UC-NRLF I III II li I I Hi III B M 1Q2 qS7 CARLYON'S YEAR. ^ Noud. BY THE AUTHOR OF « LOST SIR MASSINGBERD," &c. NEW YORK: HARPER & BROTHERS, PUBLISHERS, FRANKLIN SQUARE. 1867. ,^LUMNUS CARLYON'S YEAR. CHAPTER I. ON THE SANDS. "That will do, Stephen, thank you. You may let us out here. A charming scene, is it not, Richard?" The speaker was a young lady of nineteen shore, which was, moreover, thickly wooded ; a white village or two, from one of which the cart had just arrived, glimmered througli the trees ; and to the west a far-stretching promontory, with one heetling clift", conclud- ed the fair scene — that is, so far as the land reached. Upon the south was the sea, separated looking, however, not older, hut far wiser than i from them by no bar or bound of any sort, and her years. A thoughtful face by nature, and besides, one upon which some sorrow and much care for others had set their marks. The hazel eyes, large and tender, were confident, without being bold. The forehead, from which the heavy folds of bright brown hair were not drawn back, but overflowed it from under her summer hat at their own wild will, was broad and low. The form tall and slender, but shapely ; the voice singularly clear and sweet, and whose tones were such as seemed to give assurance of the truth they utter. She was certainly speaking truth now when she said, "A charming scene." The persons she addressed were seated with her in a cart, in tlie middle of one of tliose bays upon our north-western coast, from which the sea retires, with every tide, for many miles, and leaves it a level waste of sand, save for two river- channels, besides several smaller streams, ford- able in places, but always running swiftly. Some islands, oases in this desert, dotted here and there at no great distance, yet farther than they seemed, showed grandly with their walls of rock and crowns of foliage. The shores of the bay itself, miles away at the nearest point, were of a beauty singularly varied, considering their extent. To southward a range of round, green hills sloped down to a white fringe of coast, on which a tolerably large town could be distinctly viewed, with, behind it, a castle on a roaring in the distance, as though for prey. It was this which formed the most striking feature in the picture, and indeed, to a stranger to the position — as was one of the three individuals we are concerned with — it was almost terrible. "Well, Agnes," observed Richard Crawford to his cousin, to whom he looked junior by at least twelve months, but was really her senior by that much; "this is truly grand. I could never have imagined what a spectacle ' Over Sands' afforded, if I had not thus seen it with my own eyes. It is certainly tlie very place for a sketch. Now, jump, and J will catch you." The young man had leaped lightly from the back of the cart upon the brown, firm sand, and now held out both his arms, that his cousin might alight in s.afety. " Thank you, Richard, I am used to help my- self out of this sort of difficulty," replied she, smiling; "am I not, Stephen?" "Yes, miss," returned the driver, respectful- ly, but in broad north-country accents ; " this is not the first time you have been in my cart, nor yet the second. She's as active as any deer in his lordship's park out yonder, that I'll answer for, Mr. Richard. Lor bless you! you don't know Miss Agnes ; but then, how should you, you that has been in foreign parts so long!" Richard Crawford had, it was true enough, been for many years in a far-distant climate, hill, which marked the site of a mucli larger , and one which had turned his handsome features town. Upon the spurs of these hills were al- I to the hue of those of a bronze statue ; but he most everywhere to be seen a cluster of grey | grew of a more dusky red than evon the eastern dwellings, and from the valleys thin blue smoke; suns had made him, when his cousin, touching the district, although somewhat un-come-at-able, was so fair that many came to dwell there, es- pecially in the summer ; but yet it was not one of his extended arms with her finger-tips only, lightly leaped upon the sand. She took no notice of his evident annoyance, but exclaimed densely peopled. Eastward, these signs of hab- gayly, " Now, Stephen, the chair and the camj)- itation were more rare, and the hills began to rise in grandeur, till, in the north-east, they cul- minated to mountains, a knot of which towered in the extreme distance at the head of the bay. Small coves and inlets indented tl^e northern i cousin.'' She drew out from the cart a sort of stool ; then go your ways, and good-hiek to your craam. I dare say Mr. Richard here does not know what a ' craam' is ; so great is the igno- rance that prevails in the tropics. See here, ucrn I cot 000 CAELYON'S YEAR. three-pronged, bent fork, used by cockle-gather- ers for getting the little bivalve out of the sand, beneath the surface of which it lies about an inch. "There! that is the true Neptune's trident. No barren sceptre, but one upon whose magic movement, thus" — she deftly tlirust it into tlie sand, where two small eyelet holes an- nounced tlie presence of the fish, and whipped one out — " meat, and drink, and clothing are evoked for many a poor soul in these ])arts. Why, you need not go far afield, Steplicn, since there seem to be cockles here." "Nay, miss, there's nobbut but one or two here about," returned the man. " The skeer* lies far away out yonder. You'll not be afraid to bide here till I come back and fetch you?" "Certainly not, Stephen. How many hours shall we have to spare, think you?" "Well, with this light south wind stirring, perhaps not four, miss. But I shall ])ick you up long before that — just as usual, you know. A deal of company you will have upon Sands this afternoon, I reckon," added the man, as he drove off to the cockle-ground; "you have brought Mr. Richard out on quite a gala day." The scene upon the wave -deserted bay was indeed growing quite animated ; for, in addition to many carts, such as that in which they had come, the owners whereof were all setting to W'Ork with their craams, two long strings of horsemen and wheeled conveyances were begin- ning to cross from either side of the bay, making almost to the place where the two were stand- ing, sketch-books in hand ; each band, both from tlie east and west, were conducted by a guide over the first eau or river, after which their course lay plain enough across certain broad, but shallow streams, to the second, near the op- posite shore, where the other guide was posted. "I have seen nothing like this since I crossed the desert," ejaculated the young man, with ad- miration. "I can almost fancy that those horses are camels, and the trees on yonder island palms, only there are no thieves of Be- douins." "But in Egypt there is no sea, Richard, like that which seems to hunger yonder for men's lives. Is it not strange to think that all this space now used as a safe road by man and beast will, in an hour or two hence, be -landless sea ? that not one of those black rocks that stand out so prominently yonder will lift its head above the waves. Folks talk of there being ' no sea to speak of, in these parts, but if they mean that the ocean has here no elements of grandeur and terror, they are much mistaken. Its very re- treat and advance so many miles are something wondrous ; and when I see the crowds of people crossing thus daring its short absence, I always think of the Israelites passing through tlie Red Sea upon dry land. Nay," added she, as if to lierself, and with reverence, "it is only God's arm that keeps the waves from swallowing us up to-day." " The local name for the large beds In which the cockles are found. "Yes, of course," returned Richard dryly; " yet the tides obey fixed laws, I suppose, and can be calculated upon to within a few minutes; otiierwise I should say these good folks, includ- ing ourselves, are somewhat fool-hardy." " I have known the tide come in here more than two hours earlier than usual," returned the young girl gravely. " There was a ship wrecked in yonder bay in consequence ; the men having gone ashore and left her, higli and dry, and feeling confident of returning in time. A strong south wind will always bring the sea up quickly.'' "There's a south wind to-day, Agnes," laughed her cousin. "I think you must be making experiments upon my courage." "Nay," returned she, "the breeze is very light. Besides, the guides and the cockle is all know very well what they are about. It is very seldom any one is lost, and when they arc, it is through their own folly, poor folks." "They get drunk a good deal in these parts, don't they?" said the young man, carelessly, as he sat down on the camp-stool and began to sharpen a pencil, "and being half-seas- over before they start, why it's no wonder if the tide—" " Hush, Richard, do not jest with death," said the girl, reprovingly. "Men and women have sins to answer for here as in other places ; but I have ever found them an honest and kindly race." 1 "Well, I only hope in addition to kindliness ' and honesty your friend Stephen reckons so- briety among his virtues. What! He is a little fond of tippling, is he? Phew !" here the young man indulged in a long low Mhistle, and his black eyes beamed with sly laughter. " Stephen is weak," replied Agnes Crawford, gravely ; "though not so bad, even in his weak- ness, as some say." " There, I see it all," cried the young man, clapping his hands so sharply that the half-dozen gulls that strutted on the sands a little way off rose heavily, and wheeled in the blue air, ere alighting at a greater distance ; I see it all quite plainly. My Cousin Agnes, who is so good her- j self that she can believe evil of nobody, employs ' this Stephen because no one else will employ him ; she trusts him because every body says that he is not trustworthy." "I believe he would risk his life to save mine," rejoined Agnes, simply. "Of course he would, my dear cousin; for without you he is probably well aware that he could not gain a living. Don't be angry now ! I am only delighted to find you are so un- changed ; the same credulous, tender-hearted creature that I left when I was almost a boy. who never allowed herself the luxury of going into a tantrum, unless one of her dumb favor- ites was ill-treated. Now let me tell you a se- cret — that is, something which is a secret to you, although it is known to every body else who I knows you. My dear Agnes, you are an angel." 1 "Don't you rumple my wings, then,'' replied CARLYON'S YEAR. the young {i;irl, coolly, as Mr. Riihard Crawford concluded his eulogistic remarks hy patting her on the shoulder. " See ! yonder is a drove of cattle ahout to cross the eau. Are they not pict- uresque? Now, if you were an animal painter instead of being, like myself, only able to draw immovable objects — to shoot at sitting birds, as it were — we might by our joint efforts make a very pretty picture of tliis scene." " You make a very charming j)icture alone, I do assure you," said her cousin, admiringly. The remark evoked no rejdy, tior even a touch of color on the young girl's clicek. Her brow just clouded for a moment, that was all. "We have secured an excellent position for our sketches," said she, after a pause, and each took their seat. "Do people ever cross the sands on foot?" inquired Richard, presently, in a constrained voice. He had jjartcd with his somewhat free and easy manner, and manifestly felt that lie had been going too fast or far with liis coniijliments. "Very rarely," returned she. "There are always some places tolerably deep, as yonder, where, as you see, the water is above the axle- trees of the coach. The poorer sort of cocklers, however, sometimes come out without a cart. Once no less than eight peojjle were lost in that way, and on a perfectly windless day. It hap- pened before we came to live here, but I heard the story from the guide's own lips. A sudden fog came on, and they were all drowned ; and yet it was so calm that when the bodies were found at tlie next tide, the men's hats were still upon their heads. A little girl, he said, with her hands folded across her bosom, lay dead be- side her dead father, just as though she slept." " Even if thej' had had carts, then, the poor folks could not have been saved," observed Rich- ard. "Yes. it was thought they might," returned the young girl, sadly. " The guide has a trum- i^et which carries his words, or at all events the sound of them, to a great distance. It was supposed they were making for the right direc- tion when the waters overtook them, but being encumbered with women and children, and on foot, the party could not hurry on." " What a repertory of dreadful stories your friend the guide must !iave, Agnes." " Yes, indeed," answered she, gravely. "There's one church-yard I know of in our neighborhood in which have been buried no less than one hundred persons, victims to these treacherous sands." " And the quicksands themselves are the graves of many, I suj)pose?" "No, never; or, at least, almost never. They are quicksands in the sense of instability; but they do not suck objects of any considerable size out of sight, or at all events they take some time to do so. The bodies of drowned persons are almost always found." " Upon my word, Agnes, you make my blood crec]). Talking to this guide of yours must be like a business interview witli an undertaker." "Nay, Richard,'' rejoined the girl, solemnly, " siicli stories are not all sad. Death lias been sometimes met, as it were, with open arms by those who knew it was eternal life. And, be- sides, there ai'c narratives of hair-breadth es- cai)es from peril sometimes, too, wliich instance the noblest courage and sclf-sacrificc. I wish, however, that there was no such road as Over Sands." "Nay, then w-e should never have been here with our sketch-books,"' returned the young man, gayly. "See! I have put iu the tiiree islands already." "So I j)erccive, Richard; and the largest of them in the wrong place. Where are you to sketch in yonder village?" " Oh ! bother the village. The picture is supposed to be executed when the country was not so overbuilt. What are those little trees sticking up above the river ? Every thing here seems so anomalous that I ought not to be sur- prised ; but nothing grows there surely." "They are only branches of furze called 'brogs,' which are set up by the guides to mark the fords. It is their business to try the bed of the stream every tide — for what was fordable yesterday may be quicksands to-day — before folks begin to cross. There goes the couch." "Yes, and how the passengers do stare," re- turned Richard; nor, indeed, is it to be won- dered at, if it is their first experience of this road. I think some of them will be glad when they find themselves on terra Jirma. Perhaps you might have seen me arrive rather pale in the face, Agnes, if I had come home this way, instead of by sea, to Whitehaven." "No, Richard; to do you justice, I think you are afraid of nothing." " I am afraid of one thing, and that is of you, cousin, or rather, of your disjdeasure," said the young man, sinking his voice, and speaking very tenderly. " If you are, you would not talk such non- sense," rejoined his cousin, quietly. "Dear Agnes, don't be cruel, don't; nor af- fect to take for jest what I mean with all my heart and soul. Thousands of miles aw^ay on the wild waves the very likeness of your face has comforted me, which you gave me when a\ e parted, boy and girl, so many years ago. Think, then, what happiness it is to me to gaze upon that face itself, a child's indeed no longer, but with all the innocence and purity of the child beaming from it still. You used to tell me that you loved me then, Agnes." " And so I tell you now, Richard," returned the girl, changing color for the first time, as she bent over her drawing, and forced her trembling fingers to do their work. " I love you now, very much indeed, dear cousin." "Cousin," repeated the young man, slowly, "yes ; but I don't mean that, as you well know, Agnes. I only wish you could Iiave seen nie in my little dingy cabin, reading your letters by one wretched candle stuck in a ginger-beer bot- tle — don't laugh, Agnes ; I am sure you would CARLTON'S YEAR. not have laughed if you really could have seen it. I quarreled with the only one of my com- panions whom I lik->d, and knocked him hack- ward down the comjjanion-ladder hecause he put l)is stui)id foot upon the desk you gave me. You are laughing again, Agnes. True, I was only a poor lad in the merchant service, and poverty is always ridiculous ; hut I would have shown my love for you in other ways had it been pos- sible. Heaven knows I thought of little else than you !" "Look here, Cousin Richard,"' said Agnes, rising quickly from her seat and speaking with some severity, " I will not hear this talk ; you are well aware what my father thinks of it." "I can not help my uncle's not liking me,'' said the young man somewhat sullenly. "Nor can I, Richard, or vera know I should make him esteem you as I do myself. But you are under his roof now ; he is your host as well as your uncle — and my father. That is reason good — independent of other very valid ones u]ion •which I do not wish to enter — why you should not address such words to me. I think you should have seen they were distasteful, Rich- ard, without obliging me to tell you so." The young man did not utter a reply : he only bowed, not stiffly, however, and held his hand up once and let it fall again with a certain pathetic dignitj- that seemed to touch his com- panion's heart, and indeed did so. Her large eyes swam with tears. "Forgive me, Richard, I am sorrj- to have pained you," said she, in soft low tones, inex- ju-essibly tender ; " very sorry." " I am sure you are, cousin." That was all he said ; his handsome, clear-cut features ap- peared to have grown thinner within the last few minutes, as she watched his side face bent down over his sketch-book. They were both silent for a long time, during which they plied their pencils. Draughtsmen know how quickl}- the hours pass in this way without notice. Presently Richard lifted his eyes from his work, and looked around him. "Agnes," said he, "why does not Stephen fetch us?" She looked up too, then started to her feet with agitation. "My God !" cried she, "the carts have all gone home." " Don't ba^ frightened, dearest," said the young man, confidently. "There are two carts still, and Stephen's is one of them. My eyes are good, and I can recognize it plainly, although it is a great way off. He is running the thing very near; that is all." ' * Alas ! he has forgotten us altogether, Rich- ard. Both those carts are making for the other side ; he could not now cross over to us even if he would. Do you not see how the sea has stretched its arm between us and him ?" Richard Crawford uttered a tremendous im- precation. "Do not curse him, Richard. Tiiey have given him drink, and he knows not what he is doing ; or i)erhaps he concludes that we have gone home by other means, as indeed we might have done. Poor fellow, he will be sorn^ to- morrow. Curse 7ne, rather, my poor cousin ; for it is I who have murdered you in having brought you hither." " No, no !" ejaculated the young man, vehe- mently. "Do not think that. I swear I would rather die with you like this, than live without you. But is there no hojje ? Hark ! wlKit is tliat ?" " It is the guide's trumpet ; they see our danger from the land, although they can not helps us." "Let us hasten, then, in God's name!" ex- claimed the young man, bitterly; "and if He has ordained it so, let us die as near home as we can." '^CHAPTER II. BY THE WATERS OF DEATH, There was no necessity for the words "let us hasten." Both had left chairs and sketch- books, and were running as swiftly as they could toward the western shore ; but the sand, lately so hard and firm, was now growing soft and unstable — the flowing tide already making itself felt beneath it ; their progress, therefore, was not rapid. " The thought that I have brought you hither, Richard, is more bitter to me than will be these waters of death," said Agnes, earnestlj*. "You can run where I can scarcely walk ; leave me, then, I pray you, and save yourself. Remem- ber, you can not save me by delaying, but will only perish also. "Why should the sea have two victims instead of one ?" " If the next step would take me to dryland," answered the young man, vehemently, "and you were dee)) in a quicksand, lifting your hand in last farewell — like the poor soul you told me of yesterday — I would gladly think that yon beckoned to me, and would turn back and join you in your living graA"e." She reached her hand out with a loving smile, and he took it in his own, and hand and hand they hastened over the jjcrilous way. Richard, because he knew his cousin and how little like- ly she was to be alarmed, far less to desjiair, un- less upon sufficient grounds, was aware of their extreme danger ; otherwise, a stranger to the place would at present have seen no immediate cause for fear. The sea was yet a great way off, save for a few inlets and ])atches which be- gan to make themselves ajiparcnt as if by mag- ic ; moreover, the shore to which they were hastening had become so near that they could plainly perceive the knot of people gathered round the guide, and hear the words, " Quick, quick," which he never ceased to utter through his trumpet, with the utmost distinctness. It seemed impossible that two persons should be doomed to perish within sight and hearing of so many fellow-creatures, all eager for their safety. And yet both were doomed. Between CARLTON'S YEAR. them and the land lay the larger of the two riv- ers that emptied themsclvee into the bay at high water, and ran into the open sea at low. The current was setting in I>y tiiis time very swiftly, and the swirling turbid waters were broadening; and deepening every minute. The banks of this stream, instead of being firm sand, were now a mass of white and slippery mud, a considerable extent of which lay between the eau and the shore ; so that it was impossible to carry or even to push down a boat upon its treacherous surface to the river's edge. The bank upon which the two unfortunates were standing was not as yet so much dissolved as the other, but they could feel it growing more and more unstable beneath their feet, as they now stood on the brink of the eau, not fifty yards from their would-be rescuers. The scene was only less terrible to these than to the doomed pair themselves. Women could be seen among the crowd wringing their hands in agony, and strong men turning their heads away for the jtity of so heart-rending a spectacle. Once, either moved by the entreaties of others, or unable to restrain his own feverish desire to be doing something, a horseman spurred his steed upon the ooze, as though he would have crossed the river to their aid ; but the poor animal, well ac- customed to the sands, and conscious of danger, at first refused to move, and when compelled, at once began to sink, so that it was with diffi- culty that either man or horse reached land again. '■ Swim, swim I" cried the guide, throiigli his trumpet. " Yes, swim," echoed Agnes. " IIow selfish it was of me to forget that. It is very difficult, but to a good swimmer like yourself it is not utterly hopeless. Lot the tide carry you x^) yonder as far as the island, Richard, then strike out for that sj^it of land ; there is firm footing there. Take your coat oflF, and your shoes ; onick. quick !" The young man looked mechanically in the direction indicated, then smiled sadly, and shook his head. " We are not going to be parted, Agnes ; we are to be together for ever and ever. You believe that I love you now?"' added he with grave tenderness. She did not hear him. Her e3'es were fixed on a high-wooded hill, close by the promontory I have mentioned, with the roof of a house showing above the trees. This was her home. "Poor papa, poor papa!" murmured she; " what will he do now, all alone ?" The tears stood in her eyes for the first time since she had been made aware of their danger. Both had now to step back a little, for the bank was crumbling in ; the increasing stream gnawed it away in great hunches, which fell into the cur- rent, making it yet more turbid than before. There was still a considerable tract of sand, firm to the eye, although in reality quite unstable, ly- ing between them and the sea ; but the latter Iiad now altered its i)lan of attack. It no lon^^- er made its inroads here and there, running sly- ly up into creeks and coves of sand, and hold- ing j)Ossession of them until reinforcements came \\\>, but was advancing boldly in one long low line, with just a fringe of foam above it like the sjiutter of musketry. In addition to the threatening growl noticeable so long, could also now be heard a faint and far-off roar. " It will soon be over now, Richard," said the yonng girl, squeezing the hand that still held her own ; "that sound is our death-knell." "What is it, Agnes?" " It is the tidal wave they call the Bore. It may be half an hour away still ; it may be but a few minutes. But when it comes it will over- whelm us." She raised her eyes to the blue sky, which •was smiling upon the scene of despair and death, after nature's cruel f\ishion, and her lips, which had not lost their color, moved in silent prayer. Suddenly a great shout from the shore, echoed by another from Richard, drew her thoughts again to earth. The crowd of people on the shore were part- ing to admit the passage of a man and horse, both so large that the guide and the animal he bestrode seemed by comjjarison to become a boy and pony. " What are they shouting for, Agues ?" asked the young man, eagerly. "Because," said she, "yonder is the man who can save us yet, if man can do it." She spoke with calmness, but there was a flush upon her check, and a light in her eye, which the other did not fail to mark. "Who is it?" asked he half angrily. For if men can be angry on their death-beds, how much more when, though in view of death, they are still hale and strong. " It is John Carlyon, of Woodlees," said she. CHAPTER III. THK EOAN AND HIS EIDEE. It might well have surprised and shocked a stranger to have seen that cluster of village folks watching for so long the approaching doom of two of their fellow-creatures, without making — with the exception of the attempt we have men- tioned — a single eff"ort to save them. Their in- action, however, really arose from their thorough knowledge of the fruitlessncss of such ef^'orts. It was not the first time, nor the second, nor the fiftieth that the sea had tlius marked out for it- self prey in that same bay hours before it actu- ally seized it, quite as certain of its victims as though its waves were already rolling over them. Hundreds of years ago it was the same, when the guides were paid with Peter's pence by the old Priors of Mellor, and were prayed for dur- ing their perilous passage together with those entrusted to their guidance by the monks on Lily Isle, the ruins of whose oratory could yet be seen. As Ave and K^rie had failed to save 10 CARLYON'S YEAR. those who had delayed too long upon that treacherous waste, so good wishes availed not now. And they were jill which could be given in the way of aid. It was very doubtful wheth- er Richard Crawford could liavc saved himself by swiuiining even at the moment when it had been suggested to him. The strength of the tide of the eau was very great; " the furious river struggled hard and tossed its tawny mane," and firm footing there was none on either bank. It was this last fact which the stranger was slow to comprehend. "Surely," he would say, "a good swimmer has only got to wait for tlie water to come up." But long before it could do so the victim found himself in something which was neither land nor water, and in which he could neither stand nor swim. Neither could boat nor horse get at him under such circumstances. Wiien the two cousins had first made toward the shore, they had to traverse only wet sand, which somewliat clogged their footsteps. Some patches of this were more watery than others, and tlirough these, progress was more difficult. Presently the whole surface of the bay assumed this character, and then where the patches had been, appeared shallow strips of water, as yet unconnected — superficially at least — with the sea. Through these they had to make their way, ankle-deep in sand, knee-deep in water. The bank upon which they now stood was high- er than the surrounding space, and as I have said, had only suflfered the first change, from sand to a sort of white mud. The people on shore were as perfectly aware of what these two had had to contend witli, as though they had ac- companied them in their useless flight ; and they knew now, as well as Agnes knew, that their life was to be reckoned by minutes, and depended upon how ra]jid or how slow might be the ad- vance of the Bore or tidal wave. This wave which in winter or in storm was sometimes as tall as a man, was in summer very much less : but it never came up until the whole surface of the bay was under water, and all hope was therefore gone for them it found there. It was to the menacing roar of this coming doom that both victims and spectators were now listening. " It will be twenty minutes yet," said so«e among the latter; "Nay, not so long," said others; "The sooner tlie better, poor things," added one, to which many murmured a sorrow- ful assent. All seemed to know how the sad mischance had occurred, and yet no one alluded to the man whose forgetfulness or more culpable neg- lect had caused the catastrophe. The reason of this was that William Millet, Stephen's only son, was among the crowd. His face was dead- ly pale, and twitched like one with the palsy. He would have given his life to have saved the victims of his father's folly, and, indeed, had al- most done so, for it was he who had mounted the guide's horse, awhile ago, and strove to reach them. Every word that was spoken around him, notwitlistanding the reticence above alluded to, went to his heart like a stab. " How I wish we had brought them home in our cart," said one woman, who had been cock- ling upon the sands the preceding tide. " Ay, or we in ours," returned another ; " but there, how is one to know ? Wlio could have thought — " and William knew, though his own eyes were fixed upon the cousins, tiiat a glance from the speaker toward where he stood, con- cluded the sentence. " The Lord will take Miss Agnes to himself, that's sure," said one in a solemn voice. "It is the poor folk who are to be pitied, rather than she, for tliey will miss her." " Ay, that's true," murmured many voices. " She will be in heaven in twenty-five min- utes, or half an hour at farthest,'" continued the same speaker, with exactness— a good man, by trade a cobbler, but who, imagining himself to have the gift of preaching, was sometimes car- ried beyond his last. " And the lad, too, I hope," returned a fresh- featured dame somewhat sharply. "Did yi,a not see how he would not leave her when D'uk called out to him to swim. That Mill be taken into the account, I sup]iose." " We have no M'arrant for that, "resumed the cobbler, shaking his head. " God will never be hard upon one so young and so bonny as yon," rejoined the dame, with a certain emphasis about the words, implying that thecobbler was neither the one nor the other. "I trust not," returned the other simply. " Let us all entreat of Him to be merciful to those who are about to fall into His hands." If there had been time to reflect, not a few of those present would doubtless have hesitated to follow such a spiritual leader as the mender of material soles ; but as he raised his voice in passionate pleading with the Almighty — using such texts of Holy Writ as seemed to him ap- jdicable to the circumstances — every man bared his head, and every voice joined audibly in the Amen that followed his supplication. Never, perhaps, since the days of the Early Church, was any company gathered together by the sea-shore in act of worship more reverent and awe-struck than was that little handful of fisher-folk in those brief moments ; but while the last solemn word was being spoken, and its sound growing faint and far overhead, as though already upon its way to the Throne of Grace, the clatter of a horse's hoofs was heard from tlie village street, and down the steep lane wliich led from it to the sea came a rider at full speed. His own height, as fiir as you might judge a man in the saddle, must have been considera- bly more than six feet, but the red roan which he bestrode was so large and powerful, that steed and rider together looked quite colossal ; just as though a mounted statue had descended from its pedestal, as in the days of portents. " Make way, make way," cried he ; and as the obedient crowd parted to ri-lit and left, " A CARLYON'S YEAR. 11 rope, a rope !" he added, then galloped rigiit on to the white unctuous mud. So great and swift was the impetus with which he rode that he got beyond the i)lace which the guide's horse had reached without much difficulty or hindrance. Here, however, the roan began to stagger and slide, and then as he sunk fetlock deep, and far- ther, into the impatient ooze, to flounder in a pitiful manner. Upon such unstable footing the weight of his rider was evidently too much for his powers. Ere, however, that tliouglit could shape itself into words among the lookers-on, the man leaped from his saddle, and while obliged to siiift his own feet with the utmost rajiidity to save them from a like fate, he drew the animal by main force out of the reluctant mud, and led him trembling with sweat and fear, to the brink of the can. Now tlie river, although swollen by this time to a most formidable breadth, and running very swift and strong, had about this spot a bed comparatively firm, and which sel- dom shifted ; so that what seemed to the super- ficial observer the most perilous part of the whole enterprise — namely, the passage of the river — was, in reality, the least difficult. Horse and man seemed to be equally well aware of the fact, and when the former felt the water up to his girths, he for the first time ceased to plunge and struggle, and even stood still for his master to remount him. " Up stream, up stream," roared the guide with trumpet voice to the two unfortunates, who were watching the heroic efforts of their would- be rescuer with earnest eyes ; "' he can not come straight across." And indeed, while he yet spoke, the current had taken man and horse, de- spite their weiglit and determination, many yards to the northward ; and the two cousins hurried in that direction also, over the fast-dis- solving ooze. If once the roan lost footing, himself and master would have been carried to a spot where the river ceased to be fordable, and where the banks were even of a less trustworthy nature than those between which they now were ; and, but that his heavy rider kept him down, this would have assuredly happened. With such a weight upon him it seemed easier to the poor animal to walk than to swim ; his vast strong back was totally submerged, and only the sad- dle visible ; but his head showed grandly above the stream, the fine eyes eager for the opposite bank, and the red nostrils pouring their full tide of life in throbs like those of a steam-engine. But for that head the rider himself, half hidden by the tawny waves, might have been taken for a centaur. He looked like one quite as ready to destroy men's lives, if that should be neces- sary, as to save them ; to snatch a beauty for himself from a Lapithean husband, as to pre- serve her from the ancient ravisher Death ! He was by no means a very young man ; but if he had passed the prime of life, he was still in its vigor, and that vigor was something Herculean. His hat had fallen during the late struggle with his horse, and the sliort brown curls that fringed his ample forehead showed here and there but scantily, although they had no tinge of grey. His large brown eyes, although fi.xed steadfast- ly enough upon the point he hoped to reach, ex- hibited little anxiety, and certainly no fear. Their exiiresgion, although far from cold, was cynical, and the firm lii)s, pressed tightly togeth- er as they now were, yet sjjoke of recklessness if not of scorn. The gallant roan, as he neared the wished-for shore, drew gradually out of wa- ter, until his girths scarce touched the stream ; but his rider made no attemjit to force him to climb the bank. " Be ready," shouted he to those who await- ed him ; then leaving the saddle, he hastily motioned to Agnes to take the vacated seat. "No, no!" cried he, as slie was about to put her foot into the stirrup-leather, " you must trust to me to hold you on," and he passed his huge arm round her dainty waist. " Hold fast by the other stirrup," said he to Richard, "and stand against the stream all you can." Then, leading his horse close under the bank to southward, so far as he judged safe in order to allow for shifting, he turned his head to land. A shout of admiration had burst forth from those on shore when he had succeeded in crossing the eau ; but every voice was hushed as the horse with its fair burden, and the two men on either side her saddle, began the return passage. Nothing was heard save the laboreo- nuin ; and moreover, tiiis dead man was my fa- ther. Let me try to feel pious and regretful at tlie tomb of my jiaront. Alas ! I can not do it. But tiie doctor was wrong too when he accused me of undutifulness to this man. His example of faith has not been thrown away upon his son. I have not disgraced his teaching. I Jiace had respect for his memory, if for nothing else, heav- en knows! Raljjh Carlyon," murmured he, after a pause, "I forgive you ; and if what these grave-stones preach be true, God himself can scaiTC do more. You have placed a gulf be- tween me and all good folks, dead and alive, as broad and impassable .as that which is said to separate the wicked from the blessed in the world to come. Thanks to you, I have no hap- piness in the present, nor hope in the future. Forty years of wasted life lie already behind me ; there may be as many still to come, for I am verv strong. Is it likely that these will be more tolerable than those already passed, with youth exclianged for age, and strength for weak- ness ? It is idle to sujjpose it ; the years must soon draw nigh of which, even good men say, they find no ])leasure in them. I have no friend in either heaven or earth. My kindred wish me dead that they may possess my goods. They are welcome, I am sure, although I doubt wheth- er old Robin and the rest would like the change of dynasty. I wish they had had their desire this very day. I wish that William Millet had been a little less ready with his rope. But no ; I don't say that, for then there wonld have been an angel less in the world — Agnes Crawford. I believe in angels so far. It would have been worse for others, if better for me. She is ev- ery body's friend — every body's, that is, who is wretched — except mine. They have told her lies about me without doubt, and even the truth would make her shrink from me as she never shrinks from mere pestilence and contagion." He was leaning over the wicket gate and look- ing northward, where Greycrags, clothed and crowned with its verdant and noble trees, rose from the margin of its little bay like one green tower. "No woman loves me, or will ever love me, being what I am," he went on ; "and least of all, one like her." A far-off noise — the beat of a horse's hoof— struck upon his ear. " Even my horse is lost; the only living thing that cared for me. Poor Bcrild ! you died doing your dutv, good nag, and if there be a heaven B for horses — why, surely I should know that footfall ; and unless there are equine ghosts that iiaunt the way to their late stables, this is my own Red Berild coming home!" He passed swiftly through the gate, and, standing in the middle of the road, clapjjed his hands together and whistled shrilly. Im- mediately the trotting sound was exchanged for a canter ; and as the coming steed turned the corner and came within sight, a faint but joyful whinny proclaimed his recognition of his master. He never stopped till he had his nose in his human friend's hand, and was rub- bing his tall, stiff ear against liio bosom. There was nothing wrong with him, as Carlyon's anxious inspection soon discovered ; but he had evidently gone through great exertions. His heaving flanks were dripping as much with sweat and foam as with salt water ; his broken bridle trailed upon the ground ; his saddle was half turned round; his legs were covered with black mud and sand up to the knees. It was a touching sight to see the meeting between those two old friends. "My brave Berild!" cried one. And the other, though he could not speak, answered, " Dear master !" with his eyes. Then setting the saddle straight, and knot- ting the bridle, so that his favorite should not be incommoded, John Carlyon once more re- sumed his way toward home, man and horse walking together side by side. The former seemed for the time to have recovered his usu- al spirits, whistling snatches of melody, or even occasionally trolling out a patchwork of song ; but as he began to descend the other side of the long hill, and to lose sight of all the glorious landscape, and of Greycrags with the rest, his depression returned. Woodlees was not a place to create high spirits. It was a fine mansion, with a small deer-park attached to it, and no less than three terraced gardens. But the house itself was in a hollow. Notwithstanding that the sea lay so near, not a breath of its fresh clear air ever visited it. It seemed to have an atmosphere of its own, odorous indeed, but faint and oppress- ive, in which* it was an effort to breathe. For "size and antiquity, it was an edifice of which the proprietor might reasonably (if there is any reason in such pride) be proud. The hall, with its huge painted windows — the sjioil, it was said, of Mellor Abbey — and splendidly carved chimney-piece, was undoubtedly very fine, if somewhat dim and cheerless. The grand stair- case of polished oak had for its every alternate baluster a twisted column of vine or briony, but then it was a very sunshiny day on which they could be seen without a candle. There were only two cheerful rooms in the whole house. One, the large drawing-room, now never used, the French windows whereof opened immedi- ately upon the Rosary, and over the huge fire- place of which was a vast sheet of glass, so that you could sit in the warm glow and watch the snow-flakes whiten the broad carriage drive, li CARLYON'S YEAR. and deck the evergreens in bridal riiiment. The other, the octagon chamber in the tower, Joiin Carlyon's smoking-room, whence could be seen Mellor Church and Greycrags, and, far to the south, a strip of distant sea that was never sand. Mr. Carlyou made straight for the stables, and saw the wants of his four-footed friend at- tended to with liis own eyes, then strolled across the garden toward the house. At the open front door stood an old man with a scared face. '• God 'a mercy, Mister John ! what is it now?" "AVhat is what now, Robin?" echoed the squire, in an amused tone. "Why, your masquerading, sir!" " Oh yes ! I had forgotten. I could not think what made them stare so in tlic stable. I liavc got Mr. Carstairs's clothes on, that's all ; and they don't fit." " Well, well, sir, you are the squire now ; you do "is you please. But I don't think my old master would ever have exchanged clothes ■with the parish doctor." "I dare say not," returned Carlyon, dryly. Then, after a pause, he added, laying bis hand upon the old man's shoulder, " I know it is un- dignified, Robin ; but I could not help it. Red Berild and I were caught by the sea, and so got wet through. Mr. Carstairs was good enough to rig me out." "Ah !" sighed the butler, shaking his white head as he made room for the squire to pass in, "my old master never would have been caught by the sea, not he." CHAPTER VI. A COUPLE OP VISITORS. While Mr. Carlyon was yet arranging him- self in garments more adapted to his six-feet- three of bone and muscle than the habiliments , of the little doctor, Robin came up to say that i two gentlemen were waiting for him down stairs 1 — Mr. Crawford and Mr. Richard Crawford. "I will be down directly," sai^l the squire, with a flush of pleasure; "into which room have you jhown them ?" "Into the master's room, of course, Mi. John. Where else?" inquired the domestic. ■"Very good, Robin," was the quick reply. John Carlyon particularly disliked that room, and the old butler knew it; but at t! e same time thought it his duty to combat so unnatu- ral an avei'sion. It had been the favorite cham- ber of John's father, and ought, one may sup- pose, to have been agreeable to his son on that account. Otherwise, it had certainly few at- tractions of its own, being the gloomiest of all the reception-rooms. A small apartment shut ■within an angle of the building, into whose old-fashioned, diamono shaped panes the sun rarely peeped, and when it did so, could throw no cheerful gleam upon the cedarn wainscot, or the few family pictures disposed — and not happily disposed — upon its sombre surface. It seemed as though the old gentleman had preferred the company of the worst favored among all his anccstors^ with one exception. This was the full-length portrait of a young girl, whose short- waisted attire and tower-like arrangement of her long fair hair, could not deprive her of the admiration due to great nat- ural beauty. Seldom as it was that a sun- beam struggled in so far, when it did reach tliat exquisite face the whole room was lit up with its loveliness. Those luxuriant locks glittered as though gold dust — the meretricious fashion of a much later date — had been scat- tered upon them ; the peach-like checks glow- ed with bashful innocence ; the blue eyes gazed at you with a tender simplicity that was inex- pressibly touching. This portrait faced the fire-place ; and when the fitful gleams of flame fell upon it, the mobile features seemed really instinct with life. Nothing else was bright in this room, except the silver hilts of a yataghan and dagger that hung over the chimne3'-piece, and were kept untarnished by the butler's care- ful fingers. They had been brought by his old master from the East, where he had traveled (not without some strange adventures, it was whispered, in which those mysterious weapons had borne their part) in his far back youth. Here, day after day, for many weary years the old man had sat, too feeble to stir abroad ; and here, night after night, had lain when near to death. At last, upon a sofa bed, witli his back to the picture and liis face to the fire, he had died here. Perhaps it was its association w'ith that last event which had made the cedar cham- ber distasteful to his son. However, John Carlyon now entered it with a winning smile, and a courteous greeting for his two unexpected guests. With one of these, Richard Crawford, we are already acquainted ; the other, his uncle, was a very tall old man, of distinguished appearance ; one, who, though manifestly hale and vigorous, and as upright as a I\Iay-pole, gave the idea of extreme age, unless some sorrow had done the work of years in emaciating his lengthy limbs, and deejicning the caverns of his eyes. These last were very bright and black, and shot from under thick, white eyebrows one swift, suspicious look as the squire entered, then gazed upon him frank- ly and gratefully enough. "This is my uncle, Mr. Carlyon," said the younger of the two visitors, "come in person to thank you for your noble devotion in saving my dear cousin — " "Nay, Richard," interposed the old gentle- man, with dignity, and stretching forth an arm almost as long as Mr. Carlyon's own, though wasted to one-half its thickness, " I must thank him for titat myself. Ion have preserved to me, sir, the dearest thing left to me in this world : my beloved and only daughter. Accejjt the gratitude of one who, but for you, would have ' found the little remnant of life he has still to live very miserable and barren." CARLYON'S YEAR. 19 " I am most pleased, Mr. Crawford," an- swered the scjuire, returning tlic pressure of the other's long, thin fingers, "to have been the instrument of saving, not only to yourself, but to the many who liave experienced her un- selfish benevolence, a life so priceless as Miss Crawford's. And for you, sir," here he turned to the young man, who was giving utterance to certain conventional expressions of gratitude upon his own behalf, " I am sincerely glad to have been able to have given you a helping hand in a difliculty that certainly might have been serious." "Serious!" observed the old gentleman, "why, my daughter tells me that death stared her in the fiiee." " And so it did, uncle," answered Mr. Richard, frankly. " Mr. Carlyon makes liglit of the matter, only because he is used to risk his own life for strangers. Directly Agnes saw him she cried, ' There is the man to save us, if man can do it !' Twice before, as I hear, upon those very sands — " "Hush, hush, my dear young sir," inter- rupted Carlyon, hastily ; " your good-will makes you exaggerate matters, or else you have been misinformed. In the first place, !Miss Agnes Crawford is not a stranger to any one who lives near Mellor, and who has ears to listen to good report ; and, secondly, possessing unu- sual advantages in my excellent steed, I should have been base indeed not to have used them on so critical an occasion. Had I done other- wise, I do assure you, it would have been the act of a coward," added he, turning toward his elder visitor ; " and we men who are over six feet high should at least be courageous, should we not ?" Up to this time, in spite of his host's invitation to be seated, Mr. Crawford had been standing, hat in hand, as though his visit was intended to be of the shortest ; but at these w-ordshe sank slowly down upon the nearest chair, as though he had been pushed into it by main force, and in spite of himself. His long limbs trembled as with tl)e palsy ; and his thin face grew more wan and white than ever, except that in the centre of each hollow cheek there w-as a spot of burning red. His ashen lips endeavored in vain to ar- ticulate. "Good heavens! your uncle is ill," cri3d Carlyon, pulling the bell with yiolence ; " whai is it he should take? — Wine — brandy? — ypeak!" But before Richard could reply, the old man answered for himself, in tolerably firm tones, that he was better now and needed no refresh- ment. " The fact is, my dear Mr. Carlyon, this in- terview has a little unmanned me. I am vci-y old, you see ; and for these many years 1 have lived a hermit's life. The sight of a stranger is quite a sliock to me. Thank you : since the brandy has come, I will take a little." But Carlyon observed that he scarcely put his lips to tho glivss, and that while he spoke his bright eyesonce more flashed forth such glances of anger and suspicion as certainly showed no lack of vital power. " There, I am better now already," resumed Mr. Crawford, with cheerfulness. " Certainly, if there is an elixir viUc for tl>e old at all it is Frencli brandy. I have some in my cellar at Greycrags — and I trust you will come and dine with us shortly, and take a petil verre of it aft- er dinner — which numbers as many years in bottle as I myself have been in the flesh ; in other words, it is three-quarters of a century old." " That would be a great attraction," said Mr. Carlyon, gallantly, "to any other house but Greycrags, which, however, possesses a much more priceless treasure. You have so over- whelmed me with your generous, but really ex- aggerated, gratitude, that I have not yet been able to ask after ^Hss Agnes herself. I trust she has escaped all consequences of her late ad- venture." "Yes, I think I may say, that, except for a little fatigue, which it is only natural she should feel after having gone through so much excite- ment, my daughter is none the worse. She is used to cold, and even to getting wet through, in her perambulations among the poor. Rich- ard and she walked home at their best pace, so she has not felt even a chill. She was exceed- ingly anxious, however, upon your account ; and indeed, from her statement, I scarcely hoped to find you so completely yourself again. So, as soon as Richard was ready, he and I drove to Mr. Carstairs's house, and finding you had gone home, ventured to follow you hither. We should have welcomed a much less valid excuse I am sure. What a charming place is this Woodlees of yours. " " It is picturesque," said Carlyon, shrugging his shoulders, "viewed from without; but a lonely and cheerless place to live in. " "That must be the fault of its proprietor, surely," observed Mr. Crawford with a meaning smile. "No, sir, his misfortune," returned the other dryly. "However, my butler seems to have resolved you should be as unfavorably impressed as possible, by showing you into this sombre room." " Ah ! there I diflfer from you," answered the old gentleman. "ZPov my part, I like gloom. The worst of Greycrags is, that it is so exceed- ingly light ; its uiiiform cheerfulness oppresses one like a too lively talker — a companion who is always in high spirits. In the whole house there is ao quiet little den like this, where an old man may sulk by himself out of the sunshine. Not, however, that any room can be gloomy wilh such a glorious picture as that in it. Richard and I were agreeing, befc re you came down, that we had never seen a more charming face on c.xn- vas. Woodlees could not have been so lonely at one time, if, as I conjecture, that beautiful creature was once its mistress." John Carlyon bowed gravely. " What tenderness of expression, Richard, is 20 CARLTON'S YEAR. there not ?" continued the old man, rising and a])proaching the picture. " It is almost jjainfiil in its pathos. Now, wliat epoch can this lady have adorned ?— not your own, of course, and scarcely mine." " Slie was my mother, sir," observed Mr. Carlyon, dryly ; then, after a pause, he added, " I should be sorry, Mr. Crawford, for you to carry away with you an impression of Woodlees de- rived from this ajjartment only. Let me per- suade you to step up so far as the tower room, where perhaps you will take a cigar." With these words he opened the door like one wlio would have no denial. " My smoking-days are over," replied tlieold gentleman, smiling ; " I am a worn-out profligate in that way, and can only partake of the mere flavor of vice from the snuff-box : yet I will glad- ly visit your sanctum. But what a long way up it is ; why, it's quite an eyrie." "Yes, and here I sit, a wretched, middle-aged l)ird, all alone and moulting." " Jt should be a nest full of eaglets ; the very room for a nursery, sir," obsei-ved Mr. Crawford, unheeding the other's remark, and standing in the centre of the spacious chamber with its three huge windows. "What a beautiful prospect! See, Richard, yonder is Grey crags. My daugh- ter and I have often wondered, Mr. Carlyon, to what use this tower which never shows a candle was put, and I think we must have come to the right conclusion, to judge at least by this tele- scope." He touched a large instrument stand- ing on a brass tripod and turning on a pivot. "This is your observatory, is it not? You sit in the dark here and watch the stars." "Not I," returned Mr. Carlyon, smiling; "you give me credit for much more learning than I possess. But to keep a lamp burning here is very dangerous to folks at sea. It has been mistaken more than once for the light at Mellor Point ; and so, as I don't want to hold the candle in whose flame human moths may shrivel, I sit here in the dark. But as for the stars, I do not trouble myself with them." "No: I see this is not a night-glass," ob- served Mr. Crawford, turning the instrument to southward. "But what a field it has! This must have cost you a great deal of money." "I see you are a judge of telescopes, Mr. Crawford. Yes, this was really a great piece of extravagance for me to indulge in ; but it forms ray only amusement. This is my watch-tower, from whence I survey the world, both land and ocean. I can sit here and sweep fifty miles of sea. The least white speck out yonder, I can recognize, or know at least whether she is friend or stranger. Look now, to that sail in the south- east, hugging the land ; that is his lordship's yacht, the San Sonci — very much misnamed, by the bye, if all tales concerning her ])roprietorbe true. One would think she would never weath- er the point yonder." " She never will," observed Mr. Crawford de- cisively, who was watching her through the tele- scope. "Not weather it! Permit me to look one moment. Ah, you don't know that yacht. She can sail nearer tlie wind than any craft in the bay. She is rounding it even now." " She is doing nothing of the sort, sir," said the old man, smiling, and tapping his snuff-box ; " look again." " You are quite right, sir," cried Carlyon much astonished ; " she has missed stays. And yet I would have bet a hundred to one. What an eye you have : why one would think you had been born a sailor. — Good lieavens ! Mr. Rich - ard, your uncle is taken ill again. It must be the tobacco smoke ; I am afraid it"was wrong of us to light our cigars." Mr. Carlyon threw up the north window, the opposite one being already open, and so created a strong draft. " I am better now," said the old man, feebly ; "but it was not the tobacco smoke." " My uncle sits with me while I smoke, every night," said Richard, coldly ; " it must have been the exertion of coming up so many stairs." "Yes, that was it, no doubt," added JNIr. Crawford. " I am a very old man, Mr. Carlyon, and you must excuse me." " My dear Mr. Crawford, I only reproacii myself for my thoughtlessness in having per- suaded you — " "Don't mention it, don't mention it, I beg," answered the old gentleman, hurriedly ; " but if you will allow my nephew to ring for the car- riage. We shall see you soon at Greycrags, Mr. Carlyon ? I shall behave better, I hope, as your host than I have done as your guest." Leaning heavily upon his nephew's shoulder, he slowly descended the uncarpeted and slippery stairs to the great hall ; then, holding out a hand cold and clammy as that of a corpse, he bade Mr. Carlyon adieu, and climbed into his car- riage. Richard also shook hands in as friendly a manner as he could assume ; but the effort was sufficiently evident. " I am sorry that I don't like Mr. Carlyon," observed the young man, after a long interval of silence, during which they had rolled through Mellor. "Indeed," replied his uncle, in the dry and cynical tone which was habitual to him when there was no necessity for politeness. ' ' That is of no great consequence ; I beg, however, you will take pains to conceal your dislike while you remain under my roof." CHArTER VII. ON THE ROAD. The day after that on which the events which we have narrated took place, John Carlvon took a ride toward Mellor ; although at first he had turned his horse's head another way. On his road thither he met with an interruption. Scarce had he left his own gates, when he came upon a knot of cocklers. just returned from the CARLYON'S YEAR. 21 bay, and apparently making up for their super- stitious abstinence from quarrel on the sands* by " Iiavinj^ it out" on dry land. " Wiiat is the matter, my friends ?" eried Carlyoii, good-luimoredly, interposing the huge l>ulk. of Red Berild between two combative ladies who were contending for the possession of some- thing tliat seemed to be all legs. "Have you found the spokes of one of I'liaraoh's chariot wheels?" At tliis, all burst into a guffaw, for Squire John was an immense faj'orite with this class, and his jokes always certain of acceptance. "Well, sir, it might be," returned one ; " at least, it's like notiiing as we knows on; it seems of no manner of use, unless it's for pinching your fmgers. " " Halloa !" observed the squire, examining this curiosity with interest. " Where did you find this?" "In the middle of the bay, sir, stuck in the sand, "answered the same comely dame who had held contention with tlie spiritual cobbler on the previous evening. " It might have floated away but for this great pad as it had hold of, just like a crab." "My good Mrs. Maekereth, this is a camp- stool," explained INIr. Carlyon. "The pad, as you call it, was once a drawing-book, the weight of which, as you say, without doubt prevented its wooden companion from going to sea." "Lor, sir, why then they're Miss Craw- ford's!" ejaculated one of the late combatants. "I am sure if we had known, we should not have thouglit of keeping them. Directly after we have had our sup o' tea we'll take them round to Greycrags, won't us, Dick ?" " Stop ; I am going there myself at once," said Carlyon, after a pause, "I will take the book with me. Here are two half-crowns for your trouble, and I dare say you will not leave the house empty-handed when you have taken ihe camp-stool." "No, squire, that's not likely; God bless her! yes, bless her!" returned the cockier, di- viding the spoil with her rival. "Miss Agnes has as open a hand as your own ; long life to you botli." " And I wish that them hands was joined, and that that was your marriage blessing," observed Dame Maekereth, boldly. This good lady was deficient in delicacy as some of her sex and age not seldom are. The rest seemed to feel that their spokeswoman had gone a little too far, so her obsei"vation elicited no mark of ad- hesion. The situation was rather embarrass- ing for every body but herself, who pleased as a gunner who has sent a shell {dump into the enemy's magazine, notwithstanding that it has destroyed a score or two of innocent non-combat- ants, indulged in a very hearty fit of laughter. "Good-morning, my friends," said Carlyon, coldly, moving slowly off with his prize under • The cocklers never quarrel " on the sands," being un- der the impression that if they do r", the cockles will leave their usual haunts with the next tide. his arm. He did not venture to ride fast, for fear the merriment siiould at once become gen- eral. On tiie other hand, he could not help hearing the following observations : "There, now, you have angered the squire, dame ; your tongue is just half an inch longer than it ought to be." "Nay, it's just the right length," returned that indomitable female ; " and as for angering him, I'll be bound he's as pleased as I'uneh. I have not come to my time of life and been wooed and wed by three proper men — all in the grave, poor souls, worse luck — without knowing what a man likes said to him and what he don't." And certainly John Carlyon wore a smile upon his face, as he trotted up the hill. " I think I shall call now," said he to him- self; "it will be only civil to take this di*aw- ing-book." He regarded it doubtfully enough, though, and indeed it had a rueful look. " One might almost think that Browning wrote of this identical article — There you have It, dry in the sun With all the binding all of a blister, And great blue s^pota where tlie color has run, Aud reddish streaks that wink and glister O'er tlie page so beautifully yellow. What a fool I am to be taking it back to her in all this hurry ! Nobody can ever draw upon it again. It has become a mere blotting-pad, as that old woman called it. She was right there, though not when she gave me her good wishese What is the use of my crying for the moon like a great baby ? Mr. Crawford may be willing enough to have me for a son-in-law, and, indeed, I think he wished me to see that. But even if her afiections are not engaged to her handsome cousin — and why not ? he is half my age and has twice my good looks (if, that is, I have any left) ; and he has opportunities which I can nev- er have ; and he loves her. I could see that when they stood yonder upon the brink of their grave. The young bantam showed no white feather, that I will say. And Agnes — was ever such a courage seen in woman ? I remember a l)icture at Antwerp, where they are binding the arms of a beautiful maiden before they cast her into some roaring flood — a Christian martyr, of course — and she wore just such an expression as this girl did last night when the sea was craving for her, and death within a hand's breadth. One would have thought that she had been in heaven already. And it is a saint like this that you have set your mind upon, John Carlyon, to have for your wife, is it ? No less will serve your infidel turn, cli? But this is no Margaret to be won by the aid of any Meph- istopheles. Faust, Faust, let me recommend you to stick to your profession as a country gen- tlen)an ; hunt, shoot, drink, and die." Here he arrived at the fork of the road lead- ing down from Mellor Church, and pulled his horse up. "No," added be, grimly, after a pause, "I will send this book by hand, and then be off to 22 CAELYON'S YEAR. London, where I have so many kind friends ; some of them female ones. Then, when the in- vitation comes to dine at Greycrags, I shall escape temptation, or rather, what is much less l)loasant, certain disa]>pointment. Yes, I'll go iionie and pack my jiortniantcau, no matter how old llohin may purse his lips ; or suppose," con- tinued he, after a jjause, " 1 let Red Berild de- cide the matter, as the knights of old used to do, letting the reins fall on the neck of their steed, and following his guidance rather than using their own judgment. But then that would be scarcely fair to — to the Greycrags alternative, since Berild is sure to take the road to his sta- bles." His fingers were yet playing irresolutely with the bridle, when a young man came suddenly upon liim from the diixction of the village, walk- ing very fast, and with his cap pulled low over his brows, as though to avoid observation. "Ah, William!" cried Carlyon, cheerily; and it was curious to note how very cheery his manner at once became, when addressing others, no matter how sombre might have been his pre- vious meditations while alone; " the verj' man I wished to see !" "And I was on my road to Woodlees, sir," returned the other, gravely, ' ' expressly to see yon, Mr. Carlyon." The voice was subdued and low for a man's voice, but with that earnestness and resolution in its tone which bespeak deep convictions in the speaker. " Coming to 7«c, were you, William? well, I am always glad to see you, but I think it was my business to come to yon. When I looked in the glass this morning, and saw this bruise on my forehead, I said to myself, ' I have Wil- liam Millet to thank for that. ' The rope struck me just over the eyes ; exactly the spot where they lasso wild cattle on the prairies. There must be no touching of hats ; you must give me your hand-my friend, this morning. John Car- lyon owes you his life." The young man hesitated ; then diffidently reached out his hand to meet the other's. " You ai'e mistaken, sir," said he, " except in the bare fact that it was I who threw the rope ; though Miss Agnes is good enough to make as much of that as she can. But, indeed, so far from your being indebted to me or mine, it was through — it was through my poor father, sir," (here the young man fixed his eyes upon the ground) " that the mischance happened at all. His old enemy tempted him and he fell." " That's religion, William, and therefore un- intelligible," returned Carlyon coldly; "how was it, in plain terms?" " Miss Agnes and her cousin went out in fa- ther's cart, to take a sketch of the bay from the middle of the sands." The speaker had enunciated his words with painful difficulty, notwithstanding that he evi- dently strove to be distinct and collected, and now he came to a full stop altogether. " Well, she was on the sands and sketching," said the other, impatiently ; " I know that much already, for here is her drawing-book." Under any other circumstances precise Wil- liam Millet would have smiled to hear a gentle- man and lady thus spoken of as a single indi- vidual, to whom moreover was attributed the sex that is ungallantly stated to be less worthy than the masculine ; but he was full of a great trou- ble, and had no sense of any thing else. " It was arranged as usual, for he had been out, with Miss Agnes at least, on such expedi- tions before, that father should call for them on his way back to Mellor, and in good time. But while at the skeer he met with an old comrade, living on tlie other side of the bay, who not con- tent witli drinking tlie devil's health on shore — for that's what a man does every time he puts his lips to the wliiskey bottle — must needs take out his liquor with iiini upon the very sands. Sir, my father could not resist it. God forgive him, he drank till he scarce knew where he was; drank till he had clean forgotten his promise to Miss Agnes ; and at last, went home with his companion quite unconscious that death was drawing nigh to the best friend he had in the world, (for Miss Agnes had been his guardian angel, sir), and all through his own fault, his own folly, his own crime." "What a cursed fool the man must have been !" cried Carlyon, angrily. "A fool, sir, indeed, but I trust not cursed," retui'ned the 3'oung man solemnly. " He is sor- ry enough now, is father. It is terrible to see his grief. But for you, Mr. Carlyon, he feels that he should have been a murderer. He will never hold up his head again, I doubt." "Well, the sense of the mischief he so nearly wrought, will at least have this good result, I suppose, that Stephen will leave off drinking." said Carlyon. "That will be good coming out of evil— ^isn't that the phrase ?" "God grant it may be so," returned the young man, without noticing the other's cynical tone ; " and that this awful lesson may save his soul alive." "Humph," said Mr. Carlj'on, drj-ly ; then mui'mured to himself, " How characteristic all this is. To save a soul that is not worth sav- ing, two other folks are put within a hairs- breadth of being drowned. And after all, the salvation is not with certainty effected. This sot will probably have to complete a murder be- fore that satisfactory result is achieved. The calmness with which pious folks talk of sacrific- ing the lives or interests of innocent people to benefit the spiritual condition of scoundrels of this sort, is most curious. It is like making a blood bath from the veins of children in order that some jaded voluptuary may become reju- venescent." "I see you are veiy angry, sir," resumed tho ' young man, humbly ; " and I am sure I can not blame you. You are the third person whose death would have lain at my father's door. It was your forgiveness that I was coming to ask for him, sir. II; uursn't come himself. I think CARLYON'S YEAR. 23 he would rather die than meet Miss Agnes just at present, althouj^h tiie dear young hvdy was very anxious to assure him of lier pardon. lie can look in no man's face. Oh, sir, lie is bow- ed down to tlie earth witli shame and sorrow." " Well, William, you may tell him he has my free forgiveness as far as what he has done to me is concerned." "But not as respects Miss Agnes? You will never forgive him that. That's what you mean, is it not, sir?" said the young man, look- ing up with flushed checks, for the first time. " That's what they all say, sir. They will point at father as tlie man that nearly murder- ed Jliss Agnes ; and yet she — Mr. Carlyon, if yon are going up to Greycrags, ask her what s/ie tliinks they ought to do. What she thinks you ought to do. She says for her part, that if she had been downright drowned, and that through that circumstance — " "That will do, William," interrupted Mr. Cai'lyon, harshly. " Don't speak to me any more, or you will put me in a passion, and I shall say things that will hurt your feelings. You are an excellent fellow yourself (although you are a fool in some things) and I have al- ways had a good opinion of you. I am bound to be your friend for life, for what you did for me twenty-four hours ago, and you may depend upon me at all times. Good-bye." " Stop, sir, stop !" cried the young man, lay- ing his hand imploringly upon the other's bri- dle rein, and speaking in earnest, but rajjid tones ; " if, as you say, I have deserved any thing at your hands, let it weigh w^ith you now. The man that I speak of is cast down' to the very dust — a broken man without hope ; it lies in your example to give him one more chance among bis fellow-creatures here or not ; and, oh, sir, he is my own father !" A spasm passed across Mr. Carlyon's face, the index of some mental struggle within, and he did not speak for some moments. Then, with a very gentle voice, he said — "What a good fellow you are, William. You may tell this man that I forgive him from the bottom of my heart, and I will do my best to persuade others to do so — for his son's sake." '• Thank you, sir ; though I wish it had been for God's sake," returned the young man, fer- vently. " May He prosper you in all your un- dertakings, and call you home to Him at last." But John Carlyon had already touched Red Berild with his heel, and did not wait for that reply. He had turned his horse's head toward Greycrags. CHAPTER VIII. EXPLANATORY. The residence occupied by Mr. Crawford (for it was not his own) was as secluded as Wood- lees itself, although in a diflferent fashion. It was a house that stood on a hill, and yet it was hid. Trees environed it almost wholly, al- though not growing so near as to give the out- look any a])])earance of gloom. Curiously enough, the view of the sea, an advantage generally so desiderated in those parts, was altogether shut out from the mansion, the principal rooms of which faced the north-west, and commanded a grand inland prosjjcct. In that direction, hill rose be- hind hill, imtil in the distance their summits were usually mingled with the clouds ; but on very bright days indeed this highest range stood grandly out against the clear blue sky, and in the late autumn, when the snow began to hoar their tops, afforded a really glorious si)ectacle. A still better view, of course, was gained from the sum- mit of the hill from wliich the house was named, and hence it had at one time been a great re- sort for parties of pleasure during the summer months. Tiiis, however, was long ago ; ever since Mr. Crawford's tenancy of the place a rigor- ous exclusi(jn of all strangers having been main- tained. Nay, it might almost be added of all friends, in such solitude had the old man lived for tlie whole five years be bad passed at Mellor. So far, therefore, from enjoying its ancient repu- tation as a place of amusement, it was now in no very pleasant repute. Being shut out from Greycrags, its poorer neighbors affected (like the fox pronounced the uncomeatable grapes sour) to shun it ; or perhaps they really had got to be- lieve the tales which they had themselves in- vented against its proprietor when he forbade their making use of his grounds. What did the old curmudgeon mean by such conduct? Peo- ]jle did not hedge themselves in, and keep them- " selves to themselves in that sort of way without some very good reason for it ; or rather for some reason which (like the spirits at the Mellor Arms) were strong without being so very good. What should induce an old gentleman of sev- enty years of age, M'itli an only daughter of fifteen or so, to come and live at such a place as Grey- crags — a man, one would think, to whom society would have been most acceptable, since his sole establishment upon his arrival had consisted of his daughter's attendant, and she a black wom- an ! He had engaged the few other servants liis simple mode of life required, in the neigh- borhood, and dropped down, just as it might be (except that the black woman was credited with having hailed from what I may venture to call the opposite locality), from the skies. It was nothing less than an insult to the intelligence of his neighbors, to behave in this unaccounta- ble manner. Many of them would have for- given his having closed the grounds, if they could have only found out why he did it. Even Mr. Puce, the parson, a man who had the repu- tation of knowing a great deal of the world (some even said that for a clergyman he had too ex- clusively given his attention to it), could make nothing of Mr. Crawford. He had called, of course, not without some thirst for information, and had found the new-comer prettj- much as we have seen him five years afterward at Wood- lees ; with a curious look of suspicion about him just at first, which wore off before the visit was It CARLYON'S YEAR. ended. A gentleman, without doubt ; Mr. Puce was ready to stake his reputation (not liis pro- fessional one, hut tiie other) upon tliat fact ; he was never mistaken as to whetiicr a man liad been accustomed to " move in the ujjper circles." He even expressed his opinion tiiat Mr. Craw- ford was one who had been accustomed to liabits of command. But this was going a little too far. Tlie gentry of the locality who had not en- joyed the iJrivilege of a personal interview with tiie mysterious stranger — they who had called and been " not-at-homcd," and wiiose calls had not been returned — would not credit that much. It was only natural that Mr. Puce should make the most of his advantage ; but after all, what Mr. Crawford had alleged about himself was : probably correct. He had made a competency i)y commerce, and very late in life had married a young wife, who had died in childbed with his little daughter. At nearly the same time his only brother and his wife had been carried off ' by fever in India, and their infant sOn had been consequently consigned to his charge. The Ayah who had brought him overbad undertaken the mangement of both children ; and sei-v- ants of all sorts were now required. Mr. Puce could doubtless recommend some among his parishioners. j In short, Mr. Crawford had been as business- like as polite throughout the interview ; but al- though thus fiir communicative about his own af- fairs — indeed evidently anxious to ex])lain his position — there was nothing to be got out of him by cross-examination. Attired in deep mourn- ing, his wasted form and cadaverous features fully bore out his assertion that both as con- cerned health and spirits he was totally incapac- itated for mixing with society ; and this he hoped tliat Mr. Puce would be so good as to make known to any families who might be kind enough to entertain the design of calling upon him. He was not even at present well enough, he added (and during the last five years he hadne'^jer been sufficiently coiivalescent to attempt the experiment), to attend public worship. Indeed, notwithstanding the not unprom- ising character of that first interview, the rec- tor had never got speech with his parishioner again. He had called perhaps half a dozen times at Greycrags (for he was piqued at having been so foiled in his dexterous home-thrusts and anxious to retrieve his reputation as a far- sighted investigator into social millstones), but the answer he constantly received was that Mr. Crawford did not feel himself equal to see him — that is, except from a distance ; for as the rec- tor walked away discomfited it sometimes hap- pened that the ancient invalid was watching ijim through his telescope from some umbrage- ous portion of the elevated grounds. As time went on a governess of mature years was pro- vided for Agnes ; and whether from the admira- ble " system" employed by that lady (and quite peculiar to herself as everybody's "system" is), or from her previous training under some one else, no more satisfactory female pupil was ever turned out of the educational workshop. Her acconiidishments, however, were far outshone by her kindliness and charity. Even Mr. I'uce was compelled to confess that the Church had no such servant in his jiarish as the daughter of the recluse of Greycrags. She was bumble, too, and submissive to authority ; not like that pestilent Job Salver, who blasjihcmously con- ceived that he had received the gift of preach- ing ; nor even that William Millet, who carried his religion into every aflair of life like some nursing mother who embarrasses her neighbors by considering the baby is included in all invi- tations. Agnes Crawford, unlike her father, " went out" (as the phrase goes) a good deal ; but not into what is generally called society. She was on excellent terms with the ladies of the neigh- borhood, who had no worse term to api)ly to her than " very peculiar ;"' but she did not often vis- it them. No ])erson (with any sense of jjropri- ety) could blame her for that, since having part- ed with her governess in her eighteenth year, she had no longer a "chaperon." Old Mrs. Ileathcote, of Mellor Lodge, had indeed oflered her services to " the dear girl," in this matter — including some very appropriate personal prop- erties, item: a front as black as the raven's wing ; a splendid turban, witii an ostrich feather in it ; and a portrait of her deceased husband, worn as a stomacher, and almost the size of life. But Agnes, with grateful thanks, had de- clined her protection. She did not even care for either of the two county balls (one civil, the other military) ; and therefore it may be easily imagined that the ordinary evening parties of the neighborhood failed to attract her. Dinner parties W'ere not given about ISIcllor — a neath"- written statement that the pleasure of your com- pany was requested to tea being the favorite form of invitation — but it is my belief that Miss Crawford would not very much have cared even for going out to dinner. She only took ot'ner people's dinners out to them in a basket ; and when they were sick, supplied them with little comforts — made inexpressibly more com- forting in their ministration. Thus it might have easily happened that not moving in the best local circles (to borrow Mr. Puce's image- ry) Agnes had never so much as spoken with John Carlyon, although so near a neighbor. The fact was, however, that Mr. Carlyon did not move in them either, or rather had not done so for many years. He had flown ofi" from them at a tangent of his own free will, or per- haps, as they themselves averred with some complacency, they had made him fly. The squire at Woodlees had very much overrated his social position if he imagined that he might think a^ he liked, or at all events might express his opinions Because the Earl Disney thought fit to absent himself from public w'orship fifty- one Sundays per annum, that was no excuse for IMr. John Carlyon 's absence therefrom for fifty- two. Nor had he even the decency, like Mr. CAULYONS YEAR. 25 Crawford (an old man whose case was shocking to coiitemphxte, but who had yet some sense of shame), to frame an excuse. Tlie squire was the picture of heaUh, and might be seen, Sun- day after Sunday, starting fur liis galloj) on tlic sands, while all the otiier gentry of tiie neigh- borhood were proceeding with demure faces to listen in the j)roi)er place to the clergyman of their parish. These gentlemen, his sometime companions in the hunting-field, would look up in rather a sheepish manner and say, " How do, Carlyon ?" as he met or overtook them on such occasions; but tlieir wives never vouchsafed liim a nod. Nay, as soon as he had passed by on his ungodly errand, tliey would often anticipate Mr. Puce's discourse by a little sermon of their own, or even bring the tell-tale color into their lord's cheek by stating their belief that he himself would rather be on horseback at that very mo- ment like yonder wicked man, if the trutii were known. It is fair to add, however, that it was not merely Mr. Carlyon's absence from church which caused him to be thus sent to Coventry (not a wholly disagreeable place, he averred in his cynical way), but also a very deplorable hab- it he had of speaking disrespectfully of religion. He protested he never did so unless in self-de- fense, and when belabored by the weapons of the dogmatic ; but not only was this denied, but the defense, such as it was, was disallowed. He ought to have been thankful for the correc- tion ; and at all events, even in war, folks are never justified in poisoning wells or using Greek fire. What aggravated the matter, too, above all things, was that John Carlyon's father had been one of the best and most orthodox of men. While he lived no evidence of his son's deprav- ity had been afforded ; but no suoner had iiis example been withdrawn than tlie young squire had thrown off the mask, and appeared in his true character as infidel and scoffer. For the rest he was a man of diiring courage, and open- handed generosity ; but these virtues, of course, only made his irreligious opinions the more to be deplored. Every body in Mellor did deplore them, and especially Mrs. Newman, his widow- ed sister, a lady of most unimpeachable views in spiritual matters, although in worldly affairs she had the reputation of being overprudent. With regard to money, of which she had a plen- tiful supply, she was even called close-fisted. The shrewd husband of one of the poor women whom it was her pleasure to edify, once observed of Mrs. Newman that " You might get a ton of texts from her easier than an ounce of tea,'' and it must be confessed that the remark was not without foundation. John Carlyon and Agnes Crawford, then, ex- cept for those terrible minutes on the lessening sand, had never met, although each had been made well aware, by report, of the character of the other. "She will thank me," mused the S'luire to himself, as he rode up to the front door at Greycrags, "and then she will shrink from me as from an adder." CHAPTER IX. gri:ycrag8. "Mr. Chawfoui) has not at present left his chamber, being unwell," was the reply given by the servant to Mr. Carlyon; "but Mr. Rich- ard is somewhere about the grounds, and I will let liim know you are here. Miss Crawford is in the drawing-room, sir, if you will stej) this way." Twice or tliricc, but not more, Carlyon had had an opportunity of observing Agnes with at- tention, but lie thought that siic had never looked half so lovely as when rising hastily, though with grace, from a table at which she was j)ut- tiiig some finishing touches to a drawing, she came forward to meet him with heightened col- or, and outstretched hand. On the day before, her beauty had struck him indeed as wonderful ; but then it was something out of natiu-e, if be- yond it. The expectation of immediate death had glorified that ciiarming face, and changed it to something celestial ; it had jncsented the chastened and unearthly loveliness which the moonbeams cast upon some fair landscape. To- day, though radiant as a sunbeam, she looked A creature not loo briglit and good For human nature's dally food. "Mr. Carlyon," said she, "I have to thank you for my life ; what words shall I find in which to do so ?" "None, my dear madam," returned he. " Words are unnecessary : indeed they are. I read in 'your face that gratitude which a gener- ous UMi'd i« so prompt to pay with usurioizs in- terest." She smiled and shook her head. "As you please," said she. "True courage, it is said, always makes light of its own acts ; but when we left you yesterday at j\Ir. Carstairs's house, you were scarcely recovered. I trust you are now yourself again." "Unhappily, madam, yes;" here he released her hand, and sighed. "They tell me I was under water a few seconds longer than yourself and your cousin : otherwise a groat hulking fellow like me ought to be ashamed of himself to have been the last to get his breath." "And your horse, Mr. Carlyon — I trust that noble horse has come safe to land ?" " He is standing in your stables at this mo- ment. If I could but let him know that you had asked after him, I am sure that Red Berild would be better pleased than with a feed of corn. His nature is chivalric — except," added Carlyon, smiling, " that he never earns the spurs." "I have had another visitor this morning, Mr. Carlyon, to whom, next to yourself, Richard and I are indebted for our preservation yester- day ; and for fear I should forget it, I will tell you at once that I have a favor to ask you in connection with him. When one owes one's life to a fellow-creature, it does not matter what one owes beside ; the weight of obligation can 26 CARLTON'S YEAR. not be increased ; so you sec I am quite sliame- less." "Whatever tlie favor may be, it is grantofl, my dear Miss Crawford. You speak of Will- iam Millet, I suppose, whom I have just met upon the road." "Then be probably asked you himself?" said Apncs, eagerly. "No; although, of course, I would have obliged liim in any way. But he is very mod- est, is William." "Very modest and very good," replied Miss Crawford, thoughtfully. "I don't know any one .so good in all Mellor." " lie does not seem a happy man, however ; at least, he has always a melancholy go-to- meeting sort of air about him." There was the shadow of a sneer upon this last sentence, cast by the speaker's sclf-coutcmpt, not contempt of his subject. Carlyon felt that he was in dan- ger of playing a hypocritical part to please this beautiful girl, and he resented his own weakness. " If William Millet has sorrows," replied Ag- nes, confidently, "they are not his own. His heart, like the ])elican's breast, bleeds for others, not for himself" "Yes; he has a worthless, drunken fiither, poor fellow," said Carlyon, abruptly; "that must be a bitter bane to any man." " Yes, indeed, Mr. Carlyon ; you and I can not know how bitter. I say you from hearsay only ; but if what every body agrees in must needs be true, you were exceptionally blessed in your father." "He was a man of the strictest religion and piety," returned Carlyon. 'J^ic extreme coldness of his tone could scarce- ly have escaped her — and indeed it was intend- ed to be observed — but she went on as though she had not heard it. "In that case, you ought to feel pity for those who are less fortunate in their parents." " I do pity William Millet, Miss Crawford. If you ask me to pity Stephen, a man who for a glass of gin has put a life like yours, to say noth- ing of your cousin's and mine, in deadliest per- il, I can not do it." "I ask you to forgive him," said Agnes, plead- ingly. " William has asked me to do that already, and I have done it. I have promised also to try my best to get the old man forgiven, al- though that will be no easy task in Mellor, where, if you had ])erished, they tell me every house- hold would have lost its truest friend." "No, sir, no," said Agnes, hastily; "poor folks are thankful for small kindnesses, and magnify them in their talk. But to f/iis house- hold — that is, to my jroor father — my loss would have been doubtless great. The very nearness of such a calamity (for such it would have doubt- less been to him) affected him very deejdy ; he showed himself far from w-ell at Woodlees yes- terday, Richard tells me." "Yes, he was twice overcome, although I did not understand tiie cause ; but at your fa- ther's age there is nothing surprising in such seizures, i)articularly since he has been such an invalid so long." "Just so," said Agnes, in low earnest tones; "there is nothing surjirising. You will not be disturbed therefore, if, when you come to see us, as he hopes you often will, he should occasion- ally give way in a similar manner. I am afraid he is scarcely well enough to see you to-day, al- though I know he counts upon the pleasure of your dining here on Thursday — indeed, I had, at his request, written you this formal invita- tion — which, as you see, only awaits the post- man." "I accept it very gladly," said Carlyon; "notwithstanding which, oblige me by not tear- ing up the note. It will remind me — although, indeed, I am not likely to forget it — of the en- gagement. Do you always act as your father's amanuensis thus. Miss Crawford ?" "Always: I have done so for some years. Even his business matters — except just where his signature is necessary — are entirely trans- acted l)y me. You smile, as though you doubt- ed my fitness for such a post ; but I assure you, I am very exact and methodical." "Nay, I was only envyinj; the attorney whom Mr. Crawford employs," said Carlyon, simply. Tone and gesture were both wanting, which should have accompanied a compliment so high- flown. The young girl blushed deeply, and there ensued an embarrassing pause. " That drawing of yours reminds me," re- sumed Carlyon, pointing to the table, " of the pretext on which I have A'entured to intrude upon you. This sketch-book was found upon the sands this morning, as well as a camp- stool, which the finder will bring with him be- fore night ; it is yours, I conclude, although I am afraid it can be of no farther use." Miss Crawford looked very grave at the sight of this memento of her late peril. "I thank you much, Mr. Carlyon. It is useless, as you saj', for its original purpose ; but I am very glad to have it. It will serve to remind me of the Providence which mercifully preserved me in so terrible a strait ; as well," added she, with frank- ness, "of the brave gentleman who risked his life — nay, almost lost it — to save that of mere strangers. My unfinished sketch, I perceive — " here her voice faltered in spite of her utmost efforts at self-command — "has vanished from the block. Surely the sea could not have taken all the color out." "I assure you, dear Miss Crawford, on my honor," exclaimed Carlyon, earnestly, "that F have ventured to take no s\ich liberty. The book is just as it came into my hands." "Nay, there would have been no great h.nrm," returned she, smiling, " even had you committed such a theft. The wrecker, I am afraid, who- ever he is, will have gained but a worthless prize." "There I difl'cr from you," said Carlyon. "I never before jn-ojierly appreciated my man- orial rights to Flottsam and Jettsam : I will CARLYON'S YEAR. 27 pnnish the rascal who has thus deprived me of them with all the rigor of the law — tliat is, I would if I could. From wlience is the skctuli taken whicli you liave just finished so ciiarm- ingly? 1 should know those hills well cnouj,di : that is Wvnthrop Tike, is it not? and that Cold Harbor Uod?" " No, the Dod is here, in the middle distance ; although I dare say it is my fault that it is not recognizable. It is taken half way up the crags ; a most glorious place for a view. Come, I will show you the very spot." "I should like that of all things," answered Carlyon, eagerly. "Greycrags has been so well preserved a sanctuary since your father's time, that I have quite forgotten the view from your hill." She took up the summer hat that lay on the chair beside her, and, with the drawing in her hand, stepped out through the open window on the lawn, which sloped up to the wood-crowned height to southward. Two winding walks, to left and right, led to the top of this hill ; and both of them had several little level resting-places, or plateaus, provided with seats either for rest or enjoyment of the extensive prospect afforded from them. On one of these, which commanded the windows of the drawing-room they had just left, Richard Crawford was seated reading, or, at least, with a book in his hand. He did not seem to observe Carlyon and his cousin. He had taken up his position on the left-hand walk ; and when the point was reached where the two diverged, Agnes, after a moment's hesitation, took the other. That, certainly, was a fair spot from which the good folks of ^lellor had been shut out by Mr. Crawford's veto years ago. Art and na- ture seemed^ to have vied with one anotlier in adorning the scene. The luxuriance of the wilderness predominated ; for Mr. Crawford's out-door establishment was scarcely sufficient to keep in order such extensive grounds ; but still the lawn on which you looked down at every turn of the shady zigzag, was kept smooth and shaven, and the flower-beds in their eme- rald setting glowed with harmonious hues. A terrace-walk — now diminished to a strip of gravel— ran round the house, and this was set with urns full of scarlet blossoms. As the moved higher, above the level of the house-roof, the prospect to the north-west, to which we have alluded, began to expand itself, and for the spectators an alcove had been erected at the most eligible point of view. "This is the place from which I took this drawing, Mr. Carlyon," said Agnes; "and I think you owe me an apology for mistaking "Windy Scar, yonder, for Cold Harbor Dod, whose hump, I flatter myself I have represent- ed with great fidelity. I have always been tauglit to prefer truth to beauty, independently of the fact that the former is always attainable, and the latter not." "The poet tells us they are the same," an- swered Carlyon, " 'Beauty is truth — truth beau- ty ;' and when I look at your face, Miss Craw- ford, I do believe him." " Mr. Carlyon, I am not used to listen to comi)linients," said Agnes, rising from the bench with quiet dignity ; " and, to tell you the truth — or tlie beauty, since you say the terms are synonymous — it is a taste which I do not wish to acquire." " You altogether misconceive my unfortunate observation, dear Miss Crawford," replied Car- lyon humbly ; " but pray sit down. 1 will take care not to oifend again, even in appearance. You make light of my poet's dogma, it appears ; I hope you do not flout at all bards, as Meg — that is, Mrs. Newman — does. A painter like yourself should surely be on friendly terms with the sister-art." " I like poetry very much, Mr. Carlyon ; but I must confess — making all iillowance for my own lack of intelligence — that the claims which its admirers often put forth are somewhat ex- travagant. Poets seem to me to be the most thoughtful and suggestive of writers, touching with marvelous skill the innermost chords of our being ; but as high-priests of our spiritual life I do not recognize their authority." "You do not believe in the inspiration of the muse, then?" "Yes, I do; but not in the same sense in which I believe in the inspiration of the Scrip- tures." "Plenary?" asked Mr. Carlyon, smiling. "You surely don't believe, with Air. Job Sal- ver, that the Bible was dropped from Heaven in a lump, and in the vulgar tongue ?" "Oh, sir, I am an ignorant girl, and know nothing of what you hint at. But this I know, that when folks want comfort on their sick-beds, they only get it from one book." "You are speaking of uneducated, simple people, such as you find about here." " Yes ; or in other words, of about nineteen- twentieths of our fellow-creatures. Of the other twentieth — the educated classes — about one-twentieth again, perhaps, have really any genuine poetic feeling. Thus the influence of the poets, however powerful, is restricted with- in veiy narrow limits. It is idle to speak of them as supplying the spiritual place of those inspired writers who address themselves to every degree of mankind." " My dear JNIiss Crawford," returned Carlyon, laughing, " if it be possible that Doctor Samuel Johnson has been permitted to reappear upon the earth's surface in the form of a fair lady, she is certainly before me now. You make me believe in the doctrine of metempsychosis." " I wish I could make you believe in some- thing better and truer," returned the young girl, gravely. "Well, try. I should like you to have as good an opinion of me as you have of "William Millet." " Nay, sir, but that is impossible." "Dear me," quoth Carlyon; "why this is worse measure than I should get from Mr. CARLYONS YEAR. Puce himself. Surely he would estimate the Squire of Mcllor above a cocklcr's son." "Do you sujjjiose, Mr. Cariyon, tluit God Almifjhty, wlio made tlic whole world, and ten thousand other worlds for all we know, cares whether a man is a king or a cockier ?" " No, Miss Crawford ; nor, indeed, do I care, cither. You are wasting your energies in preaching equality to one of ' the Mountain' like mc." " And yet I see a pride in this very humility of yours, Mr. Cariyon. Every man is equal, you say. You bend to no one, and you wish the humblest to treat you as man with man. And yet you arc aware of your own superiority to the rest. When you rode down yesterday into the jaws of death — " "Into the mouth of hell," interrupted Car- iyon, finishing the quotation. " Nay, I do not say that; God in his mercy forbid!" continued Agnes, fervently; "but when you saw yourself to be the only man of all that concourse upon the shore who would peril his life to save that of others, you must have known that you were braver, nobler, more gen- erous than other men. Oh, sir, it is not well, I know, to say such things to your face ; I see it embarrasses your nature to hear them ; yet it is my duty to speak. Ceurage is good ; but that is not courage which in the favored servant leads him to defy his master to whose forbear- ance he is indebted ; that is not courage, but an ungrateful audacity, which moves a man to defy his God." "Miss Crawford," returned Cariyon, slowly, " I thank you. I am not so willfully blind but that I can perceive you mean to do me a good service. "We will talk of these things some other time together, as procrastinating Festus said to Paul. My visit to Greycrags has al- ready been unconscionably long ; in remem- brance of it, however — especially of this inter- view — may I beg for that chalk drawing, that admirable half-length of my old friend, Cold Harbor Dod. Come, or else I shall think you vexed because your eloquence has not convert- ed me upon tlie instant. You know it is quite the custom for those who would gain spiritu- al proselytes to bestow material advantages. ' Come to church, and you will get coals and blankets at Christm.as,' says Mr. Puce to the disciples of Job Salver." "As you will," said Agnes, sighing; "you are very welcome to my poor drawing, sir." Her cheeks w^ere i)ale, the light which had glowed in her earnest eyes awhile ago had (piite gone out. Cariyon, on the other hand, looked flushed and pleased. He rolled up the little sketch with tendercst care, and placed it in his breast pocket. "I will make a frame for it with my own hands," cried he, joyfully; "no carver and gilder shall touch it. Like the good old em- jieror of old, you may say to yourself. Miss Crawford, that you have not misspent tliis d.nj', since you have made a fellow-creature liapjiy." Agnes did not reply. Slowly, and in a si- lence broken only by one or two conventional jjhrases, the two descended the hill. Richard had deserted liis bench, and was nowhere to be seen. When they reached the drawing-room, and the horse had been ordered to be brought lound — " I must go out and see Red Berild!" ex- claimed Agnes. "Ah, do so," said Cariyon; "although he never looks so well, so powerful, and yet so gen- tle, as when he is carrying a lady." So she went out to where the noble creature stood, pawing the gravel, and patted his arching neck approvingly, and whispered in his prick- ing ears how grateful she felt to him. " On Thursday we shall see you at dinner, Mr Cariyon," were her last words. " Without fail," answered he, with a warmth that contrasted with her quiet tones; and so they shook hands and parted. Rapt in happy thought, and ever and anon touching his breast pocket as though to assure himself that his treasure was safe, Cariyon rode slowly away ; and when he and his steed had come to a retired pai't of the road, and out of eyeshot of the house, he leaned forward and kissed that neck upon which Agnes Crawford's hand had lingered so lovingly. CHAPTER X. CUBRA S TEACHING. When Agnes returned to the drawing-room, having bid adieu to her guest, she did what was with her a very unusual thing indeed — that is, nothing. Instead of working, or reading, or drawing, or attending to matters of the house, she sat in her old seat, with lier hands on her lap, looking thoughtfully out upon the flower- bordered lawn, but only seeing the pictures in her brain. How long she might h.ive thus re- mained in dream-land it is impossible to say, for that locality, seductive to all, is particularly so to those who, like lier, are comparatively strangers to it, and find themselves there only occasionally; she was soon startled into con- sciousness, however, by some one moving in another part of the room which lay in shadow. "Richard!" cried she, in astonishment. " What, are you here ?" "Yes, Agnes. I would not have disturbed you if I could have helped it ; but I got the cramp and was obliged to move a limb." " You frightened me very much, Richard," replied she, with a touch of annoyance in her tone. " Why did you not speak?" "Because 1 had nothing to say which would be pleasant to you, or at least one-half as pleas- ant as the thoughts which were occui>ying your mind."' " You can not have read them, Richard, very correctly, if that is the conclusion you have ar- rived at." CAItLYONS YEAR. " Yes I have, Agnes, I can tell you what you have been dreaming of, for it is a drcatn which can never have any -reality, thank God! Yoii have been dreaming of converting John Carlyon — into a husband." "iliohard!" She had risen to her fall height, with flashing eyes and flaming cheeks. "How dare you insult me thus — you that are my own kith and kin ! I Mush for you." "No, you are blushing for yourself, Agnes. You have seen this man but an hour or so, and yet the mention of his name turns you scarlet. I saw you when you stepped out with him yon- der on the lawn together. You both looked up fo where I sat, and then he asked you a question. An inner sense told me what it was as surely as though it had been whispered in my ears. You said that though my manner might have struck him as strange, that I meant no harm. That you re.illy had a great regard for me, being your cousin, and lest he, Mr. Cavlyon, should misjudge mc, you would confide to him at once that 1 had had a sunstroke in Barba- dos." " Heaven is my witness, Richard," interrupted Agnes, earnestly, "that I never uttered one syl- lable of all this ; that even the idea of uttering it never entered into my mind. You will be- lieve my word, Richard, I suppose, in opposition to this inner sense you speak of. Oh ! cousin, cousin, for shame." " How gentle and kind you are with me in consideration of my infirmity !" observed the young man, bitterly. "I dare say you have made up your mind that there shall always be an asylum for me in your own home — that is,.if Ae has no objection — when you are married and settled." He thought she would have flamed up again at this, but her face was now still and pale. Her large eyes gazed upon him in wonder and in sorrow. His fiery dart was turned aside by the shield of pity. " Yes, you can afford to bo patient and for- bearing," he went on ; "or at lci;