.
Cain and Mary could hear him slowly and firmly descend the
stairs. They sat looking at each other long, but without
THE FAMILY FEtJD.
225
speaking ; but tbe house-clock struck ten, and both remembered
that Mary had never before remained out of her own lodging
beyond the hour of nine. They both rose.
 Can you leave me now, Mary F 
 Not now, Cain ! 
They said no more. Cain, as usual, conducted Mary to her
lodging, and Love, to spite Misery, granted a tenderer tokeu at
parting that night than a mere pressure of hands.
926
THE FAMILY FEUD.
BOOK VIII.
IN WHICH THE HISTORY RETURNS TO QUARRELTOX, AND REPORTS PROGRESS
IN THAT QUARTER.
CHAPTER I.
An honest Essay on Smoking and Smokers; recommended to the Consideration
of reasonable People.
He was but a ribald wit, serious reader, who turned against
tobacco smokers the significant text,  Hot that which goeth into
the mouth defileth a man; but that which cometh out of the
mouth, this defileth a man. But thetrifler's joke was as sound
as his argument would have been, no doubt.
What an age is our own for arguments in advocacy of all kinds
of abstinence, except from money-getting, and getting into debt!
The arguments are so many, and so hotly urged, that I usually
take to flight as soon as they open; catching the alarm at the
preparation-note.
 Abstain from war!  cries the peace-man ; and I answer,
"• It is a beautiful precept, and I wish the world would observe
it; but I see no hope of that, as yet.
 Abstain from shaving, and follow nature !  urge the young
Europe philosophers.  May it please your wisdoms to excuse
me, I reply;  I have as modest an objection to copy the
ouran-outang in your fashion, as by going without my nether
garments.
 Abstain from strong drink !  insists the teetotaller.  My
friend, I answer, very kindly,  I wish you hearty success with
all the drunkards, rich and poor, gentle and simple ; but I hope
that all the temperate men will have too much sense to be over-
come by your fanaticism.
 Abstain from flesh, fish, and fowl!  advises the vegetarian.
"Good brother, I reply,  if I understand your aim, it is to
rid the world of the carnivora, to which numerous class of
animals man belongs (I don't care about the Cuvierian classi-
fication). How, if you can show me how, after having converte
•the FAMILY EEUE.
227
mankind, you shall convert tlie lion from deer-devouring, the
hawk from pigeon-eating, the porpoise from salmon-gorman-
dising,—and so on, to the end of the chapter, through earth, air,
and sea,—why, I'll listen to you. Verbum sap ! 
But what say I, what do I, when any super-delicate brother
cries out, "Adam Hornbook, abstain from smoking? I say
nothing: I smoke. Why don't I argue with my adviser ? Be-
cause I think he talks without thinking ; and I never argue with
such people.
Why am I to be forbidden this harmless and pleasant practice
with my pipe ? It is not gluttony, nor drunkenness, nor rape,
nor murder, nor cheating, nor lying, nor swearing, nor burglary,
nor larceny, nor highway-robbery, nor sedition, nor treason.
You cannot make it out to be either a sin or a crime, or a trans-
gression of any part of the Decalogue.  But it is an indolent
habit, the objector urges, when he can find nothing more to
say. I wish he had said that at first, for then I would have
smiled and shaken hands with him, and said,  Most true ; and
therein lies its excellence !
What are the real evils and plagues of this age ? What but
its breathless fuss and brainless flutter, its bother and din and
hurry-scurry, its glare and stare and pretension? Now, the
pipe calms a man; it slackens his pulse, lulls his restlessness,
lays unruly haste and anxiety to sleep, and makes a man willing
to stay in the arm-chair and enjoy it as one of the pleasantest
and most comfortable things in life, and let the world, if it will,
go a gadding. Your true smoker—he that keeps his pipe in, I
mean; and that is the mark by which you may know the true
from the sham smoker—your true smoker is a pattern man for
consistency. He takes his time about things. You ask his
opinion ; he thinks twice before he answers once,—keeping his
pipe in. Y"ou ofl'er him a bargain ; he considers well before he
accepts it,—keeping his pipe in. Some ill-natured, quarrelsome
fellow tries to provoke him ; but he is slow to be provoked,—he
keeps his pipe in. He does not bore people to death, and usurp
all the time for talking, in a company,—he keeps his pipe in ;
and when he speaks, he does not tell all he knows, and exhaust
all his wit, so as to have none left for the next holiday,—he keeps
his pipe in.
And how healthful are the private meditations of the true
smoker! His plans are properly matured and sagaciously prac-
tical,—he keeps his pipe in; yet he does not elaborate them,
and dawdle with them, till all the fire is gone out of him for
putting them into action,—he keeps his pipe in. Nor are his
thoughts all of the earth, earthy. The floating upward of that
li<'ht°wreath of vapour often reminds him of the ethereal aspira-
Q2
228
THE FAMILY FEUD.
tions and play of genius, or of the flight of a soul to its celestial
home ; and then that peculiar whirling circle—such as just now
issues from the bowl of my pipe—does it illustrate some great
questions, I wonder, such as the nature of the nebulae, or of
Saturn's rings ? But, behold, it breaks ; and now it forms
phantasmal graces that have been likened by no pencil, unless
it was Flaxman's, when he created the outlines to Dante.
Do not tell me, super-delicate brother, that I am doating. I
would that Raleigh had left us a record of his grand imaginings
over the pipe, and that he had bethought him to do it before the
royal poltroon who wrote the farcical  Counterblast sent his
precious head to the block. Or Shakspcre—who can prove that
he did not learn to take the pipe from Raleigh F While so many
are trying their hands at making new lives of him, deducing his
habits from stray passages in his dramas, could not I deduce the
positive fact that he smoked, and kept his pipe in, from some
score of his finer flights of thought ? Or Milton had told us
how the pipe—though his dear eyes could no longer see the
smoke—suggested some of the most transcendent idealities in
the "Paradise Lost. Or Newton had informed us how his
smoking assisted his profound comprehension of the celestial
mechanism; or Robert Hall—ah! you should have heard him
preach after a pipe thrice filled, to have known what pulpit elo-
quence was! or Campbell—who ever equalled him for the true
fire of a lyric ? The secret of it was—he smoked, and kept his
pipe in. Or Tennyson—do not all your living poets pale their
smaller fires before him P What wonder P—he smokes, and
keeps his pipe in. Or Carlyle—by whose electric words your
brain is stirred, your prejudices are shattered, your heart is
fired with indignation against idle shams, and your resolution is
girt up to work and be no sham ; and why ?—he smokes, and
keeps his pipe in.
Q. E. D. It is all as clear as the sun in a cloudless sky at a
July noon; and the whole host of ye, abstainers of every degree,
must be as blind as moles, bats, or owls, if you cannot see it.
Do not bother Adam Hornbook with any more of your absti-
nences—unless they have more sense to recommend them than
any you have hitherto recommended—for Adam's mind is made
up. While he is able,.he will smoke and keep his pipe in.
"But what has this to do with the story? Patience, dear
reader: the story could not go on sensibly without this essay,
inasmuch as smoking was a habit of one of my actors; they
cannot go on without their habits, nor the story without the
actors. But, you shall see!
THE FAMILY FEtTD.
229
CHAPTEK II.
In which the Reader is again introduced to an old Acquaintance, who had been
left to lag far behind in the Story, but comes up now, at need.
At the outskirts of Quarrelton, with a pleasant 30uth-west view
towards Dreamfield, was a detached cottage, reared by a pros-
perous small tradesman, who at his decease had left it to his
widow. It had more rooms than she needed for her own occu-
pation ; and to add to the neat little income which her husband
—good, thoughtful, thrifty man that he was—had also left her,
she let off a parlour next to a pretty garden, and a sleeping-
room, to the curate O'Frisk. Erom the parlour the widow had
removed the most tasteful part of her furniture, at the curate's
request, to make room for his books, and had transferred to it
from the kitchen a large old-fashioned easy chair in which her
grandfather used to sit when she climbed to his knees in her
childhood. The widow, indeed, showed a disposition to do every-
thing in the world to make her lodger comfortable, as she herself
professed; and the curate declared himself to be suited vastly
well.
Yet O'Frisk's parlour would have been anything but tempting
to a fine lady, or a very fastidious gentleman. His bookshelves
occupied two sides of it; and they were not very eyeable, as
a workman would say, inasmuch as they were the result of the
curate's own untaught handicraft; they were well laden with
volumes which had many a vein of good gold within, but the
bindings were of unsightly russet, or their tatters were hidden
with coarse paper covers. Close by his easy chair was a little
corner shelf on which stood a leaden-lidded earthen tobacco jar,
usually with half-a-dozen clay pipes in various stages of mellow-
ness, for companions ; and this smaller tenantry of the parlour,
even when at rest, yielded an aroma which, however agreeable
to the curate, would not have been very delectable to the nostrils
of every visitor. The widow, who preferred waiting upon her
lodger and keeping the maid to kitchen-work, owned that she
did not much like the smell of tobacco at first, but with the
amiable good-nature so characteristic of widows who have good-
looking bachelors for lodgers, she soon professed that she thought
the scent very pleasant.
The curate, we have said, considered himself well-suited; he
was usually very liappy in lus lodging \ but oil a certain evening
soon after New Year's day, he was restless and uneasy. It was
230
THE FAMILY FEUD.
dusk and dull within, drear and snowy without, and O Frisk
had been endeavouring to enjoy his Lucian, but had yawned
sundry times, in spite of the wit of his favourite author. And,
now the darkness fell so fast that he could not make out another
line of that queer print on foreign unsightly paper—where the
most beautiful and most sensible-looking of alphabetic characters
were twisted into all manner of ugly, unsymmetrical crooks, by
way of short-hand—he laid down the volume, and bethought
him to light a candle. But O'Frisk was whimsical, and loved
to be so; so he changed his mind, and stirred up the fire to
make a blaze in the gloom, holding that to be the most cheerful
of lights, and one that was most effective in relieving a mind
that was ill at ease.
There was another philosophical f»id at hand. He took a
seasoned pipe and filled it, and then lighting a paper spill fired
his pipe of tobacco by looking at it in the oblong mirror above
his mantel-piece. That was a scientific mode of lighting a pipe,
he was wont to observe: you lighted the tobacco all round
properly in that way; and if ever he took out a patent it should
be for discovering that sensible way of lighting a pipe. It
would have been an Irish patent, of course.
O'Frisk tried to make himself believe that he was comfortable,
as he walked leisurely about the little parlour, filling it with the
fragrance that was so grateful to him, but he could not. He
sighed, and sat himself down in his easy chair, and began to
meditate over his pipe, and with his eyes fixed on the fire. If
he had fancied that those red hot inequalities resembled rocks
and caverns, or the crater of a volcano, it would not have been
unnatural; but somehow or other he likened them to pits and
huge heaps of snow, and began to depicture a young woman
wandering up and down, and having lost her way among them,
while she shivered and shook with cold. The picture created
by his imagination moved his heart.
 What a big simpleton you were, Terry O'Frisk, that you
didn't speak to her!  he said to himself;  sure, you never saw
a girl before that took your fancy as she did. Why was it that
you could not speak to her, and tell her how you loved her P
Because you were not used to it—and that's the truth, Terry
O'Frisk : you've lost her now. Where is she gone, in the wide
world ? Nobody knows; and you may never see her again.
And then the curate became inwardly eloquent on the beauty
of her eyes and face, and the sweetness of her look, which had
attracted him to peep at her till he almost forgot himself while
reading the lessons in church. And he came to an end, declaring
it was of no avail to think about her: she was never intended
for him. He would try to think about something else.
THE FAMILY FEUD.
231
 This town o' Quarrelton beats Ireland out-and-out, he
averred to himself;  something odd is always coming to pass
here. That young fellow stole away in a mysterious manner a
month ago; and now comes another mysterious evanishment.
The town's talk was all about the Uphams then, and now it's
all about the Downhams. How could that young fellow, Canute,
be a thief ? I can't digest it—nay, I can't swallow it—though
the whole town swears he's guilty, and says hanging is too good
for him. It's true that I'm only a spooney ; but I think I know
an honest face when I see it; and if his face was not honest,
my name's not Terry O'Frisk.
The curate fell into curious speculation about faces, but was
roused by a single loud rap at the front door of the cottage.
The maid went to the door, but summoned her mistress ; and
then the widow—who was particular in taking these little services
upon herself—gently tapped at the parlour door, and informed
the curate that Mr. Timothy's coachman had a message for him
from the merchant.
 Show the coachman in, said O'Frisk with a delighted
earnestness, which somewhat surprised the widow. Neverthe-
less, she conducted Jossv into the parlour.
 Ah, how are you, my good friend ? Sit ye down, said the
curate, extending his hand to Jossy;  you've come with a
message from Mr. Timothy: another party, I suppose. But
you're not in a hurry, I hope; you'll take a drop o' whiskey ?
Mrs. Tomkins, will you do me the favour to send in some hot
water P—or, let it be the small kettle, please. I've a good fire
here, and can keep it hot.
Jossy Jessop had often been treated to an extra glass by the
curate on a coach journey, though he had never been so hand-
somely invited into the parlour before. But the invitation did
not amaze him; he knew the curate to be a hearty good fellow
as he said, and one that had no pride in him. The message to
attend another party was delivered ; the whiskey and hot water,
well sweetened, was soon prepared, and Jossy was nothing loath
to take a glass; but when O'Frisk pressed him to smoke, he
answered—
 Why no, sir; I'd rather not, thank ye! I dare say it's all
very well, sir, for gen'lemen as likes it; but it doesn t agree
with me, sir.
"Then don't have it, Jossy, said the curate; "I smoke be-
cause it does agree with me. A pipe is a capital companion when
you're lonely; and especially when you're in a thinking mood.
 Indeed, sir! said Jossy, who had a notion that the curate
was not much in love with thinking,  drives it away, like P
 Quickens the pace o* thought, rather, said O'Frisk, "and
232
THE FAMILY FEUD.
disposes the mind to be cheerful, and look at the bright side o
things. . u
"Ah, very desirable that, sir! I wish I could always do it,
observed Jossy somewhat sadly; and then turned to comfort
himself with the tipple.
The curate glanced at Jossy's broad face, and was struck with
the conviction that it did not look so happy as he had often seen
it look when Jossy drove gaily out of Quarrelton, with four in
hand, in old times. O'Frisk did not like to say so, however,
and turned the conversation on the reports in the town.
"What's the news to-day, Jossy H he asked; "anything
come to light about Mr. Downham's niece yet ? 
O'Frisk asked the question with his face towards the fire, and
with as much indifference as he could very well assume. But
he turned his head quickly when there was no answer; and
was greatly interested to observe Jossy's grave shake of the
head and uneasy look. So well versed as he was in all the par-
tisan knowledge of the town, O'Frisk felt puzzled.
"You seem concerned about Miss Granger; he said, "and
yet I should hardly have expected that, from a staunch Upham
like yourself, Jossy.
"And so I am a staunch Upham — a reg'lar Upham—and
always wos, Mr. O'Frisk, averred Jossy, whose spirit was
kindled by the appeal, as an old war-horse is moved by the blast
of a trumpet;  but I knowed this dear young creatur's father;
and although her mother was a Downham, she's a young lady
that's deserving of great respect, sir.
 Faith, and I believe ye, Jossy !  said the curate, so much
delighted that he forgot his little disguise.
 A more dutifuller daughter there couldn't be in the world,
Mr. O'Frisk. I saw her behaviour to her poor father when he
was in distress, and they were my passengers on the coach to
Bippleford: and it was beautiful to see it 
 Heaven bless ye, Jossy! You speak like a man with a heart
in his bosom ! 
 I hope I have one, sir. But I should like to know what has
become o' the dear young creatur. I'd give a good deal to
know, Mr. O'Frisk.
 Heaven bless ye, Jossy ! tipple off yer glass, and take
another.
 Thank ye, sir; but I'd rather not. It's a liquor I'm not
used to 
 But it'll do ye no harm, Jossy. By my faith, Jossy, I've a
great respect for ye!
 Much obliged to ye, sir ; and, if I'm not making over free,
I must say I've felt uncommon partial to you, sir, ever since that
THE FAMILY FEUD.
23.3
night when you floored the rascally Downhams at the town-
meeting 
O'Frisk would have whooped with delight, had not Jossy
drawn in a full breath, sighed heavily, and added,
 Ah ! poor dear Mr. Canute was with us, that night! 
O'Frisk saw at once that Jossy, although of Mr. Timothy's
household, was no more a believer in the dishonesty of their
young acquaintance than himself, and immediately said so, in
his quick, native way,—
 Sure now, you don't believe the poor young man is a thief,
Jossy ?
"No more than I'm one myself, sir!—and I'd knock the man
down that said I was one.
 And serve him right, Jossy, declared the warlike parson ;
 and I'd stand by you, too; and back ye up in it, against all
the cowards and knaves in Quarrelton. But take a drop more
o' the whiskey ! 
 Knaves ! ay, there must be knaves, somewhere, Mr. O'Frisk,
said Jossy, accepting the second glass of tipple ;  but you'll be
kind enough not to mention anything that I say about poor
Mr. Canute.
 Never fear me, Jossy ! By my faith, you shall never be the
worse for aught you say to me.
 I believe you, sir. For, as I said, I've felt uncommon
partial to ye, ever since that night; and I feel it a relief, sir,
to have anybody that I dare talk to about the dear young
gen'leman. Mrs. Phoebe's the only person I can talk to about
him ; and she frets and takes on so, that it hurts one to see
her.
 Poor young fellow! I liked him, Jossy. I did, indeed.
There was honesty in his face, though all the town seems to
have taken against him.
Jossy was too much affected to speak.
 Mr. Timothy, now, and Miss Charlotte, hinted O'Frisk,
 you don't think they really believe him to be dishonest,
Jossy?
 Why, really, I don't know what to say to that, sir. They're
both of 'em very uneasy, I'm sure. Miss Charlotte tries to hide
it; but it's plain enough to be seen. As for Mr. Timothy—I can
hardly look at him without feeling miserable—he's so broken
down. He's not like the same man, sir.
 It seems Mr. Elder is considered to be in fault, said the
curate •  they say, in the town that Mr. Timothy holds him to
be in a great degree blameable ; and that is the reason that
Mr. Crookit is made top-sawyer in the office.
 Hah !  exclaimed Jossy, opening his eye widely ; "I never
234
THE FAMILY FEUD.
heard o* that, sir. But there's so many queer wild reports in the
town that I'm tired with listening to 'em.
 Mr. Crookit seems to have it all his own way, now, at any
rate, suggested the curate, and looked at Jossy; "don't forget
your whiskey, my friend.
 Thank ye, sir ! why, yes, sir—and if I may say as much to
ye, sir, I'm sorry for it, said Jossy, dropping his voice.
 Jossy !—that man's a villain—he's a poisonous snake i' the
grass—or my name isn't what it is !  declared O'Frisk.
The curate's quick mode of shewing his thoughts was odd, in
Jossy's apprehension; but it was powerful, and Jossy acknow-
ledged it.
 They're strong words, sir, said he,  begging your pardon;
but if you mean that he's the thief, and has put the theft upon
Mr. Canute; and I knowed it was so—I'd give him something
stronger than words"—and Jossy thundered his heavy fist on
the table, for his blood was stirred.  Beg your pardon, sir! 
said Jossy, again.
 Never mind it! You've hurt nobody. And, my friend, it's
always best for an honourable mind to express itself plainly, and
to the point.
 But you see, sir, said Jossy, calming himself, and speaking
thoughtfully, "one knows nothing, for certain, as to what is the
real charge against Mr. Canute. There are all sorts o' reports
in the town. But nobody—that I hear of—says anything about
Mr. Crookit being at the bottom o' this business.
"The whole truth does not come out at once, in such cases,
said O'Frisk ;  it is notable that Mr. Elder was put down, and
Crookit was set over the business, just when this report came
out against the young man.
 That's very true, sir, observed Jossy,  though I never
thought of it before. I've been so distressed about poor
Mr. Canute that I didn't know what to think.
 Poor young fellow! It's very strange, what can have
become of him; but it seems there's nobody likely to make any
search for him. The poor young man was an orphan, they say.
I suppose you knew nothing about his relatives, Jossy? 
 No, sir, I didn't. He was a prentice to the wooden spoon
making, with old Job Oldstock, when Mr. Timothy took him—
seeing merit in him, you understand; and I believe Mr. Timothy
was right.
 Then Job must know something about the young man's
parentage P
 Very likely, sir, but he's a man I don't like. I haven't
been in his house this more than twenty year; and I wouldn't
go into it again, for a mint o' money.
the family feed.
235
 Indeed, Jossy! how's that P  asked O'Frisk, taking the pipe
out of his mouth, and looking full of curiosity.
 Never mind, sir, I'll tell you another time, answered
Jossy.
The reply rendered the curate doubly curious, since he
observed that odd, painful twitch of the face with which Jossy
uttered it. And the curate urged his companion to take a third
glass of liquor,and to tell the secret, till Jossy yielded to do both.
The story of Mr. Timothy's unfortunate sister rivetted the
curate's attention. He had never heard its full details before ;
but only dark hints of her hard usage by the elder Upliam ; and
had always found the party desirous of leaving the melancholy
transaction in mystery, whenever it was mentioned. O'Frisk
was not satisfied with the end of the story, as Jossy left it; but
Jossy could only answer the curate's inquiries for more parti-
cular information, by saying that if any man alive knew how the
poor young lady died, and what became of her child, and what
was the true report about the murder of her husband, it must be
Job Oldstock—since she hid herself at the spoon-maker's ;
and, most likely, he and his wife had communication with her
afterwards.
Beyond that conjectural point Jossy could not go; nor would
he be persuaded to call upon the wooden-spoon maker and
question him. After Jossy's departure the curate smoked at a
great rate, as he always did when excited ; and came to a deter-
mination, before he retired to rest, that he would himself call
on Job and Dorothy, and put a few questions to them the next
day.
CHAPTER III.
O'Frisk's Visit to the Oldstocks, with his profound Cogitations over his pipe,
before and after.
The curate's disposition to make a visit at the wooden spoon-
maker's was as strong when he rose the next morning as it was
when he went to bed ; but on consulting with his pipe, in whose
s&°"G promptings he pl&ced gren.t reliunce, he decided thcit it would
be"better to call in the evening, when Job and Dorothy would
licive got through their d&y s worhj uiid be (piietly seuted by the
fireside#
In the forenoon the curate took a short stroll into the town;
but he was so much saddened by a short conversation with two
236
THE FAMILY FEUD.
or three of the Upham party—who were savagely denouncing
Mr. Downham, whose ill-treatment of his niece they affirmed
had caused the young woman to run away—that he went back
to his parlour. Reading he found to be as irksome as before,
and so O'Frisk took to smoking in right earnest, with the aim of
letting his busy cogitations have free course.
This Mr. Downham, could it be true, O'Frisk asked himself,
that a gentleman with so much pretension to benevolence could
have used that sweet-looking creature harshly ? If it were so,
the world was wickeder than he had supposed. Mr. Titus had
not the look of a cruel man. As for the Upham party, though
O'Frisk was generally numbered among its adherents, he made
large allowances for spite while they talked about the Downhams.
Yet what else could have caused the young lady to leave her
uncle's house ? O'Frisk could make nothing of it.
And then this strange story about Mr. Timothy's sister, what
a hard, proud heart it argued in her father ! And was the
indifference of Mr. Timothy himself less condemnable, if he had
made no inquiry about an only sister and her child? Jossy
thought the inquiry had been made, but was uncertain about it.
Yet, Mr. Timothy seemed to be a man of strong natural affec-
tion, to judge from his tenderness towards his daughter Char-
lotte ; and he was known to be very thoughtful towards the
poor—not distributing alms among them very often—but being
ever ready to help them to help themselves, and O'Frisk believed
that was the most sensible way of practising benevolence. He
wished he had followed it through life, instead of yielding to his
impulses, and giving away his last shilling, as he had so often done,
to almost anybody who told him a pitiful tale, but of whose real
want he knew no more than of the wants of the man in the
moon.
The secrets in the family history of the Uphams were of no
proper interest to him. If Mr. Timothy had really and culpably
neglected to inquire into the suffering circumstances of an only
sister, or to learn what had become of her child after her death,
he, O'Frisk, had nothing to do with it. Yes ; he thought he had,
as a Christian minister; but the curate's honest mind doubted
whether he ought to take that ground. Was it not mere curio-
sity that prompted him ? And if clergymen were to consider
themselves warranted to pry into all the secrets of families, they
would be a sort of corporation of licensed mischief-makers, and
as objectionable as so many Romish inquisitors. No: he could
not take that ground. He was sure it was only curiosity that
was his prompter, and he would own it to his own heart. He
felt he could not resist this curiosity, but he would remember
that he must exercise it honourably, and with due respect to
THE FAMILY FEUD.
237
Other people's desire for secresy. If old Job and bis wife showed
themselves unwilling to tell what they knew, and there should
seem to be proofs that they were keeping a secret in compliance
with Mr. Timothy's direction, he would not pry into it.
Yes: he would visit them, if it were only to ascertain what
they knew about that poor young fellow's origin. O'Frisk
thought himself bound to do this, since he had charged himself
with being the primary cause of the young man's trouble; so
had it seemed to him at first. He had felt conscience-stricken
when it was first rumoured that the young man had been driven
from the town through fear of being apprehended for injuring
the young fiddler.
 I felt a sneakish shame about it when the young man
absconded, said O'Frisk to himself,  knowing that it was I,
and none other, that had led him to the town meeting, and into
the row. And although they say now that he went away to
hide his dishonesty, and enjoy the guilty fruits of it, I don't
believe it; and I must take home to myself the great fault of
having been his leader into trouble. Well, then, I am bound,
continued O'Frisk, feeling his comprehension of duty and his
resolution increase as he consulted the more deeply with his
pipe, and his heart, and reason,  I am bound to make an essay
towards doing what nobody else seems inclined to do—to bring
this poor young man back, if he can be found—and if he have
any relatives living they may know where he is—to bring him
back, and see him openly acquitted if he be innocent, as I can-
not help thinking that he is. Yes, yes : I must set about it, if
I can obtain any clue to the young man's refuge-place.
About an hour after it was dark, O'Frisk, having turned over
such thoughts until he thought he had his own purposes clearly
before him, reached the cottage of old Job and Dorothy, and was
received with an affectionate, rather than ceremonious, respect,
arising from the heartfelt regard in which the kind and honest
curate was held by the aged pair, as by the humbler classes of
Quarrelton generally. O'Frisk seated himself at the fire, and
Job and Dorothy sat on either hand of him, without any feeling
of restraint, and answered his inquiries about their health, while
he listened with kindly patience, as it seemed, to their long and
roundabout narratives of the rheumatiz, and all the other aches
and pains of laborious old age.
Wnen the curate thought the preface was long enough for
propriety, he opened his scheme in a way that he thought would
seem least startling. _
 By-the-way, Job, said he,  I had a little talk with Jossy,
the coachman, last night: he happened to bring me a message
from Mr. Timothy—we were talking about the poor young man,
233
THE FAMILY FEtfi).
the young clerk, who has been missing this month past. Jossy
tells me that Canute was your apprentice before Mr. Timothy
took him into the office. Pray, my good friend, how long was
the youth under your care, and who placed him with you ?
 Well, sir, said Job, with a quick glance at Dorothy, which
did not escape O'Frisk's observation,  it was a gentleman that's
dead who placed him with me, some nine years ago; a gentle-
man that married Mr. Downham's sister.
 Mr. Downham's sister! Mr. Granger, do you mean?
 The same, sir. He was overlooker to old Squire Ferpshawe,
of Blythewick Hall, and he paid me five-and-twenty pounds
from the squire as a premium with the lad. That's how he came
to be with me. sir.
Granger—Fernshawe—Blythewick, where Jossy took Mr.
Timothy's sister in the gig—the names were exciting in O'Frisk's
state of mind, and he felt the necessity of being politic, for the
formal tone and sheepish eye of old Job were indicative of
wariness.
 Mr. Granger was the father of this poor young lady who is
missing from Mr. Downham's, said the curate, quietly.
 The same, said Job, coldly,  though I never knew the
young woman; only I heard that she had come to live with her
uncle, Mr. Titus, when her father died.
 Old Squire Fernshawe had a high character for kindness,
observed O'Frisk, in a very natural tone;  I suppose he gave
the premium with the boy out of charity; and perhaps the
squire had known the boy's father and mother when they were
living ?
 Can't say, I'm sure, answered Job, and immediately began
to groan and writhe and complain grievously of the twitches of
his rheumatiz.
 The boy's parents, of course, had lived somewhere near the
squire's? hinted O'Frisk, and addressing the hint to Dorothy.
But Dorothy was unable to reply; she was seized with an
outrageous fit of coughing which lasted some minutes.
At first, the curate expressed commiseration for the afflicted
pair; but he so strongly suspected that they were shamming
for the purpose of concealment, and his own curiosity began to
grow so vehement, that he ceased to say more in the pitying
vein, and resolved to strike upon a subject which should
rivet the ears of Job and Dorothy, if it did not loosen their
tongues.
 Blythewick — ay, it was to Blythewick, said O'Frisk,
 that Jossy took Mr. Timothy's sister in the gig—you recol-
lect she went from your house.
There was none other than fire-light in the room,—for
THE FAMILY FEUD.
O'Frisk, in order to impress upon the old people a feeling of
greater unrestraint and confidence in himself, had resisted
Dorothy's wish to light a candle—and the curate, sitting imme-
diately in front of the fire looked into it while he talked. No
reply was made ; and O'Frisk, turning first to Job, was startled
with the old man's ghastly and appalled look, and the dropping
of his under-jaw ; and the next moment saw that Dorothy had
turned as white as a sheet, and trembled. The curate looked at
one and the other, discerning that he had effectually cured
them, for the present, of both cough and rheumatiz.
 This is evidently a disagreeable subject, my friend, said
the curate, addressing Job in a gentle tone; "but I did not
come with the intent of putting you to any pain.
 Did you come on purpose, sir?  interrupted Job, hastily.
 I do not deny that I did.
 Then, did Mr. Timothy send you? 
 He did not, answered the curate.
"Oh! said Job; and instead of alarm, his face now be-
tokened dogged secresy.
 If you are entrusted with a family secret, and think it is
your duty to preserve it, ventured O'Frisk, marking the
change in the old man's manner,  I do not wish to say one
word to lead you to betray your trust.
 I'd rather you'd say no more about it, sir, observed Job,
holding down his head.
 Then I will not, said O'Frisk, with reluctance, and yet
feeling himself bound so to reply ;  but, about this poor young
man, Canute, you can have no objection to—
 I say, I'd rather you'd say no more about it, sir, repeated
Job ;  pray excuse us, sir; it's getting near our bed-time, and
neither Dolly nor I are very well.
This was a plain hint that O'Frisk took in a moment; and
he bade the aged pair  good night  with considerably less
than his usual kindness. The curate smoked intensely that
night; and often wondered what ailed him, for he could not
keep his pipe in. For some days after the pipe was scarcely
ever out of his mouth while he was awake; and he was so much
harassed with startling surmises,—made, or imagined he made,
so many astounding discoveries,—and, at length, believed him-
self so clearly summoned to discharge an important duty, that
he girt up his mind to perform it faithfully, whatever it might
cost him.
THE FAMILY FEUD.
CHAPTER IV.
The Rivalry of Crookit and Fernshawe.—Crookit steals a March ori his Rival,
with great Augury of Success.
The Downham family could not prevent the report spreading
all over Quarrelton that Mary Granger was missing. The
Upham party put but one interpretation on the fact: that,
under the guise of kindness, the poor young woman had been
subjected to so much real harshness and indignity as to be
unable to remain longer under the roof of her uncle ; and heavy
were the denunciations against Mr. Titus from the partisans of
Mr. Timothy.
It was on the morning after New-Year's Day that the report
first came to the ears of Crookit; but, although he joined in
the spiteful censures vented by his informant against Mr. Titus,
he did not believe that Mr. Titus deserved them. Run away
because she was ill-used by her uncle! No: he had other
suspicions as to the real cause of her flight.
 That young sleek-face thought I should believe him when
he denied that she was anything to him but a friend, he said
to himself;  but young folks, with all their innocence; don't
meet after dark to walk in retired places for mere friendship's
sake. This girl has gone after him. Most likely he has con-
trived to send for her, secretly.
The conclusion was very grateful to Crookit. Colton was
effectually frightened, and having no hope of ever returning to
Quarrelton had sent for the girl; and the girl, whatever might
be the strength of Colton's attachment, was mad enough in love
to go after him. Crookit assured himself that all this was
just as it ought to be, and proved his own generalship in vil-
lainy. He wished he could see his way as clear for success, in
another direction. Mr. Timothy, he believed, had already pene-
trated the meaning of his attentions to Miss Charlotte, and
evidently favoured them. He wished he could believe that the
imperial beauty herself was also favourable to him. But she
conducted herself with so much studied politeness towards both
himself and Fernshawe, when they happened to be together at
Mr. Timothy's, that it was impossible to affirm which she
favoured; or, rather, it was more evident that she disliked
both, and only masked her true feelings to avoid offending her
father.
Her behaviour was the same whenever Crookit was the only
THE FAMILY FEED.
241
visitor at Mr. Timothy's. On the other hand, Fernshawe
asserted that he was always received warmly by Miss Charlotte
whenever he made a visit alone to her father's. But this did
not dishearten Crookit very much. He had never known
Fernshawe tell a direct falsehood ; yet Fernshawe's honour
was, in Crookit's eyes, only the fantastic honour of a bravo,
and might be broken when self-interest demanded it. If Fern-
shawedid not lie direct, he would passively assist others to deceive,
rob, or do worse; and share the fruits of their deceit, theft, or
baser crime. Crookit held it to be folly to confide in the word
of such a man, while frequently subjected to his threats ; and
concluded that his reports of being favourably received by
Charlotte in private were untrue. If she really favours him,
why should he fiercely threaten me if I dare to seek her
favour ? Crookit reasoned. No : I have as fair a chance for
winning her as he, yet; he concluded. His self-conceit strength-
ened the notion; and very soon, he thought a grand opportu-
nity presented itself for making a formal declaration of his
suit.
 I am about to be off the ground for a few days, said Fern-
shawe to him ;  Percival has sent me an urgent letter, and I
must post off into Warwickshire to see him. You know what I
promised you, if you play the rogue—fool, I should have said.
Take a single step towards winning the beauty, in any shape,
open or covert; or attempt to jockey me 
 How can you torment yourself with such notions, Fern-
shawe ? Can't you believe your own words ? Do you not
assure me that Miss Charlotte gives you tokens of favour,
although I don't see them ? 
 Nor do you believe me.
 Can you blame me, if you don't believe yourself? 
 Don't palter with me, you rascal! cried Fernshawe,
yielding to his fiercer mood;  play upon words as you
will, you cannot conceal your intent of jostling me. But be-
ware!
 Why, really, Fernshawe, I didn't think you capable of such
pertinacious silliness. You have confessed to me, over and
over again, that you plainly perceived, with all her politeness, I
was no favourite with Miss Charlotte. And did you ever hear
me utter one word to her that you could construe into love-
making ? . .
Fernshawe was, in some degree, mollified towards his old
comrade in vice ; but be did not fail, notwithstanding, to repeat
his threats, as he left Crookit s lodging.
Not knowing how soon Fernshawe might return from his visit
to Percival, Crookit determined to lose no time; and the very
E
242
THE FAMILY FEUD.
next night, finding Mr. Timothy alone, ventured to make the
grand cast of the die. He did not propose directly for the hand
of Charlotte ; he did not speak of passion like a boy; but, some-
what indirectly, and with an air of profound respect, asked if
Mr. Timothy had any fixed views for securing Charlotte's happi-
ness for life.
The merchant's shrewd look evinced that he understood
Crookit's question, though so vaguely put. And, to Crookit's
delight, his countenance betokened pleasure, before he proceeded
to answer with the gravity and deliberation that were habitual
with him.
"You have asked an important question, Mr. Crookit, he
said ;  and in a mode which is creditable to your understanding,
I might have said to your heart; for our affections can never
lead ourselves or others to happiness, unless they are directed
and regulated by the understanding. My daughter's happiness
Las been long my principal care, although I have never spoken
of it. I have long been anxious to secure her from falling into
the fatal misery which overtook a near relative of mine. You
know what I mean, Mr. Crookit. It would distress me to say
more, and I need not say more to you. Well, I had formed
certain views for the union of one with my daughter. They
were cruelly destroyed. We will dismiss that painful subject,
also.
Here Mr. Timothy's halting sentences came to a full stop,
and he showed symptoms of distress, such as Crookit had often
witnessed in him of late, and the meaning of which Crookit well
understood : but never intimated so much, by even one word.
"My daughter, resumed the merchant, "was never made
acquainted with those views : and I am thankful—thankful,
now, that she was not. I shall not conceal from you, Mr.
Crookit, that I now entertain new views, he continued, in a
firm tone.  You ask me if they be fixed. I answer frankly
that they are, in as far as my own desire can make them so:
desire founded on the solid worth of one whom, I think, you
value too humbly.
Mr. Timothy smiled through his spectacles upon Crookit, as
he uttered the last words; but Crookit was too politic either
to speak, or to look otherwise than very humble and very
respectful.
 Well, my friend, proceeded the merchant, now full of
cordiality; "I may as well relieve you at once. You have
merited most richly at my hands. I believe you to be deserving
of the richest reward I can give you: gratitude I should, indeed,
call it. My views are fixed on yourself!
And now Crookit poured forth his most eloquent expressions
THE FAMILY FEUD. 2-13
/
of eternal and devoted gratitude, mingled with some professions
of unworthiness; but checking his tongue, as usual, on that
theme, lest when he was uttering what he himself felt to be so
vilely true, he should make others feel it also.
"Well, well, my friend, broke in Mr. Timothy, pleasantly ;
"no.doubt it is all right that each of us should have a modest
opinion of our own worth; but never mind that. I am glad you
have opened your mind to me. I have had this important
matter more than ever at heart lately. I mean—for I may say
it to you without disguise—more especially since Mr. Fernshawe
has been a visitor here. Of course, I have the highest respect
for that gentleman. You, Mr. Crookit, know what peculiar
cause I have to regard him as a gentleman. Well, he is a person
of family descent, and so forth; and if he had made proposals
for my daughter, and she chose to accept him, I could not
thwart her affections—I mean, provided that after proper exami-
nation into the condition of his estate, the match had seemed to
us desirable.
Crookit felt his confidence somewhat cooled, until the mer-
chant added the proviso.
 But I have no desire, Mr. Crookit, to connect my daughter
with any landed gentleman. I should have had a strong dislike
to overcome if any such proposal had been made to me. Char-
lotte is a merchant's daughter, and I wish her to be a merchant's
wife—and the wife, too, of a merchant, whose bearing proclaims
him to be as much a gentleman, as any landholder who boasts
of his coat of arms, and his ancient descent: boasts for which I
have no more value, Mr. Crookit, than for a gilt button, or an
old skull dug up from a churchyard.
Mr. Timothy gave a merry little laugh as he rounded his
period; and Crookit laughed longer and more loudly ; but pre-
pared to listen again to his prospective father-in-law with that
air so full of grateful respect!
 Well, sir, resumed Mr. Timothy, "I do not see that there
jeed be any delay in taking our first steps. I will test my
daughter's inclinations to-night, should I see her early enough ;
or, otherwise, to-morrow, and you shall know the result at the
first opportunity. I cannot think she will hear your name
mentioned with indiflerence for your own sake, Mr. Crookit,
while your suit shall have all the advantage that my approval
can give it. The rest, you know, will depend on your own
skill in wooing.
Air. Timothy laughed again as he concluded, and while Crookit
was again becoming warm with thankfulness, there were Miss
Charlotte's distinguishable signals of approach, by knocker and
bell, at the front door,
E 2
214
THE FAMILY FEUD.
'•Get away with you! cried her father, mirthfully; "get
away with you—so soon as you have just paid your compliments
to her—and let me broach the matter at once !
Crookit was delighted to obey, and rubbed his hands with
glee when he got out of doors; while Charlotte was left, as her
father's only companion, in the room he had just quitted.
CHAPTER Y.
Mr. Timothy makes an important Revelation to his Daughter, and a Proposal;
and is worsted in a Trial of Strength.
His daughter was beginning to ask, with her usual solicitude
for his comfort, what Mr. Timothy would like for supper, when
he requested her to sit down by him, and as he took her hand
fondly, drew off his spectacles and smiled in her face, and then
began to look very grave, she could see that he was about to
address her on some topic of much higher interest than the
items of a meal. Yet she did not surmise what it was. Mr.
Timothy was about to begin with ceremonious stiffness; but his
voice faltered : he paused, and then said,—
 My dear, I should first make you aware that I have long
felt I have not only a father's common duty to perform towards
yourself; but I am warned to exercise a watchful and yet
affectionate circumspection, by a most sad and sorrowful event
in our family history. You do not know, my love, to what I
refer ?
Charlotte answered that she did not.
 I did not expect you would. Having spent so much of your
life out of Quarrelton, you were not likely to hear it mentioned,
and our own friends were not likely to refer to it in your hear-
ing since your return. Nor can I dwell upon it now : it would
give me too much pain. I will only say that my dear sister
made a very improper choice for life; you know what I mean,
my love P and—and—her end was miserable !
Mr. Timothy wrung his daughter's hand and wept. Charlotte
was silent, between astonishment and pain for her father. In a
few minutes Mr. Timothy had subdued his grief.
 My father—I speak with all reverence as a son—but he
visited her too harshly for a fault he had not fully taught her to
avoid. And I have ever felt, since you, my love, were born,
that I must avoid his error. I have always determined to avoid
it equally by not attempting to forbid you all choice but a man
THE FAMILY FEUD.
245
of title, which was my father's first error, as I reverentially
conceive; but also by not leaving you without my own pru-
dential, as well as affectionate guidance.
Mr. Timothy then glided into a revelation that astonished
Charlotte almost as much as that to which her father had only
imperfectly referred. He informed her that for some time before
her return home he had fixed his mind on the poor young man
whose fall they had now to lament. The young man appeared
to be so amiable, was so intelligent, and so gentlemanly, that he
regarded himself as having made an unerring choice of a life-
companion for his daughter in young Canute.
Charlotte's pride was deeply hurt; but this theme renewed
her father's grief, and she could not, therefore, give way to anger.
Besides, her common sense taught her that it was not worth
speaking one word of remonstrance, now Canute was never
likely to appear again in her father's house. She listened, how-
ever, with intense anxiety for the pregnant chapter whieh was
to follow this double preface of sadness and astonishment. Mr.
Timothy was too much exhausted to make the chapter a long
one, and finished it somewhat abruptly.
 Now, my dear, he said,  I come—since all regrets for the
past are useless—to speak of the present, and to propose for
your consideration a companion for the future. I have not
strength to spend many words over it. The gentleman who
left this room not an hour ago is, in my conviction, a most
desirable husband for you. Have you any objection to
him P 
Charlotte had been gathering all her strength to sustain her
father's proposal calmly, whatever it might be; but when he so
suddenly pointed out Crookit, she could not control her disgust
and disdain.
 That man !  she exclaimed, springing up from her father's
side,— never! I will die, rather than become the wife of
such a man ! 
Mr. Timothy seemed thunderstricken. The haughty, defiant
air of his daughter, her pale cheek and flashing eyes, and the
disgust expressed in her words with the proposal, appalled and
confounded him. Had Charlotte behaved less proudly,—or had
she speedily subdued her scorn, and thrown herself on her
father's affection, he would have assured her in a moment that
he would not say one urgent word on the subject that was so
unwelcome to her. But she most unwontedly retained her anger,
and stood with the same proud and ireful look, till his indigna-
tion began to rise.
 So, you can be independent, I see!  he said, in a low tone,
but with such a look as he had never before bent on his daughter.
246
THE FAMILY FEUD.
 I suppose you have already made your choice elsewhere,
then ? 
Charlotte's anger fled, the blushes suffused her face and
neck, and she stood with downcast eyes and speechless before
her father.
"Very well! the answer is plain enough, though it is not
spoken, said Mr. Timothy, with increased bitterness;  but,
remember! the Upham wealth is still mine, and without my
consent it will never be grasped as a marriage-portion by Mr.
Fernshawe.
 Father,—dear father!  cried Charlotte, her tears mastering
her pride, "you are mistaken. I could never become the wife
of Mr. Fernshawe. No man in the world is more disagreeable
to me.
 What!—eh, what!—why, how is this ?  said Mr. Timothy,
with open mouth, and more than ever confounded.
Charlotte threw herself into his arms, and clinging round his
neck, sobbed out her entreaty that he would not try to force her
into a marriage with any one.
 My love, how can you ask it P I never thought of doing
so, answered the father, quite melted and overcome.
 Thank you—thank you, dear father! 
"You misunderstood me — entirely misunderstood me, my
dear! I can never think of compelling you to marry against your
will. The thought is abominable to me. I should feel it wicked
to do so ; and never expect to be forgiven, either in this world or
the world to come, if I were to commit such a manifest sin! 
Charlotte kissed him, and again sat down by his side, and let
him take her hand.
"Forgive me, she said; "I ought to have known that you
could not mean to use compulsion towards me.
 My love, there is nothing to forgive, said the fond, idolizing
father,  it has only been a misunderstanding. My sole motive
was a wish to see your happiness secured for life; and I thought
such a man as 
 It is soon enough yet, father. Do not mention such a sub-
ject to me again,—at least not yet, she added, wittingly.
 Certainly not, my love, if you do not wish it to be men-
tioned. N ay, if your heart lie as free as it is now to the end of my
life,—or you even wish to die an old maid, I will not control you,
declared Mr. Timothy, his excitement taking a merrv turn.
"I will not promise you that, father, she said, smiling archly,
and throwing her arm again round his neck;  but I do promise
you that I will never marry without your full consent. And
whenever you learn that I have made a choice, you shall see and
own that it is worthy of your daughter, and that it secures your
THE FAMILY FEUD.
247
own peace and happiness, while it does not sacrifice jour own
sense of dignity.
They were fine words!—and such favourite words with Mr.
Timothy. He pressed his daughter to his bosom with such
fervour, that she was really relieved when he released her. His
language, meanwhile, was more rhapsodical in the way of fond-
ness than anything he had ever uttered in his life.
Mr. Timothy's idolatrous pride and confidence in the imperial
Charlotte was thoroughly restored; nay, he had scarcely ever
felt so proud of her, as he did for the remainder of that evening.
He would not go to bed immediately after supper, like an invalid
—that he would not! He must hear her play,—he must hear
her sing. And when Jossy was summoned to conduct him to his
bedroom—Jossy's usual task now,—he walked so feebly, that
Jossy lifted him up, and bore him gently upstairs. Mr. Timothy
smiled happily in his lassitude; but Jossy, unaware of what had
passed between father and daughter, feared it was no good sign,
and looked sorrowfully, with a shake of the head, at Mrs. Phoebe,
on reaching the kitchen.
CHAPTER VI.
Mr. Timothy's Policy, and how Crookit conducts himself under Disappointment.—
The Rivals join Hands, each intent on gaining his End by Aid of the Other.
Eor a day or two Mr. Timothy contrived to put off the inter-
view which Crookit was so eagerly expecting. The merchant
could not be unconscious that he had himself contributed to raise
strong expectations in Crookit, and felt that the hour of expla-
nation would be fraught with difficulty. It was too late to wish
that he had been more circumspect; and yet he censured him-
self very severely for his own rashness : it was so unlike him-
self, he imagined. Mr. Timothy, with all his wisdom, did not
perceive that it was very possible for a cautious and calculating
merchant to be rash in a business which was new to him. His
own judgment in matters of purchase and sale was so unerring,
that he had not supposed it possible for him to err in another
business. Yet he had erred. He brought it plainly home to
himself that he had erred, in supposing that his daughter must
see with his eyes, or must be so indifferent about the choice of a
husband that she would be willing to take anybody whom her
father happened to prefer.
Yet Mr. Timothy palliated his sense of error by reminding
248
THE FAMILY FEED.
himself that he had not proposed a husband to his daughter
because he wished to compel her to receive exactly the one he
might recommend. He had only acted from a sense of duty, and
a wish to prevent her from making a wrong choice, like his
sister.
But about Crookit ? How could he smooth the awkwardness
of meeting the man ? Mr. Timothy asked himself. He meant
all that he had said to Charlotte when he professed his willing-
ness for her to remain single if she chose, and was more than
satisfied when his daughter had said she would never marry
without his approval. He did not mean, he could not wish, to
alter the terms he had agreed to. But need he strike down
Crookit's hopes at one blow ? Since Charlotte's heart was un-
engaged—and Mr. Timothy believed it was,—might she not
change her mind about Crookit, in course of time ? Perhaps,
now she knew her father's wishes, she would begin to think
about Crookit, and might discover that he would really suit her
very well for a husband. Mr. Timothy had had so very little
experience of courtship, and it was such a long while ago, that
he could not pronounce very positively what was the exact value
of Charlotte's strong phrase about dying rather than become
such a man's wife. But he thought it was only a strong phrase,
an ebullition of temporary feeling, not the dictate of the under-
standing. He would not subject her to such provocation again.
His sister had proved headstrong through undue restraint im-
posed on her by his father. Charlotte should have no such
restraint; but, as she would often see Crookit, the man might
become more agreeable to her in time.
So Mr. Timothy concluded he should be warranted in deliver-
ing, simply, a gentle declaration of non-success for the present.
He did not like to shock the poor man's feelings any more than
he liked to confess his own rashness. And, besides, there was
the important mercantile motive at the root of all this. He him-
self had not been able to attend much to business of late. His
old trustworthy manager, Mr. Elder, was manager no lpnger.
Everything was now in Crookit's hands ; and, from Crookit's
account, was very prosperously conducted. He must not give
disgust to Crookit, under such circumstances, it might lead to a
serious evil.
When the interview could no longer be deferred without excit-
ing injurious suspicion, Mr. Timothy granted it, and, with his
mixture of motives, endeavoured to soften Crookit's disappoint-
ment by confessing his own,—intimating that though there was
no immediate success in prospect, the case was not hopeless.
 Above all, let me assure you, Mr. Crookit, said the mer-
chant,  that though my daughter does not wish to hear either of
THE FAMILY FEUD.
249
courtship or marriage for the present, yet she does not decline
to accept yourself because she prefers another.
 Are you sure of that, sir?  asked Crookit, eagerly.
 Perfectly, Mr. Crookit. I was resolved to be clear upon it,
and I charged her—directly charged her—with having already
fixed her choice on Mr, Fernshawe, and she denied it.
 Perhaps, sir, not so explicitly as to render it impossible that
she may yet receive Mr. Fernshawe's suit.
 Do not torment yourself with such an idea! To show you that
you are utterly mistaken, I will give you her very words regard-
ing him. ' Father,' said she, ' I could never become the wife of
Mr. Fernshawe. No man in the world is more disagreeable to
me.' Could a woman say anything more decided?
The evil heart of Crookit sent up a glance of malicious triumph
to his eyes.
 That was decided enough!  he acknowledged; and when
he withdrew, it was in such seeming perfect good humour, that
the merchant was left in a state of mingled admiration at his
rational behaviour and regret at not being able to call him
"son.
Crookit walked to his lodging in better spirits than he had
gone to Mr. Timothy's house. The delay in granting the inter-
view, and the merchant's embarrassment in opening it, had taken
away nearly all his hope. But now he learnt that Charlotte
had declared so decidedly against Fernshawe, and reflected that
Mr. Timothy still encouraged his suit, his own self-love, and his
conscious fitness for methods of slow siege, craft, undermining,
and flattery, combined to assure him that he would yet succeed.
But, a few days after Crookit's restored self-complacence re-
ceived a volcanic disturbance from the return of Fernshawe.
 You look very comfortable, said the moustached visitor,
with his piercing eyes and bitter sneer,  had you popped the
question with triumphant success, you could not look more self-
assured.
 Happy to see you back !—but don't tease yourself any more
so absurdly, said Crookit, with so little appearance of feeling
sore at Fernshawe's sarcasm, that the sneerer was doubly mor-
tilled.
 D'ye think Fm such a dunce as to be all my life learning my
letters ?  said Fernshawe ;  I know every twist and wrinkle of
your face so well that you can'c hide their meaning from me. I
see the devil's sunshine in it, and know what you've been about
pretty shrewdly. But, I'll take the conceit out of ye. Percival
knows you are here, and what you are doing. There ! smile at
that, Belial!"—and the speaker's eyes glowed with demoniac
glee.
250
THE FAMILY FETID.
 What! cried Crookit,  is this your pretended honour,
you base 
 Stop your abuse—lest you repent it! He has not learnt
your whereabouts from me.
 How could he otherwise have learned it P You are paltering
with me.
 Nay, that's your trade, Dick, not mine. You never knew
me palter. But, now, cool your wrath, and let us consider. There
is a mystery that I want to fathom ; who is this stray chicken—
this Canute Colton—on whom your wisdom has saddled a theft ?
Percival knows him ; has found him in London ; has seen your
letters to him, and knows your scrawl. What the devil have
you been about, Dick ? Have you lost your old cunning in
writing disguised hands ? 
 Are you raving ?  asked Crookit,  or is this a hoax you
have concocted P 
 You know it isn't a hoax, you look too much frightened for
that. But do try to master your weakness for once. You'll
have to hear more yet. I believe this lad is the hobgoblin Per-
cival has been dreading for years—the cause of those horrid fits
he used to have in Italy—the Avenger of Blood, he used to rave
about so hideously. Who is this lad, I say ? Do you know P 
 No more than you. Upham does not know who he is. He
was apprenticed to a wooden-spoon maker, and was an orphan
of some beggars of peasants, I suppose. Hobgoblin ! of course!
It must be another step—and only that—in Percival's madness.
The lad can't be anything to him ; it is only another shade in
his old hallucination, depend upon it! How came Percival to find
the poor wretch ?—Did you learn that ? 
 Percival found him with Una, who had run away to London,
it seems 
 Ha ! has it come to that ? 
 She is at home again; but Percival knew this lad before he
found him in London with Una.
 I tell you that is impossible, Uernshawe. It is all the off-
spring of Percival's diseased mind.
 He intends to act on it, be it what it may.
 Act on it—how ? what d'ye mean ? 
 I cannot tell distinctly. He was secret as to a part of his
purpose; there is something which he is bent on compelling this
youth to do; and which, he says, the lad may refuse to do.
His purpose, then, will be to seize this Canute Colton and have
him dragged hither for you to swear the robbery against him,
and so have him transported. You look as if you didn't like the
news, Dick!  added Uernshawe, with another of his malicious
glances.
THE FAMILY FEUD.
251
 No more I do. "Will you like to liave the theft sworn to ?
Besides, remember that your oath, that you have paid the
money, and had the receipt handed to you in the inn at Byeham,
will be required.
 But it will never be had.
Crookit felt a wish to strangle his old acquaintance, and sat a
second or two without speaking ; and then suddenly said—
 But of what worth is all this crazy purposing of Percival ?
He cannot prosecute Colton ; and Upham will never do it, unless
either you or I prompt him. The charge against Colton has
never been made publicly ; and I have circulated so many diffe-
rent versions of it—or put them into circulation—that Percival
has, most likely, got hold of some gossiping story.
 Why, Dick, you are becoming so frightened that you are
losing your memory. Didn't I tell you, just know, that Percival
had seen your letters—but especially your last letter to Colton ?
And, besides, don't you know that that girl, belonging to the
Downhams, has gone off to join this lad ? 
 I suspected as much. But what of that ?
 She tracked Colton to Percival's house in Warwickshire,
and finding him gone, followed him to London. While she was
at Percival's, Una learned that she knew you first charged Col-
ton with robbing Upham. She named the sum, and myself as
paying it.
 Have you ever told ? 
 Don't mock me with such a question. You know I've told
nobody. You contrived the dirty job yourself 
 And you consented to take the benefit. But how can this
girl have learnt what neither you nor 1 have told ? 
 I can't tell—and I don't care ; I thought your long and old-
practised rogue's head would be able to divine. I see you are
queer, Dick ; I'll leave you to digest the supper I brought you
all the way from Warwickshire!
Crookit, left alone, felt for awhile so much oppressed and
staggered with a dread of the danger which threatened him,
that he thought there was but one way to escape from it. It
would be wisest, he concluded, to get as much cash as possible
into his possession, and flee the country. Should Percival come
to Quarrelton, and find Mr. Upham unwilling to prosecute
Colton, on whom would he turn to wreak the rage of his disap-
pointment, but on the man who had formerly robbed him ? I
shall be sacrificed, said Crookit to himself; mad or sane, when
his will is opposed he will tear and devour, if not whom he
would, whom he can. I remember the past too well to doubt
that.
But to give up a game which was hitherto so promising, and
252
THE FAMILY FEUD.
all for the freaks of a madman! that was weakness. Fernshawe s
hopes of obtaining Charlotte would be crushed by her father
speedily; and then the prize could be carried by persevering
siege. Crookit had no doubt of it; he could not be disagreeable
to Charlotte; had she not distinguished him at her parties,
listened to his flatteries, and given unmistakable tokens of de-
light with his conversation? He could win her sooner or later,
and w'ith her, a fortune that would make him the richest man in
the neighbourhood. He must not give up prospects such as
these for a flying alarm about a madman's visit, brought by a
malicious desperado.
His terror of Percival was only temporarily shaken off; it
came back and paralyzed him again. He reasoned that it was
only an empty threat, or that the threat might never be put into
act. Percival might take some new whim, or might obtain his
will with Colton. What could it be that Percival wished Colton
to do ? he could not guess; and why trouble himself with guess-
ing about the caprices of a lunatic? Yet some key to Percival's
insane impressions about Colton might perhaps be had, if the
youngster's parentage were ascertained. The old wooden-spoon
maker must either have heard who Col ton's parents were, or
have known them. He would go and ask him.
And Crookit went; but Job, having had that remarkable visit
from O'Frisk, only the evening before, was doubly wary. He
denied having any personal knowledge of the youth's parents;
and affirmed that a gentleman who was dead, had placed Colton
in his hands with a premium, and said the boy was an orphan.
Job said that was all he knew about it; and Crookit withdrew
from Job's cottage confirmed in the belief that Percival only in-
sanely imagined Colton to be an old acquaintance. And, since it
was only an insane imagination, might it not pass from the brain
of the insane man, and no more be heard of it ?
That hope only brought a temporary relief; the dread of Per-
cival's sudden apparition in Quarrelton haunted Crookit the whole
of the next day. There was some secret agency at work too, in
Quarrelton, that he could not detect. How could this girl who
had gone after Colton, have come to such exact knowledge of the
foul charge against the runaway ? Fernshawe, if he were to be
believed, had not talked of it; and Crookit thought it was
really unlikely that he had. Charlotte could not have retailed
the items of the black charge to any one : she was too observant
of her father's wishes ; and Mr. Timothy had desired that the
circumstances of Colton's frailty should not be spread abroad.
This girl's knowledge of the exactcharge against Colton, and, above
all, of the fact that he, Crookit, had made that charge, was the
most distracting puzzle of all; he could imagine no likely source
the family feud.
253
from which site could have derived her knowledge. Who could the
secret miner be that was even now working beneath his feetP
Crookit essayed conjecture again and again, till the baffling task
seemed maddening.
It would be wiser to give it up, he thought, and plan a coun-
termine. The germ of a scheme for rousing the hatred of Mr.
Timothy against Colton, began to bud in his brain. Could Mr.
Timothy's lingering regard be once changed to hate, Colton's
ruin was certain; it must ensue, whether Percival appeared in
Quarrelton or not. But the scheme on which Crookit was intent,
would need Fernshawe for an instrument. Was he so difficult
to be entangled ? would not the scheme look plausible to him P
Crookit felt sure it would serve to parry the next attack from
Fernshawe ; he knew that must be expected: Fernshawe's man-
ner, at their last interview, foreshadowed an immediate intent to
propose for Charlotte; rage would follow disappointment; and
Crookit expected the storm. The plotter went on to provide
against the outburst, and to complete his web for catching Fern-
shawe. At length, he flattered himself that he had devised a
masterpiece of strategy, and, resolving to devote himself to it
with energy, he confided that it would enable him ere long, to
grasp the great prize. Another visit from Fernshawe soon put
Crookit's skill to the proof.
His visitor was not furious, as Crookit had expected from his
knowledge of Fernshawe's nature; but the occasional gleam in
those dark eyes betokened deeper danger. A sarcastic descrip-
tion of the stiff, polite refusal of Miss Charlotte's hand by her
father, was given without concealment by Fernshawe, and it was
followed by a renewal of his threat against Crookit.
 Why do you repeat that foolish threat of vengeance? said
Crookit, with the self-possession derived from maturing his
scheme;  you do not believe that you are rejected because I am
preferred P 
 Not by the beauty; she has better taste, I hope, returned
Fernshawe, with his old malicious sneer; "by her father's ac-
count, she prefers nobody; but the old chandler could not con-
ceal from me that he prefers somebody. He did not choose to be
explicit as to the favourite; but he is welcome to the imagination
that it is a secret.
 You think you know it ? 
 There is a miraculous cool courage in your attempt to pro-
voke me to-night, Dick. What does it mean ? 
 I only mean to open your eyes on your perverse obstinacy in
fighting a shadow, answered Crookit; "you are utterly mistaken
as to this favourite of Upham's. Will you sit down quietly and
let mc enlighten you p
254
THE FAMILY FEUD.
Fernshawe consented, not because be was disposed to credit
what Crookit might say, but curious to learn what made his old
cowardly acquaintance so firm and collected. Crookit com-
menced by affirming that Mr. Timothy had recently, in great
confidence, revealed to him a design the merchant had long ago
formed, of uniting Charlotte to the lad, Canute Colton. It _was
astounding to himself, Crookit said ; for he had never given
credit to the reports which had been so current in Quarrelton
about so absurd a match ; but there was the fact, and the notion
had taken such hold of the merchant's mind, that he was even
now full of relentings towards this favourite, and a slight turn of
events would serve to restore the favourite fully.
Fernshawe affected incredulity for awhile; but Crookit's in-
flexible firmness and perseverance in the story overcame him,
and he owned that he believed it. Crookit did not press his
scheme at once; but assisted the working of Fernshawe's belief.
Colton was depictured with every disparaging hue and shade by
Fernshawe.
 Who is this brat P  he asked;  can you make it out, Dick?
What is the secret tie that binds Upham to him ? cannot you
guess ? 
Crookit related his unsatisfactory visit to the cottage of Job
Oldstock.
"A gentleman who is dead! repeated Fernshawe, in a
mocking tone: and then whispered a base and scandalous sus-
picion of Colton's base relationship to the merchant.
Crookit regarded it as foully false; but he laughed an ap-
proval, in order to please Fernshawe and dispose him to listen
complacently to the scheme. And Fernshawe not only listened
to it, but, impelled by his passion for Charlotte, consented to
join in it. There seemed to be no shrinking on his part till
Crookit pointed to a necessity that might arise from the failure
of one part of the plot; yet, even there, Fernshawe gave way at
last. The guilty compact, to the delight of Crookit's base heart,
was complete : Fernshawe pledged himself to swear to the writ-
ing of the receipt by Colton, if the favourite could not be com-
pletely ruined by any other means.
 And now, said Crookit,  the sooner we begin operations
the better. You know the whirlwind is not more impetuous
than Percival, nor more capricious in its course.
 He might be here to-morrow, said Fernshawe ; there is
not an hour to be lost; it is not late,—I will be off, and try to
make the set at my game: go you, and try your serpent's tongue
with yours! 
They grasped hands, and looked villanous brotherly; and
the family feud.
255
each thought he was using the other, and would laugh him to
scorn some day. Was the day to come for either?
Fernshawe went direct to a book-room, where he had fre-
quently seen a young gentleman who, he had been given to
understand was Algernon, the son of Mr. Titus Downham. He
looked round, he waited an hour, but  the game was not
forthcoming. He was compelled to whisper an inquiry to an
attendant; and then to defer his business till the morrow.
Next day, at noon, when the book-room was thronged, Fern-
shawe, without an introduction to Algernon, openly addressed
him in a jeering way on the romance which had happened in his
family. Careless of Algernon's angry amazement, Fernshawe
scoffingly related how the young lady, Miss Granger, had tracked
her lover, Mr. Canute Colton, to the house of his friend, Mr.
Percival, and was since gone to London to join the chosen of
her affections.
 Mr. Percival of the Hermitage, in Warwickshire!  re-
peated Algernon, so soon as he could sufficiently master his
anger and astonishment to be able to speak;  take care what
you say, sir : I know Mr. Percival.
"Well, sir! replied Fernshawe, "do you mean by that
polite caution to cast a doubt upon my word ; or am I, do you
think, ascribing too much honour to your cousin by hazarding a
guess that she is by this time united to a very exemplary young
gentleman P 
The malice and derision with which Fernshawe spoke, added
to Algernon's knowledge of the squire's advances to Charlotte,
were too much for the temper of a Downham, and he would have
struck the offender, had not a friend caught his arm, and others
surrounded him and persuaded him to leave the room.
The rest formed a group about Fernshawe, listened to a
story which he made exciting by his power of sarcasm, laughed
at what they heard, and then separated to spread it over the
town.
CHAPTER VII.
The Merchant in double Torture.—O'Frisk's valorous Performance of his Duty.—
Pursuit of the Fugitives commenced.
More immediate opportunity awaited Crookit in the perform-
ance of his part. Mr. Timothy was glad to see him, Charlotte
was out—an especial reason why Algernon Downham was not
256
THE FAMILY FEUD.
to be found at the book-room that night — and the schemer
soon began to pour into the ears of Mr. Timothy the garbled
information which, he trusted, would effectually poison the mer-
chant's mind against Colton.
Crookit said he regretted to disturb Mr. Timothy's mind with
the mention of even the name of that unfortunate young man;
but he had received some information that day from Mr. Fern-
shawe which, he thought, ought not to be concealed. He then
described how Fernshawe, visiting the house of a friend in "War-
wickshire, a certain Mr. Percival, had ascertained that the young
woman, Mr. Titus Downham's niece, had tracked Colton thither,
and had since followed him to London. This Mr. Percival, it
seemed, had some prior knowledge of Colton—how, he Crookit
could not tell; and had also found the youth in London, paint-
ing pictures, and that under the feigned name of Wilfred
Harlow.
The poison worked effectually. Crookit saw it with exulta-
tion ; but his countenance seemed full of manly pity for the
youth's errors. Mr. Timothy's anger was deep : he had difficulty
in restraining his tongue from uttering execrations on the head
of the young debased, licentious ingrate. He rushed to the
rashest conclusions, and avowed his belief that the girl was a
person of lost character. He would not hear a syllable of that
mild deprecation of hasty judgment from Crookit; but insisted
that Crookit was of the same judgment with himself. What a
return was this for all his care of that young man. But the young
forger should be found; the wanton young wretch—ay, and this
good-for-nothing young woman, too, should be brought up to
justice. How weak he had been in retaining, or striving to
retain, a compassionate feeling for such an ingrate! He was
ashamed of his weakness. To-morrow he would send off a mes-
senger who should soon be on the shoulder of the criminal;—
nay, why not to-night ?
There Crookit felt it necessary to oppose a demurrer. The
merchant's excitement was becoming fearful, and the conse-
quences might be fatal to the success of Crookit's evil scheme.
Crookit exerted himself to calm Mr. Timothy's passion; but
left him with a triumphant confidence that the scheme would
work.
Charlotte found her father in such a state of mental disturb-
ance, that she was alarmed for his sanity as much as for his
health. She listened to his excited and broken rehearsal of the
scandalous news Crookit had learned from Fernshawe, without
being able to allege any argument for assuaging her father's
wrath ; and was glad when he yielded to be conducted to his
chamber by Jossy Jessop.
THE FAMILY FEIJD.
257
Next morning, Mr. Timothy was very seriously ill: Charlotte
sent for Drenchem; and it required all her skill to prevent the
patient from pouring out his mental woes, in full tale, to the
doctor. An hour after Drenchem was gone a visitor was an-
nounced; and when Charlotte was inclined to deny him an
interview with her father, he did not seem disposed to take the
denial very willingly. It was the curate, O'Frisk.
 If Mr. Timothy be seriously ill, my dear lady, said he,
with serious politeness,  it is the more necessary that I see him
without delay.
 But my father needs rest, my dear sir, said Charlotte; "he
has only just taken a sedative which Dr. Drenchem has pre-
scribed for him ; and the doctor expressly forbade me to suffer
any one to disturb him. Will you be kind enough to call in
the afternoon?
 I beg you will remember my office, said Q'Frisk, very
gravely;  I am an unworthy servant of my Master; but, you
know, His command must be obeyed : I am here under a strong
conviction of duty;—I think you will not resist my wish to
discharge it.
Charlotte thought there was singularity in the curate's man-
ner; but she had a reverence for his office, and respect for his
honest character; and so she yielded, and conducted him to
Mr. Timothy's bedside. O'Frisk, though the merchant was
surprised to see him enter the chamber, was very cordially
received. He intimated that he had something for Mr. Timothy's
private ear, and Charlotte withdrew.
"Your health has not been good of late, sir, began the
curate,  and I am sorry to say you are looking worse this
morning.
"Yes, yes, said the merchant, petulantly; "but I do not
think I have any great bodily ailment. My mind was greatly
unhinged last night. But what is the particular business—■
the private business,—that for which I am indebted to this
visit ? 
"The mind's health, sir, is of more importance than the
health of the body, answered O'Frisk, very solemnly, and as
if he meant to reprehend Mr. Timothy's lightness.
"No doubt you are right, Mr. O'Frisk—no doubt of it, sir,
observed IVfr. Timothy, with, n little confusion ; 66 but you men-
tioned that you had some particular business: what is it, my
dear sir P  .
"I come to discharge a duty, replied O brisk, looking ex-
tremely serious ; "lam but a simple man myself, yet my office
constrains me to administer severe truth in your case, as the
safest medicine for the disease of your mind.
s
258
THE FAMILY FEUD.
Mr. Timothy raised his head from the pillow in his quick
way, and looked hard at O'Frisk, in wonder at the man's
meaning
 I must speak plainly to you, sir, continued the earnest
curate;  there is a cruel transaction in the history of your
family. I had often heard it alluded to in an obscure way,
but never thought I had any right to gratify my curiosity by
inquiring into the true circumstances. They have come to my
knowledge now in a way I did not expect. Yet I should not
feel it to be my duty to visit you in this manner, if I knew of
no other guilt than that act of the dead, and for which you are
not accountable. But, since you are multiplying the cruel
wrong done to your poor departed sister, I may say tenfold—I
cannot—I must not—whatever I may suffer from your dis.
pleasure—shrink from reprehending you.
 Gracious heavens, what d've mean? exclaimed Mr.Timothy,
amazed atO'Frisk's increasing earnestness, and distressed at the
recollections he awakened.
 Man, can you while lying on that sick bed—I beg pardon,
said the curate, checking the indignation he was beginning to
feel at what he believed to be guilty disguise,  Mr. Timothy,
can you, I say, while lying there in a state which, for aught you
know, may be one of imminent danger, affect ignorance of your
own crime ? 
 Crime, sir?—crime, did you say ? 
 And are you not ashamed to reflect, went on the reverend
censor, heedless of interruption,  that two old people, the
depositaries of your guilty secret, are condemned to hasten to
the grave with sin upon their consciences, and may soon have to
stand at the bar of the Eternal Judge, with whom there can be
no disguise ? 
"Are you mad, sir? shouted the merchant; "what crime
do you dare to impute to me ? what two old persons do you
mean ? 
 For shame, Mr. Timothy !  shouted O'Frisk ;  I could not
have supposed you capable of so much deceit.
 Deceit, sir! how dare you speak to me in this disgraceful
way? demanded the merchant, as he sprung up in the bed,
and glared at his accuser; "if you have not lost your senses,
tell me who you mean, sir.
"You know who I mean ; the Oldstocks—the poor old woodern
spoon maker and his aged wife. May they find mercy, if you
permit them to leave this world with the guilt of assisting you
in your crime! Oh, I beseech you, for your own soul's sake,
reflect on the sin you are committing! 
THE FAMILY FEUD.
259
The curate's tears streamed down his honest face; and Mr.
Timothy's brows were bathed in perspiration; but as O'Frisk
paused, being almost choked with grief, the merchant broke in
with an earnest asseveration.
 This is more than I can bear, he said;  you must be
under some strange delusion, sir. I never was charged with a
crime in my life, and my conscience is guiltless of one. Tell me
what you mean, Mr. O'Frisk, and I'll own it, if I have com-
mitted one.
 Have you not abandoned your sister's son P  said O'Frisk,
 have you not concealed the fact of his relationship to you, and
that by the assistance of these two poor old people? And
when, with a refinement of cruelty you had taken him from
obscurity, and encouraged him—but I see it is in vain to
attempt rousing your conscience! cried O'Frisk, disgusted at
the merchant's stare of astonishment, which he took for coun-
terfeit;  shame on you, sir, I say, for your wickedness ! 
Mr. Timothy could bear no more. He snatched at the bell-
rope and pulled it violently : so violently that the crook broke.
 Take the last warning !  cried O'Frisk ;  if you do not
repent of this crime 
 Crime, sir!  exclaimed Charlotte, who was in the chamber
in a moment, having been drawn to the door some time before,
by the loud and angry voices of the curate and her father,
 what do you mean, sir, by such language! 
 Take him—take him away !  groaned Mr. Timothy, as he
sank exhausted on his pillow.
O'Frisk quickly retreated, for Charlotte's flashing eyes warned
him that there would be danger in staying. He reached his
study in no slight perturbation, and the pipe was in constant
requisition for some hours after—though it would, ever and
anon, refuse to draw. Had he done right, or had he blundered ?
He felt puzzled ; he could not keep his pipe in. Yet he meant
to do right: of that he was sure. The night closed, and still
he was fuming away with an unshaken heart,—now heroically
resigning himself to suffer all the fearful consequences, should
he have erred,—and anon smiling with the rapturous conscien-
tiousness that he had performed his duty, not only to the best
of his judgment, but without shrinking.
Mr. Timothy recovered sufficient strength and composure in
the course of the night to charge his daughter to say nothing to
any one of what she had witnessed. Charlotte assured him he
might be easy on that point, and besought him to rest and be
silent. She would not distress her father, though she felt eager
to know his mind respecting the curate's meaning.
260
THE FAMILY FEUB.
Nobody but Drenchem was admitted into Mr. Timothy's
chamber that day and evening. Charlotte resolutely denied
Crookit, who was anxious to enter  but for one moment, he
said. He wished to rouse the merchant to despatch the mes-
senger to secure Colton; and went away from Mr. Timothy's
door gnashing his teeth with bitter disappointment.
A letter was brought to the door for Charlotte in the evening,
and the bearer would give it into no other hands than her own.
It was from Algernon Downham, and informed her of the in-
solent conduct of Fernshawe that day in the book-room; and of
the fact that by the time the letter reached her, the writer
would have started for the house of Percival in Warwickshire,
and would thence proceed to London, in search of Mary
Granger.
About the same time Fernshawe rushed into Crookit's lodging,
declaring that he had just seen Algernon Downham, clad in a
travelling dress, drive through the street, and he doubted not
that the young man was off in pursuit of Mary Granger.
 How is it that I hear of no legal pursuit being commenced
for Colton ?  demanded Fernshawe, impetuously,  have you
not succeeded with Upham? there is not an hour to be lost
now young Downham is gone.
 I don't know what is to be done, answered Crookit, with
an oath;  the old fool swore last night, that he would send an
officer after the young wretch, and that without delay. I have
been expecting all the day that he would send for me, and give
me the order; but when I called to-night, and urgently asked
to see him, Charlotte refused me, and delares that he is very
seriously ill again.
 Why not go and give the order yourself to an officer, in
Upham's name, as a magistrate? suggested Fernshawe, boldly.
 But the officer will require a warrant, answered the more
timid villain.
 Can't you get one ?—think man! It must be now or
never.
 It shall be now, said Crookit; "come with me to a magis-
trate of the TJpham party.
They went together. The magistrate believed that one so
confidently trusted by Mr. Timothy was telling a truth when he
affirmed that the merchant was too ill to attend to business,
and had commissioned him, Crookit, to get the warrant made
out by another. An officer was entrusted with the paper, and
despatched for Warwickshire with directions to go to London
and apprehend Colton on learning his address.
 All is right so far, Dick, said Fernshawe,  and now just
THE FA MILT FEUD.
261
come and see me off, for I shall make post haste to Percival's
myself, and thence to London. I must see the thing done, or
help to do it. I should be miserable if I were to wait here :
you can do that. You have only one task to get over now, you
know. Put a bold face on it with Upham, and tell him you
took him at his word.
 Leave me alone to get through that business! replied
Crookit, witn a confident air. In another half nour Lernsiiawe
was also on the way to Warwickshire.
262
THE FAMILY FEUD.
BOOK IX.
WHICE IS A SOMEWHAT DISTEMPERED FRAGMENT OF THE HERO'S AVTO-
BIOGRAPHY.
CHAPTER I.
Cain Colton commences his Account of a very peculiar Portion and Period of his
own Experience.
I pbomised myself great pleasure in writing my autobiography.
Hot because my life-passages were all of the pleasantest cha-
racter; but simply because I should be occupied in describing
myself: about the most agreeable subject to every man, how-
ever modestly some people may disavow it. "Why I have
neglected to complete my purposed task, I can scarcely tell;
nor is it clear to me that I am bound to render a reason.
Let it be remembered that some scores of men, of various
grades of worth or intelligence, have commenced records of
their lives, and left their self-imposed task incomplete. They
were not bound to finish their own portraits; and indeed
towards some of these negligent artists the world has shown
thankfulness, instead of displeasure, for the mere outline it has
received from their illustrious hands. I do not mean that the
world should be thankful in my case; I only wish to escape
rendering a reason I am not prepared to give.
In the meantime, I recur to one period of my experience, not
from caprice; but having conceived a strong desire to re-em-
body, in my recollection, hours and days of more extreme emotion
and intense anxiety than had ever fallen to my lot before, or I
have experienced since.
The night succeeding that harrowing visit from Percival, or
Brundrell, was filled with such shuddering horrors that,it is
impossible for me to describe them with anything beyond a
faint approach to the ghastly reality. I could not have been
awake during those dreadful hours, for I received no impres-
sions through the organs externally. Nor was my state that of
sleep; for dreams never leave a permanent record with the
THE FAMILY FEUD.
263
mind of all their Sittings and incongruous changes. My brain
and nervous system must have been in some abnormal and inex-
plicable condition, in which I seemed to be borne, through a
Succession of fearful visions, into terrific scenes, past and
future.
I beheld my father's murder—though I had never heard it
circumstantially described — with such circumstantial reality
that, to this day, I am often inclined to regard the vision as
a supernatural revelation presented to me by some spiritual
agency which is hourly concerned with the affairs of mortals,
and holds a commission to incite or lure them to the enact-
ment of their destiny. Nell Brundrell, old, ugly, and
shrivelled, and clad in a man's jacket and hat, as I had last
beheld her in the pheasant-preserve, held my father down on
the floor by his hair, and stopped his mouth; while her
husband,Michael, a grim tall figure, and a "mere 'natomy,
or bag of bones, as the woman Tib had described him to
be, with h:s knee on my father's chest, was gashing the vie-
tim's throit with a large knife. I saw the blood pour out,
heard my fither's dying groans, saw the corpse become ashy
pale and still, and then the guilty pair drag it out into the
road. Then they hurried into their cottage and closed and
locked the door; but soon old Michael got out of the low
window, placed a key in the coat-pocket of the victim, and the
bloody knife on the ground, and then climbed back into the
cottage.
Suddenly, I beheld the heart-throes of my mother on her
death-bed—ler image so veritably resembling the mysterious
portrait in tie green bed-room at the Hermitage! And then
the interior of the parish church was revealed; my mother's
coffin stood on a bier in the aisle, and I was an infant in
the nurse's arms, by the font. And there stood my aged
grandfather, sternly regarding the pale, trembling clergyman,
—swearing, md pointing to the bloody knife which lay on the
floor, at the foot of the font, till my doomed name was pro-
nounced. And then all became dark, and I seemed borne
up by some invisible force, and hurried away swiftly through
the air,, till, at length, I stood in a wild wood, and had
become a iran, and was confronted with Percival. He was
bearded, anl dressed in the long-furred garment, as I had seen
him at the door of the Hermitage, when I called the second
time. His look was haggard and insane, as it was then; and
he pointed to the bloody knife which now lay between us on
the ground while he cried,
 Avenger of blood, take it, and do your work ! the time is
come!
2C4
THE FAMILY FEUD.
And I stooped to take it; but it fell from my band
which it had stained with my father's blood, and I recoiled
with sickness and loathing at the sight. Then Brundrell
dared me with taunts of  coward and  unnatural son, till
I again seized the knife, and madly rushed on him. But now
Una and Mary Granger shielded him; and their tears and
entreaties overcame me, and I hurled the knife away. Soon
Brundrell's taunts rekindled the vengeful spirit in me, and I
burst from the soft hands of the women, ran, and seized
the knife again, and felt all the murderous will so fiercely that
I gnashed my teeth and cursed and threatened, till they all fled
before me. The women I soon lost sight of; but Brundrell I
pursued through the wood howling, and then over a barren
moor, like that over which I had wandered when a child. For
miles he fled and I followed, through old scenes — tie squire's
garden, the pheasant preserve, the holt where I had overheard
the talk of Tib and Buth, the road to Byeham, by tie inn, and
then on and on to Quarrelton. Sometimes the chise seemed
hopeless, and Brundrell seemed endowed with the swiftness of
the wind, while I pursued wearily and weak, and was ready
to faint with thirst. And then my enemy lagged, and I had
might to spring forward until I had nearly reached him; but
again I was baffled by his sudden recovery of vigour and mj
own loss of it.
I saw the entrance to Quarrelton, and a sense of surefv filled
me that there my work would end. We reached if and beheld
the street on either side crowded with spectators; and some
cried  Thief!  and  Murderer!  and others shouted  Vic-
tory to the avenger of blood !  — but none interfered to stop
the chase or pursuit, till we reached the front of Mr. Timothy's
mansion. There Crookit and Fernshawe caught Brundrell in
their arms; and Jossy Jessop caught me in his; and Mr.
Timothy stood in the midst and said justice should be done by
the law, and I must throw down the knife.
Then there was a hall of justice, and charges, aid pleadings,
and swearing of witnesses—Job Oldstock and his uife Dorothy,
and Jossy Jessop, and Mary Granger, and Charlotte and Alger-
non Downham and Fernshawe, and Mr.Elder and the clerks;
—and trials of myself, and Crookit, and Brundrell. But the
trials went all in favour of my foes ; and I was convicted as an
impostor who had set up a claim of relationship to the rich
merchant, and had none; as a thief and a swindbr who had
robbed my benefactor; and as an intentional murderer of an
innocent man against whom no charge of wronf could be
proved, while the charge against his dead father and mother
was counted folly. And I was cast and condemned, dragged
THE FAMILY FEUD.
265
to the felon's cell and put in chains; and there I pined away,
while daily Brundrell came and mocked me through a grating,
and said—
 Fool! did I not tell you how it would he ? Die there, like
a dog. I can be happy now; for I am safe from your power,
and the thread of Destiny is broken! 
I have only feebly succeeded in depicturing the horrid visions
of that night. They seemed so real that, when the light broke
and I returned to my normal state, and recognised my London
lodging, my first impression was that some days must have
passed away, and that I must have been delivered from the
ielon's cell by some unknown agency, and brought back to
my bed while insensible. The impression faded slowly as the
hours went on ; but it was nearly noon before I fully compre-
hended that the visions of that night were but shadows.
I sat in stupefaction, with only a vague expectation that
Mary would come, and utterly unconscious or unheedful of
the lapse of time. Yet a superstitious conviction was fastening
upon me that my night visions were sent as a warning; and
that the thread of Destiny was yet in my own hands. It might
be broken, as Brundrell had proclaimed in the vision ; but that
would come by my own want of courage and will. Should I
not be able to gird myself up and wrestle with my foes ; or
would the lethargy that now benumbed me continue to hold me
down until it was too late to essay an effectual battle? Yes:
I should arise, something whispered, and put forth a despera-
tion of will, ere long, that would appal my enemies. But, to
what end? Could I avoid an evil destiny for myself, by any
other course than that which the vision prefigured by presenting
to me the bloody knife? Was not this cry of vengeance for
blood from the grave ?
I feebly put away the question twice or thrice ; but at length
yielded to a dull feeling of indifference about becoming a mur-
derer. Thus I sat for hours, conscious that I was sluggish and
torpid; but the assurance strengthening that I should arise
soon and be all energy,—yet that I must wait till the spirit
of potency came with the hour, and then I must do whatever it
prompted.
It was considerably past mid-day when Mary came. She
hastened up the stairs, and her first words, as she hurried into
the room, were either apology or regret for her late visit. My
stare must have been vacant and unmeaning, for I only half
comprehended what she said; and when she asked me if I
had not wondered why she did not come earlier, I answered
listlessly,—
 Is it'late, Mary ? I did not know it was late!
266
THE FAMILY FEUD.
 It is afternoon, site answered, too much absorbed with her
own thoughts to mark my indifference ;  can you gues3 who
has prevented me from coming sooner? she asked.
 Prevented you P No! I forced myself to reply.
"Una Percival, she went on ; "her father watched us to the
door of my lodging last night, and sent his daughter to visit me
this morning.
These words served to rouse me a little, and I asked what had
been Una's errand.
 Such a one as we might expect her father would send her
upon, was the answer;  to persuade me to leave you, and go
back to my uncle, Downham!
My stupor left me at once; but it only yielded to a sense
of helplessness and weakness. I felt as if Mary's desertion of
me would be more than I could bear.
 But will you leave me ?  I asked.
My look must have betrayed the miserable fear I felt, for the
dear girl replied with instant and earnest tenderness,—
 No, dear Cain ! No power on earth shall separate us if I
can prevent it. I mean to stay by you, and see you set your-
self right. I care not what may be said about me at Quarrelton,
or elsewhere. You are driven wrong by misfortune ; but I feel
sure you will yet take the right path and the brave one, clear
yourself of all your enemies allege against you, and be honoured
and happy.
Por a moment I felt encouraged; but that fell superstitious
persuasion returned that my destiny would be that of the
avenger, and I was silent.
"Do not wrong Una, Mary continued, little imagining the
cause of my silence;  she told me her errand, and recounted
all the arguments wherewith her father had charged her to urge
my desertion of you; but she was too generous to urge it, or
advise it herself. She counsels us to meet her father resolutely
and respectfully.
 Respectfully, Mary! with what respect can I ever meet the
son of my father's murderers ?
The sudden and savage energy with which I spoke pained
and alarmed Mary. She seemed inwardly to shrink from me,
and did not speak till I had partially relapsed into indifference.
Then, in a low and gentle tone, she rehearsed lessons of mercy
and forgiveness, so powerful, that they created a war in my
heart with the feeling of vengeance. The inward contest tore
me till I thought I must have cried out, and conjured her to
forbear. Yet I sat still, and the tempest subsided, as she turned
to argue on the irrationality of my cherishing hatred and
THE FAMILY FEUD.
267
vengeance towards one, who was not the shedder of blood, nor
in any measure a sharer in the guilt of his parents.
"Reflect, dear Cain, she continued, "that they who com-
mitted the crime were punished for it here, and—I say it with
awe—may even now be expiating their sin. At any rate,
they must be left to the Eternal Judge : you must not entertain
any thought of vengeance towards this poor man: he is pitiable,
and the sin of his parents has already been visited heavily on
him. Assist rather to banish his fears, and to cure him of his
diseased state of mind.
"How can I do that, who have need of a physician of the
mind myselfP I asked; but Mary did not, and could not,
suspect my meaning.
 I know, dear Cain, she replied,  you have need of forti-
tude and resolution; but your case is not like his. You can
help yourself if you will to do so. Indeed, in assisting to banish
this insane fear from his mind, you will be sure to raise up a
powerful instrument for restoring yourself to content, and clear-
ing you from these false stains.
"How? what do you mean, Mary? I asked.
 Una says she knows her father so well, that she is sure, if
you meet him firmly, and with such kindness as you can, it will
be the best medicine for his brain; and I give you her own
words—this hallucination, under which he has laboured for so
many years, will leave him, and when he recovers his right mind,
he will be eager to assist you in defeating the mischief of those
who have plotted against you, and in establishing your birth-
right. I wish you would hear her, Cain : I think she would be
able to persuade you.
 Mary !  said I, turning towards her sharply;  you surely
would not advise me to meet Una again ? It would only
strengthen Percival in his claim upon me regarding his daughter.
Do you forget that P
 I certainly did not think of it at the moment, she answered,
with slight agitation.
 Did Una speak of that part of her father's project ? I asked.
"Not at all, answered Mary ;  but she is to visit me again
this evening, and I will question her.
I thought the answer strangely simple; but the wearv and
listless feeling which was ever returning, rendered me indifferent
to the continuance of our conversation.
"You are worn out, Cain, said Mary; "I see you have
passed a sleepless night as I did. Perhaps you could sleep a
little now. I will leave you, that I may be ready for Una when
she calls again, and get our conversstion over; for I mean to
268
THE FAMILY FETTD.
return to you soon enough, to be here by the time that Percival
repeats his visit.
 I shall not fear to meet him alone, said I.
Again Mary, unacquainted with my new mental condition,
was unapprehensive of my meaning.
 That is right, dear Cain, she said ;  but yet I will be sure
to return to you early. And so saying, she again left me, to
receive the visit of Una.
CHAPTEE II.
Brundrell renews his Visit to the Hero.—Cain's increasing: Irritability.—Mary
leaves liim.
Mary Granger had not returned according to her promise and
intent, and two hours earlier in the evening than he had made
the last visit, Brundrell again appeared in my room. I had
been imagining that I could meet him now with stern defiance,
or that I could counterfeit indifference ; but I was fearfully mis-
taken. The fire of his eye smote me, as with a blight of helpless-
ness, and I retreated to the farther part of the room, and sank
into a chair. The first sound of his voice sent a chill to my very
marrow : I was more than ever like a child in his presence.
 So: you are alone, he said;  is the young woman gone
back to her uncle ?
He might as well have questioned the chair on which I sat,
for I was as unable to speak as if I had been any inanimate
thing.
 I hope, for her own sake, it is so, he went on ; "but you do
not answer me. Well, are you prepared to comply with the
proposals I made to you last night ? 
He hesitated long, repeated his question, waited again, but
receiving no reply, said
 I cannot tell whether you are silent from pride, stubborn-
ness, disgust, or fear. But I will repeat my proposals and also
my warning, and give you another day to consider of them.
To-morrow night I shall expect you to find your tongue, even if
it pronounces your own sentence of ruin.
And then he renewed his arrogant propositions and defiances
and threats, nearly in the language of the preceding night; and
when he had finished, rose up and left me, as coldly and proudly
disdainful as before.
Mary rejoined me only a few minutes after his departure.
THE FAMILY FEUD.
269
She was almost breathless with haste, and expressed regret and
disappointment when I told her that Percival had already made
his threatened visit.
 I am sorry, very sorry, said she,  but Una seemed to have
forgot how the time was flying.
 Or, rather, said I,  she was taking her part in her father's
plot: holding you fast, and at a distance, with the belief that if
he had me alone, he would the more readily bend me to his
purposes.
 Dear Cain, I think you wrong Una, argued Mary, with
some warmth,  I do not believe her to be capable of a deceitful
part.
 Then she may have obeyed her father's direction, unwitting
of his aim. It was either one or the other. But Percival has
gained nothing by his cunning.
 Did you not endeavour to reason with him kindly, Cain? I
hope you did.
 I never spoke one word. To speak truth, Mary, I could
not. The man's presence acts like a spell of terror upon me.
 This is a state of things which it is as dreadful for others to
hear of, said Mary,  as it is for you and Percival to bear.
Una says that the behaviour of her father in your presence—
such as I described it to her—amazes her; for he sits in fear
during the day, and starts and mutters your name, as if he
expected to see you rush upon him, and commit some fearful
deed.
How strong was the superstitious impulse that I should do
the fearful deed, at that moment! I had unspeakable difficulty
in restraining my tongue from giving it the embodiment of
words.
 Do you not think, dear Cain, resumed Mary, in her sweetest
and most winning manner,  that if I and Una could bring you
and her father together, that we could break this strange
spell of terror, and bring you to a mutual good understanding?
 Did you not feel terrified in the presence of Brundrell, last
night ?  I asked.
 I did, Cain ; but his appearance was so sudden—you told
me who he was with such alarm and terror in your own voice
and look—and, besides, his manner was so terrifying last night.
 It was the same to-night.
 I do not think I should have felt it to be so, Cain. How-
ever, I have promised Una to call upon her at the hotel to-
morrow, and. to sec li6r fattier.
 You surely will not do so, Mary ? 
 Why should I not, Cain ? I am sure I shall feel no terror
of her father while I am with Una; and I may succeed in
270
THE FAMILY FEUD.
softening his mind, and preparing him to meet you in a less
threatening way.
 I had rather hear you promise not to go. At any rate you
will not go till you have seen me in the morning.
 I will not, Cain, since you desire it. It is now getting late,
and I must be going. I will hear your reasons in the morning;
and something must be determined then, as to what you will do,
for you are doing worse than nothing here.
I went with Mary to the door of her lodging, as usual, and
returned to my own. I slept some hours of that night; but was
wakeful a great part of it. The remembrance pressed torturously
on me that I was really doing worse than nothing, as Mary had
said. I was earning nothing, for my mind was too distracted to
permit me to touch my pencil. The accusations against me at
Quarrelton might soon receive a destructive force by the evil
stimulus of Brundrell. Something must be done—but whatP
Ever there came the answer—I must wait: strength would
come, and the opportunity ; and I should accomplish my destined
part. I must fulfil it—or be ruined.
This superstitious conviction strengthened with the lapse of
the dark hours, and I welcomed the light of another day as
bringing me nearer to the deed.
Mary's visit was early. She desired the landlady to let her
prepare breakfast, and sat down with me to it, and endeavoured
to reason me out of the objections I urged against her purposed
interview with Percival.
 "Remember, dear Cain, she said,  that it is dangerous to
permit his insanity to grow. He may suddenly take a step that
may be ruinous to you. And even if he should merely continue
to rave and threaten, you are ruining yourself. The longer you
are in deciding what to do, the greater difficulty you will have to
encounter. What can you do here, in this state of mind ? You
have not the power to paint pictures. You cannot work in this
distracted state. And, I am sure, you will be no better while
you remain here.
 I have been thinking of all that, Mary, said I, "but I
cannot help it yet.
 Help it yet, Cain! For what are you waiting? I sball
think you are out of your mind, soon, if you answer me in this
fitful way.
I would not give her a direct answer, for then I should have
had to lay bare all the savagery of that superstitious conviction
that was growing within me. So I sought to divert her from her
inquiry, by reminding her that she had not told me what had
been the subject of her evening conversation with Una.
 We did not finish it, she replied,  but have to resume
THE FAMILY FEUD.
271
it this morning. Now grant me leave before I go, to see the
father as well as the daughter. I am sure you will not;
repent it.
 Do as you will, Mary, I said, at last, wearied with her
importunity, "I do not think you will pride yourself much
on your mediation when you return to report it to me.
She showed no displeasure at the cold indifference with which
I yielded to her urgency; but seemed to think, since I no longer
resisted her, she must be content, and immediately left me
to visit Una, at Percival's old hotel in Leicester-square.
Late in the afternoon she returned; but so much saddened
and dispirited that I felt compelled to try and shake off my
heaviness in order to be able to keep her from absolute despond-
ency. She had seen Percival, and had been subjected to his
brutal taunts and tyrannic threats, notwithstanding that she had
sued for his clemency as if she were an offender, and his daughter
had joined her. They had been rudely pushed from his room,
and she would have fled from the hotel instantly, had not Una
forcibly and with weeping restrained her. Mary described
Una's wretchedness, and declared she would willingly sacrifice
herself to save Percival's daughter from the misery that was
impending, if I resisted his will.
I listened in astonishment, while the girl protested her belief
that she must sacrifice her heart's attachment to me, or unspeak-
able misery would be the life-long portion of myself, Una, and
Percival. My astonishment soon changed to fury. Yet I strug-
gled with the powerful rage and hate which I felt, and only
permitted a few scornful sentences to escape me. But Mary
could have borne my rage better than disdain.
 Do not speak to me in that way, Cain! she entreated,
while her tears flowed now uncontrolled,  I will not boast, but
I think I have never shown any real weakness of spirit, till now.
Do not upbraid me with it. If you cease to love me, and show
le nothing but contempt, it will break my heart.
 Have you not provoked me? I demanded sternly—for I
was now hardening so as to be proof against tears, though they
were Mary's;  is it not truly contemptible to speak of sacrificing
a life-long attachment that a tyrant may be gratified ? As for
delivering me from misery, Mhry, the imagination is so strange
that I know not how to express my amazement at it.
 Dear Cain, do not talk in that dreadful iron tone ! This is
worse than all. I could bear your trouble, and delight to share
it with you. But if you look at me and speak to me thus, I
must be miserable.
"Am I the cause of your misery? Have you not yourself
acknowledged that I am the victim of others? And now, >f
272
THE FAMILY FEtTD.
you join to persecute me, can I be expected to bear it un-
moved P 
 I join to persecute you, Cain!
 What is it but persecution when you threaten to desert
me ? But, it matters not! My strength will come when I am
left alone.
Mary very evidently could not endure my hardness much
longer; she burst into such a paroxysm of grief as I uttered those
last words of defiance that I feared for the consequences. I sprang
from my chair, threw my arm round her, and endeavoured to
hush her with words of tenderness, like a nurse seeking to hush
the convulsive grief of a child ; but I had tried her strength so
greatly that it was long before she recovered. And then I was
constrained to sit and hear her plead, in a low voice, that I had
not given her a fair hearing. I begged her to desist, but she
insisted on going on.
 You would not have been angry with me, Cain, if you had
heard all I meant to say, she urged;  you have not the resolu-
tion to return to Quarrelton, and clear yourself, as I am still
persuaded you would be able to do, if you were to go bravely.
How then are you to break the net that surrounds you?
Percival is a man of powerful mind, and, no doubt, is able to exert
great cunning ; if you leave him to combine with the rest of your
enemies how are you to escape ? You know the dreadful alter-
native to which he pointed, and I now fear that it will be realized,
if you do not make your peace with him; and, dear Cain, why
should you not P I shall love you to the end of life, and never
love another as I shall love you; but your affection is not so
strong as mine. I see it. Not that I blame you for it—I am not
all that would make a wife loveable to you. You need a woman
of high and cultivated mind—such as Una. She loves you—not
as I do; but love would grow in both of you if once you were
united. Try to bring your mind to accept her, Cain. Your
deliverance will then be easy, and it will be certain, and I shall
be happy.
How I sat to hear her without interrupting her by one word,
while my brain seemed bursting with hate for him by whose
insane influence she had been brought to succumb under the
thought of sacrificing herself with her love, I can only account
for by remembering that pity for her weakness moved me to
struggle with my stronger passion. But I could restrain myself
no longer when she uttered the word 'happy.'
 Happy ! I repeated;  has this monster driven you out of
your senses, Mary ? Surely his madness is infectious, for I feel
as if I should catch his insanity in some shape, if I have not
ught it already. It is enough to madden me outright to hear
tffiE family EEtrp.
273
yoil talk as you talk now. How could you be Happy wkile per-
petually remembering that you had consented to have the
attachment of a life broken ? 
I had spoken loudly and violently, but, to my surprise, violence
had ceased to distress her.
 Cain, dear Cain, she said, laying her liand upon mine, and
looking earnestly and lovingly into my eyes; "you do not know
what true love is—though I believe you love me better than you
love any other woman in the world. My love for you will
receive its reward in sacrifice, because that sacrifice will procure
your deliverance. The thought that I have delivered you by
resigning you to a union where your intellect will find a fitting
companion, and by which your honour and good name will be
restored, will always console me. Hay, she said, putting her
hand playfully before my mouth,  you shall not scold again ; I
will leave you to think awhile.
She rose to leave me, and I tried to hold her back ; but she
overcame me with soft persuasion, and quitted my little studio
with the sweetest smile I had ever beheld on her sweet face.
CHAPTEE III.
In the beginning: of which Cain Colton evidently is in possession of his Senses;
whether he retains them to the end of the Chapter the Reader must judge.
There was so much home truth in some of Mary's words that,
when she left me in the dusk of that evening, I began to pace
my room with a feeling of self accusation, which served for some
time almost to banish my hatred to Brundrell, or, at least, to
make me forget it. I believed it was true that I had never
really felt what love was. Towards Una I had been attracted
by powerful attributes of the mind ; but that attraction was not
sufficiently strong to prevent me from thinking of Charlotte.
Hay, I doubted whether, if I had not first known Una, Char-
lotte's imposing beauty would not have completely enthralled
me. Mary was more deeply deserving of my love than either;
but I was conscious that I had hitherto only regarded her as
having merited my attachment; I had given myself to her as
one would pay a deep debt. She had been attached to me all
her life; had maintained my innocence against the doubts of
Algernon and Charlotte, and had consummated the proof of her
devoted attachment to me by undertaking a romantic journey,
and risking her reputation, with the hope of restoring mine;
t
274
THE FAMILY FEUD.
but I had never risked anything for her. I had not sought and
striven to obtain her as a possession above all price. My idea
throughout had been that of giving myself to her, because she
had earned me, if I may so express it, rather than receiving her
as the highest boon wherewith life could endow me.
I felt that I deserved to lose her, because I had never valued
her as I ought to have done ; yet I knew now that Mary Granger
alone of all women in the world could make me happy. I had
been blind to the real nature of love—such love as could secure
the solid and life-enduring felicity of a human pair. It was not
outward beauty—and yet Mary was beautiful; it was not intel-
lect and imagination; but devoted, self-sacrificing, and tender
attachment, such as Mary had shown for me in my distracting
troubles, which could constitute a woman the home of her
husband's heart. I had never understood all this before; the
strange circumstances which had surrounded me might be some
excuse for my blindness, but I would not allow that they were
fully sufficient to absolve me of all selfish culpability. I ought
to have preserved and cherished her image from childhood, as
she had preserved mine.
Then I found myself bringing up old pictures of that period
of my childhood and boyhood wherein Mary Granger had cast
so sweet a sunshine around me. I began to wonder that I could
remember so well what had not passed through my mind for
years. Smiles, words of simple tenderness, flowers, nestling of
my young heart to hers, gladness in seeing her every day, every
young pleasure—such as I had deemed childish and almost con-
temptible during my years of study, and when I had conceived
the heart-ache of discontent with my obscure condition—now
grew into fresh and beautiful existence; and I wondered that
I could have committed such treason against the image of one
whom I ought to have regarded as destined by a Benign Power
to be my good genius, as well as my life-companion.
It was a healthful relaxation for my mind, if it was no more.
But the light began to decline within, and doubt and darkness
to overshadow me again. Perhaps there was purpose, and
strength of purpose too, in those words of Mary. She might
not have been merely proposing that I should resign her, but
resolving to tear herself from me; and if so, Una had been the
instrument, and Percival the impelling and malignant power
which had goaded Mary on to this resolution. Would he
triumph? Never, in bending my will to marry his daughter.
No: I would defy him yet, and that firmly and boldly. I would
not fear him to-night.
The clock struck nine, and a startling_feeling grew up around
my heart. It was the hour at which iBrundrell had made his
THE FAMILY FEUD.
275
first visit of terror to my room, and Mary was not returned!
•Then I remembered that she had not promised to return; but I
held it to be understood. She would be here, beyond doubt;
and I opened the door and listened for her steps, or to hear her
knock at the street-door. But there were no sounds, and I
began to doubt, and with doubt came a vague feeling of fear.
An hour passed ; and my doubt and fear had grown into dread
that Mary would not return to me that night—nay, that she
might have intended that smile as a farewell, have left London,
and resigned me to my fate! I would run to her lodging, and
learn if she were still there. But the clock struck ten, there was
a loud knock at the street-door, the firm tread of Brundrell
sounded on the stairs, and I was once more to confront my
doomed foe! Was it the effect of that communion with myself
about Mary which enabled me to meet him this time without
terror ? I think so. But however it were I stood and received
him with a look that caused him to falter, as he said—
 What is the answer now ? 
"It depends on yourself, I replied; "propose reasonable
terms. I cannot marry your daughter: I cannot resign
Mary.
"Mary!  he repeated; "you mean the young woman who
was here when I came the other night, and who was weak
enough to join Una in trying to bend my will to-day. Do not
talk of resigning her; that part no longer remains for you; she
has saved you the sacrifice, if it were one, of resigning her.
 How ? what do you mean ?  I cried.
 She has gone back to Quarrelton with her cousin ; he came
on purpose to fetch her. I led him to her lodging; and she went
with him willingly.
A fell desire for revenge rose fast; but I had calmness enough
to say,—
 He came on purpose ! you sent for him, you mean: and you
think by this base plot to succeed in mastering me; but you are
deceiving yourself.
 Then we are enemies ?  he answered.
 To the death !  said I; and the vengeful impulse became
so strong, that I should have rushed upon him and grappled with
him murderously, had he not turned and plunged down the stairs
almost before I had spoken. The disposition continued to
grapple with him; but I had just sufficient power of reflection re-
maining to remind myself that public punishment must follow an
open act of slaughter ; so I heard him close the street door ; and
the thought ran through me like lightning, that I could assassi-
nate him, and execute the doom to which he was destined and
for the execution of which my name destined me. Was I mad ?
THE FAMILY FEUD.
I do not know; but if it were so, there is no more mystenoilS
disease than madness: I never seemed to have a clearer percep-
tion of consequences, never more power of calculation, or
consecutive purpose, than I possessed in the few moments which
elapsed between Brundrell quitting my little studio for the last
time, and my own act in descending the stairs.
First I hastened to the house where Mary had lodged, and
learned that she had quitted it three hours before, in a low, close
carriage, brought to the end of the court by her cousin, Algernon
Downham, for he had given his name when he asked for her,
and that she had paid her weekly bill and was gone finally.
Then I hastened into Wardour-street, and was just in time to
cheapen and purchase a pair of small second-hand pistols, with
some powder and a dozen small bullets, before the dealer closed
his shop for the night.
Was I mad? Then insanity must be something, very often,
of which not only the insane are unconscious, but it must, as
often, be undetectable by common observers. I chaffered with
the dealer about his pistols, and seemed as indifferent to the
possession of them as if I had been careless to have them; he
even lowered the price of them one half; and, when I paid him,
told me with a very shrewd cockney air, that he saw I knew
what I was about, and he would advise anybody who thought of
over-reaching me, to get up betime in the morning!
Nor was I less collected when I returned to my lodging; I
even slept several hours of the night, notwithstanding the
slaughterous purpose I had contrived for the morrow; and I had
planned what I intended to do, so coolly and distinctly, that I
can now recall the several acts of my mind during the waking
hours of that night, with far greater distinctness than I can the
acts of thousands of days in my life when not a soul alive would
have questioned my sanity!
I had told my landlady before I went up stairs, that I should
rise very early in the morning and have a quick walk before
breakfast, for the benefit of my health. And I was up hours
before it was light, and away I went, over Westminster Bridge
and through Lambeth, and by the river side into the fields by
Battersea, and tried my pistols. I had tried each of them once,
in the dealer's back shop : but I was bent on being sure that the
action of the locks was easy. All seemed satisfactory to me;
and I returned and breakfasted at my lodging, and then wrote a
note for Percival, and desired my landlady to procure me an in-
telligent messenger. While he was gone with the injunction to
wait for a written answer, I reckoned with my hostess, it being
opportunely the day of the week on which I customarily settled
with her, placed about me two or three small articles of value.
THE FAMILY FEUD.
and, while carefully loading my pistols and concealing them in
my coat, cast a look round my studio by way of farewell.
My note to Percival was as follows :—
 Sir,
 I was rash last night. Your nature is too manly to expect
me to sue for a reconciliation in terms of humility ; my confes-
sion that I was hasty will be held sufficient by you. I now
invite you to a fair, shall I not say a friendly, discussion of your
proposals? Iam sure you will not refuse me; but let us talk
under the free, open sky. Join me in a walk as early to-day as
may be convenient to you, towards Hampstead Heath, or Wim-
bledon Common, or by the Thames, or in any direction you
please, so that we may have time enough and uninterrupted op-
portunity for full conference and for becoming lasting friends.
"C. C.
When my messenger returned, which he did quickly, the an-
ewer showed how unerring had been my conception of the way
in which my snare must be laid so as to catch my purposed
victim: it was stiffly courteous, but expressed readiness to join
me cheerfully, and appointed our meeting to take place at the
junction of Long Acre with St. Martin's-lane by ten o'clock,
that we might have the day before us for our discussion, and a
walk to Hampstead Heath, or beyond, if I were inclined.
We met at the appointed corner, and I was firm and confident;
I even proffered my hand, at which he looked surprised and did
not accept it, but said,
 All well after a time, if we agree.
But I was not disconcerted, and thought there could not be
any murderous fire in my eyes to cause him to suspect me, yet
I saw the old gleam in his ! We made our way rapidly along
the thoroughfares, and were soon upon Hampstead Road. He
did not approach the subjects for the discussion of which we
were professedly taking that walk, but started and prolonged a
controversy on Art, and seemed resolved to pique me into taking
the part of an opponent. His walk was rapid, but I never pro-
posed to slacken our pace ; it served my design that we ohould
get away as far from the haunts of human creatures as possible ;
and when we cleared the Heath and he struck down into the
open country in the direction of a distant wood, I secretly ex-
ulted in the belief that some irresistible Power was delivering
him into my hands. He seemed bent on reaching the wood,
though there were impassable ditches in the way, and we were
compelled to swerve widely from a direct line to avoid them and
to reach the wood.
Jt was now afternoon, and the sky becanie loqnng and % snow
278
THE FAMILY FEUD.
storm seemed near; but lie strode on towards a gate of the wood
and leaped rather than climbed it, and I followed. Not till we
had entered the path among the trees did he break off his talk
on Art, which had become wild and rambling by this time,
though I took care always to make the rejoinder and to prompt
him to continue. Some half mile from the point where we had
entered, he struck off into a narrow path that diverged from the
wider one we had hitherto trod, till we found it difficult to force
our way through the thicket, though it was bare of leaves; we
emerged into a small open glade surrounded by crowded tall
larches and spruce firs on every side; and now he turned and
faced me, but stepped a few paces backwards.
 There!  said he;  you desired to be under the free and
open sky and to have uninterrupted opportunity for discussion:
this is the spot; I thought we should find one; let us begin and
end the parley here.
The snow now fell fast; he was half a dozen yards from me,
and I wished to be nearer to him, for the thick flakes of snow
prevented me from seeing his face so distinctly as I desired to
see it. I advanced, but he checked me.
 Stand where you are! he said sternly;  we are near
enough unless we agree.
I stood, but observed that his right hand was thrust into the
breast of his coat, and a suspicion which had often arisen as I
noted his anxious, hurried walk, now became a strong apprehen-
sion with me.
 Do you agree to marry my daughter P  he demanded;  that
is the sine qua non. Answer, yes or no ! 
But I did not answer. In spite of my confidence that I should
overmatch him in coolness and quickness, he had taken me by
surprise.
 Answer! he repeated, loudly,  and answer wisely and
well, or I silence your tongue for ever ! 
His pistol was presented at me, as I had been expecting it
would be.
 Stop ! I cried, presenting one of my own,  it is mine to
execute the doom, not yours ! 
He fired instantly, but missed me, and fled while I fired. I
pursued, but he was fleeter than I. My youth was not a match1
for his practised strength. The snow-storm ceased, or I must
have given up the pursuit. But I could now see him fleeing
through the wood, and my dream or vision seemed realised.
The remembrance of it gave renewed vigour to my limbs, and J
still followed. He bounded over the hedge of the wood, and I
after him, but far behind. Over a wide heath I chased him, till
he ran into a hollow, and I lost sight of him ; nor could I see
THE FAMILY FEUD.
279
him when I came to the edge of the slightly elevated ground
from which it declined. I ran hither and thither, enraged with
my disappointment, but without discerning any sign to guide me
towards him I sought. Suddenly I saw him—or thought I saw
him—nearly a mile in advance of me. I felt the chase to be
really fruitless now, yet I ran on ; and only ceased when it be-
came too dark to run any farther in a country which was un-
known to me.
I was fearfully exhausted, and bitterly chagrined. A few
scattered lights to the right of the wide common I was travers-
ing forewarned me that that must be the site of a village, and I
turned to walk towards it.  I can rest there for the night,
was the assurance I repeated to myself,  and to-morrow I will
journey towards Warwickshire. Brundrell will return to Lon-
don, but he will hasten away with Una to the Hermitage,
and shut himself up there. He cannot escape me; I shall find
him!
I was internally using the very language with which Brundrell
had threatened and terrified me !
At the humble village inn I obtained a supper and a bed; and
my bedrabbled appearance seemed to draw upon me no remark-
able amount of curiosity during such a season, especially when 1
said that I was a stranger in that part of the country, and had
lost my way on the common.
CHAPTER IV.
In which the Hero has some Taste of the Experience of a Brigand, or an Outlaw.
My stiffness of limbs prevented me from setting out early next
morning; and it caused but little loss of time that I set out late;
a quick thaw had commenced, and the delay had served to render
the roads more easily passable. Not long after I had gained a
great road, by the direction of the humble innkeeper, I was over-
taken by a return chaise. The driver loitered and asked me if
I would give him a crown for a ride to Oxford. I told him I
could only afford half the sum. He took it, and so I reached
the ancient university town easily. I do not think I could have
walked more than a few miles in my stiff and worn condition.
Indeed, when I left Oxford the following morning, I was com-
pelled to walk slowly ; I sat down to rest many times during the
day, and put up early in the evening at another small village ale-
280
THE FAMILY FEUD.
house. But, on the fourth day from leaving London, my vigoui?
was restored, and I drew nigh to the edge of Warwickshire.
Late in the afternoon I was hastening along a footpath that
lay through a straggling wood, intent on reaching a village
which, I knew by my observance of a county map, was but a
very few miles from the Hermitage. A farmer's labourer, with
whom I had stopped to talk for a few minutes on my way, had
directed me to cross a stile which led into this wood, assuring
me that I should thus cut off two or three miles of my journey. •
For two miles, or thereabouts, the path along the wood was plain
enough, but when I came to a spot where the footway divided
into two paths, I was brought to a halt. The man had given me
to understand that I should have no difficulty in finding my way
through the wood, or I would not have entered it. I stood three
or four miuutes hesitating, just as we usually stand in such mis-
haps,—not with the idea that looking at either branch of the
fork will enable us to discern which is the one we really ought to
take, but merely to make up our minds to venture on one. To
be sure I might have retreated by the way I had come, but then,
it was already the beginning of evening, and I knew, if I went
back to take the highway, a considerable remnant of my journey
would have to be performed in the dark.
There was no better way left than to chance it, I said to my-
self, and so took the path that diverged somewhat to my right,
I comforted myself for some time with the belief that I had
made a right choice, from the clear and well-beaten appearance
of the road; but when the track grew narrower and less distinct
in the dusk, I began to feel proportionably uneasy. Bain was
falling heavily, and this added to my uneasiness, for I had only
a light overcoat. On coming to an opening in the wood, a low
shed, under which a long saw, a crow-bar, and other implements,
were lying, doubtless left there by labouring wood-cutters,
tempted me to rest for a moment, and consider what I should do.
But what could I do? I reflected. Very soon it would be so
dark that I should not be able to see any path; and to pass a
night among the wet fallen leaves, wandering hither and thither,
or even to remain under that shed without more clothing, might
render me unable to act in the morning.
While in this embarrassment, and looking vaguely round from
under my temporary shelter, I saw what I believed to be a build-
ing of considerable size standing in the middle of another and
larger opening in the wood. It was so near dark that I was un-
certain about it; but I strode at once towards it, and found it to
be a spacious hut, or wooden house, used, I had no doubt, also
by the wood-cutters, in the daytime. The door was closed, but
not fastened; I entered, and with some difficulty made out that
THE FAMILY FEUD.
281'
tbiere was a manger in one corner, where, of course, the wood-
men's horses were sometimes fed. Above this was a rack which
seemed nearly filled with hay ; it was long, and the thought im-
mediately struck me that I could not do better, in my awkward
circumstances, than try to make my lodging there for the night.
I hesitated, next, whether it would not be better to rush on into
the wood, even in any direction, and endeavour to find an outlet
from it into the open country. Finally, I gave up that notion
for the quieter scheme, and so walked up and down the hut till
it was pitch dark, for, as the rain continued to pour, the sky was
starless and moonless.
Feeling chill, I closed the door, and crept up to my nest in the
hay, and embedding myself well in it, soon grew warm and fell
asleep. But I could not have slept many minutes—at least I
judged so, from the length of the night that followed—before I
was awoke by a very shrill and prolonged whistle, which was
followed by another less loud, and coming from a distance. My
heart beat fast, and I felt incapable of moving; but I quelled
my alarm by the remembrance that I was well covered with the
hay, and whoever might enter the outhouse would not instantly
perceive me. The whistle at the door was repeated, and was
answered by another from some one now near at hand. In a
few moments the door was opened, and a peculiar voice said—
 Hold it open while I grope round ; this is a likely place for
one playing at ' Hide, and come seek.' 
 Don't play the fool!  said the voice of Brundrell; and I
thought he seized the other to hold him back.
The first voice I was sure I had heard ; but, in the alarmed
and confused state of my brain, I could not remember whose it
was ; and, indeed, I could not have heard the voice often, I felt
sure.
 Do you think I fear ?  cried this peculiar voice ;  why,
man, I should not fear to grapple with the devil himself. Let
go, I say! 
This fearless unknown groped round the hut, for I could hear
the sound of his hands on the boards.
 Not here, he said,  that's clear. But, he added, with an
oath, "it is a likely place, if you were right in swearing that
your bird took covert in this wood.
 Of that I am sure, rejoined Brundrell;  I spied him
trudging along the high-road, saw him stop and talk to one of
the labourers, and then take the wood,—at the labourer's advice,
as the fellow told me.
 But he may have got out of the wood, reasoned the other.
 That is impossible, returned Brundrell ;  I rode at a
gallop, and placed my man Dick at the gate on the other side j
282
THE FAMILY FETTD.
and you know lie lias seen nobody pass. The nab from Quarrel-
ton says that nobody has gone back to the high-road; so he
must be somewhere in the wood.
 He may have got over the hedge.
 He wouldn't do that. He has lost his way in the wood;
but I feel certain that he is in it.
 Well, we have searched all over. I suppose you know of no
more paths ? 
 None. And yet I know the wood well.
 Then let the men keep on the watch. He will stir at day-
light, if he be sleeping among the -wet leaves instead of between
sheets and blankets ; and he is sure to be taken. Come with me
now to secure my bird. We shall have time to get her avray
and make her safe, and be back to see your's taken.
 I don't like to quit the wood, said Brundrell.
The peculiar voice pronounced a fierce execration, and a
threat.
"Don't rave like a spoilt child that fears it shall not get
its pretty toy !  retorted Brundrell, with his old scoff;  we'll
bring her through the wood. It will be nearer and safer; and
we shall thus be upon the ground, and catch him, if he stirs
before daylight.
The other swore Percival was one of the right sort, after all;
and away they went.
I had lain almost breathlessly still during this strange dialogue.
It had only lasted a few minutes, and they were not sufficient to
allow me time to recover from the alarm which was renewed
when I heard Brundrell's voice. Moreover, he was assisted by
some person of fearless courage; and the very voice of this
assistant made me shudder. Some minutes after I was again
left alone, I rallied my memory, and sprung to the certitude that
the peculiar voice was that of the fierce-eyed, dark, diminutive,
and moustachioed traveller on the coach from Quarrelton to
Byeham. It was none other than Fernshawe. And now a
frightful view of what I believed to be the malignant strength of
Brundrell's plot burst upon me. Had he not said that Fern-
shawe and he were old friends, and that he had drawn the secret
of the charges against me from Fernshawe? Here, then, they
were closely in league, and were also assisted by an officer from
Quarrelton, and I was being watched for that I might be dragged
as a criminal to that town. The realization of the vision was
threatening again! I had come thus far on towards Quarrelton
in reality: I should not reach the Hermitage, and become the
avenger of blood there.
I sprang out of the rack in an agony of despair, threw open
the door of the hut, and was about to dash out into the wood.
THE FAMILY FEUD.
283
But it was only a momentary impulse. I drew back. To rush
upon danger was to render escape hopeless. Besides, was it not
Brundrell that was doomed to perish, and I to kill P Despair
gaye way to the murderous impulse once more,—nay, it shook
me with its intensity. I had never experienced such a vehement
yearning to become the avenger of blood as I did now. The
desire had seemed to ebb during the last two days of my journey
—perhaps owing to my weakness of frame,—though I had jour-
neyed on. I now reproached myself for having so meanly and
tamely slackened in my desire for vengeance, and was near crying
aloud that it was my base, pitiful cowardice which had robbed
me of success when I was face to face with Brundrell.
Soon I reminded myself that my solitary raving was only a
useless expenditure of energy. I must devise what I would do,
and keep my courage and spirit to do it. The difficulties before
me now were greater than ever. A few days ago I might have
shot Brundrell, and left him in the wood among the snow, and
escaped to America, whither, perhaps, Mary would have followed
me. And if she had not, I should have had the life-long convic-
tion, not only that I had fulfilled my destiny, as appointed by
Eternal Justice, but that I was justified in slaying the man who
had first tortured me, and then raised his hand with the resolute
intent to kill me.
But now I resembled a beast of prey surrounded with the toils
of the hunters. It would require coolness and presence of mind
to deliver myself, and also accomplish my revenge for the blood
of my father on the son of his murderers. How was this to be
done P It would not be easy to escape from the men who were
set to watch, unless I could succeed in reaching some hedge of
the wood out of their view. This I might do, it was very likely,
at daylight; if I attempted it in the dark, I might blunder upon
them. Yet, if I could thus escape, I was leaving my main pur-
pose unaccomplished. I must not quit the wood without a
deadly attack on Brundrell. I would try to find the path I had
left to take shelter in the outhouse. I knew that the shed under
which I had first taken shelter was very close at hand. It would
be easy to find that; the path I had left was near it; and per-
haps Brundrell and Fernshawe might come by it. If I killed
Fernshawe, it should be in self-defence. I had no desire to
have his blood on my hands,—yet he was in league with my
foes, was assisting Brundrell, and must have entered into the plot
with Crookit to ruin me ; and besides, he had ruined Mary's
father, and brought both her father and mother to the grave by
his oppression. I had no cause to feel squeamish in dealing
summarily with him, any more than I had with his co-mate in
villany.
THE FAMILY FEUD.
What was the errand—the other errand about securing the
bird—on which they were intent P Alarm for myself had made
me unheedful of it; but I begun to weigh their words. A pretty
toy Brundrell called it; and Fernshawe's expressions seemed to
indicate that there -was a woman in the case. Some victim—
some new victim—of their villany, and, most likely, of Fern-
shawe's purposed licentiousness. A horrible conjecture made
my blood curdle; but I thrust it aside, as wild and improbable.
Whoever the victim might be, however, she should be rescued,
if I could effect her rescue.
I drew out my pistols, and carefully felt them in the dark;
assured myself they were still well prepared; and, with one in each
hand, made my way to the shed, and found the path I had left.
Several hours had elapsed, and I yet heard no other sounds than
those of the breeze among the leafless branches. It had ceased
to rain I had found, as soon as I stepped out of the larger out-
house; and the wood was still enough for me to hear any foot-
steps that might approach me.
Was not that a scream—the scream of a woman that I heard?
There it was again !—yet it must be very distant. Some minutes
had gone, and I again heard it faintly, and still at a distance.
It was so long before I heard another sound, except that of the
wind, that I began to think I had been deceived by my excited
imagination ; but again I heard it distinctly, and certainly nearer.
With blood beating furiously, and my nerves roused to thrilling
excitement, I now beheld a small dancing light—scarcely larger,
at first, than that of a glowworm—in the direction from which
I thought the scream came. But the light increased,—it was
coming nearer,—and once more there was a shriek, and it was
suddenly stopped, as if by force.
I was about to rush forward, but bethought me that I should
sacrifice myself foolishly by giving the alarm. Instead of doing
so, I withdrew behind the corner of the shed, where I thought
I should be concealed completely, because I felt that the branches
of a tree extended to me. Here I thought I could securely
make my observations when the parties with the light came near
me, and then act effectually.
In a few minutes I saw clearly enough that three figures were
approaching; one of whom was a woman borne by the other
two. One of the men had a lantern, and he was the taller
man, yet he seemed to contribute but little towards supporting
the living burthen. They stopped with it j and they were now
not very far from the shed.
"Let her breathe, if you mean to keep her alive !  growled
Brundrell,
THE FAMILY FEUD.
285
"'Then she'll make the wood ring again with her infernal
shrieking, objected Fernshawe.
 Let her breathe, I say!  demanded Brundrell, fiercely.
 Hold your accursed tongue!  said Fernshawe;  is not the
outhouse somewhere about here P Let us take her in there
awhile.
They moved towards the hut, and in a second or two I began
to follow. I felt strong self-possession now, for I conceived that
I was near a victory. They would not turn or look back I
believed; but I was wary, and I would not close upon them,
nor fire, till one was engaged in opening the door.
They reached it; Brundrell leaving to Fernshawe the entire
weight of their living burthen, and also placing the lantern
on the ground, advanced to open the door. My aim was taken
at him, and my finger on the trigger of my right-hand pistol,
when a sudden exclamation from Fernshawe, who had just turned
his head and seen me, caused Brundrell to start aside : I fired,
but missed him. He was drawing forth his pistol in turn; but,
before he could fire, Fernshawe had dropped the woman to the
earth, and was rushing upon me. I felled Fernshawe by a for-
cible blow on the head with the empty pistol that was yet in
my right hand, threw it down, and was passing the other from
my left to fire again at Brundrell, when he fired at me, but was
as unsuccessful in hitting his mark as I had been. He fled as
before, but I could not follow.
 Cain !  was pronounced feebly by a sweet voice at my feet;
and as I looked and recognised Mary Granger, pale and haggard,
and endeavouring to disengage her limbs from the folds of a
cloak in which she had been muffled, I know not whether glad-
ness or horror most prevailed in me. I freed her, and assisted
her to rise: she was faint; but supported herself resolutely.
A groan from Fernshawe reminded me that one of my enemies
was in my power; and regarding him as Mary's lawless perse-
cutor, I was about to put an end to his life; but Mary caught
my arm.
 Cain, do not shoot him !  she exclaimed,  have no man's
blood on your soul, however evil he may be. Thank heaven
you have delivered me from his evil power! Ho not mar the
good you have done, by taking a life you cannot restore.
I yielded; but observing that Fernshawe was recovering, I
stooped down, opened his coat, and sought if he had arms
about him. He had no pistol; and I was giving up the search,
when I caught the handle of a small, richly-wrought stiletto,
and deprived him of it. He opened his eyes, and in a few
minutes was upon his legs, and evidently would have renewed
28B
THE FAMILY FEtTD.
his attack ; hut finding his dagger gone, and seeing me present
my pistol, he only uttered an execration, and then turned to go
away. This he did proudly and without any symptom of tear.
So soon as his figure was hidden from our view, I put out the
light of the lantern, and' urged Mary to join me in endeavour-
ing to reach some verge of the wood before the day broke. It
might be impossible to escape by any means ; but it was better (
to make the venture, than to remain on the spot where Brundrell
had left us, and to which he would be sure to return, bringing
with him the others who were on the watch with the intent to
make me a prisoner.
Our progress was blind, and it was also slow ; for Mary was
too weak to make haste, and I was eager to obtain from her
some account of her own adventures. I learned that she had
been unwilling to proceed further with her cousin than to the
house of her friend Mrs. Martha Tomlinson. There Algernon,
promising soon to return with his father's assurances of forgive-
ness, had left her; but that she had been seized by Fernshawe,
while walking, at about the distance of half a mile from her
friend's house, on the preceding day. Fernshawe had left her
in a lonely house as a prisoner, with a man and his wife, hire-
lings, as it seemed, of Fernshawe; and from thence she had
been taken and brought into the wood. Such was the scanty
account I was able to draw from Mary in her exhausted state;
and as the light was breaking by the time she had told me so
much, I forbore to trouble her with questions, and parried hers
by promising to give an account of myself when we should
have reached some place of safety.
But where were we to find it? Our situation I felt was
perilous; but I endeavoured to prevent my companion from
sinking, and in so doing I kept up my own courage. Yet I
ventured to tell her that I had, while concealed in the outhouse,
overheard Brundrell and Fernshawe describe the watch that was
set for me. She conjured me to give up the idea of resistance,
and to consent to go to Quarrelton, if we should meet the
officer, and he should attempt to arrest me. Whether from
exhaustion, or from disgust with my failures to execute vengeance
on Brundrell, I listened to her till I inclined to take her gentle
advice. She did not inspire me with any hope that I should be
acquitted at a bar of justice if I surrendered myself. The
dream or vision had taken such hold of my understanding, as'
well as my imagination, that I thought it would be realized;
and that every attempt I might still make to avoid a prison
would be fruitless. The hope—I might almost say the convic-
tion—which yet supported me was, that there was a sequel
which the vision had not revealed j a sequel in which I should
TBE FAMILY FMTD..
287
be victorious over Brundrell, and become the Avenger of Blood
according to my destiny.
To Mary I did not breathe a word of my monomania, but
Continued to listen to her, until I assented, as if convinced by
her reasonings, or overcome by her entreaties. We reached a
hedge of the wood soon after daylight; and I soon found a
break in it, so that we were able to get through into a field, and
from thence into a high-road. We knew not which direction to
take; but there was no need to make a decision : we soon be-
held two men hastening towards us, and we stood still till they
approached. One of them was the officer from Quarrelton, and
the other,' it soon appeared, was Percival's clumsy man, Dick.
They hesitated to come very near when they saw me armed,
and the officer called to me loudly, saying that he had a warrant
to apprehend me, and it would be on my own peril that I offered
him any violence.
 I shall offer you none, said I,  nor shall I resist you, if
you promise me to give your assistance in protecting this lady,
who is the niece of Mr. Titus Downham.
 That I will most readily, sir, said the officer.
I placed the pistol within the breast-pocket of my coat im-
mediately, and the men came up. The officer was not only
respectful, but manifested sympathy for Mary's weakness, and
asked permission to assist me in supporting her ; and even Dick
showed a clumsy civility.
 We shall have more than a mile to walk, sir, observed the
officer,  in order to reach my conveyance.
I asked him where it was. He replied that it was at the
Hermitage.
 I will not go there, I said.
 But you must, he said ;  you need not go into the house
. if you object to do so. I will put the horse into the gig and
start immediately.
Mary entreated me not to resist; and I consented to go, on
condition that the officer kept his word, and also promised to
set Mary down at the house of her friend.
 I will also go to Quarrelton, said Mary.
It was in vain that I endeavoured to persuade her to stay
with her friend; and when she appealed to the officer, he
answered he certainly would take her to Quarrelton if she
desired it, for he believed that Mr. Titus would be glad to see
her back again. We soon entered the grounds of the Her-
mitage, and for the third time I approached the House of
Mystery.
2SS
THE FAMILY FEOD.
CHAPTEE V.
The Tempest of Cain Colton's Experience is succeeded by a singular Calm.
I had resolved not to enter the house ; but what was to be
done? Mary had fainted before we got to the garden-door;
the officer and I had to carry her, in her insensibility, and it
was necessary to restore her before we could go on. How could
I meet Brundrell ? I intimated that I did not wish to meet the
owner of the house.
 You will not meet him here, sir, said the officer ;  he can
scarcely have left the wood yet. We parted with him not more
than a quarter of an hour before we found you; and he and
Mr. Fernshawe were then going to make a complete circuit of
the wood, in search of you.
On receiving this answer of the officer I yielded to go into
the house with Mary. We were received at the door by old
Miles. He did not speak to me, but at the request of the officer
went to fetch assistance. Together with two female servants
came Una. The agitation we both showed at the meeting may
easily be conceived; but Una subdued hers on seeing Mary's con-
dition. She desired us to bear Mary into an inner room; and
there we placed the poor exhausted girl on a couch. Una essayed
her skill in the application of restoratives; but it was long before
she was successful. My dread that Mary was dead or dying was
for a few minutes so great, that it was almost overwhelming;
and I was unspeakably relieved when she breathed and opened
her eyes.
A faint smile and a look of tenderness assured me that con-
sciousness had fully returned; but when I saw her < smile
brighten as she recognised Una, I was wounded; and yet I did
not hate Una. I could not be near her without feeling for her
a degree of the old attachment. It was only her relationship
that rendered me unwilling to see Mary show any friendship
for her. But they were friends ; and it seemed that I could
not prevent them from being so; for now they embraced, and
Una caressed Mary as if she were a sister.
A little wine served to give Mary just sufficient strength to
speak a few words ; but we all saw that she had been too se»
verely tried for her to be likely to journey again for some hours.
The officer was the first to express this conviction.
THE FAMILY FEtfD.
289
 Bo not leave me, dear Cain !  said Mary, before I could
make any rejoinder to the officer.
 Well, sir, he said,  I am willing to wait a few hours, if
you wish it.
 I do wish it, I answered.
 Cannot you get a few hours' rest ? said Mary to me ;
 I am sure you need it. I shall be safe here, with Una.
I could not doubt that Una would protect Mary; and when
old Miles was directed to conduct me once more to the green
bed-room, I yielded, for I felt ready to sink with fatigue. Una
pressed me to eat something ; but I declined, feeling too faint,
and prepared to follow the steps of old Miles.
 I will not prevent you from taking rest, sir, for you really
look as if you needed it, said the Quarrelton officer to me,
while we were mounting the staircase;  but I must be near
y°u.
 I have no objection, said I;  you may sit by my bedside,
if you choose. I am so completely worn out that I think I shall
be asleep in a few minutes, although it is broad day.
 I will not do that, replied the man ;  but you must allow
me just to see if there be any way for making your escape—
excuse me ! I do not mean that you wish to do that; but I am
bound to satisfy myself on that point, and then I will leave you
to your rest, and keep my eye on your chamber-door.
The officer inspected the green chamber, and found no other
door than that by which we entered. He looked from the
windows, and observing that their height from the ground was
too great for any one to escape easily in that direction, with-
drew, and requested me to lock myself in. I obeyed him, and
after gazing a few moments on the portrait which had excited
me so powerfully when I first saw it, I took off my coat and
waistcoat, placed my pistols behind the pillow, drew the curtains
closely round the bed, and lay down.
My waking consciousness left me so very gradually that I
know not how long it was before I was asleep. The portrait at
first filled my mind's eye; but it was soon exchanged for the
living form of my mother. And then I was walking by her side,
but was too much awe-stricken by her look of reproof to speak to
her; for I seemed to know that she had come as a messenger
from the spiritual world to inform me that I was wrong, and to
censure me. Yet when the censure was spoken, it was so vague,
that I saw she was ignorant of what had been done on earth
since her death. And as I wondered, she told me that departed
spirits knew nothing of the acts of mortals, except so far as they
were revealed for some special end.
Then I told her how the doomed name had been given me bv
v
290
THE FAMILY FEUD.
my grandfather, and how the old man had become a misan»
thrope, and had dwelt on the wild moor, where I had been
trained in half savagery and ignorance. I related to her how
the fiendish partner in my father's murder had been first, the
terror of my childhood, and then on her very death-bed, my
malicious and false accuser, and the cause of my banishment
from a happy home. I reasoned that, but for that bad woman,
I might early have become the happy husband of Mary Granger,
instead of being thrown amidst grievous mortifications and dis-
contents; to all which had now succeeded a villanous persecu-
tion of myself, and of her whom I loved.
And now that I had not only discovered the man in whose
veins ran the depraved blood of my father's slaughterers; but
he had attempted to take my life, and had joined another heart-
less and lawless tyrant in a design upon the honour and peace
of Mary, was I not justified in pursuing him to the death ? Had'
not his fiendish mother declared I was born to kill him, and did
he not believe it himself? The doom of my name, the mother's
curse, and the son's dread, must all have their fulfilment. Should
I hesitate to set my heel on the head of a viper ? He was born
of human reptiles, things of deadly appetite, and inherited their
venomousness and thirst for destruction, and it could not be a
crime, but a virtue, to rid the earth of him. I was the avenger
of blood, and must perform my appointed work towards liim !
Thus far my mother heard me in my dream, and then she
laid her hand on me, and pierced me through, as it seemed, with
her eyes of spiritual light, until I knew and felt that the mur-
derous will was devilish and not human. I stood and trembled
with the conviction of my error and guilt, until I cried out,
 Guilty !  and besought her to instruct me what I should do.
 Abandon the foul thought of revenge ! spake the spirit of
my mother;  vengeance belongs to Him who hath said He will
pay it. And His retribution is sure, though men often are
blind to it, when it is being exacted before their eyes. It is
often the heavier because it is slow, and such it hath been in
the instance of your father's murderers ; but now there is
enough. Ho measure remains for you to fill up as the instru-
ment. Beware, lest you awake new vengeance for your own
violence. You have suffered; but it was a part of the moral
retribution for your mother's error. Think not that they who
took your father's life were the only erring agents. My error
was before theirs, and tempted it. My father was unduly exact-
ing; but I was most criminally wilful and disobedient. I dared
his curse. I rushed recklessly and impetuously to my ruin. I
refused to reflect. I thought only of passion. I dared the cost
of transgression, and I paid the price—save what remained fof
THE FAMILY FEED.
291
you to pay, the child of my wilfulness and error; hut now the
history of error and blood must end. Let the darkness depart
from your soul. Welcome the light, and all shall be well. There
shall be peace where there was feud: all shall have their por-
tion in it; but the chief share shall be yours !
Her words had chased the superstitious madness from my
soui. And now her eyes wore a benign lustre, and she said,
 Come with me, my son !  and took me by the hand, and led
me to Brundrell, who was kneeling and in tears, and she placed
my hand in his and vanished !
I woke with a start. The day had passed, and it was mid-
night. The curtain of my bed was undrawn on one side: there
was a light on a table close by the bed, and there sat Brundreli,
with tears gliding down his face, and silently gazing on my
mother's portrait, which he held in his hand !
292
THE FAMILY FETID.
BOOK X.
IN WHICH THB HISTORY OP QUARRELTON EVENTS IS ONCE MORY RESUMED,
AND THE CRISIS OF EVERYBODY'S FATE APPROACHES.
CHAPTEK I.
Mr. Timothy is ill-pleasedwith Crookit, and not well-pleased with Jossy Jessop.—
Mrs. Phoebe advises Jossy for his own good.
A man of maxims is not always the man who keeps them. It
was the maxim with Mr. Timothy that everything should give
way for business, even illness itself.
 There is no greater weakness, sir, he would often say to
Mr. Elder,  than for a man to be ill when he has business to
do. Illness! a man should put it off, sir, till he has leisure
for it.
Mr. Timothy had grievously broken his own maxim ; and a
communication with his new chief clerk, at his bed-side, re-
minded him of his moral and physical failure so forcibly that
he resolved to reform.
It was on the morning succeeding that eccentric visit from
O'Frisk, that Charlotte told her father she did not know what
to do about Mr. Crookit, he was so urgent for an interview.
"I peremptorily denied him last night, father, she said,
 knowing that it would distress you to receive any more visitors,
after you had been so cruelly used by Mr. O'Erisk ; but Mr.
Crookit says he must demand to see you this morning, on busi-
ness of great urgency.
 Desire him to come up, my dear, answered Mr. Timothy;
 he is the very man I was wishing to see : let him come up
instantly.
Crookit did not delay to obey the request conveyed by Char-
lotte, and took Mr. Timothy's hand, with such an expression of
sympathy for the patient, that the patient thought him very
kind, while Charlotte regarded the sympathy as somewhat over-
done. Moreover, there was an unusual restlessness in Crookit's
THE FAMILY FEUD.
293
manner, so much unlike his usual cold, wary, and collected selt—
for she had been a close observer of him lately—that she was
curious to learn the cause of it, and so did not quit the chamber.
Her stay, she quickly perceived, was unwelcome to him. He
glanced in a stealthy and uneasy sidelong manner towards her,
often as she moved about seeming to be busy with little arrange-
ments in the room ; and, notwithstanding, what he had pleaded
as to the urgency of his business, he continued to talk of
Mr. Timothy's illness, and his deep concern about it, till she
thought he must have exhausted the vocabulary of sympathy.
Charlotte's decision was not the least marked part of her
character, and she determined to put an end to this practising
of Crookit's.
 Pray you excuse me, sir, she said to him;  I have Dr.
Drenchem's especial direction to keep my father from un-
necessary exhaustion. You said you had business—urgent busi-
ness here. Let me beg of you to lay it before my father as
quickly, and as briefly as possible.
Crookit was bitterly mortified, for he thought the lady's
manner betokened discernment that he was shuffling to gain
time, with the hope that she would withdraw. Yet he en-
deavoured to conceal his chagrin, and with an affectation of
regret for his thoughtlessness, said he would proceed to inform
Mr. Timothy of the business on which he had come.
"Ay, do so, my dear, sir! said Mr. Timothy; "for I wish
to confer with you on a matter of a very delicate nature.
The earnest look of Mr. Timothy, and the peculiar lowering
of his voice, as he thus spoke, raised so much curiosity in Crookit.
that he could not forbear saying,—
 Perhaps, sir, you would prefer that I should listen to you
first ?
 By no means, answered the merchant.
The manner of the answer was so quick and decided, that
Crookit, driven from every attempted subterfuge, was com-
pelled to proceed ; but he stammered at the very outset: a fault
unusual with him. He had, he said, thought it his duty to
attend to the little business discussed by Mr. Timothy and him-
self at their last interview. And then he stopped, and Mr.
Timothy looked puzzled, and seemed to expect him to go on.
 I mean—the business relative to—to the unfortunate young
man, said Crookit:  the despatching of an officer to arrest him
when he is found!
"To do what, sir? asked the merchant, turning very pale,
and speaking faintly.
 To arrest him !  repeated Crookit;  you intimated that
you would despatch an officer for that purpose. I dissuaded you
294
THE FAMILY FEUD.
from aoing so at the moment, sir; but when I learned that you
were so very ill, I thought it unadvisable that so important a
business should be delayed.
 Well, sir P  said the merchant, seeing that Crookit hesitated
again.
"And so I requested a magistrate of our party to grant his
warrant, and—and send off an officer in pursuit.
 And have you done this, Mr. Crookit P  asked Mr. Timothy,
raising himself anxiously.
"Why, yes, sir. I knew that every hour was precious,
especially since I learned that young Downham, having received
a communication from Mr. Fernshawe, had gone off to bring
back the young woman. I thought when she was found, the
young man would take the alarm, and elude the pursuit of
justice.
 But I gave you no order for this, sir.
"No, sir; but since you have honoured me with the super-
intendence of your business, and I knew you were unable to
attend to this important concern yourself, I felt it to be my diity
to do so. Besides, added Crookit, feeling now that he mu&t
be bold, "I remembered your maxim, that all considerations
must give way for business. It was a painful task for me to
take upon myself; but I discharged it through a sense of duty, and
to that you must attribute my error, if I have committed one.
Mr. Timothy was distressed, at what he viewed as an act of
singular overhaste; but Crookit now looked the very martyr df
a sense of duty, and what could Mr. Timothy say more P—or
how be harsh towards one who had deserved so well, and had
really given a fresh proof of his zeal for his patron's interest,
though he had given it in such an irregular way P j
 Well, sir, since it is done, I do not know what more can be
said about it, said the merchant, sinking down among his
pillows, and averting his face from his trusty superintendent.
Crookit's guilt was uppermost in his mind, and prevented him
from showing any -sense of mortification. He was silent, aind
as her father seemed undesirous of renewing the conversation,-
Charlotte skilfully interposed.
 You will be too much exhausted to enter on other business
now, father P  she said, bending over the bed.
 I will not enter on it, now, answered the merchant; but
his tone did not indicate much exhaustion;  good morning,
Mr. Crookit!
The sinister clerk withdrew, a little shaken at first; but soon
recovering confidence in the success of his tortuous schemes.
 This will not do, soliloquised Mr. Timothy, when his
daughter had also withdrawn from the room;  I shall be having
THE .FAMILY FEUD.
295
my whole fortune disposed of without my consent ever being
asked, if I yield to this weakness much longer. I must get to
business.
The soliloquy was short; but Mr. Timothy followed it up
by beginning to dress himself. The effort caused him some
fatigue; but he thought it did him good. Having nearly finished
he rang his bell. Charlotte was surprised, and almost alarmed
when she re-entered the chamber; but her father assured her
so cheerfully that he was better, and looked so much better,
that she said she was delighted.
"And now let me have something hearty for luncheon, my
dear; I am weary of the slops, though it was very kind of you
to make them while I needed them, said Mr. Timothy ; "and
just tell Jessop to come up and help me on with my coat.
 I can do that, father, said Charlotte.
"Ho, my dear, you shall not, said the merchant; "I am
weary of being an invalid, and shall dismiss you from your
niirseship. Besides, I want to speak to Jessop, my dear.
, Jealous as Charlotte had now become of Crookit's confidential
interviews with her father, she had no desire to pry into Mr.
Timothy's business with honest Jossy Jessop. Mr. Timothy
Wis, therefore, left to speak in the ears of Jossy alone.
'' Jessop, I hold you to be a prudent man, said Mr. Timothy,
looking very significantly at Jossy, and before he had put on
his spectacles;  and so I am about to send you on a very
particular errand.
.  Thank ye, Mr. Timothy, answered Jossy;  I hope I'm
generally prudent ? 
 Well, generally: I mean generally, observed Mr. Timothy;
'none of us are always prudent, you know: we all make blun-
ders at times.
 We do, indeed, Mr. Timothy, said Jossy, shaking his head
w:th a feeling of regret at the remembrance, which was so often
uppermost in his mind, of the part he had borne in a certain
uiiortunate transaction.
' Yes, we all do, added the merchant;  but you know the
confort of it is, Jessop, that when we have made a blunder, we
car, by trying, usually make amends for it, and set ourselves
rigit.
' But when we can neither do the one nor t'other, there's no
comfort in it at all, Mr. Timothy.
 True, Jessop; very true, observed Mr. Timothy, looking
(at Jossy very thoughtfully.
Jossy's common-place words seemed very forcible to Mr.
Timothy in his particular mood. He desired Jossy to help him
;o put his coat on before he said more.
296
THE FAMILY FEUD.
 Well, now, Jessop, lie resumed as he took his arm-
chair ;  I will tell you what I wish you to do. I wish to make
some important inquiries of two old people whom, I dare say,
you know very well. I am not well enough to go out, or I
would call on them myself. I wish them to come here this
evening—say about six o'clock—that I may have a little talk with
them. They will think it strange that I send for them to come
here; and so I wish you to perform your errand very pru-
dently: I mean, so as to lead them to suppose that there is
nothing very extraordinary in my sending for them. It is the
two Oldstocks that I mean — the wooden-spoon maker and his
wife.
Mr. Timothy stopped, wondering why Jossy's large face
became so expressive, first of surprise, and then of uneasiness.
 Why, what is the matter with you, Jessop? asked tie
merchant.
 Mr. Timothy, you are a gen'leman, and you always was,
answered Jossy,  and I would go through fire and water for
you; but don't, I beg of ye, ax me to go to that the:e
house. I was there once — and only once in my life; but it
was once too much. And so you would think if I told you
what it was to do; but that I can't.
 You talk very oddly, Jessop, said Mr. Timothy, sope-
what impatiently ;  what have I do with what you did ? Sot
tipsy with old Job, perhaps. But what has that to do with my
business ? When you entered into my service you expected fo
receive my orders, did you not ? I pray you, sir, let me hesr
no more of your nonsense.
 Lor', Mr. Timothy ! it isn't nonsense ; and so you'ld say, f
you knew. Don't, I beg of ye, for goodness sake, don't ax ne
to go to that there house ! 
 But why can't you go ? What bugbear is there in the dd
spoonmaker's cottage to affright you from going there ? 
 Mr. Timothy, I can't tell you;—but I swore myself on hy
bodily oath, more than twenty years ago, never to enter tlat
house unless I should be forced to it—and so I beg of ye to
excuse me! 
"Bless me! this is very strange—very! declared ifr.
Timothy;  well—here's luncheon coming I see, he adied,
considerately,  you may go down awhile, Jessop, and I'll ton-
sider of it.
 Thank ye, Mr. Timothy, returned Jossy, anu retired t(
the kitchen ; but not finding Mrs. Phoebe there, and beinj:
unable to ease his mind to any other person, he sought her ii
her own room.
THE FAMILY FEUD.
297
Mrs. Phoebe observed that Jossy closed the door very care-
fully, and also noted that he looked troubled.
 Is there anything the matter, Jessop ?  asked the ancient
housekeeper.
Jossy shook his head, drew in a full breath, and sighed very
heavily.
 Bless me, ejaculated Mrs. Phoebe,  why, what is the
matter, Jessop ? 
 Lor' bless us, Mrs. Phoebe, I don't know what to say. I
think the world grows queerer and queerer! 
 I think it does, indeed. But what can be the matter, now,
Jessop? 
 Why, Mrs. Phoebe, the fact is this here : Mr. Timothy wants
me to go to Job Oldstock's ! 
"Well? and what of that, Jessop?
 What of that ? why, I'm surprised at you, Mrs. Phoebe!
You I know I took an oath never to enter their house again as
long as I lived.
 But if Mr. Timothy wishes you to go •
 How can I go, remembering that sad business, Mrs.
Phoebe?
 But what has that to do with Mr. Timothy's business ?—
what does he wish you to go there for, Jessop ? 
 To tell the two old sinners to come and see him, for he
wants to speak to 'em.
 Wants to speak to 'em, Jessop ? What can he want to
say to two such low old people P 
 I can't tell. Something important, he said.
 Indeed!  — and Mrs. Phoebe uttered the word in such a
peculiar way, and her aged eyes were so full of mysterious
meaning, that she made Jossy feel queerer, he declared, than
ever. What was she thinking about ? he asked.
 I don't wish to make you feel more uneasy, Jessop, an-
swered she ;  but I'm suspicious there's a something coming
out. Mr. Timothy must have heard something about — you
know what.
 Lor'bless me! You don't think so—do ye, Mrs. Phoebe?
You make me feel all of a shiver! 
 Depend upon it, it is so, Jessop ! I was not born yester-
terday. I can guess eggs when I see shells. But, now, you
take my advice, Jessop. Get yourself out of trouble; and
don't wait to let these Oldstocks tell their story. Be before-
hand with 'em—or it may be worse for you.
 Get myself out o' trouble, Mrs. Phoebe ! I can't under-
stand you.
298
THE FAMILY FEUD.
 Then your head must be very thick, Jessop!  asserted the
old housekeeper, becoming arrogant with the belief of her own
superior sagacity;  Mr. Timothy is very sly. He never says
much; but he means a great deal.
"I always thought him a cunning 'un, broke in Jossy
Jessop.
 And so he'd need be, said Mrs. Phoebe, determined to
prevent Jossy from having any idea of his own wisdom;  a
gentleman having such an amount of business ought to be long-
headed. But I mean, Jessop, that Mr. Timothy asked you to
go on this errand, just to see if you would confess all about it
yourself. Now, take my advice ! go and tell him you can save
him the trouble of sending for those old folks. Coming!
answered the old housekeeper, to a message from Miss Charlotte
delivered by one of the maidens, and away she went and left
Jossy alone to ruminate.
 The old woman's wits are, sometimes, as quick as her
tongue, said Jossy to himself,  and I feel sure she's right in
the main. Not that I believe Mr. Timothy was trying to trick
me, and to see if I would confess. He's too much a gen'leman,
for that. The old woman has overshot the mark there! But
she's right in the main. I'm sure she is. And I've no right to
be brought into blame and trouble by the Oldstocks—seeing
as how they brought me into trouble. Yet I don't want to
make the poor old folks any mischief. Poor old creaturs ! they
can't be long for this world now ; and it would be a sin and a
shame to do 'em any harm. Lor' bless me! what should I do ?
this world grows queerer and 
But Jossy's soliloquy was cut short by a summons for his
re-appearance which the maiden now brought from Mr.
Timothy.
.CHAPTER II.
Mr. Timothy's serious Talk with Jossy, and the Merchant's serious Reflections
thereon.
"With every disposition to confess, but completely puzzled how
to begin, Jossy Jessop re-entered Mr. Timothy's room.
 Shut the door and sit you down, Jessop, said the merchant;
and Jossy quickly obeyed.
 Your conduct, I must tell you seriously, is what I did not
expect from you,", continued Mr. Timothy ;  and, although I
respect you greatly, I shall be constrained to speak to you very
THE FAMILY FEUD.
299
severely, unless you consent to waive your foolish objection—
for it must be a foolish one—and take my message to Job Old-
stock, as I request you to do.
 If you please, Mr. Timothy, answered Jossy,  I would
rather not; I would rather tell you all about that unfortunate
business myself: it's what I don't like to do; but I would rather
do it than go there.
 Unfortunate business, do you say P 
 Yes, Mr. Timothy; I suppose it's about the poor young
lady, your sister, that you want to see the Oldstocks. I don't
want to bring the poor old people into trouble, for it was my own
fault after ail, I know it was; but yet I should not have done it
had it not been for them.
The mention of his sister and the hint of some connection of
the Oldstocks with her misfortunes, so nearly related to the sub-
ject of his anxiety, and yet not clearly pointing it out, had a
troublesome effect on the mind of Mr. Timothy. Striving to
conceal his deep uneasiness, and without discovering to Jossy
how much he was surprised to hear that a member of'his own
household was in possession of some important family secrets,
the merchant, with assumed calmness of manner, desired Jossy to
proceed. Yet the relation of his sister's story, so far as Jossy
could give it, wrought very powerfully on his feelings.
 I declare to ye, Mr. Timothy and I cried like two children,
Jossy would say to his friends in after life;  he seemed like a
rock when I begun; but his heart melted like a snowball before
the sun, long afore I came to an end.
But it was when Jossy really came to an end that the merchant
was most deeply distressed. Of what Mr. Timothy was most
anxious to know, Jossy could tell him nothing. And now Mr.
Timothy again urged on Jossy the necessity of performing the
errand.
 You see, Jessop, said the merchant,  I cannot leave this
matter at rest. You say if anybody knows what really befell my
poor sister after she left us, it must be Job Oldstock. I went
over to the Yarrels at Blythewick after my father's death, and
made inquiry of them ; but they only knew that my sister was
dead ; and they seemed so unwilling to enter into the history of
what they considered diserputable, that I could learn nothing of
them; and I was young and proud myself, and the account of
the murder disgusted me : it was wrong; I know it now; but
we are foolish when we are young
« Yfe are indeed, Mr. Timothy: I feel that to be true; and I
hope you'll forgive me what I did ——■
 Forgive you, Jessop ! I have nothing to forgive. We must
all look higher for forgiveness; and we have all need,
300
THE FAMILY FEUD.
 That's true, Mr. Timothy: they are good words!  said
honest Jossy, while his head bent over his breast.
Mr. Timothy, when he learned that Jossy knew nothing of
what became of his sister's child, never touched that subject
again in the conversation. Those strange accusing words of
O'Frisk had caused such a tumult in his mind that it was long
before he could re-consider them calmly. And when all the
questionable case of the person whom O'Frisk seemed to point
out was considered by Mr. Timothy, he felt that he ought, for
the sake of his family's honour, to act with the greatest caution.
To have a criminal thrust upon him for a near kinsman and as a
claimant upon his estate, for such would be the case in the esti-
mation of the world, was no light accident. Mr. Timothy felt
it was due to himself, to his daughter, and to his dearest reputa-
tion, that such a claim should not be established unless the proof
of it was indubitably clear. He would not, therefore, give any
hint to Jossy that he thought it possible his sister's child might
yet be alive; he only urged that he wished to know the real cir-
cumstances of her death, and urged Jossy once more to undertake
the errand.
 If I had not have sworn so solemnly, Mr. Timothy, con-
fessed Jossy,  that I never 
 But you did not take any oath upon the Gospels, or any-
thing of that sort, Jessop ? 
 Why no, Mr. Timothy, answered the simple-hearted
Jossy; "but I took an oath—that is to say, I vowed to my
Maker in my own mind, that I would never go again to a house
where I had been overpersuaded to do wrong; and I think that's
as solemn a thing, Mr. Timothy, as saying certain words before
a magistrate and kissing the blessed Book.
 You are right, Jessop, it is, acknowledged Mr. Timothy,
full of admiration for the clear and conscientious sense of the
plain man; "it is not the form and manner of the oath, but the
oath itself—the pledge between our own conscience and our
Maker, which renders it sacred.
 That's what I think; but I could not say it so well, sir, for
I'r ' 1 i m, Mr. Timothy, observed Jossy.
thoughtful,  I think you are now in a manner relieved from
your oath : you have opened your mind to me ; and you see that
I am now wishful to set myself right. Now, it will not be wise
to make a town's talk of this matter, Jessop; and since you have
been one of the parties concerned, you are, very properly, one of
the parties who ought to consider yourself bound to assist me in
getting the information I need.
 There is something in that, Mr. Timothy, granted Jossy;
merchant, after be had sat awhile
THE FAMILY FEUD.
301
'* and 1 know it would not be well to fill everybody's mouth with
what belongs only to you and your family: I see that.
_  I'm glad you do, Jessop. Do you not think then, under the
circumstances, that you are warranted in going to Job Oldstock's
and desiring him and his wife to come here ? Mind! if you
still feel that you ought not to go 
 Mr. Timothy, will you allow me, asked Jossy, with a sud-
den thought,  to ask a gentleman's advice about it ? 
"A gentleman! what gentleman, Jessop? asked Mr. Timo-
thy, with a feeling that he himself was slighted by such a pro-
position.
 Begyour pardon, Mr. Timothy ; but I meant a clergyman.
Mr. : iimothy was tickled in spite of his seriousness, ana
laughingly asked who the clergyman might be that was Jossv's
conscience-keeper.
 He's not that exactly, sir, said Jossy;  but I wouldn't
desire a better, if I wanted one ; for he's a right good fellow, and
floored the Downhams in style on the night of the town-meet-
ing; I mean Mr. O'Frisk, the curate, sir.
Mr. Timothy would have laughed now outright; but the men-
tion of O'Frisk made him really serious, and gave a new turn to
his purpose.
 No, Jessop, you shall not ask Mr. O'Frisk's advice about
going to Job's house; but you shall, if you please, go to Mr.
O'Frisk's and say that I very respectfully desire he will come
here himself this evening, that I may have some conversation
with him on a subject—in short, Jessop, that will be sufficient;
he will know what I mean, concluded the merchant.
 Thank ye, Mr. Timothy; you couldn't send me anywhere
that I could go to with greater pleasure. I'm much obliged
to ye: you're a gen'leman, as you always was, concluded
Jossy.
When Mr. Timothy was once more alone, he began to feel
greatly satisfied with himself that his conversation with plain
Jossy Jessop had resulted contrary to his first wish. Pride and
resentment at the curate's severe imputations, had made him
spurn the idea of asking any explanation from O'Frisk ; but he
was persuaded it was better that a secret of such importance
as he wished to penetrate, should only be canvassed by a few,
and especially that he himself should, in searching into it, have
personal communication only with a few. Without committing
himself by listening to what was, perhaps, only an imperfect
history and founded in a great degree on conjecture, from the
Oldstocks, he would endeavour to draw the purport of it from
O'Frisk; from what they had told the curate, he would be able
to iudge of its real value; and he could then determine whe-
302
THE FAMILY FEED.
ther he should see the Oldstocks personally", or only treat the
whole matter as a fable.
Mr. Timothy's love of justice was strong; but it divided his
mind completely in this weighty affair. If that unfortunate
youth were really his sister's son, he must acknowledge the
claim at whatever cost of shame and dishonour; and, on the
other hand, though he had mercifully refused to pursue the
criminal, yet, now pursuit had been commenced, justice must be
done if the criminal were found ; his brother magistrates—nay,
the whole town, would cry shame on him were he to shield the
criminal. Still, it would be hard for him to assist the prosecu-
tion ; but how much harder, should it be clear and undeniable
that the youth who had embezzled his property and been other-
wise so ungrateful for his fostering kindness, was his own sister's
son ! Mr. Timothy revolved these thoughts deeply ; but was
determined to give way no further to weakness, and prepared to
receive the visit of the curate with all the firmness of a man.
CHAPTEE III.
Mr. Timothy holds a serious Conference with O'Frisk, and completely puts the
. Curate out of his Reckoning.
The curate was at his favourite and fragrant employ and study,
when the widow informed him that it was Jossy Jessop who had
just knocked at the door, bringing again a message from
Mr. Upham. O'Frisk welcomed Jossy as before, and with the
like hospitable spirit; but Jossy would neither touch nor taste
the whiskey.
 Much obliged to ye, sir, said Jossy,  but 1 could'nt at
present: my mind's not fit for it.
"Faith! and yer looking sad, Jossy! declared O'Frisk,
reckoning up the meaning of Jossy's face at a glance, in his
quick native way;  is Mr. Timothy worse ? 
 ISTo, sir ; I'm happy to say he's a vast deal better, answered
Jossy;  indeed, I have not seen him look so well as he does
this morning since these queer troubles begun.
 And he wishes to see me ?
 Yes, Mr. O'Frisk, and he said you would understand upon
what business it was.
 So: that's a way of sending a person upon a business with-
out acquainting them with the business itself, reasoned the
curate within himself, while he simply nodded to Jossy, and kept
THE FAMILY FEED.
BOS
Lis pipe in;  and I've set tLe great merchant upon a business
that will require all Lis skill in figures to get out of otherwise
than honourably—I'll keep him to it now I've begun. His con-
science is touched, or he would not have sent for me again in
this way. The pipe's a capital thing ! I should not have been
able to put all the odds and ends of hints together, and unravel
the mystery, had it not been for the pipe.
 I'll be bidding you good day, Mr. O'Frisk, said Jossy,
observing that the curate seemed too busy thinking to be able
to talk.
 "Why are ye in such a hurry, Jossy? asked the curate;
 you're uneasy about something; you look sad, as I said before,
by my faith ye do !
 Nay, sir; to speak the truth, I feel happier than usual, for
I've got a great weight off my mind. I've been telling
Mr. Timothy all about that unfortnet affair—you know what I
mean, sir—and Mr. Timothy cried like a child; he did, indeed,
sir. He's a feeling heart, sir, has Mr. Timothy.
"You don't say that, Jossy! exclaimed the curate, taking the
pipe out of his mouth, and staring at Jossy.
 I do, sir ; but I'll bid you good day—for though I feel very
comfortable since I've got it off my mind, I shall feel queer if I
talk about it again.
Jossy departed, and the curate's pipe began to be awkward—
he could not make it draw. Jossy's testimony to Mr. Timothy's
feeling heart took O'Frisk quite aback. Could the great mer-
chant have been acquainted beforehand with so much as Jossy
had told him about his poor sister P It was unlikely, since it
had affected him so pitifully. To shed tears was not the part of
a hardnatured, cunning man—O'Frisk could not help thinking
so, from his own experience of the melting mood. The curate had
thought of returning to Mr. Timothy in the spirit of Nathan the
Prophet, and of charging the transgressor home to the heart,
more sternly and faithfully than before; but O'Frisk reflected
that he must not break the bruised reed. If Mr. Timothy were
softened and repentant, the words of faithfulness must be min-
gled with fraternal kindness. Such were the curate's tempered
views by the time that he had to set out for renewing his visit.
Alone with the merchant, once more, O'Frisk was in a frame
of mind which rendered it far easier for Mr. Timothy to deal
with him; and Mr. Timothy began the new conference in a
spirit that tended to preserve the curate's moderate mood.
 I have sent for you, sir, said the merchant,  with the hope
that we shall renew our conversation in a becoming spirit. I
have the deepest reverence for your office ; and, allow me to say,
I yield to none in respect for the man who discharges it con-
304
THE FAMILY FEUD.
scientiously. And I hold you to be such a man, Mr. O'Frisk,
Having said so much, in the sincerity of my heart, let me beg of
you, now, to name what you believe to be my errors, with as
much tenderness as your conscience will allow. I wait to hear
you, sir.
This was a mild and yet firm challenge to O'Frisk to lay the
accusation in form, and the curate felt that he could not get out
of a difficulty without accepting it. So O'Frisk cleared his
throat, and showed the nature of the charge plainly, and not by
exclamatory hints as before. Mr. Timothy listened with the
hand of his will firmly grasping the reins of feeling—he was
absorbed with attention, but he was singularly calm.
O'Frisk made his peroration so early, that Mr. Timothy sat
expecting more; but the curate did not resume.
 Am I to conclude, sir, asked Mr. Timothy, slowly, and
with grave respect,  that you have now, a3 the lawyers say,
stated the whole of your case ?
The curate simply answered,  Yes, sir.
 Then, let me remind you, sir, rejoined Mr. Timothy,  that
your charge against me is far less serious than it was before.
You have omitted the heaviest count in the indictment; I hope,
sir, that you have withdrawn it on reflection and because you
regard it as unfounded in truth.
•' I—I have withdrawn no part of the charge that—that I know
of, said O'Frisk, who was not only disarmed of vehemence, but
enfeebled in the collection of his wits, by the merchant's self-
possession.
 Yes, sir : I must gently remind you that you have, returned
Mr. Timothy.  I beg pardon for repeating the word ' crime,'
since you have had the kindness not to repeat it. Now, sir, you
must perceive that, suppose the whole of your present charge
were proven, and I were criminally convicted of abandoning my
sister's son—knowing the unfortunate young man, Canute Coiton,
to be her son—wilfully concealing the fact of his relationship to
me—and adding to this meanness and baseness a refinement of
cruelty, by taking him from obscurity and fostering him, before
I abandoned him—yet my crime would be double if I had bound
two poor old gray-haired people to assist me in my sin by keeping
the guilty secret. That, I repeat was your heaviest charge
before, but you omit it now.
 By my dear soul, not I! declared the curate, forgetting his
gentleness;  if I didn't repeat it, I meant it all the same.
Mr. Timothy was strongly moved, but his will resolutely held
the bridle of temper.
 Then, sir, am I to understand, he demanded, but with as
little of demand as possible in his tone, though he could not keep
THE FAMILY FEUD.
305
the spirit of demand from his eyes,  that you esteem the solemn
denial of a gentleman worthless when given against the trumped-
up assertion of two old, uneducated people, who are in their
dotageP
 Botheration, Mr. Timothy! don't be after thinking that I'm
to be put down by your claims of gentility! burst forth O'Frisk,
unable, with his Keltic temperament, to endure this close Saxon
wrestling any longer;  the two poor old people trumped-up no
assertion, sir: they would assert nothing; it was like parting
with their blood to get a word out of 'em—I couldn't get 'em to
own anything. And there's the proof that the two poor old
creatures are your tools, and dare not tell the secret. God help
'em! and the Lord have mercy upon ye, for your wickedness !
Shame on ye—shame on ye! I say, Mr. Timothy ! I couldn't
have thought it of ye ! I wouldn't have believed my own father
if he had said it of ye!
Mr. Timothy burst into uncontrollable laughter. O'Frisk,
indignant, sprung up, and was about to stride out of the room,
but Charlotte entered. She had been drawn to the door again by
. the curate's loud and angry tone ; and from fear for her father's
health, broke through all sense of ceremony, and threw open the
door. Mr. Timothy could not speak; he could only stretch out
his hand, as a sign that Charlotte should prevent the curate from
going. She accordingly seized O'Frisk's arm, and held him back.
O'Frisk was bothered.
 Permit me, madam! said he, bending, with the intent to be
polite—and true-hearted O'Frisk could not be rude to a lady.
 No ; I must not permit you, said Charlotte, trying to resist
her father's laughter;  do resume your seat, sir. My father
and you must come to an explanation—you only need that.
This scene makes it clear that you have only misunderstood each
other.
"Yes, yes, stay—stay, Mr. O'Frisk! cried Mr. Timothy,
trying to subdue his merriment.
 I will, sir, if you can be serious about a serious business,
said O'Frisk.
 Well, I will—I promise you I will. My dear, Mr. O'Frisk
and I will continue our conversation, said Mr. Timothy.
Charlotte understood her father's look and withdrew.
 Now, my good friend, resumed the merchant, with hearty
kindness,  will you not acknowledge that you would be non-
plussed in a court of justice P Would you not be told you had no
evidence on this count, at least? You say these people are my
tools—but they have not told you ao. You say they are keeping
jjjy secret—but they did not s&y so» You h^ve no evidence tlid.t
they are in league with me.
306
THE FAMILY FETTD.
 No direct evidence, but a strong presumption.
 Nay, nay, my good friend, said Mr Timothy, determined
not to be angry with a man whose good heart and erratic brain
proved him to be so truly Irish;  do not say so. I am sure
you do not believe that I am telling a falsehood.
 Why, no, Mr. Timothy, yielded the curate, overcome bv
kindness;  I couldn't charge a gentleman like yerself with
downright lying.
 Thank you, my good friend. I was sure you could not.
Now, my friend, let us proceed very earnestly. You have evi-
dently been in communication with old Job and Dorothy. They
did not tell you that they were keeping any secret of mine : but
what did they tell you P What proof did they give you that
this unfortunate young man is my sister's son P 
 Proof!—they gave me no proof. But you don't need the
proof, Mr. Timothy. You know he's your sister's son.
Mr. Timothy felt that this was very provoking; but knowing
the nature of his difficulty, he was determined now to avoid the
provocation by any means.
 Did the Oldstocks say they knew him to be my sister's son P
he asked, mildly.
 I told ye, Mr. Timothy, before, that I couldn't get 'em to own
anything.
 Then they did not say it ?  persevered Mr. Timothy.
 Of course, they didn't, replied O'Frisk, beginning to
feel these driving questions somewhat plaguy, and therefore
speaking testily.
 Let me beg of you, my good friend, to be gentle, and to bear
with me, said Mr. Timothy ; "answer me this once. Since
they did not say it, what right have you to conclude that they
know it, or that anybody knows it ? How do you know it,
Mr. O'Frisk P — and how did you come by your know-
ledge P 
 Faith, now ye put a sensible question, Mr. Timothy ! Your
lawyer-like questions were only frivolous and vexatious, as the
parliament people say. But when ye ask me how I came by my
knowledge, then ye put a question to me that's worth answering.
Now I'll tell ye.
Mr. Timothy had found the spring at last. The Irishman's
genius was appealed to, and he told his tale at once ; and his
way of telling it secured attention. He described his regard for
Canute, and his conviction of the young man's rectitude of heart.
He rehearsed his sorrow for having led the young man into the
row at the town meeting, and having thus, all unintentionally,
been the cause of Canute leaving Quarrelton. Then O'Frisk
observed that he had extracted Jossy's story, but need not;
THE FAMILY FEUD.
307
repeat it, since Mr. Timothy had heard it. The fact—which he
learned also of Jossy—that Canute was originally an apprentice
of old Job, had led him to conclude that the old man might be
acquainted with Canute's relatives, who were the likeliest, he
imagined, to know what had become of the youth. So he had
gone to old Job's house to ask that question, as well as to inquire
if Job and his wife knew what became of the child of Mr.
Timothy's sister. Job had answered that Mr. Granger (and
O'Frisk described his relationship) had apprenticed the boy.
Elythewick and Mr. Timothy's sister were associated in O'Frisk's
mind; and O'Frisk had worked shrewdly to the conclusion that
since the boy came from Blythewick, and was of a certain age,
he was none other than the son of Mr. Timothy's sister.
"There, now, that's it!  said O'Frisk, when he had reached
the end of his narrative;  and that's how I came by my know-
ledge,—by sheer dint of thinking, and by the help of my pipe,
Mr. Timothy. I did not come to it while I was talking to Job
and his wife. I tell you I could get them to own nothing. But
.they were wide awake that I suspected the truth; for when I
put the question to 'em about your sister, they were too affrighted
to speak first. Then they asked me if I had come commissioned
by yourself to inquire. And when I said I was not, they refused
to say more.
 Well, I must say, Mr. O'Frisk, began the merchant, in
reply,  that you have built up an immensely large fabric from
the very slenderest materials. But do you really mean, after
all, that this is all you can present to me in the way of
evidence P 
 Evidence!  repeated O'Frisk ;  it isn't evidence that I've
been giving ye, Mr. Timothy. I '11 have nothing more to do
with your lawyer-like terms. I said I would tell ye how I came
by my own knowledge; and I've done it.
 Then listen to me with temper while I tell you something
which I feel it difficult to say without indignation, said Mr.
Timothy.
 I will be good-tempered, and I hope you will, retorted the
curate.  It's odd, Mr. Timothy, but I never lose my temper
while I've my pipe in my mouth.
 Then I can only say it's a pity you should ever have it out
of your mouth, replied the merchant.
The curate laughed, and O'Frisk's oddity served to cool Mr.
Timothy's bile, for it was growing warm.
"And what were ye about saying, Mr. Timothy? asked
O'Frisk.
 I was about to say, answered the merchant,  that you
have, on the mere ground of your imagination, asserted a very
x 2
308
THE FAMILY FEUD.
guilty and ungrateful young man to be my near relative ;
affirmed—what is utterly untrue—that I know him to be my
relative; and charged me with the most disgraceful inhumanity
towards him. Now I ask you, in the very best temper, Mr.
O'Frisk, whether this is not too much?- and whether you do
not feel yourself bound to acknowledge that you have been
wrong altogether? 
 I can't do that, Mr. Timothy. I feel as sure that the young
man's your sister's son, as I do that I'm sitting in this
chair.
 But you can give me no evidence to make me sure.
 Then do ye mean to say, coolly and honestly, that you
doubt it P 
 I do, Mr. O'Frisk. The idea of this young man being any
relation of mine never entered into my head, nor did I ever hear
any one in the world give expression to such an idea but your-
self. Do you believe me P 
 Faith, but this is very odd!  said the curate.
 It may seem odd to you, Mr. O'Frisk; but do you doubt
my serious word ? 
 I'm compelled to say, Mr. Timothy, that I have no right to
doubt your serious word. But I must say again that all this
is very odd.
"And I must say the same. It appears very odd to me
that you should have jumped to such astounding conclusions so
hastily.
O'Frisk now felt very foolish. It had been difficult for the
merchant to make it clear to him that his theory had no sub-
stantial proof; but he saw it now. He honestly confessed it,
and entreated Mr. Timothy to forgive the boisterousness he had
displayed; and yet assured the merchant that his own convic-
tions remained the same. Mr. Timothy was not disposed to
expend his strength in combatting an imagination; but inti-
mated that the curate had better reconsider the matter, and on
some future occasion communicate his more settled thoughts.
O'Frisk retired with a feeling of great humiliation ; and yet Mr.
Timothy had bade him good night with real kindliness.
THE FAMILY FEUD.
309
CHAPTER IV.
Which is a variorum Chapter, and describes how various People thought and felt
about passing Events.
That manifestation of surprise on the part of Mr. Timothy,
Crookit had naturally looked for : he had got over his difficulty
almost as well as he expected. On the succeeding day he had a
business interview with the merchant, and it completely restored
his confidence. Mr. Upham slightly alluded to the pursuit of
the transgressor; but seemed to speak of it as a proper pro-
ceeding. The next day Crookit had a letter from Fernshawe,
intimating that he was on the way to London, having found the
Hermitage deserted by Percival, and also by Una, who had gone
post haste to the capital with a stranger, who, he supposed, was
young Downham. Successive letters described Mary's depar-
ture from London with her cousin ; a mysterious disappearance
of Percival for a day and night; his return; and then the
journey of Fernshawe with Percival and his daughter towards
the Hermitage, under the impression, derived from Percival,
that Colton, who had fled from London, would be found in that
direction.
The disappointment expressed by Fernshawe at Colton's
escape from London was not felt by Crookit. He cared not
how Cain disappeared, so long as he was delivered from the
chance of the youth's restoration to Mr. Timothy's favour. He
was content if that could be prevented, either by the planned
trial for embezzlement, or by Colton's voluntary exile.
Meanwhile, Quarrelton rung with the reports of young
Downham's expedition in search of his cousin, and of the pur-
suit of Colton by a constable aided by Fernshawe. Uphams
and Downhams seemed, for a while, to forget their feud in their
eager exchange of opinions, guesses, surmises, and judgments
on these important transactions. In making the demand for a
warrant, Crookit had stated to the magistrate that the moneys
embezzled by Colton were a payment from Fernshawe to Mr.
Timothy. The magistrate had made no secret of this statement.
It was soon common news in the town, and it served to explain
to everybody why Fernshawe had gone off with the officer in
pursuit of the transgressor. There would be no mercy shown
in the case, was affirmed by all who had gathered any knowledge
of the character of Squire Fernshawe. No more there ought
to be, observed others; and it was well for the ends of justice
310
THE FAMILY FEUD.
that a man like Fernshawe was a party concerned, in order that
Mr. Timothy's known attachment to the young criminal might
not render it possible that justice should be defeated. So said
the Upham party; and the Downham party declared they were
glad of it likewise, seeing that the licentious young scoundrel
had had so strong a hold on the affections of Mr. Downham's
niece as to induce her to desert her family, and go after him
in such a disgraceful way. The benevolence of Mr. Titus in
determining to reclaim his niece was matter of wonder alike to
the Uphams and the Downhams. It was at first set down for
sheer folly; but the two parties at length agreed that it was
really creditable to his heart, though not very reputable for his
understanding: the girl, they said, must be either very weak-
headed, or as vicious-hearted as Colton himself, and was not
worth reclaiming.
Jossy Jessop heard these censures, and they troubled him
greatly; and his evenings passed in dolorous sympathisings
with ancient Phoebe, to whom he retailed what he heard in the
town. And what added most to Jossy's grief was the censure
that he himself received whenever he ventured to call in ques-
tion either the truth of the reports concerning Colton, or the
justice of condemning the youth before he was heard. Jossy,
on such occasions, was told he ought to be ashamed of himself
for defending the young swindler and profligate; and some said
he was not a true Upham, or he would be eager to see one
punished who had endeavoured to bring a stain on Mr. Timothy's
commercial honour. The days began to be very wretched for
poor Jossy and Mrs. Phoebe, especially when they began to
expect, every successive morning, to hear the afflictive news
that Canute was captured.
The return of Algernon Downham to Quarrelton, alone and
unsuccessful, it was affirmed, in the recovery of his cousin, filled
the town with new and more excited gossip. The excitement
was increased by the secresy of the Downham family. Mr.
Titus did not visit his patients; Algernon did not appear at the
book-room. The family were too deeply distressed, it was said,
to be able to show themselves publicly. Mr. Titus could not be
seen by visitors. Nobody could learn the real issue of Alger-
non's journey: but conjecture supplied the lack of veritable
information. The guilty pair had fled; that was the general
opinion. Very likely they had gone out of the country; and so
there would be no capture and public trial of the criminal, and
the public appetite for a spectacle would suffer a grievous dis-
appointment. Of course, censure of the criminal now grew
deeper and stronger, and Jossy Jessop's misery was increased
with what he heard.
THE FAMILY FEUD.
311
To Crookit the return of Algernon without Mary was a
mystery; he could only solve it for himself by supposing that
Mary must have escaped from her cousin, and have contrived
again to join Colton. Crookit hoped that was the true solution,
and that the public report that Colton and Mary had fled from
the country might prove true. The hope somewhat lessened
his alarm at the uneasy fact of his having had no letter from
his fellow-plotter since Fernshawe left London.
Meantime, though their anxiety was very diverse from
Crookit's in character, as much in degree was experienced both
by Mr. Timothy and the curate. He had confounded O'Frisk;
but, each successive day from their last interview, Mr. Timothy
thought it was more and more probable that the curate's strange
theory was true. He was not inclined to superstition, yet the
attachment he had felt for Canute seemed accounted for by a
mysterious sympathy of relationship: he put aside the notion
as foolish ; but it would rise again, and with new strength. The
youth's delicate features were like those of his sister and mother,
Mr. Timothy thought. He resisted that thought too; but it
also rose with greater strength. Canute was of the very age
that his sister's son would be, supposing the child to have lived.
The boy, too, was brought from Blythewick, the very place
where his sister had contracted the mean marriage. Against
these items of probability the prejudices of the merchant placed
a strong doubt, arising from the circumstance of Mr. Granger
having brought the boy from Blythewick and apprenticed him
to Job Oldstock. This Granger must have known who the boy
was, and had the boy been what O'Frisk supposed him to be,
would have acquainted the Downhams with his history; and
who would be so eager to tantalize Mr. Timothy with the dis-
covery as Mr. Titus ?
That was the reflection which, again and again, annihilated
the half-formed determination of Mr. Timothy to despatch either
Crookit or Mr. Elder to the cottage of the Oldstocks, with the
order to bring them before him, by any means, that he might
sift the aged pair thoroughly respecting their knowledge of the
origin of this boy. They had affirmed that they knew no more
of it than that he was an orphan. Yet they might have said
this from a fear that Mr. Timothy would call them to account
for the part they took in helping his sister to her ruin. Thus
he vacillated; but in spite of his vacillation, the merchant's
belief in O'Frisk's theory was growing. And with its growth
his uneasiness became sometimes almost intolerable; and he
was compelled to steel himself against what he deemed relenting
weakness, by reminding himself that justice ought to be done
Upon the criminal; and, if proved guilty, the young man de-
312
THE FAMILY FEtJD.
served no compassion. Then the harshness of that judgment
revolted him; and the merchant returned on the heels of all his
former reasonings. His health was so far recovered that he
began to visit the counting-house ; and, occasionally, the hospital
in his official character; but he was observed to be taciturn and
thoughtful, and to make no stay at either place. Indeed, Mr.
Timothy felt that, until the fate of Canute was decided, it
would be impossible for him to give earnest attention to any
kind of business, or to have any real peace of mind.
As for O'Frisk, he inwardly likened himself to the flying-fish,
for he had neither rest nor peace, night or day. The merchant
had so confounded him that he was pursued by shame at the
remembrance alike of his rash charges and his unscholarly rea-
sonings. So that no sooner was the pipe lighted than he put it
out, and fled from his own haunting reflections into the town,
from whence the unfeeling censures against Canute, and exul-
tant assertions that the monstrous young transgressor would
soon be brought to condign justice, drove him back, with a
feeling of horror, to his study. He wished sometimes that
he were a real fish instead of a man, that he might dive into
the depths of the sea, and get out of sight and hearing of
such a set of calumnious and unpitiful creatures as his own
species were. Often he was on the point of repeating his visit
of inquiry to the cottage of the Oldstocks; but was withheld by
the remembrance that he had told Job that he did not wish to
extract any secrets the old man was unwilling to disclose.
Besides, he felt sure that another attempt would be repulsed
with equal, if not greater, firmness than the one he had already
made. Thus O'Frisk looked as anxiously, each morning, as any
one in Quarrelton, for the arrival of Canute as a prisoner, in
order that the youth's fate might be determined, and his own
anxieties he terminated, either by consciousness that further
solicitude was vain, or by Canute's deliverance.
CHAPTER V.
Crookit makes a Discovery which fills him with Panic.—Decisive Interview and
Conversation between two Lovers.
What those strange interviews between her father and the
curate meant, Charlotte would have liked to know; but Mr.
Timothy preserved silence respecting them; and she knew that
any manifestation of curiosity on her part would be displeasing
THE FAMILY FETTD.
313
to him. A few excited words had reached her ears, and caused
her to think; but she had not heard enough to enable her to
form a plausible theory concerning O'Prisk's communications
and his approach to a quarrel with her father. Since the
curate's visits were not repeated, she concluded that the sub-
ject of his contest with Mr. Timothy could be of no very great
moment.
When Charlotte heard of Algernon's return to Quarrelton
without his cousin, she became eager to see her lover; and
expected, every hour, to receive a secret message from him.
Till the second day after his return she was kept in torment-
ing suspense; but now came the missive by the usual trusty
hand; and she hastened, soon after dusk, to the retired path
in the churchyard at Dreamfield, where she and Algernon,
undiscovered, and unsuspected, as they believed, by all the
world, had hitherto accomplished their stolen meetings. Im-
patient to learn why Algernon had returned without Mary,
Charlotte was at the churchyard full ten minutes before the
appointed time without knowing it, and believing that she
discerned the figure of her lover in the path, bounded for-
ward to meet him. The figure stopped; and she had just time
to check her speed, and draw the cloak more closely over her
head and shoulders, as she noted the narrow chest and ungainly
neck of a stranger. He stood still, and scrutinised her appear-
ance ; but she glided past him, quitted the churchyard, and
took the direction of the path that led to the Daisy Meads.
With no little mortification, and some alarm, she fixed on the
suspicion that it was Crookit whom she had met. She dared
not go back to their old appointed place of meeting, and
though she ventured to return towards the gate from whence
the path into the Meads led out of the high-road, Charlotte
feared that her meeting with Algernon would now be prevented.
A more afflictive fear arose that Crookit not only knew her, but
had penetrated the secret of her stolen meetings with Algernon
Downham,—nay, perhaps, witnessed more than one of them,
and knowing of Algernon's return, had thus taken up an
accustomed watch with the expectation of again gratifying his
mischievous curiosity. Not more than a quarter of an hour
had passed when she had reached the gate a second time, and
was returning towards the Meads ; but the time seemed so
long, that she was resolving to give up the meeting in
despair, and go home. There were steps behind her, but she
would not turn back, dreading that it might be Crookit who
was following her. Another moment, and she was relieved of
part of her fears. t
 Charlotte ! are you running me a race ?  said Algernon ;
314
THE FAMII/5T FEtfD.
and the next moment he caught her in his arms, and gave her
the dearest proof of his presence that a lover can give his
chosen.
 Have you seen no one who you think could give me cause
to make use of my heels ?  asked Charlotte.
 Crookit, or I'm greatly mistaken. Then you saw him, too,
in the churchyard P So I feared; and that caused me to
hasten here.
 Do you think he knew you P 
 I'm afraid he did. He seemed intent on placing himself in
my way, so as to compel me to speak ; but 1 avoided him. It
is most unlucky that he happened to be there.
 Happened ? Is that the right word, think you P 
 Surely, Charlotte, you do not suspect that he was there
designedly. What shall we do ? 
 Give ourselves no trouble about it, just now. Come, dear
Algernon, what about Mary P 
 I found her in London, by Mr. Percival's help; and she
consented to return with me at once. But, on the way, she
resolutely refused to come farther towards Quarrelton than a
little village inn, on this side Percival's, kept by a widow, a
Mrs. Martha Tomlinson, an old friend of her's—and evidently a
very kind one—whom she formerly knew as a servant of old
Mr. Fernshawe's.
 Did you find her in Colton's company P 
 Listen to me, dear Charlotte. I am about to open to you a
strange volume of romance; and some part of it is as shocking
as it is strange. But we ourselves, and our families, are so
deeply mixed up with it, that, when you have heard it, you
will see we must determine how to act, and that quickly.
Charlotte listened, and with no slight interest and excitement,
while Algernon rehearsed, compressing the recital into few
words, all that he had learned from Mary Granger, during their
journey from London, respecting her own adventures in search
of Canute, and her unavailing endeavours to persuade the fugi-
tive to return. The nefarious letters Colton had received; the
fact that Mr. Percival—a gentleman, Algernon said, whom he
had known on the continent—was the son of the persons who
had murdered Canute's father; the influence on the minds,
both of Percival or Abel Brundrell and Colton, of the doomed
name, Cain ; and then the startling fact that Colton was none
other than Charlotte's own near relative, were all described and
rehearsed with an earnestness which the speaker could not
suppress.
Charlotte's strength of character was tried by Algernon's con-
eluding revelation; it shook her nerves fearfully ; she could not
THE FAMILY FEUD.
315
gather breath or summon self-possession enough immediately, to
suggest any doubt, or to ask whether the proofs were sufficient,
of the truth of this startling story. But she was ready with
doubts and questions very soon. Algernon affirmed that there
could be no doubt; and that though Mary was not sufficient
evidence in herself, nor perhaps either Brundrell or the Old-
stocks, yet that their united evidence was sufficient to establish
the fact of Canute's real parentage.
The fact itself, it must be confessed, was repulsive to Char-
lotte's pride. Canute's descent on his father's side, his having
been the apprentice of a mean mechanic, but above all, the hor*
rible murder connected with his history, and the weaving of these
repulsive realities into the acknowledged history of the Upham
family, disgusted her. She did not say so much to Algernon :
these proud and selfish reflections passed through her mind
while she listened to her companion and proposed those doubts
to him. Her sense of right and justice was happily more potent
and regal than her pride, and the nobler moral feeling was
strengthened by the pleadings of a soft passion.
 It would be pleasing, dear Algernon, she said, "if Canute's
relationship to our family could be established, and so poor Mary
be brought into a double relationship to us.
 So delightful to think of, dear Charlotte, returned the lover,
 that it is grievous for me to tell you something that I had for-
got. The poor, generous girl, notwithstanding her deep attach-
ment to Canute, and what one may almost call the sacrifice of
reputation for him, had, I found, so readily accepted my invita-
tion to return because she wished Colton to comply with Perci-
val's demand and marry Una.
 She could not wish it, Algernon ; it is impossible : she loves
Colton too passionately to wish anything so preposterous.
 I believe you are right; I am sure I discerned relentings in
her in the course of the journey. Yet she imagined Colton
might accept Percival's daughter when he found she had de-
serted him.
 He never will, if he loves Mary as she loves him, or as she
deserves to be loved. But you are forgetting to inform me if
you know whether Canute is likely to have been seized by this
time. Will Percival give him up, think you ? 
 Percival's disposition to give him up, to judge from Mary's
account, will depend on Canute's resistance to his will, or on his
own insanity; for Percival must be insane. I must say, dear
Charlotte, that the report of a Quarrelton officer having been
sent in pursuit of Canute very much shocked me.
 It would, since you would suppose it was by my father's
direction; but when I tell you that Crookit, without my father's
316
the family feud.
order, went and obtained the warrant from a magistrate, you
will not be surprised.
 Crookit !—the writer, most likely, of the nefarious letters.
Dear Charlotte, do you now think my instinctive antipathy to
that man so very absurd? 
"We haven't time to talk about that to-night. You have
heard that Mr. Fernshawe went with the officer in pursuit of
Canute ? 
 I have ; and I cannot help thinking that Mr. Fernshawe's
character is as questionable as Mr. Crookit's.
 There can be no doubt of it, Algernon, if this charge against
Canute be false.
 And I believe it is; my cousin's statement fully convinces
me of that.
 And I am convinced too, Algernon, said Charlotte ;  the
great question now is, what shall we do ? for, even if it can-
not be proved that Colton is my own relative, I would, to use the
common expression, move heaven and earth, rather than let an
innocent and upright man suffer. We must and will do some-
thing for Colton's deliverance, Algernon.
 Bravely said, dear Charlotte! exclaimed Algernon, fired
to enthusiasm with the spirit of the imperial beauty ;  I have
something to say about what should be done, and how to go
about it; but let me hear your own thoughts ; there is not a day
nor an hour to be lost, you know; Colton may be taken and
brought to Quarrelton before another day be over. What weight
will his own statements have with the magistrates when placed
against Fernshawe's oath and the condemning document—the
receipt ? 
 The forged receipt—as it must be. How the forgery seems
to account for Crookit's eagerness to get the paper out of my
hand that night, after putting my poor father to such torture
with it!
 These villains,—for they are villains, Charlotte,—must bf
circumvented 
 And be snared in the net they have woven for another, in-
terjected Charlotte:  they deserve it.
 But you suggest no plan for defeating them.
 That is not easy to suggest, Algernon, said Charlotte, with
less impetuosity than she had sustained her part in the dialogue
for the last few minutes ;  I have watched Crookit narrowly of
late, and am convinced he is no ordinary knave. Fernshawe,
also, possesses much subtilty, and I believe, great malicious-
ness. My father dislikes Fernshawe, it is true; but until that
impudent affair of demanding the warrant in my father's name,
his attachment to Crookit was extraordinary. These two bad
THE FAMILY FEUD.
317
men must be thwarted in their base design, but it is not easy
to devise how. If you have anything to propose, let me
hear it.
 Will you hear it kindly and considerately, dear Charlotte ?
and will you promise me your forgiveness if you think I have
done wrong? for I have already taken one step.
 You have told your father ! said Charlotte, with more
agitation in her manner than she had permitted her companion
to discover even while he was narrating the most startling por-
tion of the story about Cain Colton.
 I have, dear Charlotte.
 What have you told him, Algernon ? 
 Everything. Do you forgive me ? 
The beauty walked on in silent struggle a few steps, and the
lover held his breath, feeling that his dearest hopes depended on
the reply.
 Well, it is best, she answered, to his unspeakable relief;
 events utterly unforeseen by us, with all the pain and suffering
they have brought to others, seem to be preparing the consum-
mation of our wishes; I know not how you could have done
better.
How the devoted lover expressed his rapturous thanks for this
recognition of his well-doing need not be described.
 But now for the completion of your plan, said the lady,
putting an end to the gentleman's delicious gratitude ;  you pur-
pose that our fathers shall be brought to a personal conference,
do you not P 
 I do, dearest Charlotte. You see that must be brought to
pass.
 But how are life-long foes—how are the inheritors of a feud
of generations to be brought together, Algernon ? 
 I will tell you what my father suggests—I should say stipu-
lates, replied Algernon;  and now you have the victory over
me : for he puts in the very fore-front of his conditions your
favourite word 'dignity.' It is astonishing how this family pride,
even of their follies, clings to the old people! 
 Old people, sir!
 I beg pardon, dearest Charlotte,—to the two dear old people,
your father and mine, and to the sweet young one. But I yield :
it must be with' dignity,' I see, and I am willing 
 But explain, explain: you are trifling.
 I will, dearest. My father says he is bound to make the
statement'of Canute's claims to your father's relationship per-
sonally. He hails the discovery as a happy means of a lasting
reconciliation of the two families, and holds that the communi-
cation of it to Mr. Timothy is entrusted to him providentially:
318
THE FAMILY FEUD.
all this separate and distinct from our attachment, which, he
says, is a matter of after negotiation.
 He speaks wisely, interjected Charlotte, gravely.
"No doubt, said Algernon, laughing; "but only let the
family feud be ended by the elders, and I promise you the little
after-negotiation shall not halt.
"You told your father I would not marry without my father's
consent P  said Charlotte, trying to play the pet offended.
 I did, darling; and he said you were a pearl of a daughter,
and would make a diamond of a wife.
 You forget, Algernon, that I am waiting all this time to
hear what your father suggests ! 
 Ten thousand pardons, dearest! He proposes that a cler-
gyman be present at the interview between himself and your
father; and the prejudice arising from the old family feud pre-
vails with him so far that, in spite of the sense of duty he has
in this matter, he will not solicit the interview himself, but pro-
poses that the clergyman shall solicit it. Excuse me, dear
Charlotte; but it looks so droll an imitation of royal negotiation
in the olden times, when cardinals were the diplomatic arrangers
of kings' feuds.
 I wish you would cease your nonsense, sir! What clergy-
man does your father name P 
 O'Frisk, the curate: my father has a deep regard for the
generous character of the man. He does not admire Dr. Smiles,
the vicar.
 It is very strange, Algernon, said Charlotte, thoughtfully;
 Mr. O'Frisk has made two visits to my father lately, and the
curate and he were near quarrelling: their noise drew me to
the chamber door, and I was compelled to burst in and inter-
fere, lest the excitement should grow too great for my father's .
health;—and, do you know, I caught words which seem to be
explained by the remarkable story you have told me to-night
about Canute. Yet, how is it possible that Mr. O'Frisk can
have learnt Canute's true history ? It seems very unlikely.
 Can these old people, the Oldstocks, have given him any
hint of it P It may be so.
 I did not think of that. Well; I think your father's pro-
position admirable, Algernon.
 I waited for that word, dearest Charlotte. I obtained my
father's promise to wait till I had seen you, before he took the
first steps for opening the negotiation. Now, I pledge myself
there will be no delay.
 Not an hour, Algernon ! Mr. O'Frisk should be requested
to name to-morrow as desirable for the interview.
* # # # #
THE FAMILY FEUD.
319
CHAPTEE YI.
Last desperate Conversation and Kesolve of the two Arch-rogues of our Story.
It was a walk of reflection that Crookit was intent upon, and
not of espial, when he met Miss Charlotte, in Dreamfield church-
yard. He knew her, in spite of her muffled disguise; and was
never more surprised in his life than when he recognised the
proud beauty there. Ensconcing himself behind a hedge, he
watched her along the path which led into the Daisy Meads,
and saw her return the first time to the gate, listen anxiously,
and then go back. And now Crookit returned to the little
church-yard, feeling assured that some appointment had been
made there, and that another party would speedily be on the
ground. Thus it was that he met Algernon Downham, and
recognised that young gentleman with as much amazement as
he had divined the presence of Charlotte within her large cloak
and hood. Finally, Crookit contrived to glide stealthily along
a line of trees, and for a few moments to observe Algernon and
Charlotte walking along the field-path; and though he heard
but a very few words of their conversation, the tender terms
employed by the gentleman, and the tone in which the lady
replied, left him no room to doubt of the relation in which
they stood to each other.
Eitterly cursing himself for his lack of wit and activity in not
having made this signal discovery earlier, Crookit paced gloomily
along towards Quarrelton ; and, entering his lodging, sat himself
down to think desperately. Some hours passed, and his land-
lady had set her foot on the bottom of the stair, with the intent
to go up and ask him whether he needed anything before she
retired for the night, when Fernshawe opened the street-door,
rushed past her, and bounded up the stairs, telling her she need
make no announcement. The act was not new to her, and the
woman contented herself with locking the street-door, and car-
rying up the key to Crookit. The gentleman would perhaps
stay longer with him than she wished to sit up, she said, and so
she would go to bed. Whether she kept her word, for the pre-
sent must remain a question.
The contrast between the gloom of Crookit and the exultant
and wicked vivacity of Fernshawe was so strongly depicted in
their faces, that each saw it, and mocked his fellow as they
met.
 Why, what now, Dick ?—in your devil's dumps, when the
320
THE FAMILY FEUD.
game's caught, and will be here in a few hours, and made fast
in Quarrelton gaol! What does this mean?  cried Fernshawe,
with sparkling eyes.
 And of what use is it to hunt down that poor scurvy animal,
when the nobler game has slipped us bothP Give up your
crowmg ! jeered Crookit;  we have been fools to give our-
selves so much trouble.
 Speak plainly, that I may understand you, demanded
Fernshawe ;  I shall neither give up crowing, nor give up my
purpose.
 Sit down and cool, said Crookit, in the same bitter jeering
tone ;  I tell you it's all over.  I've been a dull, blind fool,
Fernshawe, that I did'nt find it out sooner.
 What have you found out ?—d'ye mean to tell me P—or are
you shamming to get out of your bargain?  asked Fernshawe,
with his old fierceness.
 You can rave, if you like, answered Crookit;  I don't
care what you do; and, hardly, what becomes of myself.
The dogged, despairing indifference in his comrade's look
forced Fernshawe to believe that Crookit's despondency was
real; and he made the next rejoinder temperately.
 This is unlike yourself, Dick. Tell me, quietly, what you
mean.
 I'm quiet enough. What I have seen to-night has taken
all the soul out of me. Charlotte has made choice of young
Downham. I stumbled, first on one, and then on the other,
to-night, in Dreamfield church-yard, while sauntering there to
turn things over in my mind, and wondering you did not write.
I afterwards dodged them, and saw him kiss her. It's an affair
of some standing, depend upon it; — commenced abroad, no
doubt. She's a match for Old Nick, both in cunning and
strength of will; and she'll have this young fellow—and nothing
can hinder her. Our game's all over, I tell you.
 You may give up the game, but I shall not, said Fern-
shawe, doggedly;  this sounds like a confession that you were
expecting to clutch the chief prize yourself, after all your lying
denials. But you did not deceive me: I knew what you meant,
all along.
 I don't care what you know, growled Crookit, and settled
his head on his breast, as if he were resolved not to speak
another word.
Fernshawe would have tried to rouse him by taunts, but dare
not. The impetuous-natured villain never lacked wit or strength
to hunt the more hypocritical rogue out of his smooth disguises;
but was puzzled with this heavy, morbid despair and sulienness
in Crookit.
the family feud.
321
"Is it not very unlikely, Dick, lie said, in a civil tone, after
considering awhile,  that a union can ever take place of an
Upham with a Downham ? Why, I have understood from your-
self and others that a deadly feud has endured for generations
between the two families. Their fathers will never permit it.
 How can their fathers hinder it ?  returned Crookit, as list-
lessly as before ;  that woman is a match for a score of fathers.
She'll put all their stupid notions to the rout, and have her own
way.
 You fool!  said Fernshawe, in a husky whisper, and with
all the demon in his eyes ;  there's a mode of preventing her
from having her own way—is there not ? 
 You mean by taking young Downham out of the way.
That's not a business in my line, said Crookit.
 But it may be in mine—what noise was that ?  said Fern-
shawe.
Crookit stepped softly to the room-door and opened it; stood
and listened, and then softly closed it, saying,—
 You must have been mistaken ; I heard no noise. I sus-
pect that old harridan of listening, sometimes ; but she must be
asleep by this time. And Crookit sat down again.
 If there be virtue in lead, it shall reach the brains of any
map. who presumes to take that woman from me,—be his name
Downham, or whatever it may! declared Fernshawe, setting
his teeth together.  Since you now really give up hope of win-
ning her yourself, Dick, will you help me f 
The satanic expression which was becoming fixed in Fern-
shawe's features—so well understood and so deeply feared by
Crookit—began to have the effect of rousing him from his
lethargy. He knew well enough that to refuse his consent
would expose him to Fernshawe's most determined and deadly
revenge. He had not merely joined Fernshawe thus far, but
had given an impetus to the desperado's course. If he broke
their evil bond, the hate of Fernshawe would never be appeased
but by his blood. With such convictions, Crookit replied,—
 I am willing to help you, if you can show me how I ean be
of help to you. It cannot be by following out our scheme about
this worthless lad : he will not be in your way.
"I thought you said Upham had all along designed to make
him the husband of Charlotte ? 
 So I did : but not a thousand Uphams could make him so.
I tell you she has made her own choice, and will have it.
 And I swear she shall not have it. As to this lad, I cannot
let him off. It might happen, notwithstanding your assertion,
Dick, that Upham, having taken him again into favour, might
\isg stern means, and. compel Charlotte to marry him.
Y
322
THE FAMILY FEUD.
 I tell you, she can't be compelled.
 Curse it, Dick, don't repeat that. I have another reason
for insisting on the completion of our scheme about Colton.
Look here ! "—and Pernshawe took off his hat, and showed his
comrade his wounded and patched head— I have that to
revenge, said he,  and something more.
Crookit wonderingly asked for an explanation ; and Fern-
shawe gave him an account of the search for Colton in the wood:
openly, and without shame, related the base fact of Mary's
seizure ; and then described how she had been delivered, and
himself stricken down senseless by Canute, while Percival fired
unsuccessfully, and fled.
 No, no; he must not escape ! concluded Pernshawe ; "we
must carry out the scheme, Dick. Besides, after having taken
so much trouble about it, and advanced it thus far, we
should look like fools in one another's eyes, if we gave
it up.
 You have not yet given me an account of the lad's capture,
remarked Crookit.
 I would have given you a regular narrative of my own adven-
tures, and related all the episodes that pertained to him, and to
Percival, and Una, if you had not confounded me with your
sullenness, Dick. As to Colton, we recommenced the search for
him, but, in the meantime, he had given himself up to .the
Quarrelton nab, on condition that the girl was taken care of.
The nab accordingly took him into custody; but both he and
the girl were so cursedly done up with their night adventures,
that she fainted away, and had to be taken to Percival's—for
the wood was close upon his grounds—and the officer also con-
sented to let Colton take a little sleep at the Hermitage. So
soon as we learnt that, I told Percival I would be off at once;
and Percival said he would take care that Colton should not be
long after me.
 Then you expect him to arrive very soon ? 
 Without doubt, the officer will bring him into the town to-
morrow.
 Then you intend to swear to your payment of the money,
and to the writing of the receipt ? 
 That I do, replied Pernshawe ;  and you will swear that
you believe the writing to be Colton's, knowing it so well as you
do. And what magistrate will dare to doubt either my evi-
dence or yours P Give me the paper; I must produce it, you
know.
 All in good time for that, said Crookit evasively;  I'll give
it you when you need it.
"What's in your rogue's brain? demanded the other—
THE FAMILY FEUD.
323
 there's that noise again! and he affirmed, with a horrible
oath, that they were overheard.
This time the two guilty plotters rushed to the door and
opened it, Crookit holding the light. Fernshawe would have
gone to the landlady's chamber, and unceremoniously forced
his way in to see if she were there. But Crookit prevailed
with him to give up the thought, and persuaded him once
more that it was only his imagination which had forged the
noise.
 Do let us settle this business without so much crazy haste
and excitement, said Crookit, as he closed the door, and set the
light again on the table; you'll floor yourself, and me too, if you
cannot bridle your frenzy. Sit down—sit down again, and let
us think as well as talk.
 On condition that we act afterwards, yielded Fernshawe,
and sat down.
"Now, Fernshawe, hear me, said Crookit; "the great prize
is to be yours, if you can win it. I give it up. You understand
that. What is to be the figure upon my ticket, suppose we
carry our point against Colton P He has not broken my pate,
you know ; or checkmated me, by preventing me from carrying
off a girl. You see I have now no gratification to gain by ruining
the poor devil! 
"Am I to understand that your clerkship is for driving a
bargain to the amount of so many pounds ? 
 In addition to the sum I have saved you, and that you were
about to pay to Upham.
 Tolerably cool, Dick! But I am not very particular.
Upham has plenty. Name your sum. A few hundreds will be
neither here nor there, as they say.
 But 1 can't stay till you win the beauty. I do not expect
to live as long as Methusalem. Besides, when this lad is sent
over sea, I think of making myself scarce here. I shall be
better out of your way. Charlotte's handsome face might tempt
me to the old foolish wish for winning her. Give me something
down.
 Give you something down, Dick ! I have not fifty pounds
at command. My lawyer holds me tight under his thumb.
But what a fool you are, if you are scarce of money. You have
surely had a chance to feather your nest richly, as Upham's
manager, since he has been ill.
 Hush! I heard a noise then !  whispered Crookit.
 I did not. You must be imaginative now, said Fernshawe,
with a jeering laugh.
 I think I am, said Crookit, feeling a little ashamed;  but
come I must have something down. Give me a bill—or some-
y 2
324
THE FAMILY FEUD.
thing. I'll warrant it, your lawyer will cash it, rather than see
you done up.
 I'll give you a three months' bill for three hundred pounds
—the sum I was to have paid to ITpham, yielded Fernshawe,
 and I'll do no more, at present. Hereafter, you shall see I am
grateful—to use a canting word. I can say no more.
 Here is a stamp! said Crookit, taking out his pocket-book ;
 I will write out the acceptance, and you'll sign it.
That transaction was soon completed.
 Well, now, said Crookit, thoughtfully,  I think our way
is clear—I mean for to-morrow, if this affair comes off. _ Upham
did not take my ordering the warrant without his direction very
pleasantly, I can tell you. But he has since referred to the pro-
secution as a business that was quite right and proper. So I
apprehend no misgiving on his part. Besides, the whole town,
and men of both parties, are so eagerly expectingjustice—as
they call it—to be done on Colton, that I'm sure Upham dare
not draw back.
 That's capital!  said Fernshawe;  by the way, I may just
say that my man Brown is a right sort of a fellow. I've tipped
him a good figure, and he has promised to swear to my payment
of the money in the inn at Byeham. I was turning the thing
over in my head, on the journey; and I thought it would be
better to have a corroborative witness.
 Capital thought!  said Crookit;  if you could have booked
the landlord at Byeham to swear the same, it would have been
better still.
 I don't know the fellow sufficiently well to venture on the
experiment with him.
 He can't be brought up on the other side, observed Crookit,
 for he cannot swear that you did not pay the money. Of
course he was not in the room with you all the time you were in
the inn.
 I was not in the inn at all, that day, said Fernshawe, with
a careless laugh.
But Crookit did not laugh,
 You were not ?  said he.
 Not I, answered Fernshawe;  but what of that? I
imagine the magistrates will commit Colton at once, on my oath
and yours.
 I should think they will; I make no doubt but that they will,
said Crookit, slowly;  I say, Fernshawe, he added sharply,
 just make this bill into two months instead of three, will
you?
 Make it two months if you like, answered the other impa-
THE FAMILY FEUD.
325
tiently,  only tell me, plainly, if you see any real stumbling-
block in our way.
 Well, plainly, then, said Crookit, having quickly taken out
another stamp, drawn up a new note, and obtained Fernshawe's
signature,  I see no great difficulty as to his committal; but you
know his trial must take place at the assizes.
 I know that. And what then ?—What! at your old tricks,
Dick ?—Burn the old bill!  ^
Crookit had crumpled it up in his hand, and was toying with
it; but he now threw it into the fire.
 Mere forgetfulness, and owing to what I was thinking
about, said he, while Fernshawe grinned; "at the assizes it
might so happen that the landlord might have remembered that
you were not in his house that day. You have been in it since,
of course ? 
 Often. But I'm glad you've given me the hint. I'll con-
trive that he does remember I was in his house. There will be
time enough to bring that about before the assizes. They are
not till next when are they, Crookit ? 
 They come off in three months.
 Three months. I see, then, you don't believe we shall get
through with it at the assizes, and you mean to mizzle a month
before, and leave me to it. Come! a sham receipt can be altered
as well as a bill. Get your roguish fingers to work again! It
is easy to alter a date 
 But not easy to prove that Colton was on the coach to
Eippleford on another date. I shall have to swear to his having
been despatched there on a business errand.
Fernshawe bit his finger-nails, and looked agitated.
 Coach !  he repeated, with a foul oath,  why, if you have
to swear to that, it may quicken the memories of others. There's
that thick-skulled gossiping coachman ■ 
 Jessop ! was he the driver P  asked Crookit, with a start.
 He that's now coachman to Upham 
 Buin!  cried Crookit, adding a longer word, we will omit,
and striking the table with his fist;  that fellow's thick skull, as
you call it, would run itself against a wall of spikes to serve
Colton. Why, man, he's sure to thrust himself into the magis-
trate's room to-morrow. Are you sure you didn't go into the
inn at all P 
 I stepped into my own carriage immediately after getting off
the stage-coach. And I'll warrant that fellow he'll remember it,
for certain reasons.
 Then he'll swear it before the magistrates.
 Will he ? said Fernshawe; and Crookit well knew the
326
THE I'AMIIiY FEUD.
meaning of the tone and look with which the two words were
expressed, but did not answer.
 Do wipe off that coward look, Dick !  said the fiercer rascal;
 I don't mean that it is at all necessary to let the blood out of
his great carcass ; but we must hook him off somewhere out of
the way—curse that noise ! I'll sit here no longer. Let us go
out. We have other things to talk over, and must not sleep
to-night, if we mean to succeed to-morrow.
Crookit consented. When the anxious plotters had left the
house, and she heard the key turn in the lock of the street-door,
the woman left her listening-place, entered Crookit's room, and,
sitting down by the fire, spent an hour in thinking hard over
what she had heard, and in resolving what she would do.
CHAPTER VII.
Jossy is in strange Difficulty, and Events seem hurrying to a Crisis at Mr. Timothy's,
and elsewhere.
"Bless me! ejaculated Jossy Jessop, awakened from his
dream,— bless me, if 1 didn't hear it as fair as if the old arch
o' the runnel had just broken in under the coach-wheel again!
One can't get the old coach out o' one's brains at all times, either
sleeping or waking. But it's a blessed comfort"—and Jossy
turned himself over, and tucked the bed-clothes round him, to
compose himself to sleep again— that I'm out of the old job,
and snugly settled down into these sheets o' Mr. Timothy's!
It was not Jossy's luck to have any more sleep at that season.
"Bless me! he repeated;  why it wasn't part o'the dream;
it was something at the window. There it is again !
Jossy sprang out of bed, in his shirt and nightcap, and quickly
pushed back the slide of the chamber-window, for pebbles had
been thrown up at it now for the third time.
"Who's there? what d'ye want? asked Jossy, popping his
night-capped head out of the window, and discerning the figures
of two men below.
 It's me, Jossy, answered a voice he could not mistake, for
it was that of his old companion through fourteen years of all
weathers, as guard of the stage-coach.
 Joe! why what d'ye want? he asked.
 I want you to get up, and do an act o' kindness, answered
Joe;  for you can do it, if anybody can.
THE FAMILY FEUD.
327
 What is it, Joe?
 Why here's a horse has got the staggers.
 Whose horse P let 'em go to the old farrier's ! I can't get
out o' the house at this time o' the night, Joe. What o'clock
is it?
 Just gone three, answered Joe; "don't talk about not
getting out o' the house, Jossy—you must get out, by hook or
by crook. They've fetched old Will Ball, the farrier, and he
knows no more than an old woman what ails the poor animal.
It belongs to a gentleman, who has left it in the care of this poor
young fellow, and he's accountable for it. Do get up, and come
and see about it, for I know you can cure the horse, as you did
old grey Cheshunt, two years ago—you cured him, when nobody
else knew1 what ailed him.
 That I did, Joe, rejoined the tickled old lover of horses ;
 and if I don't know what '11 cure the staggers, I should like to
know who does. But, I tell ye, I can't get out o' the house.
Mrs. Phoebe always keeps the keys, and I can't wake her at this
time o' the morning. Only three o'clock, you say !
"Never mind the time, Jossy! what's the time to an old
stager ?  reasoned Joe.
 Do, maister, tak' pity on a poor fellow-creatur'! pleaded
the man at Joe's side, and who seemed by his accent to be a
stranger in Quarrelton ;  I knaw noabody i' th' town, and hev
nivver a frend. I shall looas me plaas if th' orse dees.
 Lor' bless me ! said Jossy,  I don't like to be hard-hearted.
Stop till I put my clothes on, and I'll grope my way down into
the kitchen, and try to drop out of the window; it's not far
from the ground.
Jossy closed the window, and began to put on his clothes in
haste; yet he had sore misgivings about the propriety of ful-
filling the promise he had just made. What would Mr. Timothy
say about his getting out of a window, and leaving the house at
such an unseasonable hour ? He must take care to be on the
threshold of the door just at the moment when the servants
came down in the morning, and so get in, and tell them to say
nothing. He thought he could do it without any report coming
to Mr. Timothy's ears ; and with that confidence, and carrying
his boots in his hands, Jossy softly hastened down stairs.
Unluckily, there seemed to be an impassable obstacle to Jossy's
clandestine egress, when he opened the kitchen window: the
window was by no means small, but there was an iron stanchion
or slim bar placed perpendicularly in the centre. Twice Jossy
essayed to wriggle outwards, but his manly bulk was so pain-
fully pressed and squeezed that he was compelled to draw bad
in order to fetch breath. Cheered on, and entreated tc  try
328
THE FAMILY FEtTE.
again, by Joe and the stranger, in eager under tones, and
clinging to his old maxim,  never to be beaten, Jossy made
a third effort, and was successful in getting out, though he
came to the ground somewhat weightily, and had to be
helped up.
 There—there—never mind ! said Jossy, freeing himself of
support, though he still limped;  the worst of it is the window
is left open, and we can't reach high enough to shut it.
 Never mind it, said Joe,  you'll be back before anybody
is up, no doubt; and you can shut it as soon as they let
you in.
 It must be so, said Jossy ;  well, come along! where's the
horse?
The stranger intimated that it was in a stable in a little inn,
a mile out of Quarrelton; but he did not know the name of the
inn, being a stranger.
 But this is the way said he,  I'll lead ye to th' plaas,
and began to stride on at a great rate.
"What public-house is it, Joe? asked J ossy, following the
stranger.
 I don't know, answered Joe;  it must be the Boebuck, at
this end of Dreamfield, by the way he is going.
"Then you haven't seen the horse! said Jossy, standing
still, and feeling suspicious ;  you know nothing about it!
 Nothing about it! repeated Joe,  why, it can't be a tale,
Jossy : one of the stablemen at the George came with this young
fellow and knocked at my door till I got up—it was rough Harry—
you know him. He told the young fellow that you were the only
man for curing a horse o' the staggers, but that you couldn't be
got to come unless I fetched ye. And I knew you would be
willing to do anybody a good turn, Jossy, and so I fetched ye.
 I don't like the look o' this, Joe, observed Jossy;  but,
however, we'll follow this young fellow, and see what's the
meaning on't—for I can't get in again by the window, even if I
could get up to it, I'm blessed sure !
Before they were out of Quarrelton, the two old coach stagers
had fallen into pleasant chat about their former way of life and
companionship; and J ossy was beguiled out of the watchful cir-
cumspection he had inwardly promised to exercise on this
unexpected night expedition. About half a mile beyond the
town, there was a shallow brook, which crossed the highway ; it
was easily forded by horsemen, but foot-passengers had to cross
it by a long and narrow wooden bridge, on one side of the high-
road. The stranger had either slackened his pace, or Jossy and
Joe had increased theirs, for they were close at his heels as he
entered on the bridge. At the same time the figures of two or
THE FAMILY FEUD.
329
three persons were just discernible at the other end of the
bridge. Joe and Jossy were in the height of their cheerful
gossip, but they ceased, though it was only with the slightest
degree of apprehension. On they went, Jossy after the stranger,
and Joe closely bringing up the rear. The bridge being narrow,
they had to give way for the other passengers just at the centre
of the bridge ; but now the stranger turned round and grappled
Jossy by the throat; he was assisted by one of the passengers;
and the two others seized Joe, and threw him over the bridge-
rail, into the shallow brook.
Joe was not likely to drown, for the water was not deep
enough. He would have been stunned, had not the cold bath
speedily revived him. As it was, he scrambled out of the brook,
sorely pained by having fallen on a bed of sharp stones, and
groaning both with pain and with vexation, that he was too lame
to run in the direction, whither, he thought, Jossy had been
borne off. At first, he heard what he believed to be his old
companion's voice calling on him for help; but this soon ceased,
and Joe, not knowing what better to do, hobbled his way very
painfully back to Quarrelton, to give the alarm when it was too
late.
His bearers were four; but they did not find it easy to carry
Jossy Jessop. He would have broken loose from them, if they
had not bound thick bandages about his mouth till they nearly
stifled him. They were compelled to remove these occasionally,
since they did not seem to have the design of taking away his
life. In these brief moments, Jossy imagined he recognised
the voices of two, at least, of his captors. They gave him blows
when he attempted to speak; but told him he should not be
struck, nor kept prisoner, beyond a few hours, if he would be
silent, and cease to resist. So Jossy wisely held his tongue, and
reserved his strength. It should be said that his eyes had been
bandaged from the first, so that he could not discover who his
enemies were.
At length there was a halt; Jossy's hands were bound be-
hind him, his resistance being quelled by blows as before, and
he could dimly perceive, or thought he could, that he was in a
stable; but it was by his nose, rather than any other organ. A
disguised voice told him that he might sit or stand, which he
pleased; but if he attempted to walk he would be in danger,
for one stood on guard with a pistol before him. A pistol was
that instant fired; and, it must be confessed, Jossy's stout
heart was shaken. He was told not to fear for his life, the
pistol had only been discharged for a warning of what he must
expect if he ventured to be refractory, and that he would be
released at the end of no great number of hours. There were
330
THE FAMILY FEUD.
whisperings, and then he thought that some of his captors
withdrew.
It was a painful process for poor Joe to hobble to Quarrelton,
and as his own cottage was near the entrance, he knocked at the
door, and awoke his wife, and spent some time in eating and
drinking, and rubbing his limbs, before he felt well enough to
go and give the alarm at Mr. Timothy's. The maids and the
footman were up, for it was daybreak by the time Joe arrived at
Mr. Upham's door; but all were so bewildered with Joe's
strange account, that they were helplessly inactive. What
was to be done ? Should they go up and tell Mrs. Phoebe ?
But who dare disturb her till it was her time to get up ? What
right had Jossy to get out of the window? What could he
expect from such an unheard-of piece of conduct ? Who was to
go and seek him since Joe could not tell them where to find
him P
In the midst of the confusion, created by Joe's entreaties,
and these and other curious questionings of the footman and
maids, came another unexpected visitor to the door, and added
to the perplexity of all. It was a woman, and she was closely
wrapped up, so that her features could not well be seen. This
would not have been noted, since it was mid-winter, had not
her manner been so peculiar. She asked to see Mr. Timothy;
but was derided by the footman, for supposing Mr. Timothy
could be seen at that hour. She asked to see"Miss Charlotte;
but then the footman and maids together laughed in her face.
She urged that her errand was important—important as life and
death, she said. They grew more serious at her words; but
still told her she could neither see Miss Charlotte, or Mr.
Timothy at that hour. The woman urged them to bear her
request upstairs to Mr. Timothy's chamber, with so much
iteration and importunity, that they thought she was frantic,
and began to threaten her. Finding it impossible to persuade
them, she asked at what hour Mr. Timothy could be seen: they
replied, in ill-temper, perhaps not at all, and certainly not before
eleven in the forenoon. The woman seemed grievously dis-
appointed, and turned away from the door.
The servants were now in decided ill-temper with their visitor,
Joe, and so Joe showed temper, whereat the footman directed
one of the maids to go upstairs, knock at Mrs. Phoebe's door,
and desire her to get up, if she pleased. In course of time—1
but certainly not very quickly—Mrs. Phoebe appeared. Her
consternation at Joe's account may easily be imagined. It was
not long, however, before she was at Miss Charlotte's chamber-
dQor, and had rehearsed the strange news, as well as she could,
THE EAlilLY EEUD.
331
for fright. Charlotte would not have her father roused; but
was speedily down-stairs herself. After hearing Joe's whole
account from his own mouth, she sent him and the footman to a
magistrate, and then followed, to quicken the dignitary into
sending persons off in search for Jossy.
It was ten o'clock when she had effected this business, and
returned home. She had but just entered her father's room,
and begun to give him, over his breakfast, a hasty account of
Jossy's disappearance, when the curate O'Frisk was announced.
"Desire Mr. O'Frisk to be kind enough to call again in the
evening, said her father to the footman.
But Charlotte tremblingly deprecated the sentence.
"Then desire him to come up, said Mr. Timothy; "go on,
my dear, he said to Charlotte, when he had welcomed the
curate ;  I must hear you out.
Charlotte finished by informing her father that she had
hastened the sending off persons in search of Jossy. Mr.
Timothy expressed intense anxiety, and praised Charlotte for
her energy. O'Frisk had listened with as much excitement as
the merchant, and declared he would have joined in the search
himself, such was the respect he had for Jossy Jessop, only lm
was there on business which must be despatched.
 And it must be immediately, if you please, Mr. Timothy,
said O'Frisk.
Charlotte withdrew, for she was more eager that the busi-
ness should be despatched than was O'Frisk himself.
There was no quarrel between the curate and Mr. Timothy
this time; but the curate's proposal astounded Mr. Timothy
more than anything that ever befell him throughout his whole
life. He sat silent—he gazed, like one stare-struck at the
curate, through his spectacles, over his spectacles—and, finally,
when he had taken off his spectacles—and then he spoke! It
was very faintly, and in a tone of resignation at first; but his
voice grew stronger and stronger, and he pronounced the de-
cisive and ever-memorable acquiescence with the curate's pro-
posal. The curate could have danced for joy ; but he restrained
himself. Yet he was quickly down-stairs—he sped along the
street—he was at the door of Mr. Timothy's hereditary foe,
where stood a carriage with the steeds ready harnessed.
The carriage dashes along the street: it draws up before Mr.
Timothy's mansion. To the astonishment—almost to the petri-
faction of Mrs. Plioebe—Mr. Titus Downham and his superb-
looking son Algernon ascend, with O'Frisk, to Mr. Timothy's
chamber! .
It is eleven o'clock : the woman is again at the door. She
332
THE FAMILY FEUD.
cannot see Mr. Timothy at all, the footman tells her. Cannot
she tell her business to some one in the counting-house P Mr.
Crookit is not there; but can she not tell it to Mr. Elder, or
one of the clerks P She will tell it to Mr. Elder, she says, and
the woman is soon in private conference with that honest gentle-
man, who listens with absorbed attention, though the clerks are
rushing out of the office at that sound which swells and swells—
for people are crowding to the main street, and shouting that the
criminal is here at last!
the family feud.
333
BOOK XI.
CONTAINING A LAST FRAGMENT OF T1II5 HERO'S AUTOBIOGRAPH F.
CHAPTER I.
Cain Colton describes the Progress of Reconciliation with his Enemy, and Brun-
drell relates his owi: History.
The dream had so chastened my mind, or the long restorative
sleep after feverish exhaustion sobered and settled my brain,
that I no longer looked on Brun drell with murderous desire.
Yet the remembrance that I was not only in the house but in
the presence of my enemy, and alone with him, was instanta-
neous, and I put my hand behind my pillow, but the weapons
were gone. The action roused his attention ; he looked at me,
and I shall never, while I live, forget that look! It was such
an expressive, though mute, appeal for pity and forgiveness, that,
if my mad hatred had been yet in its strength, I think that
look would have subdued it all.
 My madness is gone, he said, in a low, gentle voice, and
still keeping the portrait in his hand;  here is the charm
which has exorcised the demon from my soul. I have no longer
the will or power to harm you : I threw away my own pistols.
Will you be angry when I tell you that I have also thrown
away yours ? 
I tried to articulate; but my voice seemed gone, and I began
to be sensible of extreme lassitude. He saw my weakness at
once, and immediately set down the portrait, poured wine into
a silver cup from a large decanter which I had not at first ob-
served on the table; and also took up a cake from a plate.
Approaching me, after he had broken off a piece of the cake
and eaten it, and drank a mouthful of the wine, he put the cup
and the remainder of the cake in my hands, and said,—
"Come, eat and drink with me, and let it be a pledge that
our mad enmity is at an end! 
I drank a little of the wine, and then he filled up the cup
334
THE FAMILY FEUD.
■with water; and as I ate and drank liis face brightened with
satisfaction. Taking the cup from my hand, he replaced it on
the table and again sat down.
 You had better remain there a while, he said;  your
strength will return soon, and then you will be able to rise. I
must not detain you when you are fit to journey. In the mean-
time listen to me calmly. If I touch old irritating subjects, do
not let them revive a wrong spirit within you; but answer me
reasonably so soon as you can.
Tor some time while listening to him I doubted whether I
should be able to answer him without anger, since he still en-
deavoured to gain my consent to a union with his daughter.
 We have much to talk over in a little time, he said, "but
this is nearest my heart, and I want to win your consent to wed
Una before we speak of aught besides.
He reasoned that I could not have a more fitting companion
for life; and that I could not be lastingly happy with an un-
intellectual wife. If I attempted to settle down at Quarrelton
again, I should be restless and disgusted: the dull routine of
mercantile business would not suit my nature. In the com-
panionship of Una, and with the metropolis for a sphere of
exertion, I should have every stimulus and full opportunity for
advancement in art; and he would be my guide and counsellor.
He had knowledge which should be at my command; and would
be repaid for imparting it by the pleasure he would derive from
my triumphs as a painter.
My happiness, he was convinced, he said,—and I believed he
was sincere,—would thus be enhanced by my becoming the
husband of his daughter, as well as his own happiness. Nor
was there, he affirmed, any objection to be urged from the pre-
engagement of my affections. Mary Granger had confessed to
his daughter that she did not believe my affection for her wa%
strong, and that she was sure it was only of recent growth : she
had resigned all claim to me in favour of Una. I had, therefore,
no cause to charge myself with slighting her, if I complied
with his entreaty, while I should make Una happy, and—he
repeated—myself. Would I not consent?
 I cannot, I answered,  and yet I am sure I have not any
wrong feeling towards yourself.
His countenance fell, but it was with grief, not hate or anger.
 Nor have I towards you, said he ;  but how sure I should
have felt of the permanence of this my better state if you had
consented to become my son! I dread the resuscitation of the
foul spirit which has haunted me for so many years ; and I have
the natural wish of a father to see Una settled and happy.
' Miss Percival's excellences will be sure to meet with appre-
THE FAMILY FEUD.
335
elation, said I, desiring now very anxiously, that he would
leave the subject, and speak of what he thought awaited me as
a prisoner ; "I shall always feel honoured by being allowed to
regard her as a friend—if the future should leave me the happi-
ness of claiming her for one.
 I know you are anxious about your own fate, observed
Percival;  and I wish you had consented to relieve my anxiety
as easily as I think I can relieve yours ; but, perhaps, you may
yet yield to me: I will not regard your refusal as final. For
yourself, of course, you have to enter Quarrelton as a prisoner;
but I shall go with you; I shall confront the vile wretches who
will swear against you—if they dare—but I question whether
Crookit will have courage to open his mouth when he sees me ;
and I shall confound Pernshawe with his own words. When
your honour is redeemed fairly and fully, I shall present you to
Mr. Upham ; and establish your claim to be considered as his
own sister's son.
Brundrell spoke these words with such fulness of friendly
feeling, and with such evidence that he was relieving his own
heart by resolving to act as he had thus promised, that I was
deeply moved; and, for a few moments, regretted that I had
refused his entreaty. I thanked him, but he stopped me.
 Nay, I do not merit your thanks, he said;  I am only
about to discharge a duty towards the son of her whom I loved,
and who was so harshly used by her own parent. And it was
while I looked on that portrait, but a few hours ago, that the
spirit of her whom it represents seemed toN whisper that, if I
avenged her by restoring you to your birthright, vengeance for
the bad deed of my poor mistaken parents would not be required.
 And I dreamed, just before I awoke, that my mother placed
my hand in yours, and charged me to banish the spirit I had
lately shown towards you as wicked 
 Give me your hand!  he said eagerly, and as I tendered it,
the tears again started to his eyes, and he said,  we are friends,
then—we will be friends—to the end of life—for your dear
mother's sake! I would give you this portrait of your mother;
but I must keep it while I live.
 Do so. You took it yourself, of course ?  I hinted, wishing
to draw him from a recurrence to gloomy thoughts, and yet
desirous of learning something of his personal history.
 I drew little more than the outline while the original was
before me, he replied ;  I knew very little of art at that early
period. From memory—for the features were indelibly im-
pressed on my mind—I finished the likeness in after years. I
Bee you expect to learn from me what I knew of your mother.
Percival's eulogy was that of a lover; and though he did not
336
THE FAMILY FEUD.
enlarge the knowledge I had already derived from Jossy Jessop,
he convinced me that an admiration which Imd outlasted the
changes of years must have been founded on true and deep at-
tachment. As I had hoped, his description of my mother served
as an introduction to some account of himself.
 Notwithstanding my passion for her, he said,  I had only
her esteem, and never won her love. It was but natural that I
should envy your father as the successful suitor ; but when he
had become her husband, we renewed our old friendship, and I
tore myself away from the neighbourhood, resolving to seek a
complete cure for my disappointment in new scenes, and in de-
votion to my profession as a painter. I went to Italy, led by a
fervid desire to see the works of the giants of art; and there,
while my first passion was scarcely cooled, I became enamoured
of one who, though inferior to your mother in outward grace and
beauty, was possessed of higher attributes of mind. Our wedded
happiness was great, but it was brief; Una was left to me as the
fruit of that union. It was too happy, since it was so short;
and I often vainly wish I had never known strong attachment;
life becomes a dreary journey to us when we are so soon bereaved
of those who have made it blissful. Do I weary you P  he asked
mournfully.
 I pray you continue, I replied, if it does not give you too
much pain to recount your experience.
 I brought my child to England soon after the death of her
mother,"he resumed, for Italy was not a fit land for me. It offered
indulgences too tempestuous for me; and yetlhad rushed into them
for relief to my sorrow. My marriage had brought me consider-
able wealth, consisting chiefly in land on the borders of Wales.
There my wife's kindred lived, and thither I took Una, and left
her under the affectionate care of her mother's relatives. I did
not resume the care of her until within the last seven years ; it
would have been better, perhaps, if I had not taken her from
Wales. I am conscious that my guardianship has been ill-fitted for
her nature; and that the native excellence of her mind, and that
only, has prevented me from marring her character altogether.
It is this sense of my unfitness which renders me, above all
things, desirous of seeing her settled in union with one to whom
she can give her heart, and who is worthy of her.
Percival paused, and looked at me very wistfully, but I did
not speak, and after a temporary struggle with his thoughts, he
continued, but it was in broken sentences.
 Una's relatives persuaded me the more easily to leave her in
Wales, because rumours had reached me of your father's death,
but not of the death of your mother. In my forlorn and
bereaved condition I hoped to find a solace in union with the
THE FAMILY FEUD.
337
object of my first passion. Arrived within a few miles of Blythe-
wick, I happened to meet Miles—you were recognised by him
when he saw you here on your first visit—and from him I re-
ceived hints—I will spare your feelings and my own—they were
of the most dreadful character ; nevertheless, 1 determined to see
my poor, erring mother. I went on to Bly thewick—but so much
disguised that I was not known. I saw my mother ; let it suf-
fice! I fled from her—yes, she herself told me the guilty story,
and revealed the curse—I cannot go on !
Brundrell, groaned, and hid his face in his hands. I was fear-
ful that one of his old paroxysms would return, and felt that I
must exert myself to prevent it by speaking to him in the kindest
and most consolatory terms. He recovered self-possession more
easily than I had imagined he would; and I was gladdened by
discovering that he had now become extremely susceptible to
words of kindness when spoken by myself.
 A few syllables more, and I may leave that horror, he went
on again ; "I must say something about it, for your own sake.
The consequences of that interview with my mother were dread-
ful to myself. The fear of the curse increased daily, and I could
not destroy it by even the wildest dissipation. Miles Gilson
corresponded with me, and told me how you were taken under
the care of old Mr. Fernshawe -, but he lost sight of you when
you left the hall; and when he came to live with me, no inquiries
of his or of my own enabled us to ascertain whether you were
dead or alive. I was haunted with superstitious fears—I knew
they were superstitious, but could not shake them off until they
brought on disease. I must repentantly confess, however, that
I believe this was hastened by the reckless indulgence into which
I plunged for a time. I am ashamed and humbled to think how
I joined in low revels—not always of a guiltless description—
with such wretches as Crookit and Fernshawe—both of whom I
knew, first in Italy, and again, in later years, in France and the
Netherlands.
He made a pause here, and turned to fill the wine-cup again.
I urged him, so far as he felt inclined, to give me some key to
Crookit's character from what he knew of the sinister-eyed crea-
ture's past life.
 I purpose doing so, he answered,  but the morning is
hastening ; you must now have some solid food; I will go and
rouse Miles to attend to your wants. Drink this before I go; I
will return in a few seconds.
I drank the wine, and feeling greatly refreshed, I rose and was
half-dressed before Percival came back. He was soon followed by
old Miles with a tray holding some cold meats. The old man
gave me a kindly smile as he quitted the chamber, and softly
a
338
the family fetid.
closed the door. Percival joined me at the early breakfast, and
our conversation was resumed. For compression's sake, I will
give the substance of his communication relative to Crookit, in
a distinct form.
CHAPTEE II.
PercivaTs Anatomy of the Character of Crookit, the chief Rogue and Rascal of
the Story.
Crookit's birth was not mean; but his father was a man of
broken fortunes, so that Dick went into the world without a
shilling, and with only his wits to aid him. He had sorae
amount of what the world calls education : that is to say, he
was taught, first at a grammar school, and afterwards at a school
for the mathematics, and was reckoned a proficient at both.
I have no doubt he was taught morals by precept; but I am
sure he was taught vice by example.
His father was a spendthrift in early life, and a gambler of
the deepest dye up to threescore. The son never partook of
his sire's cleverness in the handling of cards or dice; and to
those who were not close observers of the real difference in
their mental constitutions, this was matter for wonder. Crookit
was, every way, a subtler rogue and a less squeamish scoundrel
than his parent. He was often declared by his vicious associates
to be a match for Lucifer in cunning. Of all the wicked men I
ever closely observed in the world, his rogueries were the most
gratuitously intricate in device. He seemed to perform works
of supererogation in wicked cunning, as if he were aiming for
distinguished rank among the Devil's favourites. His plots for
evil were often discovered, too, to have been planned and to be
in secret process of execution for months, before they were con-
summated.
But with all this he was a born coward. For this reason he
was seldom successful at the gaming-table ; and even his most
skilfully-planned thefts often failed, because his craven heart
sank just at the decisive point, when boldness alone could enable
him to secure the fruit of robbery.
You must not suppose that the title-page and index to his
character could be read as easily as I have recited them to you.
His silkiness, his gentlemanly assurance, his powers of satire,—
above all, the skill with which he could fit his maimers to his
company,—all seemed to puzzle me for some time; and I may say
THE FAMILY FEUD.
339
without vanity, that I am not one of the dullest at comprehending
character. Many who were in his company daily were com-
pletely unaware of his false nature. Of course, the majority of
these were to be classed among the dull; but some of them were
persons of intelligence, whose own honest natures were ever dis-
posed to doubt that other men were rogues.
Crookit's reception with the sex I always thought most sur-
prising. I do not mean because of his face. Uglier men than
he have been decided favourites with women. His success with
them often made me doubt the truth of a saying which is almost
general—that they are quicker and more unerring in their
judgment of character than men. I could only account for the
triumphant way in which he imposed himself upon their esteem,
by attributing his success to his singular power of self-adapta-
tion. He was not ten minutes in the company of any woman
before he seemed to have detected her tendencies, whether to
strength or foible, and to conduct himself exactly as she was
most sure to be pleased.
Although old enough to be her father, I must declare to you
that in a visit he made with me to Wales, I suspected he was
near making a tender impression on the heart of my daughter ;
and he certainly had the impudence to solicit from me her
hand. I rejected his application in terms, as I thought, suf-
ficiently strong and decisive to prevent his renewal of it; but
I was mistaken: he repeated it thrice. He even sent a love-
billet to Una. She sent it to me to return to him, for I
had made her acquainted with his character; and there it
ended.
If I broke his snare for my daughter, I cannot boast tliat
I was never victimised by him myself. During a wild revel in
which I had joined with him and young Dernshawe, I believe
he put a sleeping potion in my drink. At any rate, he stole
upon the place where I slept, and robbed me. I suspected he
was the robber, and charged him with the theft; but he denied it.
Rernshawe, who was on a bed in the same room with me, after-
wards averred that he witnessed Crookit's theft, and showed the
thief his stiletto just when he was about to be subjected to the
like experiment.
You look astonished, and well you may, that I should have kept
such company. Bat recal to your memory what I have already
tried to describe to you : my heart-grief and sense of desolate-
ness under bereavement—double bereavement of those I had
loved with all the vehemence of a passionate nature ; and then
that dread fear which haunted and pursued me wherever I went.
Reckless what I did if I could but escape my torment, I com-
panied with these reckless villains, often feeling a baneful relief
340
THE FAMILY FEUD.
in the very disgust with which they inspired me, and which
chased away the more dreadful fiend, for the time.
Soon after Crookit's robbery of me, he deserted that part of
the continent where I then was; and I afterwards heard of his
being in London. It was said that he fell into a grievous
illness, professed great contrition for his evil course, and gave
promise of reformation on his recovery. I had no conjecture
where he was of late—though I learned that he had left London
—until I saw the letter, the nefarious letter, you received there.
The writing of disguised hands was one of his cleverest tricks,
and one of which he was most proud. But a man who descends
to school himself in such a vile art must acquire facility in a few
of these disguises, or he could not carry on a false correspond-
ence with success. Of his half-dozen ready hands, I knew
that in which your letter was written to be one, and so I was
enabled to warn you.
You will be wondering how, with such a corrupt character, he
contrived to get into his present employ. Mr. Upham's dulness
may, perhaps, partly account for it — though I know nothing
of the merchant's value for intelligence. Fernshawe assures me
that Crookit's old trick was of great service to him : I mean his
skill in writing disguised hands: he showed credentials of
respectability which, it seems, were not suspected by the mer-
chant. I have no doubt that his guileful manners and affecta-
tion of diligent zeal for his employer's interest have served to
strengthen him in his position. How he has contrived to keep
it so long is, nevertheless, a wonder to me. He must either
have carried with him to Quarrelton some few dregs of his fear-
stricken reform sufficient to keep his hands, at least for a time,
from picking and stealing; or those who have had the super-
vision of his accounts have not been skilful enough to detect his
purloinings. I feel sure he could not keep from them. But
like an old, half-worn-out creature of prey, he may have become
contented with petty prizes. And Fernshawe affirms that he
has not only lost a great deal of vigour, but has grown even
more and more cowardly. His want of success as a gamester,
and his dread of detection as a thief, would render him eager to
get into some avowedly honest employ, and lead him to practise
caution enough, perhaps, to keep it. But for his vision of the
handsome face of Mr. Upham's daughter and his jealousy of
yourself, his deeper practices might not have been repeated;
and he might have continued for some years to come to deceive
those around him, and have dropped into the grave with a
reputation for honesty. I think that is not likely, now, to be
the end of his depraved course.
the family feud.
341
CHAPTER III.
Cain Colton's concluding Narrative of all that preceded his Entry into Quarrelton
as a Prisoner.
 There is one piece of villany which has failed, said Percival,
when he had concluded his sketch of the evil character of
Crookit;  and you must not attribute to me more than my
proper share of guilt in attempting it. In my madness, I con-
sented to help Fernshawe in carrying off the young woman, but
I knew not who she was till I reached here, after you had sur-
rendered yourself to the officer. It was vile enough to aid Eern-
shawe in stealing a servant maid, for such he said she was : my
insane fear of you prompted me to make a league with him.
 Do not distress yourself by self-accusation, I constrained
myself to say, though I regarded his act, however he might pal-
liate it, as vile,  we have both acted madly. I suppose Mary
would be either too weak and affrighted to tell you who she was,
or Fernshawe would threaten her with violence if she were not
silent.
"More than thatt, replied Percival; "he had covered her
mouth so that she could scarcely breathe ; he would certainly
have stifled her outright, if I had not prevented him. I am glad,
after all, that the villain was the unintentional cause of the
young woman being brought into this house.
 1 am glad that your house was so near that she could take
refuge in it, said I.
 But it was my discovery of who she was, and her pleadings
together with those of my daughter, which began to work a
change in my distracted mind, he continued ;  Fernshawe has
returned to Quarrelton with the belief that I shall only forward
his own base design and Crookit's, by hastening your departure
hence in custody of the officer. It was not until he was gone
and I no longer felt his bad influence, that I listened to Una and
her poor companion, and began to relent. I cannot say even,
that when I entered this chamber and saw you sleeping, it was
with the most harmless intent; my eyes happily fell on this pic-
ture, and the demon gradually left me.
It may be easily conceived that I did not feel much at ease
while hearing this confession ; there was at times, too, a flitting
expression on Percival's face which made me apprehensive that
his frenzy might return. I knew that I must not permit my
342
THE FAMILY FEUD.
alarm to be seen, and continued to talk to Lim with an air of
calmness.
 I suppose tbe officer would be weary of watching at the
door, said I,  and you persuaded him to withdraw 
 That I might keep the watch in his stead, said Percival,
catching up my words,  so it was ; and the poor fellow was
willing enough, for he was very weary. But I was in this
chamber for an hour without his knowledge. You look sur-
prised! I will not show you the secret panel;—you are suffi-
ciently read in romances to know that there is one in every house
to which mystery is attached: I may show you it some time.
The light is breaking fast, and the officer will be urgent to com-
mence the journey ; I will leave you again for a short time, and
see who is stirring in the house, and besides, I want to make
some arrangements for the journey. You will not leave this
room, on your parole of honour ? 
 I will not, I answered; and he left me after putting out the
light on the tablet]
When left alone in that chamber of mystery, the dawn barely
rendering the shapes of the furniture discernible, and with the
sounds of Percival's voice still seeming to tingle in my ears, my
heart began to sink within me with a crowd of misgivings. The
talk of Percival was still that of a man of unsettled and dis-
ordered mind. What if his insanity should return in all its
ungovernable fierceness—or still worse, in its wily malignity,—
and instead of accompanying me in my return as a prisoner to
Quarrelton, he should resign me to the cunning of my enemies ?
How knew I that he would not return with his old rage to the
chamber ? I had no arms ; how was I to defend myself? The
door opened at that moment, and two messengers entered the
room—but they were not heralds of war: Mary led in Una,
closed the door, and then advanced to me and took my hand.
 I have persuaded Una to come with me, said Mary ;  if
what we shall say displeases you, blame me only for it, dear
Cain.
The fair apparitions were so startling, being so unexpected,
that I could not speak for the moment. Una's face I could only
see dimly as she stood by the door; but in the face of Mary, as
she looked into mine, there was nothing which foreboded a very
unpleasing speech to follow; so I knew not what she could
mean. Yet her next words were very painful to me.
 You have not forgotten what I said to you in London: do
you not see it to be best to comply with the wish of Una's
father ? 
 You cannot be in earnest, Mary P  I said.
 Understand, Mr. Colton, said Una,  that although I have
TIIE FAMILY FETTD.
343
consented to join Mary in this visit, I do not wish you to do vio-
lence to your own feelings and judgment; much less would I be
the means of making Mary unhappy for life. She loves you and
deserves your love; I only advise you not to deny my father
positively; his mind is now softened; let him assist you to get
out of your trouble, leaving him with the hope that you may do
as he wishes afterwards.
This was counselling me to act insincerely; but the counsel
was evidently prompted by a noble generosity, and I was silent
with admiration.
 Leave Una's father the hope, and give yourself time for con-
sideration, Cain, said Mary;  when you are delivered from
your troubles, and your mind is calm and clear, you will see that
Una is your most proper companion for life 
 Do not bind yourself to break Mary's heart, cried Una;
 but obtain my father's help by omitting to deny him posi-
tively.
I have been too much of a waverer all my life, and I wavered
now ; but who can wonder at it ? These two fair creatures were
rivalling one another in generosity, and both seemed so loveable
that I could not decide which was the worthiest; I only felt my-
self to be unworthy of either.
 Act on Una's advice, then; only save yourself, dear Cain;
will you ?  said Mary;  promise, for we must be gone.
I promised, and they left me and closed the door upon me
again instantly. Not many minutes elapsed before Percival
returned, and as the brightening light revealed his first glance,
I saw that it was wilder and more unsettled than when he went
from the chamber.
 The officer is getting up, said he,  and I must remain with
you till he comes, or he will suppose I have deserted guard.
Come, we have but a few moments ; tell me if you do not think
it is too much to expect that all the generosity is to be on my
side P
 I have no right to expect it, I replied;  I only wish I
could give you a proof—I will not say of generosity, but of gra-
titude, and yet be neither ungrateful nor ungenerous towards
another.
 But the young woman charges you neither with ungenerous-
ness or ingratitude, if you give her up; but why should I thus
beg of any man to accept my daughter? he said, with a look
that forewarned me not to provoke him further ;  I will beg no
longer.
 Give me time to reflect, said I.
 I will, gladly, he answered;  say, only, that you will
reflect when you are able. I know it is not easy for you to
311
TJ5E FAMILY FEtXD.
think calmly at present. Here, then, we will leave it. You
do not reject the alliance which would assure my happiness for
life—you promise to consider?
 I do—I do! I replied, and without feigning for the moment.
The remembrance of his old misery, and the quick gleam of
hope which shot across his features, moved me so strongly with
pity, that I spoke in earnest.
"It is enough! he said, grasping my hand; "I shall now
make the journey without fear that the fiend will return and
get the victory over me.
Here the Quarrelton officer knocked at the chamber-door,
and entered, when invited by Percival. I began to thank him
for permitting me to rest so long ; but the man civilly desired
me to spare my thanks, and said he was extremely glad of the
rest on his own account.
 But we must not delay longer, sir, he added;  and we
must also make haste when we are on the journey, or I shall be
blamed. Mr. Eernshawe, having got the start of us by a good
many hours, will go direct to the magistrates, I make no doubt,
and render them impatient for our coming. Excuse me, sir, I
am compelled to tell you these things.
"Make no excuse, said I; "I am ready to obey. What
arrangements are made as to how we travel ?  I asked, when
Percival had quitted the room;  Mr. Percival intends to go
with us to Quarrelton. How shall we do about the lady ? 
 All that is settled, sir, answered the man;  Mr. Percival
will travel with us—I mean in the conveyance I have brought.
His daughter and Mr. Downham's niece 
 His daughter! You don't mean that she is going to
Quarrelton ? 
"Yes, sir: the elderly man, Miles, is to drive them in Mr.
Percival's gig ; but we had better be going down stairs, sir. I
make no douht Mr. Percival will give us a little breakfast. We
must despatch it quickly, and set off for Quarrelton as soon as
we can.
We descended to the breakfast-room, and though our meal
was hasty, and I was really in custody as a prisoner, the
sympathizing faces of Mary and Una, and the brightness which
had now chased away the gloom from the countenance of
Percival, rendered it impossible for me to regard that farewell
meal at the Hermitage as sorrowfnl. The officer evidently
knew with what intent Percival was going to Quarrelton;
for, as he drunk my health in a foaming tankard, he smiled,
and said,—
 Wishing and hoping that some folks will be disappointed,
TUG Family FEUD.
345
sir! , You'll be 110 worse for this, when it's over, I think. All's
well that ends well, you know.
The morning was fine as we set out, and as I took a last look
at the mansion, and remembered how strangely and unexpectedly
my changeful fortunes had been affected by my visits to it,
Percival marked my looks. !
 The oinen is brighter around us than when you came here
a stranger, said he;  that was a night of storm, and
portended what followed; but you are nearly through the
troublous sequel. Let the smiling sun cheer you! It is an
omen of success.
 I am gratified that you are cheerful, said I;  you must
he a believer in omens. It was one of the first words I heard
you utter.
 I remember; but was I so very far wrong ? Have not you
cause to believe in omens ? 
 The worst of it is, I do not always know, nor am I able to
guess, what they foreshow.
 You will instinctively come at the knowledge as you grow
older, he observed; "there is a sympathy between man and
the universe—ay, between man and every mean and inanimate
part of it! The young and the overwise scoff at such a doc-
trine ; but the older, and the humble, and true scholars of nature
and experience receive it.
 I cannot contradict you, said I, desirous of drawing him
into conversation that might help to preserve his serener
state of mind;  for I have no clear evidence that you
are wrong.
 And you may, one day, have evidence that I am right; and
yet, like myself, be unable to produce the evidence to others,
so as to make them know and feel that it is evidence. The
evidence of our instincts—our higher instincts I mean—those of
the mind, and which distinguish man from the lower animals,
cannot be produced to others. Our belief and confidence in the
highest truths depend upon such evidence, and not upon logical
proof.
With such occasional flashes of his peculiar kind of intelli-
gence—mingled with wild and capricious wandering—he kept
up the conversation till we came up to the little inn kept by
Mrs. Martha Tomlinson. And now we were entreated by Mary
and Una to delay the continuance of our journey for a short
time. The officer was somewhat uneasy; but Percival per-
suaded him that all would eventually be right, and so wo
alighted and entered the little inn.
Mrs. Martha was so overjoyed at the sight of Mary, that she
346
THE FAMILY FEUD.
caught the girl in her arms, and wept as if she had recovered
her own child.
 Oh, what a relief is this ! cried the good woman ;  my
heart was distressed and angry with you; for I believed that
you had wilfully stolen off, and gone back to London to the
young man; but how is this that he is here with you, and
also Mr. and Miss Percival ? Excuse me, sir! she said,
curtseying to Percival; "my daughter lived with you some
time ago——
"We have so little time to stay, good woman, said Percival,
interrupting her;  that you had better direct all your discourse
to the young ladies. There! all three of you go off into another
room and whisper. We will give you ten minutes and no
more, remember!
Mary and TJna withdrew with Mrs. Martha; but the revela-
tion which Mary made to the landlady about the villanous
seizure by Fernshawe, and then a hasty relation of the fact that
I was going as a prisoner to Quarrelton, had such a stirring
effect on the landlady, that she soon returned to the kitchen,
with Mary and Una, declaring, with a great deal of excitement,
that she also would go to Quarrelton.
 I can't stay here, for I should not be able to sleep for think-
ing about you all, declared Mrs. Martha;  haven't I known
Cain, ay, and Mary, too, ever since they were children ? I must
know what becomes of 'em. And I might be days and days
before I got to know here; and, perhaps, not learn the right
end on't, even then. I tell you, I must and will go. Can't you
take me with you in one of the gigs ?
Now it so happened that neither of the gigs would conveniently
hold more than three moderate-sized persons, and Mrs. Martha
was a very weighty woman, to speak plainly. Had she been as
slightly formed as Una, room might, with a good deal of in-
convenience to others, have been made for her in the gig driven
by old Miles ; but room could not be made in either conveyance
for a woman of Mrs. Martha's size, and we were compelled to
tell her so. She looked mortified; but brightened up as she
caught the cheery sound of a horn.
 That's it!  she shouted ;  the coach is coming : I can get
as far as Oakford by it, and I can walk the other few miles to
Quarrelton.
 That you shall not, said Percival;  we shall get to
Quarrelton before you, if we have luck, and I'll send back my
gig to Oakford instantly to meet you. I only regret that we
cannot take you with us.
 Thank you, sir, for the good-will, returned Mrs. Martha;
THE FAMILY FEED.
347
 but I know I'm heavyisb; and, besides, yon can't make room
for me. I sball do very well, sir. Betty! sbe cried to ber
maid,  put a few things into a bundle for me: you can send a
box after me to-morrow. Look sharp! here's the coach! 
We took a hasty farewell of Mrs. Martha, for she was eager
to make ready for her own journey. There was nothing par-
ticularly worthy of note in the remainder < >f our travel. I need
only say that I kept up my spirits tolerably well till we came in
sight of Quarrelton.
348
THE FAMILY FEUD.
BOOK XII.
CONTAINING THE HEALING OF THE GREAT FAMILY FEUD, AND THE CONCLUSION
OF THE STORY.
CHAPTER I.
A slight Essay, hat fitted for the last Booh, inasmuch as it treats of Poetical
Justice, which is held to be so necessary at the Close ol' a Story.
Undoubtedly, that is a grand canon about what is called
Poetical Justice, reader; and we never regard a story as orthodox,
unless it be wound up in due observance therewith. We are
offended with the story, if, in the end, it does not reward virtue
and punish vice. We do not always see this come to pass in
real life ; but we believe it does come to pass, though retribution
is often late in coming, and sometimes is utterly hidden from
our observance. We believe it, because we feel it ought to
come to pass.
But who reads a story all the way through under the guidance
of the moral sense ? The feats of a rogue, the plots and daring
of a villain; do we not delight in them, as so many displays of
dexterity, however roguish ; as so many proofs of the faculty of
contrivance, or of the attribute of courage, however misapplied P
Who is moral enough to check his delight, by perpetually saying
to himself  This rogue is clever, and this villain most admirably
atrocious, but both will have their evil deserts, by-and-by ?  On
the contrary, are we not often disappointed when the rogue has
come to the end of his tether, feeling it almost impossible to
suppress a wish that it had been a little longer P
Poetical justice, or moral retribution, call it which you will,
does not always afford us unmixed gratification. In these later
ages there has been one grand instance of it; and though it fell
upon our national enemy, yet, now a few years have gone by, we
do not think of it with unmingled satisfaction. Is it not the
poetical justice which closes the story of Napoleon that renders
it so unique ? There have been other usurpers of the rights and
THE FAMILY FEUD.
349
liberties of nations, otber doers of violence and wrong on the
grand scale; but one died in his bed, and in the full enjoyment
of his power; another fell heroically in the battle-field; and
another suddenly by the hand of the assassin. But the subju-
gator of Prance and continental Europe perished slowly on that
dreary rock of his exile, annoyed by neglect and what he regarded
as insult, and worn out by sorrow, degradation, and disease.
Surely, the Nemesis was complete, the retribution perfect: it
was poetical justice, with a vengeance !
And yet while we turn over the pages which record the most
brilliant part of his career, so dazzling is the picture of his
achievements that we often repel from our memory the poetical
justice with which we know the volume must close ; and detect
ourselves wishing that he could have still lived to conquer, and
that the pages might be interminable which emblazon his own
wondrous foresight, energy, and skill; with the dashing chivalry
of Murat and Lannes and Ney, the strategy of Massena and
Soult, and the intrepid doings of Davoust and Marmont, and the
rest of those wondrous paladins of the modern Charlemagne.
Thus our admiration pets the wrong-doer on the grand scale,
though our moral sense exacts that he be punished. And, turn-
ing to petty wrong-doers, I fear our admiration for them only
differs in its degree of intensity. We glow with a fond liking
for a skilful and successful rogue, though we do not burn; his
deeds are too petty to raise our admiration to a flame.
Do you say this is all explicable, if we remember the universal
passion for excitement, for marvel, for spectacle ? I do not
deny it; and I suspect that with many the preference for poetical
justice to close a story arises from the same passion : the retri-
bution after the roguery is still a spectacle—and it is a new one.
I do not say all men are without the moral sense. I leave that
vexed question to the metaphysicians. I only contend that the
greater number of mankind give little proof of possessing the
moral sense; and that when they behold the capture of a rogue,
or one who is reputed to be a rogue, and they cry out  Serve
him right!  it is too commonly their love of a spectacle which
prompts the  moral  exclamation. If the reader has made a
note for himself to that effect, in his journey through life, I need
say no more ; and if he never had the sense to make it, my old-
fashioned gossip might as well come to an end, sailh Adam
Hornbook.
350
THE FAMILY FEUD.
CHAPTER II.
Which is a very important one, seeing that it introduces to each other, and
reconciles the Two greatest People in Quarrelton.
It was tlie most solemn moment alike in the life of Mr. Timothy
and Mr. Titus. How statelily they bowed, as they met in
Mr. Timothy's drawing-room ! And how strange each felt it to
be to pronounce the other's name to his face !
 How do you do, Mr. Timothy ? 
 How do you do, Mr. Titus P 
They were very simple words, but neither had ever placed
them in such allocation before; and their faces quivered with
emotion as they uttered the long-forbidden syllables.
 Pray be seated, Mr. Downham! 
 Thank you, Mr. Upham ! 
Then there was a momentary feeling of awkwardness, and
Mr. Titus broke through it first. He took his noble son slightly
by the arm, and presented him.
 My son Algernon, Mr. Timothy ! 
Mr. Timothy bowed and said  How do you do, sir ?  and
Algernon bowed and said  How do you do, sir? And then
Mr. Timothy proudly presented his imperial daughter—for he
had determined that lie would receive Mr. Titus grandly, and
had also resolved that his daughter should hear the all important
communication : so she was present.
 My daughter Charlotte, Mr. Titus ! 
Mr. Titus bowed and said  How do you do, Miss Upham ? 
and Charlotte curtseyed and said,  How do you do, Mr. Down-
ham!
Algernon's father took no step towards introducing him
formally to Charlotte, because Mr. Titus knew very well that
they were acquainted, but did not wish it to be known, for the
present. And Mr. Timothy took no step towards introducing
his daughter to the young gentleman formally, because he
believed that they were completely unacquainted, and had not
the slightest imagination that they would ever become particular
friends.
And so now the parties took their seats: Mr. Timothy oppo-
site to Mr. Titus, with O'Frisk chairman-wise between them; and
Charlotte and Algernon likewise face to face, though the beauty
never raised her eyes to look at the young gentleman. vThe
THE FAMILY FEUD.
351
curate was somewhat fidgetty, but strove to preserve due gravity
as he opened the grave proceedings.
 Gentlemen, he said, forgetting the lady,  the cause of tbis
important, and I trust I may say, auspicious meeting, I need
not rehearse. You, Mr. Timothy, are aware of its meaning.
Mr. Titus, as you know, has a communication to make to you of
an unusual nature.
The curate paused, and Mr. Titus hesitated, feeling the weight
of what he was about to say. Mr. Timothy's heart beat very
fast, but he was resolved to be calm. He took off his spectacles,
and in a tone scarcely above a whisper said, while he looked at
Mr. Titus,
 Pray, Mr. Titus, proceed!
 I need scarcely observe, sir, began Mr. Titus, also in a very
low tone, but raising his voice as he went on,  that I feel the
task I have undertaken to be a very important one; and that a
deep sense of duty has drawn me hither to perform it. I trust,
sir, that my presence here will be a proof to you of my hearty
desire that the distressing hostility which has so long subsisted
between our families should be terminated with dignity; indeed,
the manner in which we meet convinces me that you reciprocate
my sentiments.
 Mr. Titus, be assured that you express my own sentiments
exactly, observed Mr. Timothy.
 You give me inexpressible gratification, sir, said Mr. Down-
ham;  and I will now proceed, with as much brevity as shall
be consistent with clearness, to make you aware of the great—I
may say—momentous discovery relative to your family, or a
member of it, which has been made, most providentially, by a
member of mine, who is present.
Mr. Titus then rehearsed with but little circumlocution—and
that consisting chiefly of explanation as to Mary's early attach-
ment to Cain—the account given by the young woman to
Algernon. Its various, windings agitated Mr. Timothy visibly,
in spite of the strong self-restraint he exercised. He shuddered
as the narrative of the murder was given, and of the baptism of
the child with the doomed name; but when Mr. Titus showed
how the curse had affected Brundrell, Mr. Timothy recovered
from his horror.
 Why, sir, the man must be mad, or otherwise a very weak,
superstitious fool! he exclaimed;  excuse my interruption,
Mr. Downham, but don't you think so ?
 I believe him to be afflicted with what we term monomania,
replied the medical man ;  in all other respects he is said to be
perfectly sane. Indeed, he is a person of high intelligence, it is
said.
352
THE FAMILY FEED.
 It cannot be so, sir, insisted the matter-of-fact merchant;
 he must be either lunatic, or despicably weak and superstitious
—but I beg pardon, sir,—pray proceed!
 Excuse me, gentlemen, interpolated the curate,  but I feel
constrained chiefly to blame my own cloth. The clergyman
ought to have had his gown pulled over his ears for consenting
to give the child such a name. As for the child's grandfather,
he ought to have had a strait-waistcoat. Swearing in the church,
too! Why, gentlemen, it is heathenish; and I can't help
saying so.
 It is a most heathenish and barbarous affair altogether !
echoed Mr. Timothy ;  but, I pray you, Mr. Titus, proceed !
And Mr. Titus did proceed, until he caused the merchant to
strain for breath at the story of the nefarious letters, and the
hint that they were written hy Crookit. Then came the declara-
tion that Cain professed utter innocence of the embezzlement,
and solemnly averred he had neither received moneys from Fern-
sliawe nor given him any paper ; and the information gathered
from the hints of Percival followed, that the forged receipt was
a joint roguish transaction of Crookit and Fernshawe. Mr.
Timothy was bewildered; he thought the charge too monstrous
to be probable.
 There never was such a thing heard of! he declared;  it
is the most villanous transaction I ever heard of. It cannot be
true, sir—Mr. Crookit dare not commit himself in such a way—■
I can't conceive it possible. And Mr. Fernshawe—I have not
the highest opinion of him, sir—I mean, as it regards his dis-
position—but, as a gentleman, how could he commit himself to
so infamous an act?—Bless me, what noise is that?
It was an uproar in the street. O'Frisk was at the window in
a moment, and young Algernon would have followed, but the
elders sat still, and he thought they would deem him frivolous
if he rose.
"The Lord look down upon the poor lad! ejaculated the
sympathetic O'Frisk—but before he could say more, the door of
the room was opened by the honest old chief clerk, Mr. Elder.
 Mr. Timothy—oh, Mr. Timothy ! I must tell you myself—
for no one else will, cried the old man;  you've been deceived
—you've been robbed—it's a wonder you're not a dead man
before this. I'm half beside myself with what I've heard "—and
the old man stopped and struggled, seeming half-choked with
his tears, and totally overcome with some disastrous impression.
Algernon sprang up, and supported the aged man to a neat,
and the two magnates came near him. Even O'Frisk, though
he lingered till the sight which had wrought so strongly upon
him had passed the window, came and joined the rest in trying
THE FAMILY FEUD.
35d
to sootlie the lionesfc old clerk. Charlotte brought him water,
and, by one means or other, poor Mr. Elder was at last so far
restored, as to be able to tell in broken sentences what was the
dire cause of his disturbance. He had received the astounding
report of the woman with whom Crookit lodged. She had not
given an accurate account of the nightly conversations of Eern-
shawe and her lodger; for having heard them by stealth, she
had failed to comprehend all that was said, and had in some
instances exaggerated, in others mistaken the application of their
meaning. Actual robbery of Mr. Timothy, purposed murder of
the youth Canute Colton, of young Mr. Downham, abduction of
Miss Charlotte, perhaps murder of Mr. Timothy himself, were
among the dreadful pictures she had raised before the mind of
poor Mr. Elder; and these, added to his own suspicions of
Crookit, had impelled him to defy all formalities, when resisted
by Mrs. Phoebe and the footman, and to rush upstairs and fore-
warn his beloved and respected patron before it should be too
late—as the woman had told him it would be if he delayed an
hour.
 Lord! one would think the world is coming to an end!
declared the excitable O'Frisk;  the poor dear lad Canute was
just going by the window as Mr. Elder came in.
 Canute ! repeated Mr. Timothy, looking like a ghost.
 Canute, affirmed the curate ;  the officer has just brought
him into the town, like a thief; and the people—like unfeeling
brutes as they are—were shouting for joy. He is gone before
the magistrates, no doubt. Let us all go together, and see that
he is brought off innocent, and have the rogues gaoled in his
stead ! and O'Frisk would have led the way immediately.
 Stop, sir, I beg, I entreat! said Mr. Titus, seizing the
curate by the arm;  we must proceed with dignity in these
affairs, although they are so astonishing in their nature, and in
the manner and quickness of their coming upon us, that I do
not wonder to see you forget yourself. I repeat, we must
proceed with dignity.
 Yes, yes, with dignity, muttered Mr. Timothy, mechani-
cally.
His daughter saw that he was becoming unconscious with the
overwhelming nature of the news first given him by one and
then by another. He was so long in coming fully to himself,
that we must leave him for awhile, and follow O'Frisk—who
was so restless and impatient to be gone, that Mr. Titus gave him
leave—having first made the irregular-natured man promise that
he would conduct himself discreetly, and not mar matters instead
of mending them.
2 A
354
TEE FAMILY FEUD.
CHAPTER III.
Describing what O'Frisk witnessed of the Behaviour of the Quarrelton People, a*id
also of the Hero's Examination before the Justices.
When the curate pained the public street, he hastened towards
the building in which the magistrates held their sittings ; but
found the doors closed, and townspeople of all degrees assembled
in an immense mass, waiting to be admitted. To press through
the crowd would have been nearly impossible ; and to attempt
it, O'Frisk reflected —remembering the recent lecture of Mr.
Titus—would be unseemly. He therefore joined the crowd,
and by the arrival of later comers was soon wedged up in it, so
that to advance or retreat became equally difficult. In this
situation, O'Frisk was interested, and yet mortified, at hearing the
comments of Quarrelton folk on the impending transactions.
 What are we kept here in the street for, I should like to
know P  demanded an important-looking tailor, of those of his
neighbours who were remarkably close to his elbows.
 It's some new dodge of the magistrates. I don't like the
look of it; and I think we ought not to stand it, declared a
bold knight of the order of St. Crispin, always distinguished for
their leaning towards democracy.
 Nonsense, man ! it's no dodge, objected a well-to-do look-
ing corn-dealer; "undoubtedly the magistrates are conferring
a little about the case before they begin the public examination
of the young rogue.
 Then they've no right to do it,—let me tell ye that!  spoke
out the politician of the last;  such a proceeding is unconstitu-
tional. Magistrates are held, in law, sir, to know nothing about
any case before hearing evidence.
 I don't understand law, replied the other;  it's not my
business ; I'm only an honest dealer.
 Many folks profess to be honest dealers who are only rogues
in grain, retorted the shoemaker ; at which all within hearing
laughed, save the corn-dealer and O'Frisk.
 They say the doors are not opened because the witnesses
are not ready, said one who had just caught the information
from those who were nearer the building.
 Then they ought to have been ready, asserted the man of
leather; and all around said he was right.
 Which of the witnesses ?"— Mr. Crookit, most likely, ob'
THE FAMILY FEUD.
355
served a stout Downhamite;  I thought all along that Mr.
Timothy would be weak enough to let the young scoundrel
escape. You may depend upon it, he will not let Mr. Crookit
appear to swear to the handwriting.
O'Frisk found that the circumstances of the charge against
Canute seemed to be well understood by the crowd, and lis-
tened the more attentively.
 It shows what it is to be a favourite of Mr. Timothy, said
the tailor, who was also a Downhamite; "but it isn't fair that
one of his gentlemen clerks should go unpunished for thieving.
Had it been a poor tailor, he would have been hung for it.
 Clerk or tailor would deserve to be hung for such a robbery
as this young rascal's, affirmed a Downhamite shopkeeper.
 No doubt of it, assented an Uphamite blacksmith; "but
it so happens that you are out in your guess about Mr. Crookit,
for I saw him go in with one of the magistrates.
 Are ye sure of it ?  demanded several.
 Sure of it!—d'ye think I can't believe my own eyes P  was
the answer ; and it appeared to be a convincing one, for nobody
demurred to it, and those in advance were desired to make
inquiry who was not forthcoming of the witnesses.
Meantime, sentiments were exchanged respecting the bearing
of the accused as he entered the town.
 Did you mark his hang-dog looks ?  said one.
 Ay, they were enough to hang him, affirmed another.
 I didn't expect to see him look so very sheepish, said
another;  he'll not have a word to say for himself, depend
on't.
 I can't say that I thought he looked so very much cowed,
except when we gave him the three groans, said the tailor.
 Who was the queer wild-looking man that sat on the other
side of the constable, I wonder ?  asked the shoemaker.
"Ay, who can he be? Was it Mr. Fernshawe, think ye?—
I don't know the gentleman. But he went off on the pursuit,
you know, as well as the officer, said the corn-dealer.
"JSTo, it was not Mr. Fernshawe, answered the tailor; "he
came back last night, they say.
 Is anything known about Mr. Titus's niece, do ye know ? 
asked another;  it's odd that the officer didn't bring her too,
if he found her with the young scapegrace.
It so happened that the officer, expecting that Canute's
entrance into Quarrelton would attract a somewhat disorderly
crowd, had counselled that old Miles should put up at the inn
at Dreamfield, and that Mary and Una should remain there till
evening. The crowd were thus unaware that the object of their
curiosity was near.
2 A 2
356
THE FAMILY FEED.
At length, the cry arose,  The doors are opened!  and the
rush to get forward was general. O'Frisk was too stout of
frame to be easily overthrown, and made his way in at the
doors with greater readiness than many. Indeed, some hun-
dreds remained outside, the building being too small to admit
them. The curate could not secure any privileged place, and
was thus mixed up with the crowd, as before, and continued to
hear their comments, which were as freely interchanged as in
the street, though in lower tones, until silence was called, and
the business began.
 He doesn't seem to like his luck, observed one,  and he'll
like it worse very soon.
 There's that stranger sitting by him that was in the gig with
him. Who is he, I wonder?  asked another.
 Perhaps some older rogue of an accomplice that the officer
has caught, and brought with him, ventured a third.
 Kay, that cannot be ; they wouldn't let them talk together :
most likely it's some sharp practiser of a London attorney that
the young rogue has persuaded to come with him as his legal
adviser, opined another respecting Percival, who kept close to
Cain, and sometimes whispered to him.
 Whatever can they be waiting for ?  was asked over and
over again—for there sat the formidable Bargrave Bumbleton,
as chairman, and the bench of magistrates, full, excepting that
Mr. Timothy and Mr. Titus were wanting,—but yet the business
was not commenced. The dignitaries now and then whispered
one to another ; and each of them often turned his head, and
looked quickly and anxiously towards a side-door. This action
was marked by the spectators, and they discussed the meaning
of it.
 It must bo the witnesses they are waiting for still, several
observed ;  you see, none of them are in court.
And it was so ; and the oftener it was remarked, the greater
was the wonder. All patience was lost by the crowd when the
large clock in the hall struck one ; and a general stamping with
the feet warned the magistrates that more delay to enter on
business might lead to some still more disagreeable demonstra-
tion of impatience on the part of the multitude. The chairman
now turned to one of his official brethren, and said something
which could not be heard in the body of the hall by reason of
the noise ; but it seemed to be a direction to hasten the appear-
ance of some who were wanting; for the person spoken to glided
out by the side-door. Presently he returned, and whispered
with the chairman. Then there was a whispering conference
among the magistrates generally ; and, finally, a signifying of
general assent and consent to some measure; and the whole
THE FAMILY FEUD.
357
Bench, hemmed, and coughed, and settled itself, as if to prepare
for business, while the attendant of the court cried,  Silence ! 
The side-door opened, and in came Crookit, followed by Bern-
shawe s man, Brown. There was a loud and general drumming
with the feet at the appearance of Crookit, the spectators thus
showing their gratification that Mr. Timothy did not intend to
protect the criminal. Yet Crookit was evidently uncheered by
the sympathy of the crowd. He was livid in countenance, and
never looked up ; but advanced with an uncertain step to the
place pointed out for him. Brown had a stolid and dogged
aspect, and took his place beside Crookit, without seeming to
heed either what himself or others did.
O'Brisk, controlling himself in obedience to the promise he
had given to Mr. Titus, watched the behaviour of the parties
who now chiefly interested the crowd. In Crookit's agitated
and miserable look he saw conscious guilt, and in the behaviour
of Brown the callous indifference of some nameless and subor-
dinate coadjutor in Crookit's villany. Colton seemed a picture
of resignation. It was the behaviour of Percival which most
strongly drew the curate's attention. The moment that Crookit
was shown to his place, which was immediately opposite Per-
cival, and at the end of a long table, Colton turned and gave the
crafty foe a quick glance, and no more. But Percival stood up,
folded his arms upon his breast, and continued to fix a pene-
trating look upon Crookit. Who could this be P O'Frisk won-
dered. It was, he felt sure, the person alluded to in the remarks
he had overheard among the crowd. Once, he thought, Crookit
furtively looked at the peculiar sort of man, and quickly revolted
from the sight. What could be the reason of it ?
But now the business began, and yet the authorities seemed
somewhat at a loss how to begin it. The magistrates' clerk was
a little insignificant and timid man, who first turned over some
papers before him, opened a book and took his pen from behind
his ear and dipped it in the ink ; then he passed his left hand
over his brow, as if to brighten his wits,—but failed. [Replacing
his pen behind his ear, he rose from his seat at the long table,
and went to whisper with the chairman, Bargrave Bumbleton.
Mr. Bargrave seemed impatient, and answered somewhat angrily
and audibly to all in the room,—
 It does not matter which first, sir, since Mr. Pernshawe is
not here. Begin with one of them, if you please! 
Blushed with confusioD, the little man of office returned to his
chair, once more took the pen from behind his ear, dipped it
again in th.6 ink, mid. looking right und loft, a/t IPcrcrval, Colton,
and the constable on one side, and at Crookit and Brown on the
other, again hesitated.
358
THE FAMILY FEUD.
 Oil! Harrison, lie said at length, to the constable,  we
will take your deposition first. You produce the prisoner—the
prisoner, Canute Colton ? 
Harrison moved his head deferentially, but without speaking,
thinking answer needless.
 From whence do you bring him?—that is to say, under
what circumstances did you arrest him ? 
 I bring him direct from the house of this gentleman, Mr.
Percival, answered the constable;  the circumstances under
which 
 Stop, if you please! said the little clerk, moving his pen
rapidly to note the deposition, but fearful of being unable to
keep up with the constable.
Where did the gentleman live ? and other unimportant items
of inquiry had to be answered; and O'Frisk, meanwhile, was
scrutinizing the figure, face, and bearing of Percival, and feeling
amazed and confounded at the fact that there was the man
before his eyes, and standing next to Cain, too—of whose super- •
stitious dread of the curse they had been talking so lately at
Mr. Timothy's.  A madman!  thought O'Frisk;  why, ho
does not look exactly like one, though lie is a very extraordinary
sort of man in appearance. But the most extraordinary tiling
is, that he appears to be Colton's friend and counsellor. Why,
this is the very oddest thing in all this odd collection and con-
glomeration of things !  But the curate's soliloquy was inter-
rupted by the display of some little harshness on the part of one
of the bench.
 At the house of Mr. Percival, the Hermitage, Warwick-
shire, said the clerk, with his eyes on the paper,  you arrested
the prisoner 
 No, sir, said the constable,  I brought him direct from the
house 
 Well, sir, if you did not arrest him there—what had you to
do there ?  demanded the clerk.
 We slept there, for we were completely worn out, replied
the constable;  and Mr. Percival was kind enough to allow
us to do so, and also to assist me in my watch over the pri-
soner.
 Sleep, sir!  exclaimed one of the magistrates ;  what with
a prisoner in your care ! 
 Gentlemen, said Percival, bending slightly to the chair-
man,  pray excuse me the irregularity—but what the officer has
said is strictly time ; and neither he nor the prisoner could have
travelled hither from my house without sleep. And it is also
strictly true that I assisted the officer in keeping watch over the
prisoner.
1HE FAMILY FEUD.
359
There was a buzz and whisper among the magistrates, and an
outburst of talk among the crowd.
 Then he's no lawyer, after all!  said one who stood close to
O'Frisk.
 Hot at all. He's a gentleman who has helped to secure the
young thief, said another.
 Well, he must be a lover of justice to have come all the way
from Warwickshire to assist Harrison, added a third.
"Silence! was-called again; and now Mr. Bargrave Bum-
bleton tendered the thanks of the bench to Mr. Percival, and
observed that they considered Harrison had acted very pro-
perly. _ >
"Where did you arrest the prisoner? pursued the little
clerk.
 He placed himself under my arrest, in the highway, and at
about a mile's distance from the Hermitage, replied Harrison,
with peculiar emphasis on the first three words.
 Placed himself!  repeated the clerk.
 Placed himself! re-echoed the chairman, with first one and
then another of the bench.
 Like an honest lad, as he knew himself to be, O'Frisk
had nearly called out—but remembered his bond, and kept
silence.
 Do you mean to say, sir, that he offered no resistance? 
demanded the chairman.
 He had pistols, and presented them, when at a distance,
answered the constable, with a little confusion. He was about
to say more, but an outbreak of exultant horror, from all sides,
stopped him.
 Pistols!  echoed the magistrates.
 The young villain! "— The hardened young reprobate !"—
and other exclamations of horror were uttered by the crowd,
manifestly delighted, as they would have been with the repre-
sentation on the stage of "Jack Sheppard.
 Well, sir, where are they ? You produce them, of course,
said the clerk.
 I beg pardon, gentlemen, said Percival,  I must be blamed
for the non-production of the pistols. I took them from behind
the prisoner's pillow while he slept; and they were utterly for-
gotten by myself and the officer, in our haste, as we came
away.
The excitement among the crowd was great as they caught
the words,  took them from behind his pillow. O'Frisk turned
hot and cold with apprehension. The phrase sounded as alarm-
ing as the people around him declared it to be. Pistols behind
his pillow!—it M as the practice of a young highwayman : it m as
360
THE FAMILY FEUD.
like Jonathan Wild,—it was like Turpin and Nevison, many
declared. O'Frisk did not like it; and besides he now feared
that Percival was there to aid in the conviction of Colton not
to befriend the poor lad. The magistrates' clerk thought he had
questioned the witness sufficiently, and intimated the same to
the bench. They coincided with him; and Mr. Bargrave
Bumbleton loudly asked—
 Prisoner, do you wish to ask the witness any questions? 
But the prisoner stood resting his chin on his hand, with a
pale, abstracted look, and made no answer.
O'Frisk's heart ached, and he wondered why Mr. Timothy
and Mr. Titus did not appear.  I shall not be able to keep
silence much longer, if they do not, thought he.
After another fit of indecision, the clerk looked determinately
to the other end of the table.
 Mr. Crookit, please take the book in your hand, said
he ; and proceeded to swear the new witness on the Gospels, as
he had previously sworn the constable.
And now, not only the curate, but many in the crowd noted
Crookit's trembling and pallor, and some began to whisper their
wonder. The curate was secretly exulting in the hope that the
villain would be too much conscience-smitten to carry out his
wickedness ; and the magistrates' clerk was hemming a prepa-
ration for his opening question to the new witness, when an
astounding clamour at the great doors of the hall, which were
held wide open by the crowd, arrested the progress of the busi-
ness. We must go back a little in order to account properly
for this unlooked-for interruption.
CHAPTEB IY.
An Episode, relating how our honest Jossy kidnapped his Kidnapper right
valiantly.
The privilege which had been allowed Jossy Jessop, to sit or
stand, was not despised because it was the only one his enemies
had left him. He stood up and felt the use of his limbs. The
bandage which blinded him also dulled his hearing, yet he
wriggled his large head until it was so far released that he could
hear voices, busy and merry, but they did not seem very near to
him. After a time he succeeded in slackening the bandage so
that he could see out of one eye. It was broad daylight, and he
found that he was in a stable, empty of every animate creature
THE FAMILY FEUD.
361
but himself. The voices came from an adjoining stable, and he
listened to them. Coarse jokes were all he could hear for a time,
and they were bandied by only two persons over a can of drink.
He was the subject of their jokes, and it did not please him
greatly to hear them.
The liquor, however, seemed to mellow their dispositions, and
one of them gave a hint of his inclination to carry a portion to
the  poor devil in the corner.
 That's myself, thought Jossy;  I must be civil with 'em.
The other grumbled dissent, and doubted there would be
danger. But the first laughed at the notion of there being any
danger in a man who was tied fast with his hands behind him.
 Besides, said his pot-valour,  we are two to one, and, more
than that, here's the pistol! 
The other relented, inasmuch as he had heard that the old
coachman was no bad fellow, and he would have no objection to
giving the old codger a share of the drink—only he must remem-
ber the squire's orders. But the squire would not know, rea-
soned his fellow. The warier watchman grew more generous
with his renewed visits to the can. There was plenty of stuff,
he said, and it seemed only common pity to share it, and so they
agreed, and the door opened, and in came the two topers to offer
a share of their cheer to Jossy Jessop. He had shrewdly seated
himself, and seemed to be disconsolate; but he quickly dis-
covered that if it had not been for the fastening of his hands, he
would soon have been able to give a good account of his jolly
friends.
 Why, what, my old cockalorum ! eh ! I say, you look down
on your luck! began one, as he made his way to Jossy, not
exactly in the direction of a right line.
 Devilish good reason—I—I imagine !  hiccuped the other.
 Come, we've brought ye a drop to cheer the cockles o' yer
heart, old boy ! But, Ned, take hold o' the pistol while I take
the clouts off his head!  said the merrier watchman.
 See you at"—the other mentioned a hot situation— first,
before you shall do aught o' the sort! 
 Why, how the de—devil is he to d—drink, with the clouts
over his mouth?  asked the first, and laughed till he staggered.
 Well—why—noa, he can't very well, grunted the other,
while he looked sillyish;  but you must put 'em on again,
Jack.
 We'll see about that, said Jack; and so Ned held the
pistol while Jack took off the clouts.
 Fairish-looking face o' yer own, old lad !  said merry Jack.
 Thank ye, said Jossy,  it's none o'my own making ; but
I'm not ashamed on't.
S32
THE FAMILY FEUD.
"Well said, old cockalorum! rejoined Jack; "come, sup
up, I'll liold the horn to your mouth, as Mother Shipton held
the candle to the devil.
 While he read the prayers back'ards-way, said Jossy, and
grinned, judging it better to keep rogues' humour. _  Your
healths, friends !  he added, as Jack held the horn to his mouth.
 He's a hearty sort of a horse-doctor! grinned Ned; "what's
your remedy for the staggers, my old buck ? 
The two fellows laughed at their own joke; but Jossy only
replied,—
 Nothing better than that you hold in your hand. Shall be
glad to take my turn again.
 So you shall, said they both ; tipped off a horn each, and
held Jossy another. But Jossy made a wry face, and jerked his
aching hands.
 It is hard, declared Jack,  not to be allowed to lift the
horn to one's own mouth. Ned, what say ye to untying him for
a few minutes P 
Ned swore mightily in reply, and threatened the proposer.
 Not so fast!  cried Jack;  I'm not to be bullied like a child.
I say he shall be loosed. What's the fear of him P Haven't I the
pistol P 
 I tell ye, ver a fool, said Ned, but less angrily.
 I haven't far to seek for another, said Jack, in good temper
again in a moment, with his own gibe and the drink ;  come,
come, let us loose him for a few minutes! 
 Will he give us his word to be reasonable? said Ned,
whose caution did not spring from his brighter wits.
 That I will, or my name isn't what it is !  vowed Jossy.
 Come, then, we'll undo him for a few minutes—but, stop!
let me just go and look out. The squire may be coming, said
Ned.
 Not he, said Jack;  it isn't time yet.
But Ned would go and look out. He returned, saying he
could see nobody ; and they then untied their prisoner.
 Thank ye, said Jossy, sitting down, apparently quite dis-
posed to be tame,  it'll be a relief for a few minutes. I've
almost lost the use of my hands.
And so Jossy really felt; but he took care to employ himself
in chafing his palms, and using every means to bring back their
use. Then he essayed his joke, and proposed a little more liquor,
and seemed so content, that even Ned felt confidence in liim,
while Jack laughed, and slapped him on the shoulder with admi-
ration. But Jossy no sooner felt the numbness cease, and the
blood freely circulate in his hands, than he seized the oppor-
tunity afforded while Ned was pouring a fresh horn of liquor out
THE FAMILY FEUD.
363
of the can, to snatch the pistol out of the hand of Jack, trip up
his heels, and then knock down the other. Indeed, Jossy would
have been a match for half a dozen fellows no bigger and no
soberer than the two who now lay terrified, sprawling, and ask-
ing for pity at his feet.
 Stop your noise, ye rascals!  said Jossy, with his foot tin
the body of one, and pointing the weapon at the other,  and
lie still, or I'll settle ye both. Who set ye on this business P
Tell me this minute ! I'll not wait.
 Oh, it was the squire !  cried Jack, at whom the pistol was
pointed,  don't shoot me ! 
 What squire, you villain ? speak ! 
 Squire Fernshawe, answered the frightened Jack.
 Just as I thought; I knew his foul outlandish croak, though
I haven't heard it often. But there were four o' ye. Who was
the other?
 I don't know the gentleman—I don't indeed, protested
Jack;  but Ned knows him.
 Come, you rascal, said Jossy,  setting his heel harder on
the body of the other,  speak, or I'll make ye! 
 Crookit, the gentleman clerk, cried the groaning wretch;
 oh, have mercy on me! 
"Gentleman scoundrel! cried Jossy, "just as I thought
again. Now tell me how far I am from Quarrelton.
"A couple o' miles from Dreamfield, answered Ned.
 Strike out to the corner of the close on your right, and then
over two fields, and it'll bring yer to the high-road, said Jack.
"Yes, I mean to be in the high-road soon ; but I've a good
mind to give ye both a good hearty kicking first.
Both the fellows cried amain for mercy.
 Hold your blether, then!  said Jossy,  it is not worth the
trouble kicking such as you. But' remember, if either of you
follows me, I'll blow your brains out!
They were vociferous in declarations that they would not
follow him; but Jossy sprang off without remaining to hear
them finish. He soon gained the high-road; but at the very
first turning was met by Fernshawe. The meeting was so un-
expected that Jossy forgot his pistoL Fernshawe, on the con-
trary, drew forth a weapon instantly and pulled the trigger as
he pointed it at Jossy, but it missed fire. With a bitter curse,
the fierce villain dashed the failing instrument to the earth,
and sprang at Jessop's throat. Jossy shook him off, and, dis-
dainfully throwing away the pistol, said,—
 Come on, then, if that's your game, squire ! 
Jossy imagined he would soon be able to dispose of the
diminutive squire : he was mistaken. Fernshawe was versed in
364
THE FAMILY FEUD.
all low arts and sciences, and, among the rest, in pugilism.
Jossy was hit, and foully too; but could not get one effective
stroke at his foe ; for Jossy knew nought of  science. What
could he do? He made a desperate spring, and caught the
fiendish little fencer.
"Now, you rascally little bearded monkey! cried Jossy,
full of wrath,  I'll teach ye to serve a poor honest fellow as
you've served me.
And while the moustached animal bit and kicked, and cursed
and swore, Jossy pinioned its arms, and squeezed it till the
breath was almost out of its body. When it lay still a little
with exhaustion, Jossy threw it over his broad shoulders.
"Now 1 have ye safe, I'll take ye to the justices myself, to
save the constables any trouble in finding ye, said the honest
old coachee;  so here we tramp to Quarrelton! 
But it was not so easy a task to carry the animal there, as
Jossy had believed it would be. The fierce creature revived
again and again, and Jossy had often to renew the squeezing
process to tame it. Nay, twice it wriggled like a snake out of
his clutches; and Jossy had some difficulty in securing it again.
It was past noon before Jossy reached the entrance of Quarrel-
ton with his disagreeable burthen ; and, as stout and strong as
he was, he was thoroughly blown by that time.
The general eagerness to witness the examination of Colton
had thinned the streets of people; but there was soon a crowd
attending Jossy. Luckily he found Joe had remained at home,
having sent a substitute as guard on the coach-journey, from
inability to perform the office himself. Jossy called Joe out, as he
passed the door, and though his old companion hobbled sorely,
Joe helped to keep back the crowd a little, so that Jossy could
get on with his awkward burthen. And in this way they reached
the doors of the hall where the magistrates were sitting; and
it was on this account that the huzzaing, laughter, and queer
outcries were swollen into such a hurricane of din, that the little
clerk was so amazed as to be unable to begin to pat his inter-
rogatories to Crookit.
the family fetid.
365
CHAPTER Y.
Containing the final Fall of one Rascal, the Self-conviction of another, and the
triumphant Establishment of the Hero's Innocence.
If it had been hard work for Jossy Jessop to bring his live
burthen so far as the hall door, it was trebly hard to get it into
the room. It was not that many resisted Jossy's progress among
the densely-packed crowd, though some were very indignant at
him, since they happened to know that it was the expected
witness, Squire Eernshawe, whom he was bearing thus unman-
nerly. The greater number gave way as readily as their crowded
state permitted them, partly out of respect for Jossy, and partly
from ignorance of the person he was bearing, as well as from
their delight at what they esteemed to be "the fun of the thing.
Fernshawe's desperate struggles were Jossy's chief annoyance.
Stung well-nigh to madness with shame at his ludicrous situa-
tion, and still more with the dread of exposure, since he felt
sure that the person who was bearing him would give the lie
direct to the statement he was expected to give, the captive
squire writhed till he slipped from Jossv's hold. But he was
now within the room, and Jossy took care he did not get out.
Moreover, O'Frisk had no sooner caught sight of Jossy than he
exerted himself to get near his hearty friend; and in spite of
the confusion succeeded in doing so. He also helped Jossy to
urge Eernshawe forward; and at last the mortified squire
yielded, and Jossy lifted up his slender weight, and placed him
bodily on the central table, close by Percival and Colton, and
opposite to Crookit and Brown. Fernshawe jumped from the
table, and threw himself exhausted into a chair ; and though all
the bench were on their feet, and Bargrave Bumbleton was
shouting  Order!  with all his power of lungs, the crowd were
convulsed with laughter, so that Fernshawe cowered with shame.
He chanced to catch a sight of Crookit's face, amidst his un-
speakable humiliation, and saw that even his villanous plotting
companion could not resist the general merriment.
But what a look did he give Crookit in return! His whole
soul of malice and fierceness was in that look; and it brought
Crookit to the remembrance of his own perilous situation in a
moment. The sinister-eyed clerk wished himself a thousand
miles from Quarrelton; but there he was in that justice-hall,
and could not escape. With indescribable anguish in his false
3G5
THE FAMILY FEUD.
face, Crookit resigned liimself to the stream of circumstance,
resolving to make a struggle for shore, like a desperate swimmer,
if he should discern the slightest appearance of a landing-place,
but despairing to find it.
An approach to order was made at last; but not before Jossy
Jessop had recognised Colton, and passionately grasped the
youth's hand. This act of Jossy's had been observed by Mr.
Bargrave, and it moved his high indignation.
 Stand back, sir!  roared the grand functionary ;  and in-
stead of shaking hands with the prisoner, be prepared to give
an account of your riotous behaviour, as soon as the present
business is dismissed. Harrison, take that man in charge! 
 He needn't take charge of me, sir, said Jossy, boldly; "I
shall not run away. I intend to stay and see justice done
upon——
 Silence, sir, or I'll commit you to prison for contempt of the
court!  thundered the angry president.
Jossy persisted in trying to speak; but every member of the
Bench shouted  Silence! "—and Percival laying his hand on
Jossy's arm, said earnestly,—
 Whoever you are, my friend, keep silence, or you'll get
into serious trouble. Be quiet for the present; your turn will
come.
Jossy was impressed by Percival's powerful look, and obeyed.
The tumult had so completely shaken the nerves and disordered
the wits of the timid little magistrate's clerk, that he seemed to
have forgotten what he had to do; or otherwise some obscure
idea had entered his brain, that Fernshawe's arrival rendered it
proper and convenient to change the order of proceedings. He
stared at Fernshawe, then fumbled among his papers, and
amidst the expectaut silence of the spectators, once more looked
at Fernshawe and pronounced the squire's name.
"What are you about, sir? demanded the angry chairman;
 you have nothing to do with Mr. Fernshawe at present. Mr.
Crookit is sworn, sir. Pray attend to your business regularly.
 I beg your worship's pardon!  cringed the little clerk,  it
was my mistake. Pray, Mr. Crookit, said he, stammering and
striving to recollect the question he had to put,  were you—
that is, did you—I meant to say, are you aware—yes: can you,
as a person of trust in Mr. TJpham's service, say whether the
prisoner was sent 
 You must not put a leading question to the witness, sir,
vociferated Mr. Bargrave, whose gall did not speedily settle
when it was once thoroughly disturbed;  do mind what you
are about, sir!
 Mr. Crookit, do you know whether the prisoner was lately
THE FAMILY FEUD.
3G7
a clerk in Mr. Upham's office? asked tlie clerk; and received a
simple and direct answer.
 Did the prisoner always remain at the desk?"—"No; he
was sometimes sent on journeys."— When did he undertake
any journey ? "— The last he undertook was to Bippleford.
 On what day was that ? and was Byeham a coach-stage on
the way ? "—True answers were given. The little clerk hesi-
tated, and then said,—
 That will do, sir, for the present. Your worship, he added,
turning timorously to the chair, "since Mr. Fernshawe is now
here 
"Go on, sir, or I'll leave the chair, thundered President
Bumbleton.
 Brown—what is your name—your Christian name ?  asked
the terrified clerk; and the fellow answered and was sworn;
and when asked what he was, replied that he was servant to
Squire Fernshawe.
 I beg pardon, sir, broke in Percival, addressing the chair-
man,  this is a most unusual proceeding, to examine witnesses
in the presence of each other, or 
 Silence, sir!  commanded the chairman,  or you shall be
put out of the room. We have done the best we could, sir,
under circumstances. A little irregularity may be excused in
such an extraordinary case.
 But this irregularity will render that man's evidence of no
value, persevered Percival, and pointed at Brown;  but I have
done, sir, and he bowed, and sat down.
 Proceed with the case!  said Bumbleton to the clerk, but
in a much modified tone, for the words of Percival had cooled
him.
 When did you first meet your master ?  asked the clerk ;
and Brown gave the date already given by Crookit, adding that
the meeting was at Byeham, after Mr. Fernshawe got off the
stage-coach.
 Did you accompany your master into the inn at Byeham ? 
 I did, replied the unblushing Brown.
Colton alone with intense expectation was watching the work-
ings of Jossy's face in these moments. Fernshawe and Crookit
had covered their faces, alike unable to endure any gaze, under
the consciousness that the die was just about to be cast which
would determine their reputation—if no more—for life.
 What took place there—in your presence ?—state what you
heard and saw,"—said the clerk to the witness.
Brown then affirmed that he saw his master beckon the
prisoner into the room of the inn ; that his master paid Colton
three hundred pounds, partly in gold and partly in paper-money,
368
THE FAMILY FEUD.
on Mr. Upliam's account; and that Colton gave a stamped
receipt for the money to Mr. Fernshawe—which receipt he,
Brown, had now in his hand, having been entrusted with it by
his master.
The magistrates' clerk took the paper from Brown's hand the
moment that his testimony was given; and immediately Jossy
Jessop cried,—
 The good Lord in heaven have mercy on us all! This is
the wickedest lie that ever was told. I drove the coach that
day ; and here's Joe the guard. Squire Fernshawe got off the
coach, and jumped into his own carriage the very next minute.
He never went into the inn at Byeham at all; nor did Mr.
Canute either. As for Mr. Canute, the squire never spoke to
him. It's all a wicked scheme to swear the poor young gen'le-
man's life away. Put me to my oath on the Blessed Book, and
I'll maintain it! 
 What Jossy has said is as true as the Gospel!  cried Joe ;
 send for the landlord from Byeham, and he'll tell ye the
same.
 I'm here; and I'm ready to take my oath that what Jossy and
Jce have said is true!  shouted the Byeham innkeeper, who,
happening to make a business visit to the town, had been
attracted to the justice-room by the general excitement.
These three speeches were uttered amidst the most profound
silence ; for Jossy's face, while he spoke, and owing to his
unwonted emotion, was like that of a man who is under some
unearthly impression; and not even Bargrave Bumbleton
himself felt power to say  silence! 
Every individual in the crowded room seemed almost inani-
mate for several seconds after the innkeeper had ceased; and
then a universal low whispering was succeeded by exclamations
of amazement. The Bench looked at each other, and, at last,
Bargrave Bumbleton said
 Well, gentlemen—this—this is most extraordinary ! 
 Most extraordinary!  repeated every one of his dignified
brethren.
 But—but, said the chairman,  the case must go on.
 It must go on, repeated they all.
 These three witnesses must give their evidence on oath, on
the other side, added Bumbleton.
 On the other side, echoed the Bench severally.
 Let the case go on !  commanded Mr. Bargrave.
 Yes, your worship, answered the magistrates' clerk ; "of
course your worships will choose to see the receipt"—and the
little man handed the paper he had taken from the hand of
Brown, to the chairman.
THE FAMILY FEUD.
369
 Hovr is—how is this ?  asked the chairman, gazing on the
>aper ;  this is not a receipt! It is a bill of exchange for three
hundred pounds, payable at two months, drawn by Mr. Crookit
•\nd accepted by Mr. Fernshawe.
Crookit gnashed his teeth, and struck the table with his hand,
while he muttered a bitter curse on his own want of caution.
Fernshawe laughed a fiendish laugh. And all who could see
1 he faces of both felt it was frightful to look at two such incar-
nations of depravity.
 Since Mr. Fernshawe is now here, said the chairman, "can
?,e produce the receipt ? 
 I never had it, shrieked Fernshawe;  you'll find it on the
oerson of that pitiful villain who sits there ! "—and he pointed
it Crookit with fiendish derision.
What could the magistrates do ? They repeated the words
 Most extraordinary! 
 Well, gentlemen, we cannot search Mr. Crookit for the
receipt—at least, not at this stage of the proceedings, opined
Bumbleton.  Not at this stage of the proceedings, all the
magistrates repeated. ,
 Let the case go on!  again commanded the chairman.
 Your worship, I—I don't know what more we can do, since
Mr. Fernshawe ■
 Then, sir, swear Jessop on the other side, commanded
Mr. Bargrave.
 On the other side, echoed every other member of the
Bench.
Jossy, Joe, and the Byeham innkeeper were severally sworn,
and gave their evidence.
 I suppose we have now done, your worships, said the
clerk.
 Do you agree with me, gentlemen ?  asked Bumbleton, of
his brethren;  I say we dismiss the case. The evidence of the
man, Brown, is informal; and when it is set aside there is no
case. . i „
 I claim to be sworn before you dismiss the case, gentlemen,
said Percival.  I must have this young man cleared even of every
shadow of charge; and I have evidence to give which will bring
the nature of "this dark juggle more clearly to the light. I
demand to be sworn!  x .,
 You need not swear him, said Fernshawe ; _ I never paid
the money. It is all a false and villanous contrivance of that
cowardly juggler!  and again he pointed at Crookit;  he wrote
the receipt in imitation of Colton's hand. He showed the false
receipt to Upham, and persuaded Upham that it was Colton's
handwriting. He wrote letters in a disguised name to Colton
370
THE FAMILY FEUD.
in London, and frightened Colton into remaining away from
Quarrelton. It is bis own trick from beginning to end, and of a
piece with his past thievish life. Search him, I say, and you'll
find the paper upon him. I have never had it in my hands, nor
seen it, since I saw him write it.
 But you disgrace yourself for life, sir, said Mr. Bargrave
sternly, "by acknowledging that you saw him write it, and
mixing yourself up with such a base transaction. More than
that, I believe you could be indicted for a conspiracy with
Crookit.
 You need not indict me, Fernshawe replied;  I shall quit
your accursed town and never enter it again. Indeed 1 shall
quit England, and never return.
 The sooner the better, sir, said Bumbleton.  Do you
still demand to be sworn, Mr. Percival ? 
"No, sir, answered Percival, "I am satisfied since Mr.
Eernshawe has thus spoken.
 There is one point on which I should like to be satisfied,
observed the chairman;  this young man's disappearance from
the town has been the occasion of a great deal of trouble. Now,
although Mr. Fernshawe's statement—which Mr. Crookit does
not deny—may account for Colton's remaining away so long,
why did he go away ? 
 I beg leave to answer you, sir, replied a noble-looking
young man, who had been observed to come in at the side-door,
and who had been standing for some time behind the magis-
trates :  there was a rumour that a criminal charge would be
brought against Mr. Colton for some injury a young musician
had suffered. I knew that Mr. Colton was guiltless, and I per-
suaded him to go away, until the affair had died away, and
thus save my father and Mr. Upham an increase of the trouble
which they have had from party quarrels.
 The confession does you honour, Mr. Algernon, said Mr.
Bargrave ;  but more especially the motive you allege for
advising Mr. Colton to go away. I am no party man myself;
and I heartily wish all party quarrels were ended.
 I hope one party quarrel will soon be ended, sir, said
Algernon;  meantime it is my duty to present to you this
letter, signed by Mr. Timothy Upham and my father, desiring
you to'direct ldichard Crookit to be kept in strict custody until
he can be examined on a charge of extensive embezzlement
committed on the estate of his employer.
Crookit was taken away by the side-door, apparently scarcely
conscious of what they were doing with him.
 I brought the squire here for playing at kidnapping, said
Jossy,  and thought of getting him gaoled as well. But
the family feud.
371
since he's told the truth about Mr. Canute, and I've shamed
him and made his bones pretty sore into the bargain, I'll let
him off! 
CHAPTER VI.
Which is very short, and describes how the good People of Quarrelton wondered
in the Streets, went Home to wonder, and continued wondering.
What a day was that in Quarrelton! How few, when they
rose from their beds in the morning, imagined that their heads
would almost become topsy-turvy with wondering before night-
fall! And now, to see the behaviour of the crowd, and to hear
their assertions of their own sagacity, as they poured out of
the justice-hall into the street!
 It's the most surprising thing that ever happened in
Quarrelton, said the tailor to the shoemaker;  but it has
turned out just as I expected it would. There's honesty written
in the young lad's face.
 He's the very picture of it, assented the shoemaker;  and
Crookit is the image of villany.
 I always thought so, said the corn-dealer ;  and hated to
do business with him when Mr. Timothy was not in the office.
But as for this young Colton, he was civility itself. I never
believed him capable of an ill action.
 He's been most scandalously ill-used, for all that, remarked
the Uphamite blacksmith, with generous warmth,  and it is a
great shame that one so innocent and honourable should have
been put to so much trouble.
 There was one honourable young gentleman, you will please
to remember, said the Downhamite shopkeeper,  who was
not backward in helping to restore his character.
 I grant it, sir, replied the blacksmith, stiffly;  but it's
very hard, for all that, that this upright young man should
have been driven about, and persecuted as he has been. I don't
wonder that he felt himself obliged to sleep with pistols under
his pillow.
 I am glad he had the pluck to do it, declared the bold
knight of St. Crispin ;  and I only wish he could have had a
fair shot at that rascal, Crookit.
 Never mind, Crookit will get his penn'orths, declared the
tailor, exultantly;  Jack Ketch will have the finishing of his
accounts, or I'm much mistaken.
2 b 2
372
THE FAMILY FEUD.
 He deserves to be hung ten times over, another virtuous
censor was saying ; but a shout in the rear drowned his voice ;
and the homeward-bound multitude faced about, and then
obeyed the call. >
 Make way, make way ! divide, divide! he's coming! 
And through the living lane of excited faces, amidst a wild
and general  hurrah !  came our hero, almost dizzy with the
whirl of events, and yet returning smiles for the shouts of the
crowd. He leaned on the arms of two, who were far prouder of
his triumphal march than he was himself. O'Frisk on the
right, and happy Jossy Jessop on the left, were his supporters ;
and the step and port of Jossy were as stately as could have
been those of the chief beef-eater of Harry Tudor, while the
curate seemed to have something to do to keep down a disposi-
tion to whoop and skip. Behind them, arm in arm, came
Percival and young Algernon Downham, and thus the partisans
of Mr. Timothy and Mr. Titus felt alike constrained to join in
the prolonged and enthusiastic cheering.
"There's not a worthier man living than Jossy Jessop!
declared one, when the triumphal party had passed.
"He's only too good-natured, observed another; "I
would not have let the rascally squire off so easy.
 Nor I, said a third;  he ought to have a taste of the
gaol, for it's clear enough he's a big villain—but where did
Jossy find him, I wonder ? 
 That's what I should like to know, said several of the
crowd.
 What did Jossy mean by ' kidnapping,' think yeP  asked
others.
 Let us push on, and learn what we can, was a proposal
that met with general acceptance. And though the crowd, as
yet, met with no interpretation of Jossy's words, they learned
something which increased their wondering on this day of
wonders.
At the door of Mr. Timothy's mansion there remained the
carriage of Mr. Titus; and the son of Mr. Titus actually went
into the house of Mr. Timothy, in company with Percival, and
closely following Colton and his right and left supporters ! A
Downham—nay, the heir of the Downhams—in the house of
Upham! The multitude were astonished; they asked ques-
tions, they gave answers, they exchanged opinions, they snook
their heads, they formed knots for conversation, they resolved to
get at the bottom of it, they said it was highly proper that some-
thing should be known about it, they asked what it was to lead
to—when behold! the door of Mr. Timothy's mansion re-opened,
and forthwith walked out and stepped into the carriage, sue-
THE FAMILY FEUD.
373
cessively—the younger Downham, and then Percival, and then
Colton,—and lastly—in the face of all the multitude—the elder
Downham—the veritable Mr. Titus himself!
sShout? They could not shout for gaping. The carriage
rolled off; but there they stood and gaped and gazed still!
They looked up at Mr. Timothy's mansion, they looked after
the carriage, they looked straight at Mr. Timothy's door! It
was closed; but it was a fact that Mr. Titus had come out
there! What could they think ?—what could they say ? They
knew not what to think—they knew not what to say ; and yet
they did think, and they did say, that it was as well, now, to go
home, and quietly get something to eat and drink, for their
stomachs were empty, and their brains were full enough of
wonder, and they couldn't, wouldn't, and shouldn't wonder at
anything after this!
let they did wonder, not only for the remainder of that day,
but for days after, so wonderful were the reports, and correc-
tions of reports ; and, above all, the events which followed that
first day of wonders.
CHAPTER VII.
Relating' various pleasant Things about various People.
That conscientious and strict attention to the direct progress of
his narrative on which the present historian prides himself,
would not permit him earlier to inform the reader, that a certain
young gentleman, who had a high opinion of the merits of Mr.
Osberne Osberton, and a great regard for Canute Colton, was
among the crowd, and not far from the door of the justice-
hall, during the examination of our hero on the charge of
embezzlement. I trust I speak clearly enough to make the
reader understand that I mean Mr. Osberne Osberton himself.
Generously elated with the issue of an entire acquittal for
Colton, which this young gentleman acutely, although silently,
prognosticated, when he had heard the three speeches of Jossy
Jessop, the coach-guard Joe, and the Byeham innkeeper, he
removed himself as adroitly and speedily as possible from the
hall, and without once calling to mind his own consequence as
a gentleman, and the son of a gentleman, ran with the haste
of an Athenian dromos, to bear the news to Mr. Timothy's
mansion.
Vainly did Mrs. Phoebe, and the footman, and the maids,
374
THE FAMILY FEUD.
endeavour to frustrate liis magnanimous intent. He propitiated
their favour by a few striking sentences of triumph: Jossy
Jessop had brought Fernshawe captive into the hall, had over-
thrown the false charge, deliverance with honour was at hand
for Colton! The ancient housekeeper lifted up her hands and
wept for joy; the footman and maids declared it was too much
for their feelings; Osberton could not control his, and so
bounded up the grand staircase into the drawing-room; and,
panting for breath, gave a brief but glowing account of what he
had witnessed to Mr. Timothy, and Mr. Titus, and Algernon,
and Charlotte, and Mr. Elder. That so many persons were in
the room, and that it was very strange that two of them
especially should be there, young Osberne did not think of, till
he had finished his rapid story. He saw Mr. Timothy, and to
Mr. Timothy he spoke, and then away he would have gone—
flown I had almost said—back to the justice-hall; but Mr.
Elder, a moment before, almost delirious with joy, caught hold
of him, and desired him to remain. Mr. Elder's purpose was
to obtain Osberne's corroboration of certain suspicious ap-
pearances relative to the conduct of Crookit. Osberne very
frankly and conscientiously strengthened the affirmations of
Mr. Elder; and now Mr. Timothy said, turning to Mr.
Titus,—
"It is enough, sir. Justice, however severe, must be done
upon the guilty, though Providence has delivered the innocent.
You will join me in a letter to the magistrates, directing them
to secure Crookit, and I will pray you, sir, to let your worthy
son bear it to them before they leave the bench.
The letter was written by Mr. Titus, signed by the two
magistrates, and delivered to the magistrates by Algernon, as
the reader has already seen. Again Osberton would have
evanished; but Mr. Timothy desired him and Mr. Elder to
remain, and witness Colton's reception in the drawing-room,
since young Algernon had been commissioned to bring our hero
thither. So Osberne remained, and gave a more circumstantial
relation of all that he had witnessed, in the ears of Miss Char-
lotte and Mr. Elder; but the grandees withdrew to another
part of the room, and conversed in an under tone.
 The greater business, sir, said Mr. Timothy,  that which
is of vital and lasting interest to myself and my family, remains.
 And it must be transacted with dignity, sir, observed Mr.
Titus.
 It must, sir: you express my sentiments exactly, Mr.
Downham.
 You should not, I think, sir, receive the young man at once
as your relative. It will be sufficient that you congratulate him
THE FAMILY FEUE.
375
on the re-establishment of his character, in the interview which
may now be expected in a few minutes.
 Those are just my views, Mr. Titus; and I am happy,
beyond measure, that you think as I do.
 I trust we shall think more alike for the future, Mr. Timothy.
Indeed, I believe we have all along thought and felt alike, and
have only been separated by circumstances, over which, until
now, we had no control.
 But which have now been controlled, most benignly, by a
Higher .Power, for the benefit of us all, I trust. Yet the great
purposes of Providence can never be brought about by our un-
wise haste, you must perceive, Mr. Titus. Mr. 0'Frisk is a good
man, and he meant well; but if I had been guided by his
impetuous counsels, all would not have ended as well, as
honourably, and as happily, as I trust all will end now.
 True, Mr. Timothy; but now the young man is to return
here, cleared of every stain, there will be dignity in welcoming
him as a member of your family. Justice has done its work,
and he has come pure out of the furnace of trial.
"It is a most happy issue for himself, and all of us, Mr.
Titus.
,  Yet, as we were observing, it would be unwise, it would be
improper, it would be undignified, to announce to the young
man a single syllable of a probability, under present circum-
stances, of his being acknowledged as your relative. Permit
me to take him home as my guest for to-night, and let me
propose that the investigation, respecting his birth, and the
proof of it, be completed, if possible, to-morrow.
 My heartiest gratitude to you, Mr. Titus, for your kind and
sensible proposal, responded the merchant.
The meeting for the next day was agreed to; Mr. Titus
promised his own and his son's attendance; the presence of
Percival was reckoned upon, now they had learned from Osberton
that that person was in the justice-hall, and it was determined
to summon the Oldstoeks ; but Mr. Titus expressed a doubt
whether the evidence could be completed without the testimony
of his niece. While they were hesitating on this point of the
problem, the shouting announced the approach of Canute.
Mr. Timothy had resolved to receive the young man with
dignity; but, alas, for poor dignity! it gave way before
nature. The merchant embraced the restored wanderer with
tears, sobbed on his neck, and hailed him as a tie in kindred and
in blood! Mr. Titus considered this was going too far, though
he was eager to go farther, but with dignity! Percival had
also been intent on going farther; but he yielded to the per-
suasion of Mr. Titus, backed by his friend and acquaintance,
376
THE FAMILY FEUD.
Algernon; and after a brief statement of tbe programme for
the morrow, and the satisfactory information given by Percival,
that Mary was at hand, and the inquiry could thus be made
complete, the reception was terminated, and the party, which
caused so much wonder to the crowd, withdrew and entered
Mr. Downham's carriage.
O'Frisk remained with Mr. Timothy. The evening party in
the drawing-room, consisting also of Osberton and Mr. Elder,
together with Miss Charlotte, was enlivened by the curate's
graphic description of the scene in the justice-hall; and, before
many hours had passed, Jossy Jessop was called in to give an ac-
count of his adventure. Jossy's narrative was given with his
characteristic modesty and manliness, and amused the merchant
while it drew boisterous applause from the curate.
 Ye'r a man, every inch o'ye, Jossy! by my soul, so you are i':
declared the curate ;  and I give my vote for ye being made
chief o' the constables, though it would be a pity to spoil yer fine
nature by putting ye to such a profession; but ye're the man
for my money! you not only catch a rogue, but carry him
holus-bolus on yer fine old-fashioned shoulders to the justice-
room 
 And let the rogue escape after taking so much trouble, ob-
served Mr. Timothy, with a shrewd look.
 Well, Mr. Timothy, said Jossy, bluntly,  I hate revenge.
If anybody does me an injury I feel vexed at first, and I'm apt to
be savage ; but it's soon over with me : I can't go any further
with it when I've taken the conceit out of a man, if he be ev?r
such a rascal.
 Faith, and it shows you've a heart in your bosom, Jossy 1
declared the curate,  and I always knew you had. I've a
respect for ye, Jossy ! 
 Thank ye, Mr. O'Frisk! I'm very partial to you, I'm sure,
and have been ever since that night when you floored the—Lor'
bless me! what was I going to say ? Mr. Timothy and Miss Char-
lotte and gentlemen, my service to ye! and I hope, Mr. Timothy,
you'll look over my getting out o' the kitchen-window at such an
untimely hour ; but when a fellow-creature is in trouble I don't
like to be hard-hearted 
 I do look over it, Jessop 
 Thank ye, Mr. Timothy ! you're a gen'leman, as you always
«DOS 
 Hear me, Jessop ! I say I can look over your getting out of
the window, but I can't excuse your letting Fernshawe escape.
He is evidently a very bad man, and has no right to play the
rascal because he is an esquire; I believe I have the right to
THE FAMILY FEUD.
377
prosecute him for his attempt to kidnap my servant; he may do
others a more serious injury 
 He won't in this part o' the country, Mr. Timothy, inter-
jected Jossy ;  the footman was out in the town an hour ago,
and everybody was talking how the fierce squire had ordered
everything to be packed up as soon as he got to his inn, and how
he had got into his carriage while the people groaned at him,
and how he had driven away towards London as if the devil were
after him!
 And so the devil will be, said Mr. Timothy,  let such a bad
man go where he will.
"And the squire promised the justices, added Jossy, "that
he would get out of England directly, and never come back. And
I believe he won't, for very shame, Mr. Timothy.
 I'm glad to hear it, said the merchant;  the country will
be happier without such a man ; and I heartily wish that every
wicked squire would follow him ! 
Jossy perceived his opportunity and beat a retreat to the
kitchen, and from thence to the old housekeeper's room. Mrs.
Phoebe was anxiously expecting him, for she had not been satis-
fied with the talk they had in the kitchen in presence of the foot-
man and maids; and, moreover, she wanted to know why he
had been sent for to the drawing-room. Mrs. Phoebe had been
Jossy's chief counsellor ever since he entered the Upham
household; and she had come to consider it her right to know
of all that he did and all that was done to him.
 Well, Jessop ! that's right! I hoped you would have the
sense to come here when you didn't find me in the kitchen,
said she, the moment that he entered her sitting-room;  I
hate to fill the girls' mouths, and the footman is such a jacka-
napes that he can keep nothing to himself if one happens to
slip a word out. Bless me, I say, Jessop! about these Down-
hams!—but what were you sent for up-stairs, Jessop ? 
 Only to tell'em about r
Phoebe, as you say, about the Downhams! It's so nat'ral to
spite 'em, that I'm blessed sure I shall be making some blun-
der; I was within an ace o' making one just now up-stairs.
 Blunder, Jessop! I don't wonder at it. What I wonder at
is, that Mr. Timothy should suffer Mr. Titus or his son to come
here; they should have had every tooth out of my poor old
head, and I haven't many left, before I would have permitted
them to cross the threshold, if I had been Mr. Timothy.
 But then, you see, Mrs. Phoebe, they have crossed it, and
they're to come again to-morrow, and perhaps often, for it's plain
key of a squire, answered
378
THE FAMILY FETID.
now that the Uphams and Downhams will be friends ; and
though I hate malice, yet I'm sorry for it, because it will spoil
the town-meetings.
 Sorry for it! you may well be sorry for it, and so will all
of our party that are any way respectable. Why, there'll be
no quarrelling and nothing to talk about! Bless me! what
will this world come to ? 
 I really don't know, Mrs. Phoebe ; I'm sure it grows queerer
and queerer. How odd it was now, wasn't it, that it should be
young Mr. Downham who was in the Daisy Meads that night,
and I should have no suspicion of it, and you should think it
was one of our own party ? 
 Well, I must say, Jessop, that he acted very much like
one; and it was very handsome of him to stand up for poor
dear Mr. Canute as he did.
"Wasn't it, Mrs. Phoebe? said Jossy, while admiration
sparkled in his eyes ;  and he's a deuced fine-looking young
fellow, too, let me tell ye ! 
 You needn't tell me what I can see, Jessop, said Mrs.
Phoebe, giving Jossy a look that puzzled him; "and I should
think I've eyes to see that there's somebody else that's fine-
looking.
"What, eh, Mrs. Phoebe ?  asked Jossy, quite in a mist as to
the old housekeeper's meaning.
 What, eh !  repeated the old woman, laughing and mocking
her crony;  and are you Miss Charlotte's coachman, and
haven't wit enough to know that the carriage will hold two
handsome folks as easily as one? 
 Lor' bless me !  exclaimed Jossy, when he had sat gaping
and staring for a score ot seconds;  you don't think that,
Mrs. Phoebe ? 
 But I do, Jessop, said she, with a very authoritative nod ;
 I wasn't born yesterday, and I can guess eggs when I see
shells.
 Well, I never !  burst out Jossy, swelling his large cheeks
and filling his face with laughter, though he didn't laugh out-
right.  Well, I never !  he repeated, springing up and making
grotesque capers about the room, and rubbing his hands after
a vehement fashion.
 What's the matter with ye, Jessop ? asked the old woman,
striving to conceal her own delight, and with the strife trans-
forming her aged face into a strange picture of drollery.
 What's the matter ! oh, you old puzzle-cap ! cried Jossv,
poking his finger archly into Mrs. Phoebe's dress, as if he would
have reached her ribs ;  what's the matter, indeed!—and yet
THE FAMILY FEUD.
379
you're as pleased as I am, and you can't deny it—I know ye
can't!
 And I declare to ye, said Jossy, when he talked of it in
after-life,  the dear old woman could hold no longer; but she
laughed, and I laughed, and it was one o' the merriest nights I
ever knew!
CHAPTER VIII.
A short Scene and a solemn one.
Merriment and sorrow, laughter and tears, marriages and
deaths—of such a chequered woof is human experience ! There
was joy also in the great house of the Down hams that night,
and it was a joy deepened by tenderneps, for Mary Granger had
returned; and instead of upbraidings she received a smiling
welcome from her uncle and aunt, Mr. Titus and his wife. They
assured her that the truth of heart which had impelled her to
leave their roof on that memorable New Year's night fully
atoned for what the world might deem an unseemly irregularity.
There was a deep happiness in her eyes as she looked at Colton,
when Algernon had given her a brief account of his honourable
acquittal; and her friend, Mrs. Martha, seated by her side,
prattled and wept, like an over-happy child.
Percival had joined in the joyous and excited conversation,
and was expressing the profound satisfaction he would feel in
assisting at the investigation of the morrow, apd seeing it
brought to a triumphant issue for Colton—when he suddenly
stopped, laid his hand on his heart, and uttered a thrilling cry
of pain. His daughter and old Miles sprang to his side, and the
old man caught him just as he bowed his head, and would have
fallen from the chair. He was immediately unconscious, and the
blood forsook his cheek. Mr. Titus took off his neckcloth, and
opened his dress; but the practised eye of the physician sent
forth ominous signs to the face. The pulse stopped, beat again
fitfully, stopped again ; and though Mr. Titus diligently essayed
the use of restoratives, his countenance continued to fill the
anxious bystanders with dread.
At length there were signs of returning life ; Percival opened
his eyes, tried several times unsuccessfully to speak, and finally
pronounced the name of Mr. Upham. Young Algernon hastened
away to Mr. Timothy's immediately—for all understood that
380
THE FAMILY FEUD.
Percival had meant to pronounce a request for the merchant's
presence. Extended on a couch in the room, Percival relapsed
again into unconsciousness, and silence was only broken by the
sobs of his daughter and of old Miles Gilson.
Again there was a respite of the inexorable sentence; Percival
looked on earthly forms once more, and he spoke ; but it was t<
say that he knew he was dying, and to desire his daughter t
restrain her grief.
 It is useless and unwise, my dear child, he said faintly,
and almost by syllables;  the heart has had too much to do
within the last few days, and it can do no more. Embrace me,
love, and forgive me for not having been a wiser father—a more
loving one I could not have been. I leave you to the care of
Him who hath said He will be a father to the fatherless.
He sank with weakness, but yet gazed on the forms around
him as if he had more to say; while Una bowed down at the
side of the couch, and tried to stifle her grief in its agony.
Mr. Timothy arrived, and with him came O'Erisk. Percival
feebly raised his hand, and the merchant took it; then he sought
Colton with his eyes.
 Your hand, too, he said, and had just strength to place
Colton's hand in the hand of Mr. Timothy, while he said—
 Your own sister's son ! believe it, on the word of a dying man.
Give him his birthright, and your father's error will be cor-
rected, and all will be done that can now be done to repair the
error of my parents. I drew his mother's picture—my daughter
will give it him—you will see how much it is like your sister—
and how nearly his features resemble his mother's.
He ceased, and the stamp of Death began now to be visible
on his face. O'Erisk knelt, and poured forth healing words in
the ears which were growing dull; but the mind was yet quick
and attentive, and a half-repeated word of the prayer uttered
by the curate, and then another, and another, gave the last signs
of life. The brief but dread convulsive struggle came, and all
was over. Yet, in the rigour of death, a gentle smile left on the
pale, pale face, proclaimed, so silently and yet consolably, to all
who stood around, that the strong spirit which had passed
through so many storms of wayward passion and insanity had
left its clay tenement with its free intelligence recovered, and in
peace.
THE FAMllY FEtfD.
331
CHAPTER IX.
The Hero's true Parentage satisfactorily proved, and the Rejoicings thereupon.
Tns investigation was less formal than liad been intended by
Mr. Timothy, and his new friend and counsellor, Mr. Titus.
The solemn declaration of the dying Percival or Brundrell, and
the yearnings of Mr. Timothy's own heart, alike forbade any
scepticism on his part as to Cain's real parentage. Had it not
been for the zeal of Mr. Titus, prompted by his own wise dis-
cernment of the value of proof to the young man, and backed
by Cain's own strong desire to secure it, the inquiry would not
have been industriously and completely carried out; but the
chain of proof was complete.
Old Miles knew Cain's father, and witnessed the marriage of
Cain's parents ; he received the news of the horrid murder, of
the mother's death, and the child's strange baptism, on the very
day that each event occurred. He knew the woman who had
nursed the child while an infant; he had seen the boy on the
wild moor with the deranged grandfather; and had himself
received the boy from the shepherd after the grandfather's inter-
ment. The old man had seen Cain daily all the years the boy
had been at the hall; had seen him go away in the care of
Granger; and had recognised him on that first visit to the
Hermitage.
Mrs. Martha was a corroborative witness to a great part of
the testimony of old Miles ;—while Mary was not only an im-
portant witness of the same nature, but gave as secondary evi-
dence, what she had heard from her father and mother relative
to the circumstances of Cain's parentage and baptism.
The Oldstocks, professing that fear of Mr. Timothy's dis-
pleasure had been their only motive for concealing their know-
ledge of Cain's true parentage, while desire to see him righted
had moved them to secure his transference to the fostering care
of his uncle, closed the chapter of evidence. Cain's mother had
not only gone from their house to Blythewick to be married, but
they had afterwards received letters from her, in her married
name of  Colton, sorrowfully entreating them to watch and
listen for any signs of relenting on the part of her father. They
had also received one painful letter from her, after the murder of
her husband, giving a short and distracted account of that shock-
ing event: and they had afterwards heard of her own death, and
382
THE FAMILY FEUD.
of the baptism of her child by the abhorrent name of  Cain, at
the wild, and as their informant termed it, insane request of the
child's grandfather. Of the boy's after history they heard no-
thing till they had received him as an apprentice from Mr.
Granger. The overlooker, they stated, related to them the chief
circumstances of the boy's early history, but he evidently had no
knowledge of the lad's relationship to any person in Quarrelton.
They themselves detected the fact, while Mr. Granger was talk-
ing to them, that Cain was the child of Mr. Timothy's sister;
and while the discovery rendered them desirous of receiving
Cain, it induced them to be secret, and to leave Granger in igno-
ranee of it. Finally, uneasy with the knowledge they had, with
Cain's growing indisposition to cultivate the fashioning of wooden
spoons, and their sense of shame that he should be condemned
to an employ so unfitting for one of his birth,—they had written
to Mr. Granger and obtained leave to transfer their charge to
the merchant's office, if they could succeed in their application
for the transfer. The chain of proof was thus complete, and left
not a shade of doubt on the minds of any of the parties con-
cerned.
The investigation took place in Mr. Timothy's drawing-room ;
and when it was concluded, and before any of the witnesses had
left the room, Mr. Timothy summoned thither his servants and
his clerks, and made known to them the great family fact which
had thus been proven. His own behaviour, while he proclaimed
the fact, was less dignified than he could have desired; but his
tenderness produced a memorable effect on his auditors, which
led them to excuse the want of dignity. Hot a word was spoken
in the room by those who were thus summoned to hear. Astonish-
ment kept them silent. But the sobs of ancient Phoebe, and the
blubbering of honest Jossy Jessop, were very audible as they
went down the grand staircase, while Mr. Osberne Osberton was
also unable to control his feelings, though they were by no
means of the lachrymatory class.
 Brayvo!  shouted that young gentleman before he was
half-way down the staircase ;  three cheers for Colton ! I was
always dayvilish sure that he was a gentleman. Hurray for
Colton ! Go it!  cried Mr. Osberne with eloquent emphasis, as
he quitted the house and stepped into the street;  three times
three and no mistake! hip, hip, hip !  and the two whiskered
clerks and the footman were fain to join him in the cheers, while
he swung his hat round, and  stood fugleman, as he called it,1
himself.
Mr. Timothy had been planning with Mr. Titus how to com-
municate the discovery in some impressive manner to the town ;
but the gathering of crowds about the door, and the repeated
THE FAMILY FEUD.
383
rounds of cheering for  Mr. Timothy's nephew during the
evening, convinced the great merchant that all Quarrelton was
in possession of the news already. Young Mr. Osborne became
remarkably eloquent under vinous influence that evening ; and
he declared that the news had spread like wildfire—'cause
why ? Why, because human nature was gunpowder, and he
had fired the train !
The Downhams, elder and younger, and the curate O'Frisk,
with Mary and Mrs. Martha, remained at Mr. Timothy's till
a late hour that evening. Old Miles went back early to the
house of Mr. Titus, with the hope to help in assuaging the grief
of Una, who had remained to mourn by the death-couch. Colton
was told by his uncle that he must henceforth consider that he
was in his own home ; and at his own desire his old rooms were
prepared for him.
Old Mrs. Phoebe contrived, now and then, during the evening,
to enter the drawing-room, but never to make a long stay, for
Jossy felt especially desirous of her company, though they said
the same things, over and over again.
 Lor' bless me, Mrs. Phoebe, said Jossy, when the old woman
returned to him for the fourth or fifth time,  you're always a-
running away! I wish you would stay and let us talk. I feel
so all over of a tremble with joy, that I don't know what to do
with myself when you leave me ! 
 I don't wonder at it, Jessop, answered Mrs. Phoebe,  for
I hardly know where I am, I'm so queer. But I can't help going
up to look at the dear young creaturs, they seem so happy;
and yet I begin to sniffle so, that I'm obliged to come away
again.
 God bless 'em! and so they all look happy, do they, Mrs.
Phoebe ? 
 Ay, and they'll look happier soon, Jessop.
 Lor' bless me, Mrs. Phoebe—it's wonderful, isn't it P at least
it will be, if there's a double marriage between the Upkams and
Downhams.
 It's sure to be, Jessop.
"It's wonderful! repeated Jossy; "but I don't wonder,
now, that I always felt so uncommon partial to Mr. Canute,
seeing as he is who he is.
 Nor I, Jessop. I couldn't account for it that I always felt
such a regard and respect for him. But I suppose it's natural,
Jessop, and we couldn't help it.
 Nattaral, you think, Mrs. Phoebe! said Jossy, very reflect-
ively;  a something, like, that's in God Almighty's creaturs
that links 'em one to another, when they belong to one another
and they don't know it,
384
THE FAMILY FEED.
 That's it, Jessop, depend upon it; it's what the book-larnt
folks call instinlc.
 It may be so, Mrs. Phoebe; but I should like a sweeter
word for it, observed the other learned Theban; "Lor', Mrs.
Phcebe, what a sweet creatur Mr. Canute will have for a
wife ! 
"And a nobler and a handsomer pair never stepped into
church than Miss Charlotte and young Downham will be when
the day comes. I'll throw my old shoe after 'em for luck, that
I will!
 Lor', it'll be delightful! I hope the two couples will be
married together ; and, above all things, Mrs. Phoebe, I hope I
shall have to drive 'em all four in the same coach.
"Now, don't talk nonsense, Jessop! You talk as if your
head was a whirligig.
 And it is a'most, I vow and declare! 
 Do ye think the healing o' the feud between two such high
families—the first in Quarrelton—is to be celebrated in that
shabby way P One coach, indeed! Why, man, all the coaches
in Quarrelton and for miles round will be there ! 
 Lor' bless me, Mrs. Phcebe, I shouldn't wonder! I dare
say you're right; for you're a regular old puzzle-cap. But why
could not the two couples go to church in the same coach P I
should like uncommonly to drive 'em—every one of 'em,—for
I'm uncommon partial to Mr. Canute, and Miss Granger's a
sweet young creatur, and Miss Charlotte — Lor'! isn't she a
queen ?—and young Mr. Downham's a deuced fine-looking young
gen'leman. I should like to drive 'em all four to church in one
coach, Mrs. Phoebe.
 But I tell you, you won't, said Mrs. Phoebe, with her old
authoritative nod ;  and so say no more about it.
"Well, well, I won't, Mrs. Phcebe, said Jossy, feeling
snubbed;  but, at any rate, I hope Mr. O'Frisk will be the
parson,—for he's a regular good fellow, and I've been uncommon
partial to him ever since that night when he floored—Lor' bless
me, Mrs. Phcebe, what was I going to say ? I'm blessed sure
I shall never 
 I'm blessed sure you'd better drink no more o' that double
ale. I never saw you drink in such a way ; though it's a little
excusable on a night like this. But I would advise you to go
to bed, Jessop.
"Well, I'll just make myself a mulled nightcap, and then I
will go to bed, Mrs. Phcebe.
the family feud.
385
CHAPTEE X.
Departure from- Quarrelton.—Charlotte and her Father.—The Great Family
Feud healed 'with Dignity.
The funeral of Percival was marked by considerable pomp,—
not by the desire of Una, but at the direction of Mr. Timothy,
who saw that Cain wished every possible respect to be rendered
to the remains of one who had been so mysteriously interwoven
with his own fortunes. The day after the interment, Una had
a long conversation with Mary; and the next day she signified
her wish to see Cain in Mary's presence. Cain came; and Una
took Mary's hand and placed it in his.
 There is no longer any let or impediment to your union, now
my poor father is gone, said Una ;  I learn that your uncle
admires Mary, ana expects you to be united to her. Mary's
family here expect it. You love her, — not so much as she
deserves to be loved. But, above all, she loves you, and her
happiness for life depends on union with you. I leave you to-
morrow—for ever. So soon as I have disposed of the effects at
the Hermitage—except the pictures, which I shall beg of you to
accept—all but the portrait of my mother,—I shall leave England
for Italy.
 Never to return ! exclaimed Cain and Mary together;  do
not say so !
"Never to return, repeated Una;  I shall devote myself to
beloved music for life, and mean to be buried in the sunny land,
by the side of my mother.
And the next day Una, after many embraces with Mary, and
the shedding of many tears, took her departure with old Miles
and Mrs. Martha.
It was true that Mr. Timothy had spoken in terms of admira-
tion fpr Mary; and it was to Mr. Titus that he spoke, after
receiving from her uncle an explanation of her conduct in going
to seek Cain, and after listening to an eulogium on her character
also from Mr. Titus. Mr. Timothy added the emphatic
words,—
"The union of these two young people, sir, seems to me
extremely proper, since their attachment is not only strong, but
has grown up with them from childhood. It would seem to me
another erring attempt to frustrate the designs of Providence,
2 c
386
THE FAMILY FEUD.
if either you or I were to forbid it. Do you share my senti.
ments, Mr. Titus ? 
 I do, sir, replied Mr. Titus;  you speak my own senti-
ments exactly.
 At the same time, sir, observed the merchant,  I think
there should be no unseemly haste in the matter. This disa-
greeable business about the poor wretched man who is in the
gaol should be all concluded; and I shall have little arrange-
ments to make in the way of settlement of estate, and so forth,
upon my nephew. In the said arrangements I shall beg to har t
your counsel, Mr. Titus.
 I shall be honoured by being allowed to render it to you,
Mr. Timothy.
 I only repeat, there should be no unseemly haste, but that
every thing should be done with dignity, said the merchant.
 With dignity, repeated the other;  you speak my senti-
ments exactly, sir.
Conversations of a confidential nature took place every day
between Mr. Upkam and Mr. Downham after their reconcile-
ment. One subject which lay very near the heart of both they
did not touch; and neither seemed to know how to enter on it.
Mr. Timothy, indeed, reflected that there was another party
with whom he should first converse on this delicate subject. To
that party he somehow or other divined that the subject would
not be unwelcome ; and yet he hesitated, for particular reasons,
to introduce it in that quarter. Some days after the funeral
of Percival, and the departure of Una, an incident gave
Mr. Timothy an opportunity which he could not resist, of
approaching the business that now so constantly haunted his
thoughts.
Cain did not appear at the breakfast-table; but had left an
open note upon it, informing his uncle that he had gone out for
an early walk of some miles with Algernon Downham. Char-
lotte had peeped into the open note; but, on account of that
particular name it contained, did not tell her father that she
was acquainted with its contents. She was profoundly busy
making tea, while her father read the note. Her brilliant eyes
were, apparently, deep in the teapot; but she saw that Mr.
Timothy took off his spectacles after reading the note; and, as
she handed him his first cup of tea, she felt conscious that he
looked very knowingly into her eyes, while he said—
 So, my dear, Mr. Canute has gone out for a long walk with
young Mr. Downham: they seem to have formed a very close
friendship. I hope it will be beneficial to both ; but especially
on Canute's side. It cannot fail, indeed, to be advantageous to
him, since Mr. Algernon has had a liberal and regular educa-
THE FAMILY FEUD.
387
tion; and, having travelled, has seen so much more of the world
than Mr. Canute.
"I hope so, father. Is your tea sweet enough? asked the
blushing beauty.
 It is, my love, I thank you. As I was saying, Mr. Algernon
has travelled—has seen the continent—I should think most of
the cities which you yourself have seen.
 I fear the tea will be too weak for you, father. Shall I put
a little more of the young Hyson in it ?  suggested Charlotte,
seizing the handsome little cabinet chest in a hurry to cover her
increasing blushes.
 No, thank you, my dear. From what little you have seen
of him, my love,—do you not think that Mr. Algernon is a
well-informed young gentleman ? 
"I believe so, father, acknowledged the beauty, finding it
was in vain to try to escape her father's questions, but feeling
more and more in a flutter.
 And, I trust, is also a person of correct heart, and of upright
and amiable nature, continued Mr. Timothy;  a man, in short,
with whom 
Charlotte rang the little silver hand-bell violently. The maid
entered the breakfast-room in a moment.
 More water—hot—boiling hot!  said Charlotte.
 Why do you need the water so very hot, my love ?  asked
Mr. Timothy with an arch look, and not able to suppress a
laugh,  you look warm enough.
Charlotte looked quickly at her father, but did not speak.
The tear started to her eye, and her father observed it.
"Never mind at present, darling, he"said, tenderly; "when
we have breakfasted, you shall go with me to the drawing-room,
I have something to say to you.
Mr. Timothy made a very good breakfast: it was his custom
when he was well, whatever might be the weight of the business
he had on his mind. Charlotte seemed to breakfast; but her
heart beat so fast that she could really partake of no more than
a few crumbs of the meal.
In the drawing-room, Mr. Timothy, taking his daughter's
hand as she sat by his side, in very gentle terms laid bare his
thoughts. He told Charlotte, that having blundered so fear-
fully before, he was fearful of blundering now; but since he
really believed Algernon to be a very worthy person, and there
would be so much dignity in fully cementing the union of the
two families which had been so long estranged, he desired to
know whether a certain proposal would be agreeable to her.
Charlotte's tears flowed fast, and she clung round her father's
neck and kissed him.
2 c 2
388
THE FAMILY FEUJ>.
 You know, dear father, she said, or rather sobbed, while
she hid her beautiful blushing face,  I told you I would never
marry without your consent—your full consent—and—and,
she sobbed,  that when I made a choice, you—you should own
it was worthy of—of 
 Of yourself, my dear. I remember it; and that it should
also secure my peace, and not sacrifice the dignity of our family.
All this, I think, would be realized in the union I propose.
But is Mr. Algernon your own free choice, my love ?—for you
shall not hear another word from me of the proposal, if he be
not. Speak, speak, my dear! 
 Oh yes—yes—dear father! 
 Come now, you sweet rogue, let me see your darling face! 
said the father, gently forcing her to look at him;  you have
known Mr. Algernon some time, have you not P 
 Yes—dear father ! 
 A long time—more than a year.
' Yes—dear father! 
 Where was it abroad that you became acquainted ? Come,
come—out with it! 
 At Milan, father.
 And, now then—only one more question. Mr. Titus knows
of your—I mean of the attachment his son and my daughter
have formed ? 
 He has only been acquainted with it for a very few days,
father.
 Thank you, thank you, my dear. I am now convinced that
you have not sacrificed the dignity of our family. My love—
this is the proudest day of my life! 
And, at that word, the beauty resumed her pride, and Mr.
Timothy looked upon her almost with idolatrous eyes. Hot an
hour after, he met Mr. Titus.
 I think, sir, said he, after an exchange of English courte-
sies—health and weather (may they be eternal! saith Adam
Hornbook—for he dearly loves everything that is English, be
it ever so stupid!)— I think, sir, said Mr. Timothy, taking
off his spectacles, and looking right into the eyes of Mr. Titus
with a smile which had a folio volume in it,— I think, sir, that
you and I have yet one subject to broach—one that lies very
close at our hearts, and yet struggles to be spoken by the
tongue!
 I think we have, sir, replied Mr. Titus, returning the
volumed smile.
 Then it had better be spoken, sir, added Mr. Timothy,
 my daughter 
the family feud.
389
"My son, said Mr. Titus ; andthey grasped hands, and the
tears (flowed down their manly cheeks, in spite of dignity.
More of their conversation need not be given. The grand
double family alliance was hailed as the great blessing of their
lives, and it was the whole town's talk before the next day was
ever ; for Charlotte and Algernon, and Cain and Mary, were
Seen walking together, and the imperial beauty and the noble-
looking son of Mr. Titus were driven out by Jossy in the same
coach one day; and Cain and Mary the next. And the people
continued to wonder, though all said they could no longer wonder
at anything!
CHAPTER XI.
The Villains finally disposed of.—The Marriages.—The Family Succession.
The fate of Crookit was such as he deserved, and what might
have been expected from the life he had led. He had been
searched immediately when taken from the justice-hall, and the
false receipt was found upon him. In his private and strongly-
locked desk, at his lodgings, were found the letters he had re-
ceived from Colton, written in answer to his own false and
cunningly-devised correspondence. Many other documents
were also discovered at his lodgings which shed a baleful light
on the business of his past life.
From the evidence of Mr. Elder and young Osberne, and
also of the two whiskered clerks—indeed, from the falsified
entries into the office books—he was convicted of frauds and
embezzlements of moneys pertaining to Mr. Timothy, extending
in practice over many months, and amounting to several hundred
pounds. Hoards of gold were found at his lodgings ; but since
his salary was handsome, and his known expenses small, it was
believed that he had disposed of a great share of his thefts in
some secret way. He was transported beyond the seas; and,
it was believed, died in the convict-land, within a year of his
reaching it.
Fernshawe never returned to England; his affairs were so
desperate that he relinquished the Blythewick estate to his
lawyer almost immediately after leaving Quarrelton. It was
soon after brought to the hammer; and Mr. Timothy, with a
particular view, became the purchaser of it. The man Brown
went out of England with the fierce squire, and was never after-
wards heard of.
390
THE FAMILY FEUD.
So soon as Mr. Timothy became the purchaser of the Blythe-
wick estate, he and Mr. Titus made a legal settlement of their
property; and then the grand double marriage was celebrated.
It was a day of marvellous rejoicing in Quarrelton—ringing of
bells—firing of guns—roasting of two oxen and ten whole sheep,
which were distributed in the open streets, and likewise the
contents of many a barrel of sound October—bonfires at night
—and dancings and merriment everywhere. No man, however,
was so proud that day as Jossy Jessop, with his big bunches of
white favours on his hat and coat, on each side of the heads of
his horses, and a small one on his whip. And though he did
not get his wish so far as to drive the two couples in one coach
to church, he had it in coming back; for they learnt his wish
from Mrs. Phoebe, and consented so far to gratify him. And
ancient Phoebe flung not only one of her old shoes, but both of
them, right and left, after the fair couples as they left Mr.
Timothy's door ; for it was from thence the joint wedding pro-
cession, or rather cavalcade, set out, amidst shouting and en-
thusiastic crowds. And O'Frisk married the couples, and none
was merrier than he in Quarrelton that day and night.
Mr. Timothy wisely determined to remove his nephew from
business; he bestowed the Blythewick estate upon Colton; and
Cain and Mary became possessors of the fine old hall, which
had been familiar to them in their humble childhood. The
merchant thus conferred real happiness both on Cain and Mary;
for while Cain was thus thrown into the possession of an ample
income, and the means of cultivating his favourite tastes, Mary
was removed to the beloved rural scenes where she could be
happiest.
The mansions of Mr. Timothy and Mr. Titus were common
homes for Algernon and Charlotte; and in her father's house
she was sole mistress. Mr. Titus died, to the poignant grief of
his son, and the deep, lasting regret of Mr. Timothy, within a
very few years after the double marriage. The large Downham
property came entire to Algernon; and when, in the course of
years, Mr. Timothy was gathered to his fathers, and the rem-
nant of the merchant's wealth fell to Charlotte, Algernon
Downham became the richest man in Quarrelton.
But to Mr. Timothy's sister's son—no longer Cain Colton, but
 Canute Upham, and  Esq., after Mr. Timothy's dleath—
there also befell a considerable increase of fortune. Una pursued
her enthusiastic career as a public singer in Italy, and remained
unmarried. She corresponded frequently and most affection-
ately with Mary; and in every letter desired to be remembered
to the Wilfred Harlow who had visited the Hermitage. These
remembrances, Mary observed, rendered her husband thought-
THE FAMILY FEUD.
391
ful; but she never troubled herself with jealous discontents.
She loved her husband too truly. News came of the death of
old Miles, the faithful companion of his young mistress in Italy;
and soon after came a legal communication announcing the death
of Una, and the bequest of all she possessed in money and
jewels, and the landed estate in Wales, to Canute.
Mary had an annual visit from Mrs. Martha, until, at length,
the widow, having seen her daughter comfortably settled with a
promising husband at the little inn, accepted, for the remnant of
life, the lodge where Mary was born, as a home, and was thus a
neighbour and daily companion.
CHAPTER Xn.
Jossy and the Curate hold pleasant Gossip for the last Time, and the History
concludes.
About one fortnight after the funeral of Mr. Timothy—which
was the most impressive display for gloomy grandeur, and
weighed more upon the popular heart than anything that had
ever been witnessed in Quarrelton—honest Jossy Jessop, clad
in an ample black suit, and bearing a small present of game,
knocked at the door of the cottage where he had passed those
rememberable hours with the curate O'Erisk. Jossy was a little
surprised when the door was opened, and his call announced to
the curate, by a young maiden; but when he rallied his recol-
lection, his surprise ceased. He remembered that the widow
was now a wife, and O'Erisk a married man; and Jossy feared
that his welcome would not now be so free, and jovial, and
hearty, as formerly.
But Jossy was pleasingly disappointed.
 Jossy, my hearty friend, how are ye? cried O'Frisk,
bounding to the door in his slippers; "come in, my brave fel-
low, come in! By my soul, but I'm glad to see ye ! 
 And I'm uncommon glad to see you, Mr. O'Frisk, said
Jossy;  here's a hare and a pheasant, and so forth, that Mr.
Canute begs you to accept, sir; and I've uncommon pleasure
in bringing 'em, sir.
 I believe ye, Jossy. Come, now, you'll take a drop o' the
dear creatur, as my countrymen call it.
 Well, sir, a little; if it be only to drink Mrs. O'Frisk's
health, and your and her happiness. We heard about it, sir.
 I suppose you would, Jossy, said the curate, busily mixing
392
THE FAMILY FEUD.
the whiskey and hot water;  you see, I thought it was as well
to settle down for life, and be quiet and comfortable.
 Ay—yes—so then, said Jossy, slowly and thoughtfully,
 you do think that—that—a man, like, like—that's no longer
young—may be quiet and comfortable—if he marries P 
 No doubt of it, Jossy; so long as he minds well whom he
takes for a wife, and does not tie himself to a tartar, as they call
a wife that's given to scratch and bite.
 Ah !—just so—I see, sir, said Jossy, considerately.
 Well, but what news, Jossy ? I hope you bring some from
Blythewick Hall, for we've none in Quarrelton. The town's as
dead as ditch-water, ever since the parties went down.
 Just as I said it would be, sir—but talking o' scratching and
biting—I've just called at the dear old house, and seen Mrs.
Phoebe. Lor' bless me, if I don't think the old puzzle-cap will
live for ever ! Why, Mr. O'Frisk, she says she snail be seventy,
if she lives another month ; and she has not a tooth left in her
head, as much as she used to talk about her teeth while she had
a few left—so she can't bite, you know,—now! But it's amazing
Mr. O'Frisk, what a memory she has, and how knowing she is
yet! 
 I dare say, Jossy. You won't smoke, I reckon—I must
have my pipe.
 No, thank ye. So you really think a man may be quiet and
comfortable, if he marries when he's do longer young P '
 I do, Jossy. I've told ye so. But what are ye thinking
about, Jossy P Faith, but ye're thinking yer own self of being
married! I know you are; and you can't deny it. Who's the
favourite, Jossy P 
 Why, Mr. O'Frisk, to speak truth, it would have been
Mrs. Phoebe, if she'd been willing, and she hadn't been so very
old ; for I was uncommon partial to her.
 Well, but it isn't Mrs. Phoebe. She's old enough to be
your grandmother. Come, tell me who it is, Jossy.
 I can't say that it's going to be, Mr. O'Frisk. But I think
the person's willing—
 That's the point, Jossy ! A man should always be sure of
that point first. But who is it, Jossy P 
"You remember a hearty, comely sort of person who came to
Quarrelton, out of Warwickshire, when Mr. Canute—
 Sure, now, I remember her well enough! You mean Mrs.
Martha Tomlinson.
 The same, Mr. O'Frisk. She lives at the lodge near the
hall.
 You can't do better, Jossy. I believe she'll make ye very
happy. But I hope ye're comfortable at Blythewick, Jossy—
the family feud.
393
and yet, I must tell ye, I wondered that you left the old
house.
 I stuck to it as long as Mr. Timothy lived, sir ; and though
I didn't like to leave Miss Charlotte—I mean Mrs. Downham
that now is—yet, you know, Mr. O'Frisk, I'm a reg'lar Upham,
I am, and was born so ; and since Mr. Canute takes the name,
and I'm so uncommon partial to him, and to his wife; why, I
couldn't help asking to go and live with him.
 Ye did right, Jossy. I hope they're all very comfortable at
the hall—
 And they make many a score comfortable, Mr. O'Frisk.
She's a blessed good creature, is Mr. Canute's wife. All the
poor for miles round speak blessings on her ; and well they may.
And Mr. Canute has a good heart, sir—though he bothers him-
self a good deal with painting pictures. I don't see why he
should : a gentleman like him.
"Ah, Jossy, that was a happy thing, that we helped him
through his trouble—come, take another glass, Jossy!—I don't
often see your brave face, nowadays.
 Thank ye, Mr. O'Frisk! I've no objection—-just for this
once.
,  I've a great respect for ye, Jossy—your hand, and Heaven
bless ye!
 And I'm uncommon partial to you, Mr. O'Frisk, and have
been ever since that night when—Lor' bless me, what was I—I
mean, what was it you were going to say about Mr. Canute's
trouble, Mr. O'Frisk ? 
 I say it was a happy thing that we helped him through it,
Jossy!
 So it was, sir; both for him and many others. It brought
about this grand union o' the great families—though I liked the
old times better. But it's of no use thinking about 'em now. I
was the main spoke in the wheel, though I say it myself, Mr.
O'Frisk; and Mr. Canute often says as much.
 So you were, Jossy, when it came to the pinch. Faith, I
think I see ye now! lugging in the fierce animal of a squire
before the justices—and then the brave, bold, Christian words
that ye spoke, striking everybody dumb with the power o' truth
and honesty! But wasn't it marvellous, Jossy, that I should
have got to the bottom o' the secret, before the truth was proved
that Mr. Canute was the son of Mr. Timothy's sister, as I
told ye ? 
 Lor' bless me! it was, Mr. O'Frisk; and you really
think now, do ye, that it was the tobacco which made ye so
sharp? 
 Doubtless, it was the pipe, Jossy.
394
THE FAMILY FEUD.
"Well, I can't understand it, Mr. O'Frisk; but smoking must
be a rare thing for the brains, by your account.
 It is, if a man knows how to smoke, and can keep his pipe in,
Jossy. But how are the little Uphams at the hall P you haven t
told me.
,  Bless their hearts! they're well, Mr. O'Frisk; and four
handsomer childer you never saw; though Mrs. Phoebe will have
it that the four little Downhams are the handsomest.
 You heard that the business has passed into new hands since
Mr. Timothy's death, Jossy? 
 Yes, sir; and I was glad to hear that young Mr. Osberton
had got it.
 That's the young man who was chief clerk to Mr. Timothy
after the death of Mr. Elder? 
 The same, sir; and a very good sort of young fellow too,
Mr. O'Frisk.
 You heard that I buried old Job, the wooden spoon maker,
and his wife Dorothy, a month after? 
' I did, sir; I never liked either of 'em, you know, sir ; but I
was glad that Mr. Canute insisted on their giving over working,
and maintained 'em comfortably, from the time that Blythewick
became his own. I think all old people who have worked hard
should be maintained without working: there's plenty o' young
ones in the world to work, Mr. O'Frisk.
 Faith, and you're right, Jossy! ye speak like a man with a
heart in his bosom. Take another glass, Jossy 
 No, thank ye, sir—not to-day; I must be going. I promised
a certain person, sir, that lives at the lodge, you understand,
that I would be back to Blythewick early.
"Mrs. Martha! then keep your word, Jossy. Good day to
ye! and be sure ye always call to see me when ye come to the
town.
Jossy married Mrs. Martha; and everybody approved the
marriage but Mrs. Phoebe, who, although seventy years of age,
took offence at Jossy, burnt her will, in which she had left him
the savings of her life, and left the money to the imperial Char-
lotte instead. But Jossy only laughed ; for he was very happy,
as he deserved to be, with Mrs. Martha.
 Only another word, and it is about O'Frisk. The curate be-
came vicar; but it made him no prouder; it made him happier,
because it enabled him to give largely to the poor; but it did
not alter his plain mode of living; he stuck to his one luxury,—
smoked and kept his pipe in.
But your hero, Mr. Hornbook ?
Don't urge any objection to him, reader, now I have not a page
THE FAMILY FEUD.
395
left for reply. He set out full of fine aspirations, like many
others that you and I know; he would have made a fine fellow,
but for untoward circumstances; these broke up and dissipated
his mental strength; trouble overwhelmed him; deliverance
overjoyed him; plenty spoiled him. I say, don't urge your ob-
jections! Of course, it might have been all very fine for other
people to have beheld my hero toil and conquer obstacles, and
rise to eminence by his own merit; but I have behaved more
kindly to him after his ill-usage, than to make him a mere
gazing-stock. Instead of letting him live on empty admiration,
I have given him a good estate, a loving wife and handsome
children. He may now paint pictures for amusement, go
a-shooting over his own estate—in brief, he may enjoy life.
Header, I wish thee equally good luck, and heartily bid thee
farewell!
THE EIJD.
LONDON :
PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND 80NS, LIMITED,
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