r Zbe £ngli3b Com^Me "fcumatne IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND CHARLES READE Zhc JBwQlieh ComeMe Ibumaine Masterpieces of the great English novelists in which are portrayed the varying aspects of English life from the time of Addison to the present day : a series analogous to that in w^hich Balzac depicted the manners and morals of his French contemporaries ^irst Serica TWELVE VOLUMES ¥ LIST OF TITLES AND AUTHORS 1 Sir Roger de Coverley. < The Vicar of Wakefield The Man of Feeling 2 Pamela .... 3 Joseph Andrews 4 Humphry Clinker . 5 Pride and Prejudice 6 Guy Mannering 7 Coningsby 8 The Caxtons 9 Jane Eyre 10 It is Never too Late Mend .... 1 1 Adam Bede 12 Barchester Towers TO Joseph Addison and Richard Steele Oliver Goldsmith Henry Mackenzie Samuel Richardson Henry Fielding Tobias Smollett Jane A usten Sir Walter Scott Benjamin Disraeli Bulwer Lytton Charlotte Brotit'e I Charles Reade George Eliot Anthony Trollope "■'Not if I know it,' said (jcorge . . . 'Whv the man is twice your age and nothing in his hand ' " Zbe JEnglisb Come&ie "toumainc IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND A MATTER-OF-FACT ROMANCE BY CHARLES READE V» » ^\.«M i NEW YORK Zhc Centura? Co. 1902 Copyright, 1902, by The Century Co. Published November, igo3. PUBLISHERS' NOTE. Charles Reade was born in 1814 and died in 1884. He studied at Oxford and rose to be, successively, fellow, Vinerian scholar, dean of arts, and vice-president of his college (Magda- len). In 1843 he was called to the bar. After taking his degree, he secured permanent lodgings, and later a home, in London, and gradually withdrew from university life. His entry into literature was made as a dramatist, his first play, "The Ladies' Battle," being produced at the Olympic in 185 i. In 1855 his sympathy was aroused by the published account of the cruelties inflicted upon the prisoners by the governor of the Birmingham jail. He took up the cause of the convicts, studied the facts in the jails of Durham, Oxford, and Reading, and embodied the results of his investigations in his first long novel, "It is Never Too Late to Mend," published in 1856. The scene moves from an English prison to New South Wales, Aus- tralia, as was natural in the decade which saw the successful struggle of that colony to rid herself of the incubus of convict settlers. The development of the gold-fields there in 185 1 was also a vital topic at the time the story was written, and life in a miners' camp gave an opportunity to the novelist to show the realistic and dramatic powers which have led his later critics to place his name with those of Eugene Sue, Dumas pere, and Emile Zola. The book did much to stimulate public interest in social regeneration, and, with later works by the same author, was a powerful factor in producing the wave of reform which moved over England in the middle of the nineteenth century. LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS From drawings by Clifford Carleton ■*'NOT IF I KNOW IT,' SAID GEORGE. . . 'WHY, THE MAN IS TWICE YOUR AGE AND NOTHING IN HIS HAND ' " Frontispiece FACING PAGE "The DOOR WAS OPENED, . . . AND A FIGURE EMERGED SO SUDDENLY AND DISTINCTLY FROM THE BLACKNESS, THAT Mr. Lacy STARTED" 318 "At a SECOND GLANCE IT WAS PLAIN THE MAN WAS DEAD" 618 THIS ATTEMPT AT A SOLID FICTION IS, WITH THEIR PERMISSION, DEDICATED TO THE PRESIDENT, FELLOWS, AND DEMIES OF ST. MARY MAGDALEN COLLEGE, OXFORD, BY A GRATEFUL SON OF THAT ANCIENT, LEARNED, AND MOST CHARITABLE HOUSE IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND CHAPTER I. GEORGE FIELDING cultivated a small farm in Berk- shire. This position is not so enviable as it was : years ago, the farmers of England, had they been as intelligent as other traders, could have purchased the English soil by means of the huge percentage it offered them. But now, I grieve to say, a farmer must be as sharp as his neighbours, or like his neighbours he will break. What do I say? There are soils and situations where, in spite of intelli- gence and sobriety, he is almost sure to break; just as there are shops where the lively, the severe, the industrious, the lazy, are fractured alike. This last fact I make mine by perambulating a certain great street every three months, and observing how name succeeds to name as wave to wave. Readers hardened by "The Times" will not, perhaps, go so far as to weep over a body of traders for being reduced to the average condition of all other traders : but the individual trader, who fights for existence against unfair odds, is to be pitied whether his shop has plate glass or a barn door to it ; and he is the more to be pitied when he is sober, intelligent, proud, sensitive, and unlucky. George Fielding was all these, who, a few years ago, as- sisted by his brother William, tilled "The Grove" — as nasty a little farm as any in Berkshire. Discontented as he was, the expression hereinbefore written 3 IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND would have seemed profane to young Fielding, for a farmer's farm and a sailor's ship have always something sacred in the sufferer's eyes, though one sends one to jail, and the other the other to Jones. It was four hundred acres, all arable, and most of it poor, sour land. George's father had one hundred acres grass with it, but this had been separated six years ago. There was not a tree, nor even an old stump to show for this word "Grove." But in the country oral tradition still flourishes. There had been trees in "The Grove," only the title had outlived the timber a few centuries. On the morning of our tale George Fielding might have been seen near his own homestead, conversing with the Hon- ourable Frank Winchester. This gentleman was a character that will be common some day, but was nearly unique at the date of our story. He had not an extraordinary intellect, but he had great natural gaiety, and under that he had enormous good sense ; his good sense was really brilliant, he had a sort of universal healthy mind that I can't understand how people get. He was deeply in love with a lady who returned his passion, but she was hopelessly out of his reach, because he had not much money or expectations ; instead of sitting down railing, or sauntering about whining, what did me the Honourable Frank Winchester? He looked over England for the means of getting this money, and not finding it there, he surveyed the globe and selected Australia, where, they told him, a little money turns to a deal, instead of dissolving in the hand like a lozenge in the mouth, as it does in London. So here was an earl's son (in this age of commonplace events) going to Australia with five thousand pounds, as sheep farmer and general speculator. He was trying hard to persuade George Fielding to accom- pany him as bailifif or agricultural adviser and manager. He knew the young man's value, but to do him justice his aim was not purely selfish ; he was aware that Fielding had a bad bargain in "The Grove," and the farmer had saved his life at great personal risk one day that he was seized with cramp bathing in the turbid waters of Cleve millpool, and he 4 IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND wanted to serve him in return. This was not his first at- tempt of the kind, and, but for one reason, perhaps he might have succeeded. "You know me and I know you," said Mr. Winchester to George Fielding; "I must have somebody to put me in the way : stay with me one year, and after that I'll square ac- counts with you about that thundering millpool." "Oh ! Mr. Winchester," said George hastily, and blushing like fire, "that's an old story, sir?" with a sweet little half- cunning smile that showed he was glad it was not forgotten. "Not quite," replied the young gentleman drily; "you shall have five hundred sheep and a run for them, and we will both come home rich, and consequently respectable." "It is a handsome ofTer, sir, and a kind offer, and like your- self, sir, but transplanting one of us," continued George, "dear me, sir, it's like taking up an oak tree thirty years in the ground — besides — besides — did you ever notice my cousin Susanna, sir?" "Notice her ! why, do you think I am a heathen, and never go to the parish church ? Miss Merton is a lovely girl ; she sits in the pew by the pillar." "Isn't she, sir?" said George. Mr. Winchester endeavoured to turn this adverse topic in his favour ; he made a remark that produced no effect at the time. He said, "People don't go to Australia to die — they go to Australia to make money, and come home and marry — and it is what you must do — this 'Grove' is a millstone round your neck. Will you have a cigar, farmer?" George consented, premising, however, that hitherto he had never got beyond a yard of clay, and after drawing a puff or two he took the cigar from his mouth, and looking at it, said, "I say, sir ! seems to me the fire is uncommon near the chimbly." Mr. Winchester laughed ; he then asked George to show him the blacksmith's shop. "I must learn how to shoe a horse," said the honourable Frank. "Well, I never," thought George. "The first nob in the country going to shoe a horse," but with his rustic delicacy he said nothing, and led Mr. Winchester to the blacksmith's shop. Whilst this young gentleman is hammering nails into a 5 IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND horse's hoof, and Australia into an English farmer's mind, we must introduce other personages. Susanna Merton was beautiful and good : George Fielding and she were acknowledged lovers, but marriage was not spoken of as a near event, and latterly old Merton had seemed cool whenever his daughter mentioned the young man's name. Susanna appeared to like George, though not so warmly as he loved her ; but at all events she accepted no other proffers of love ; for all that she had, besides a host of admirers, other lovers besides George, and what is a great deal more singular (for a woman's eye is quick as lightning in finding out who loves her), there was more than one of whose passion she was not conscious. William Fielding, George's brother, was in love with his brother's sweetheart, but though he trembled with pleasure when she was near him, he never looked at her except by stealth ; he knew he had no business to love her. On the morning of our tale, Susan's father, old Merton, had walked over from his farm to "The Grove," and was in- specting a field behind George's house, when he was accosted by his friend Mr. Meadows, who had seen him, and giving his horse to a boy to hold, had crossed the stubbles to speak to him. Mr. Meadows was not a common man, and merits some preliminary notice. He was what is called in the country "a lucky man ;" every- thing he had done in life had prospered. The neighbours admired, respected, and some of them even hated this respectable man, who had been a carter in the midst of them, and now at forty years of age was a rich corn- factor and land-surveyor. "All this money cannot have been honestly got," said the envious ones among themselves ; yet they could not put their finger on any dishonest action he had done : to the more can- did the known qualities of the man accounted for his life of success. This John Meadows had a cool head, an iron will, a body and mind alike indefatigable, and an eye never diverted from the great objects of sober, industrious men — wealth and re- spectability ; he had also the soul of business — method ! 6 IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND At one hour he was sure to be at church; at another, at market ; in his office at a third ; and at home when respectable men should be at home. By this means Mr. Meadows was always to be found by any man who wanted to do business ; and when you had found him, you found a man superficially coy, perhaps, but at bottom always ready to do business, and equally sure to get the sunny side of it, and give you the windy. Meadows was generally respected ; by none more than by old Merton ; and during the last few months the intimacy of these two men had ripened into friendship ; the corn-factor often hooked his bridle to the old farmer's gate, and took a particular interest in all his affairs. Such was John Meadows. In person, he was a tall stout man. with iron-grey hair, a healthy weather-coloured complexion, and a massive brow that spoke to the depth and force of the man's char- acter. "What, taking a look at the farm, Mr. Merton? it wants some of your grass put to it, doesn't it ?" "I never thought much of the farm," was the reply, "it lies cold ; the sixty-acre field is well enough, but the land on the hill is as poor as death." Now this idea, which Merton gave out as his, had dropped into him from Meadows three weeks before. "Farmer," said Meadows in an undertone, "they are thrashing out new wheat for the rent." "You don't say so? why I didn't hear the flail going." "They have just knocked off for dinner — you need not say I told you, but Will Fielding was at the bank this morning, trying to get money on their bill, and the bank said No! They had my good word too. The people of the bank sent over to me." They had his good word ! but not his good tone ! he had said, "Well, their father was a safe man ;" but the accent with which he eulogised the parent had somehow locked the bank cash-box to the children. "I never liked it, especially of late," mused Merton. "But you see the young folk being cousins " "That is it, cousins," put in Meadows ; "it is not as if she 7 IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND loved him with all her heart and soul ; she is an obedient daughter, isn't she?" "Never gainsayed me in her life; she has a high spirit, but never with me, my word is law. You see she is a very re- ligious girl is Susan." "Well, then, a word from you would save her — but there — all that is your affair, not mine," added he. "Of course it is," was the reply. "You are a true friend : I'll step round to the barn and see what is doing ;" and away went Susan's father, uneasy in his mind. Meadows went to the "Black Horse," the village public- house, to see what farmers wanted to borrow a little money under the rose, and would pawn their wheat ricks, and pay twenty per cent, for that overrated merchandise. At the door of the public-house he was met by the village constable, and a stranger of gentlemanly address and clerical appearance ; the constable wore a mysterious look, and invited Meadows into the parlour of the public-house. "I have news for you, sir," said he, "leastways I think so ; your pocket was picked last Martinmas fair of three Farn- borough bank-notes with your name on the back." "It was!" "Is this one of them?" said the man, producing a note. Meadows examined it with interest, compared the number with a memorandum in his pocket-book, and pronounced that it was. "Who passed it?" inquired he. "A chap that has got the rest — a stranger — Robinson — ■ that lodges at 'The Grove' with George Fielding; that is, if his name is Robinson, but we think he is a Londoner come down to take an airing. You understand, sir." Meadows' eyes flashed actual fire : for so rich a man, he seemed wonderfully excited by this circumstance. To an inquiry who was his companion, the constable an- swered, sotto voce, "Gentleman from Bow Street come to see if he knows him." The constable went on to inform Mead- ows that Robinson was out fishing somewhere, otherwise they would already have taken him ; "but we will hang about the farm, and take him when he comes home." "You had better be at hand, sir, to identify the notes," said 8 IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND the gentleman from Bow Street, whose appearance was clerical. Meadows had important business five miles off : he post- poned it. He wrote a line in pencil, put a boy upon his black mare, and hurried him off to the rendezvous, while he stayed and entered with strange alacrity into this affair. "Stay," cried he, "if he is an old hand he will twig the officer." "Oh, I'm dark, sir," was the answer; "he won't know me till I put the darbies on him." The two men then strolled as far as the village stocks, keeping an eye ever on the farm-house. Thus a network of adverse events was closing round George Fielding this day. He was all unconscious of them ; he was in good spirits. Robinson had showed him how to relieve the temporary em- barrassment that had lately depressed him. "Draw a bill on your brother," said Robinson, "and let him accept it. The Farnborough Bank will give you notes for it : these country banks like any paper better than their own. I dare say they are right." George had done this, and expected William every minute with this and other monies ; and then Susanna Merton was to dine at "The Grove" to-day, and this, though not uncom- mon, was always a great event with poor George. Dilly would not come to be killed just when he was wanted : in other words, Robinson, who had no idea how he was keeping people waiting, fished tranquilly till near dinner- time, neither taking nor being taken. This detained Meadows in the neighbourhood of the farm, and w^as the cause of his rencontre with a very singular per- sonage, whose visit he knew at sight must be to him. As he hovered about among George Fielding's ricks, the figure of an old man slightly bowed but full of vigour stood before him. He had a long grey beard with a slight division in the centre, hair abundant but almost white, and a dark swarthy complexion that did not belong to England ; his thick eyebrows also were darker than his hair, and under them was an eye like a royal jewel; his voice had the oriental richness and modulation — this old man was Isaac Levi ; an oriental Jew who had passed half his life under the sun's IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND eye, and now, though the town of Farnborough had long been too accustomed to him to wonder at him, he dazzled any thoughtful stranger; so exotic and apart was he — so romantic a grain in a heap of vulgarity — he was as though a striped jasper had crept in among the paving-stones of their market-place, or a cactus grandiflora shone amongst the nettles of a Berkshire meadow. Isaac Levi, unlike most Jews, was famiHar with the Hebrew tongue, and this and the Eastern habits of his youth coloured his language and his thoughts, especially in his moments of emotion, and above all, when he forgot the money-lender for a moment, and felt and thought as one of a great nation, depressed, but waiting for a great deliverance. He was a man of authority and learning in his tribe. At sight of Isaac Levi Meadows' brow lowered, and he called out rather rudely without allowing the old gentleman to speak, "If you are come to talk to me about that house you are in you may keep your breath to cool your porridge." Meadows had bought the house Isaac rented, and had in- stantly given him warning to leave. Isaac, who had become strangely attached to the only place in which he had ever lived many years, had not doubted for a moment that Meadows merely meant to raise the rent to its full value, so he had come to treat with his new landlord. "Mr. Meadows," said he persuasively, "I have lived there twenty years — I pay a fair rent — but, if you think any one would give you more, you shall lose nothing by me — I will pay a little more ; and you know your rent is secure ?" "I do," was the answer. "Thank you, sir! well, then " "Well, then, next Lady-day you turn out bag and bag- gage." "Nay, sir," said Isaac Levi, "hear me, for you are younger than I. Mr. Meadows, when this hair was brown I travelled in the East ; I sojourned in Madras and Benares, in Bagdad, Ispahan, Mecca, and Bassora, and found no rest. When my hair began to turn grey, I traded in Petersburg, and Rome, and Paris, Vienna, and Lisbon, and other western cities, and found no rest. I came to this little town, where, least of all, I thought to pitch my tent for life, but here the God of my 10 IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND fathers gave me my wife, and here He took her to Himself again " "What the deuce is all this to me, man ?" "Much, sir, if you are what men say; for men speak well of you ; be patient, and hear me. Two children were born to me and died from me in the house you have bought; and there my Leah died also ; and there at times in the silent hours I seem to hear their voices and their feet. In another house I shall never hear them — I shall be quite alone. Have pity on me, sir, an aged and a lonely man ; tear me not from the shadows of my dead. Let me prevail with you?" "No !" was the stern answer. "No ?" cried Levi, a sudden light darting into his eye ; "then you must be an enemy of Isaac Levi ?" "Yes !" was the grim reply to this rapid inference. "Ah !" cried the old Jew, with a sudden defiance, which he instantly suppressed. "And what have I done to gain your enmity, sir?" said he, in a tone crushed by main force into mere regret. "You lend money." "A little, sir, now and then — a very little." "That is to say, when the security is bad, you have no money in hand ; but when the security is good, nobody has ever found the bottom of Isaac Levi's purse." "Our people," said Isaac apologetically, "can trust one another — they are not like yours. We are brothers, and that is why money is always forthcoming when the deposit is sound." "Well," said Meadows, "what you are, I am ; what I do on the sly you do on the sly, old thirty per cent." "The world is wide enough for us both, good sir " "It is !" was the prompt reply. "And it lies before you, Isaac. Go where you like, for the little town of Farnborough is not wide enough for me and any man that works my business for his own pocket " "But this is not enmity, sir." Meadows gave a coarsish laugh. "You are hard to please," cried he, "I think you will find it is enmity." "Nay! sir, this is but matter of profit and loss. Well, let me stay, and I promise you shall gain and not lose. Our II IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND people are industrious and skilful in all bargains, but we keep faith and covenant. So be it. Let us be friends. I cove- nant with you, and I swear by the tables of the law, you shall not lose one shilling per annum by me." "I'll trust you as far as I can fling a bull by the tail. You gave me your history — take mine. I have always put my foot on whatever man or thing has stood in my way. I was poor, I am rich, and that is my policy." "It is frail policy," said Isaac firmly. "Some man will be sure to put his foot on you, soon or late." "What, do you threaten me?" roared Meadows. "No, sir," said Isaac, gently but steadily. "I but tell you what these old eyes have seen in every nation, and read in books that never lie. Goliath defied armies, yet he fell like a pigeon by a shepherd-boy's sling. Samson tore a lion in pieces with his hands, but a woman laid him low. No man can defy us all, sir ! The strong man is sure to find one as strong and more skilful, the cunning man one as adroit and stronger than himself. Be advised then, do not trample upon one of my people. Nations and men that oppress us do not thrive. Let me have to bless you. An old man's blessing is gold. See these grey hairs : my sorrows have been as many as they. His share of the curse that is upon his tribe has fallen upon Isaac Levi." Then, stretching out his hands with a slight but touching gesture, he said, "I have been driven to and fro like a leaf these many years, and now I long for rest. Let me rest in my little tent, till I rest for ever. Oh ! let me die where those I loved have died, and there let me be buried." Age, sorrow, and eloquence pleaded in vain, for they were wasted on the rocks of rocks, a strong will and a vulgar soul. But indeed the whole thing was like epic poetry wrestling with the Limerick Chronicle or Tuam Gazette. I am almost ashamed to give the respectable western brute's answer. "What ! you quote Scripture, eh ? I thought you did not believe in that. Hear t'other side. Abraham and Lot couldn't live in the same place, because they both kept sheep, and we can't, because we fleece 'em. So Abraham gave Lot warning as I give it you. And as for dying on my premises, 12 IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND if you like to hang yourself before next Lady-day, I give you leave, but after Lady-day no more Jewish dogs shall die in my house nor be buried for manure in my garden." Black lightning poured from the old Jew's eyes, and his pent-up wrath burst out like lava from an angry mountain. "Irreverent cur ! do you rail on the afflicted of Heaven ? The founder of your creed would abhor you, for he, they say, was pitiful. I spit upon ye, and I curse ye. Be accursed ! !" And flinging up his hands like St. Paul at Lystra, he rose to double his height, and towered at his insulter with a sudden Eastern fury that for a moment shook even the iron Mead- ows. "Be accursed ! !" he yelled again. "Whatever is the secret wish of your black heart Heaven look on my grey hairs that you have insulted, and wither that wish. Ah ! ah !" he screamed, "you wince. All men have secret wishes — Heaven fight against yours. May all the good luck you have be wormwood for want of that — that — that — that. May you be near it, close to it, upon it, pant for it, and lose it ; may it sport, and smile, and laugh, and play with you, till Gehenna bums your soul upon earth." The old man's fiery forked tongue darted so keen and true to some sore in his adversary's heart, that he in turn lost his habitual self-command. White and black with passion he wheeled round on Isaac with a fierce snarl, and lifting his stick discharged a furious blow at his head. Fortunately for Isaac wood encountered leather instead of grey hairs. Attracted by the raised voices, and unseen in their frenzy by either of these antagonists, young George Fielding had drawn near them. He had, luckily, a stout pig-whip in his hand, and by an adroit turn of his muscular wrist he parried a blow that would have stopped the old Jew's eloquence per- haps for ever. As it was, the corn-factor's stick cut like a razor through the air, and made a most musical whirr within a foot of the Jew's ear : the basilisk look of venom and ven- geance he instantly shot back amounted to a stab. "Not if I know it," said George. And he stood cool and erect with a calm manly air of defiance between the two belligerents. While the stick and the whip still remained in 13 IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND contact Meadows glared at Isaac's champion with surprise and wrath, and a sort of half-fear, half-wonder that this of all men in the world should be the one to cross weapons with and thwart him. "You are joking, Master Meadows," said George coolly. "Why the man is twice your age, and noth- ing in his hand but his fist. Who are ye, old man, and what d'ye want ? It's you for cursing, any way." "He insults me," cried Meadows, "because I won't have him for a tenant against my will. Who is he? A villainous old Jew." "Yes, young man," said the other sadly, "I am Isaac Levi, a Jew. And what is your religion?" (he turned upon Mead- ows). "It never came out of Judea in any name or shape. D'ye call yourself a heathen? Ye lie, ye cur; the heathen were not without starlight from heaven ; they respected sor- row and grey hairs." "You shall smart for this : I'll show you what my religion is," said Meadows, inadvertent with passion, and the corn- factor's fingers grasped his stick convulsively. "Don't you be so aggravating, old man," said the good- natured George, "and you, Mr. Meadows, should know how to make light of an old man's tongue ; why it's like a wom- an's, it's all he has got to hit with ; leastways you mustn't lift hand to him on my premises, or you will have to settle with me first ; and I don't think that would suit your book or any man's for a mile or two round about Farnborough," said George, with his little Berkshire drawl. "He !" shrieked Isaac, "he dare not ! see ! see !" and he pointed nearly into the man's eye, "he doesn't look you in the face. Any soul that has read men from east to west can see lion in your eye, young man, and cowardly wolf in his." "Lady-day ! Lady-day !" snorted Meadows, who was now shaking with suppressed rage. "Ah !" cried Isaac, and he turned white and quivered in his turn. "Lady-day !" said George uneasily, "confound Lady-day, and every day of the sort — there, don't you be so spiteful, old man — why if he isn't all of a tremble ; — poor old man." He went to his own door, and called "Sarah !" A stout servant-girl answered the summons. 14 IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND "Take the old man in, and give him whatever is going, and his mug and pipe," then he whispered her, "and don't go lumping the chine down under his nose, now." "I thank you, young man," faltered Isaac, "I must not eat with you, but I will go in and rest my limbs, which fail me ; and compose myself ; for passion is unseemly at my years." Arrived at the door, he suddenly paused, and looking up- ward, said — "Peace be under this roof, and comfort and love follow me into this dwelling." "Thank ye kindly," said young Fielding, a little surprised and touched by this. — "How old are you, daddy, if you please?" added he respectfully. "My son, I am threescore years and ten — a man of years and grief — grief for myself, grief still more for my nation and city. Men that are men pity us ; men that are dogs have insulted us in all ages." "Well," said the good-natured young man soothingly — "don't you vex yourself any more about it. Now you go in, and forget all your trouble awhile, please God, by my fireside, my poor old man." Isaac turned, the water came to his eyes at this after being insulted so ; a little struggle took place in him, but nature conquered prejudice and certain rubbish he called religion. He held out his hand like the king of all Asia ; George grasped it like an Englishman. "Isaac Levi is your friend," and the expression of the man's whole face and body showed these words carried with them a meaning unknown in good society. He entered the house, and young Fielding stood watching him with a natural curiosity. Now Isaac Levi knew nothing about the corn-factor's plans. When at one and the same moment he grasped George's hand, and darted a long, lingering glance of de- moniacal hatred on Meadows, he coupled two sentiments by pure chance — and Meadows knew this : but still it struck Meadows as singular and ominous. When, with the best of motives one is on a wolf's errand, it is not nice to hear an hyena say to the shepherd's dog, "I 15 IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND am your friend," and see him contemporaneously shoot the eye of a rattlesnake at oneself. The misgiving, however, was but momentary ; Meadows respected his own motives, and felt his own power ; an old Jew's wild fury could not shake his confidence. He muttered, "One more down to your account, George Fielding," and left the young man watching Isaac's retreating- form. George, who didn't know he was gone, said — "Old man's words seem to knock against my bosom, Mr. Meadows — gone — eh? — that man," thought George Fielding, "has everybody's good word, parson's and all — who'd think he'd lift his hand, leastways his stick it was, and that's worse, against a man of threescore and upwards — Ugh !" thought George Fielding, yeoman of the midland counties — and un- affected wonder mingled with his disgust. His reverie was broken by William Fielding just ridden in from Farnborough. "Better late than never," said the elder brother impatiently. "Couldn't get away sooner, George ; here's the money for the sheep, £13, los. ; no offer for the cow, Jem is driving her home." "Well, but the money— the £80, Will ?" William looked sulkily down. "I haven't got it, George ! — there's your draft again, the bank wouldn't take it." A keen pang shot across George's face, as much for the affront as the disappointment. "They wouldn't take it?" gasped he. "Ay, Will, our credit is down, the whole town knows our rent is overdue. I sup- pose you know money must be got some way." "Any way is better than threshing out new wheat at such a price," said William sullenly. "Ask a loan of a neighbour." "Oh, Will," appealed George, "to ask a loan of a neigh- bour, and be denied — it is bitterer than death. You can do it." "I ! — am I master here ?" retorted the younger. "The farm is not farmed my way, nor ever was. No ! — give me the plough-handle and I'll cut the furrow, George." "No doubt ! no doubt !" said the other, verv sharplv, "vou'd 16 IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND like to draw the land dry with potato crops, and have four- score hogs snoring in the farmyard : that's your idea of a farm. Oh ! I know you want to be elder brother. Well. I tell'ee what do ; you kill me first, Bill Fielding, and then you will be elder brother, and not afore." Here was a pretty little burst of temper ! We have all our sore part. "So be it, George !" replied William ; "you got us into the mud, elder brother, you get us out of the mire !" George subdued his tone directly. "Who shall I ask?" said he, as one addressing a bosom counsellor. "Uncle Merton, or — or — Mr. Meadows the corn-factor ; he lends money at times to friends. It would not be much to either of them." "Show my empty pockets to Susanna's father ! Oh, Will ! how can you be so cruel ?" "Meadows, then." "No use for me. I've just offended him a bit ; besides, he's a man that never knew trouble or ill-luck in his life ; they are like flints, all that sort." "Well, look here, I'm pretty well with Meadows. I'll ask him if you will try uncle ; the first that meets his man to begin." "That sounds fair," said George, "but I can't — well — ves," said he, suddenly changing his mind. "I agree," said he with simple cunning, and lowered his eyes ; but suddenly raising them, he said cheerfully, "Why you're in luck. Bill, here's your man," and he shot like an arrow into his own kitchen. "Confound it," said the other, fairly caught. Meadows, it is to be observed, was wandering about the premises until such time as Robinson should return ; and whilst the brothers were arguing, he had been in the barn, and finding old Merton there, had worked still higher that prudent man's determination to break off matters between his daughter and the farmer of "The Grove." After the usual salutations, William Fielding, sore against the grain, began — "I did not know you were here, sir ! I want to speak to you." 17 IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND 'T am at your service, Mr. Willum." "Well, sir, George and I are a little short just at present; it is only for a time, and George says, he should take it very kind, if you would lend us a hundred pound, just to help us over the stile." "Why, Mr. Willum," replied Meadows, "I should be de- lighted, and if you had only asked me yesterday, I could have done it as easy as stand here ; but my business drinks a deal of money, Mr. Willum, and I laid out all my loose cash yesterday; but, of course, it is of no consequence, — an- other time — good morning, Mr. Wilkim." Away sauntered Meadows, leaving William planted there, as the French say. George ran out of the kitchen. "Well ?" "He says he has got no money loose." "He is a liar! he paid £1500 into the bank yesterday, and you knew it; didn't you tell him so?" "No; what use? A man that lies to avoid lending won't fee driven to lend." "You don't play fair," retorted George. "You could have got it from Meadows, if you had a mind ; but you want to drive your poor brother against his sweetheart's father ; you are false, my lad." "You are the only man that ever said so ; and you durstn't say it, if you weren't my brother." "If it wasn't for that, I'd say a deal more." "Well, show your high stomach to uncle Merton, for there he is. Hy ! — uncle !" cried William to Merton, who turned instantly and came towards them. "George wants to speak to you," said WilHam, and shot like a cross-bow behind the house. "That is lucky," said Merton, "for I want to speak to you." "Who would have thought of his being about?" muttered George. While George was calling up his courage and wits to open his subject, Mr. Merton, who had no such difficulties, was beforehand with him. "You are threshing out new wheat ?" said Merton gravely. "Yes," answered George, looking down. 18 IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND "That is a bad look out ; a farmer has no business to go to his barn-door for his rent." "Where is he to go, then ? to the church door, and ask for a miracle?" "No ; to his ship-fold, to be sure." "Ay ! you can ; you have got grass and water and every- thing to hand." "And so must you, young man, or you'll never be a farmer. Now, George, I must speak to you seriously" (George winced). "You are a fine lad, and I like you very well, but I love my own daughter better." "So do I," said George simply. "And I must look out for her," resumed Merton. "I have seen a pretty while how things are going here, and if she marries you she will have to keep you instead of you her." "Heaven forbid ! Matters are not so bad as that, uncle." "You are too much of a man, I hope," continued Merton, "to eat a woman's bread ; and if you are not, I am man enough to keep the girl from it." "These are hard words to bear," gasped George. "So near my own house., old man." "Well, plain speaking is best when the mind is made up," was the reply. "Is this from Susanna, as well as you ?" said George, with a trembling lip, and scarce able to utter the words. "Susan is an obedient daughter. What I say she'll stand to ; and I hope you know better than to tempt her to disobey me ; you wouldn't succeed." "Enough said," answered George, very sternly. "Enough said, old man ; I've no need to tempt any girl." "Good-morning, George !" and away stumped Merton. "Good-morning, uncle! (ungrateful old thief)." "William," cried he, to his brother, who came the next minute to hear the news, "our mother took him out of the dirt — I have heard her say as much — or he'd not have a ship- fold to brag of. Oh ! my heart— oh ! Will !" "Well, will he lend the money?" "I never asked him." "You never asked him !" cried William. "Bill, he began upon me in a moment." said George, look- 19 IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND ing appealingly into his brother's face ; "he sees we are going down hill, and he as good as bade me think no more of Susan." "Well," said the other harshly, "it was your business to own the truth, and ask him to help us over the stile — he's our own blood." "You want to let me down lower than I would let that Carlo dog of yours. You're no brother of mine," retorted George, fiercely and bitterly. "A bargain is a bargain," replied the other sullenly. "I asked Meadows, and he said No. You fell talking with uncle about Susan, and never put the question to him at all. Who is the false one^ eh?" "If vou call me false, I'll knock your ugly head off, sulky Bill." ' "You're false, and a fool into the bargain, bragging George !" "What, you will have it then?" "If you can give it me." "Well, if it is to be," said George, "I'll give you something to put you on your mettle : the best man shall farm 'The Grove,' and the other shall be a servant on it, or go elsewhere, for I am sick of this." "And so am I !" cried William hastily ; "and have been any time this two years." They tucked up their sleeves a little, shook hands, and then retired each one step, and began to fight. And how came these two honest men to forget that the blood they proposed to shed was thicker than water? Was it the farm, money, agricultural dissension, temper? They would have told you it was, and perhaps thought it was. It was Susanna Merton ! The secret subtle influence of jealousy had long been fer- menting, and now it exploded in this way and under this disguise. Ah ! William Fielding, and all of you, "Beware of jealousy" — cursed jealousy! it is the sultan of all the passions, and the Tartar chief of all the crimes. Other passions aflfect the char- acter; this changes, and, if good, always reverses it! Mind that, reverses it ! turns honest men to snakes, and doves to 20 IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND vultures. Horrible unnatural mixture of Love with Hate — you poison the whole mental constitution — you bandage the judgment — you crush the sense of right and wrong — you steel the bowels of compassion — you madden the brain — you corrupt the heart — you damn the soul. The Fieldings, then, shook hands mechanically, and reced- ing each a step began to spar. Each of these farmers fancied himself slightly the best man ; but they both knew they had an antagonist with whom it would not do to make the least mistake. They therefore sparred and feinted with war)' eye before they ventured to close ; George, however, the more impetuous, was preparing to come to closer quarters, when all of a sud- den, to the other's surprise, he dropped his hands by his sides, and turned the other way with a face anything but warlike, fear being now the prominent expression. William followed the direction of his eye, and then William partook of his brother's uneasiness ; however, he put his hands in his pockets, and began to saunter about, in a circum- ference of three yards, and to get up a would-be-careless whistle, while George's hands became dreadfully in his way, so he washed them in the air. Whilst they were employed in this peaceful pantomime a beautiful young woman glided rapidly between the brothers. Her first words renewed their uneasiness. "What is this?" cried she haughtily, and she looked from one to the other like a queen rebuking her subjects. George looked at William — William had nothing ready. So George said, with some hesitation, but in a mellifluous voice, "William was showing me — a trick — he learned at the fair — that is all, Susan." "That is a falsehood, George," replied the lady, "the first you ever told me" — (George coloured) — "you were fighting, you two boys — I saw your eyes flash !" The rueful wink exchanged by the combatants at this stroke of sagacity was truly delicious. "Oh fie ! oh fie ! brothers bv one mother fighting — in n Christian land — within a stone's throw of a church, where brotherly love is preached as a debt we owe to strangers, let alone our own blood." 21 IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND "Yes ! it is a sin, Susan," said William, his conscience sud- denly illuminated. "So I ask your pardon, Susanna." "Oh ! it wasn't your fault, TU be bound," was the gracious reply. ".What a ruffian you must be, George, to shed your brother's blood." "La ! Susan," said George with a doleful whine, "I wasn't going to shed the beggar's blood. I was only going to give him a hiding for his impudence." "Or take one for your own," replied William coolly. "That is more likely," said Susan. "George, take Will- iam's hand : take it this instant, I say," cried she with an air imperative and impatient. "Well, why not? don't you go in a passion, Susan, about nothing," said George coaxingly. They took hands ; she made them hold one another by the hand, which they did with both their heads hanging- down. "Whilst I speak a word to you two," said Susan Merton. "You ought both to go on your knees, and thank Provi- dence that sent me here to prevent so great a crime ; and as for you, your character must change greatly, George Fielding, before I trust myself to live in a house of yours." "Is all the blame to fall on my head ?" said George, letting go William's hand with no great apparent reluctance. "Of course it is ! William is a quiet lad, that quarrels with nobody ; you are always quarrelling ; you thrashed our carter last Candlemas." "He spoke saucy words about you." Susan, smiling inwardly, made her face as repulsive outside as lay in her power. "I don't believe it," said Susan ; "your time was come round to fight and be a ruffian, and so it was to-day, no doubt." "Ah !" said George sorrowfully, "it is always poor George that does all the wrong." "Oh !" replied the lady, an arch smile playing for a mo- ment about her lips, "I could scold William, too, if you think I am as much interested in his conduct and behaviour as in yours." "No, no!" cried George, brightening up, "don't think to 22 IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND scold anybody but me, Susan ; and William," said he, sudden- ly and frankly, "I ask your pardon." "No more about it, George, if you please," answered Will- iam, in his dogged way. "Susan," said George, "you don't know all I have to bear. My heart is sore. Susan dear. Uncle twitted me not an hour ago with my ill-luck, and almost bade me to speak to you no more, leastways as my sweetheart ; and that was why when William came at me on the top of such a blow, it was more than I could bear ; and Susan — Susan — unci ^ said you would stand to whatever he said." "George," said Susan gently, "I am very sorry my father was so unkind." "Thank ye kindly, Susan ; that is the first drop of dew that has fallen on me to-day." "But obedience to parents," continued Susan, interrogating as it were her conscience, "is a great duty. I hope I shall never disobey my father," faltered she. "Oh!" answered the goose George hastily, "I don't want any girl to be kind to me that does not love me ; I am so un- lucky, it would not be worth her while, you know." At this Susan answered still more sharply. "No, I don't think it would be worth any woman's while, till your charac- ter and temper undergo a change." George never answered a word, but went and leaned his head upon the side of a cart that stood half in and half out of a shed close by. At this juncture a gay personage joined the party. He had a ball waistcoat, an alarming tie, a shooting jacket, wet muddy trousers and shoes, and an empty basket on his back. He joined our group, just as George was saying to himself very sadly, "I am in everybody's way here" — and he attacked him directly. "Everybody is in this country." The reader is to understand that this Robinson was last from California ; and California had made such an impression upon him, that he turned the conversation that way oftener than a well-regulated understanding recurs to any one topic, except perhaps religion. He was always pestering George to go to California with 23 IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND him, and it must be owned that on this one occasion George had given him a fair handle. "Come out of it," continued Robinson, "and make your fortune." "You did not make yours there," said Susan sharply. "I beg your pardon, miss. I made it, or how could I have spent it ?" "No doubt," said William ; "what comes by the wind goes by the water." "Alluding to the dust ?" inquired the Cockney. "Gold dust especially," retorted Susan Merton. Robinson laughed. "The ladies are sharp, even in Berk- shire," said he. Mr. Robinson then proceeded to disabuse their minds about the facility of gold. "A crop of gold," said he, "does not come by the wind any more than a crop of corn ; it comes by harder digging than your potatoes ever saw, and harder work than you ever did — oxen and horses perspire for you. Fielding No. 2." "Did you ever see a horse or an ox mow an acre of grass or barley?" retorted William dryly. "Don't brag," replied the other; "they'll eat all you can mow and never say a word about it." This repartee was so suited to the rustic idea of wit, that Robinson's antagonists laughed heartily, except George. "What is the matter with him ?" said Robinson sotto voce, indicating George. "Oh ! he is cross, never mind him," replied Susan ostenta- tiously loud. George winced, but never spoke back to her. Robinson then proceeded to disabuse the rural mind of the notion that gold is to be got without hard toil even in Califor- nia : he told them how the miners' shirts were wet through and through in the struggle for gold ; he told them how the little boys demanded a dollar a piece for washing these same garments ; and how the miners to escape this extortion sent their linen to China in ships on Monday morning, and China sent them back on Saturday, only it was Saturday six weeks. Next Mr. Robinson proceeded to draw a parallel between England and various nations on the other side of the At- lantic, not at all complimentary to his island home ; above all, 24 IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND he was eloquent on the superior dignity of labour in new countries. *T heard one of your clodhoppers say the other day, 'The squire is a good gentleman, he often gives me a day's work.' Now I should think it was the clodhopper gave the gentle- man the day's work, and the gentleman gave him a shilling for it — and made five by it." William Fielding scratched his head : this was a new view of things to him, but there seemed to be something in it. "Ay ! rake that into your upper soil," cried our republican orator; then collecting into one his scattered items of argu- ment, he invited his friend George to take his muscle, pluck, wind, back-bone, and self, out of this miserable country, and come where the best man has a chance to win. "Come, George," he cried, "England is the spot if you happen to be married to a Duke's daughter, and got fifty thousand a year and three houses. "And a coach. "And a brougham. "And a curricle. "And ten brace of pointers. "And a telescope so big the stars must move to it, instead of it to the stars. "And no end of pretty housemaids. "And a butler with a poultice round his neck and whiskers like a mop-head. "And a silver tub full of rose-water to sit in and read the Morning Post. "And a green-house full of peaches — and green peas all the year round. "And a pew in the church warmed with biling eau-de- Cologne. "And a carpet a foot thick. "And a pianoforte in every blessed room in the house. But this island is the Dead Sea to a poor man." He then, diverging from the rhetorical to the metropolitan style, proposed to his friend "to open one eye : that will show you this hole you are in is all poor hungry arable ground. You know you can't work it to a profit." (George winced.) "No ! steal, borrow, or beg i.soo. Carry out a cargo of pea- 25 IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND jackets and fourpenny bits to swap for gold-dust, a few tools, a stout heart, and a light pair of — 'Oh, no, we never mention them, their name is never heard' — and we'll soon fill both pockets with the shiney in California." All this Mr. Robinson delivered with a volubility to which Berkshire had hitherto been a stranger. "A crust of bread in England before Buffalo beef in Cali- fornia," was George's reply ; but it was not given in that assured tone with which he would have laughed at Robin- son's eloquence a week ago. "I could not live with all those thieves and ruffians that are settled down there like crows on a dead horse ; but I thank you kindly, my lad, all the same," said the tender-hearted young man. "Strange," thought he, "that so many should sing me the same tune." and he fell back into his reverie. Here they were all summoned to dinner, with a dash of asperity, by Sarah, the stout farm-servant. Susan lingered an instant to speak to George : she chose an unfortunate topic. She warned him once more against Mr. Robinson. "My father says that he has no business nor trade, and he is not a gentleman, in spite of his red and green cravat, so he must be a rogue of some sort." "Shall I tell you his greatest fault?" was the bitter reply. "He is my friend ; he is the only creature that has spoken kind words to me to-day. Oh ! I saw how cross you looked at him." Susan's eyes flashed, and the colour rose in her cheek, and the water in her eyes. "You are a fool, George." said she ; "you don't know how to read a woman, nor her looks, nor her words either." And Susan was very angry and disdainful, and did not speak to George all dinner-time. As for poor George, he followed her into the house with a heart both sick and heavy. This Berkshire farmer had a proud and sensitive nature under a homely crust. Old Merton's words had been iron passing through his soul, and besides, he felt as if everything was turning cold 26 IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND and slippery, and gliding from his hand. He shivered with vague fears, and wished the sun would set at one o'clock and the sorrowful day come to an end. CHAPTER II. THE meal passed almost in silence; Robinson was too hungry to say a word, and a weight hung upon George and Susan, As they were about to rise, William observed two men in the farm-yard who were strangers to him — the men seemed to be inspecting the hogs. It struck him as rather cool ; but apparently the pig is an animal which to be prized needs but to be known, for all connoisseurs of him are also enthusiastic amateurs. When I say the pig I mean the four-legged one. William Fielding, partly from curiosity to hear these stran- gers' remarks, partly hoping to find customers in them, strolled into the farm-yard before his companions rose from the table. The others, looking carelessly out of the window, saw William join the two men and enter into conversation with them ; but their attention was almost immediately diverted from that group by the entrance of Meadows. He came in radiant ; his face was a remarkable contrast to the rest of the party. Susan could not help noticing it. "Why, Mr. Meadows," cried she, "you look as bright as a May morning ; it is quite refreshing to see you ; we are all rather down here this morning." Meadows said nothing, and did not seem at his ease under this remark. George rose from the table ; so did Susan ; Robinson merely pushed back his chair, and gave a comfortable little sigh, but the next moment he cried "Hallo !" They looked up, and there was William's face close against the window. William's face was remarkably pale, and first he tried to 27 IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND attract George's attention without speaking, but finding him- self observed by the whole party, he spoke out. "George, will you speak a word?" said he. George rose and went out ; but Susan's curiosity was awak- ened, and she followed him, accompanied by Meadows. "None but you, George," said William, with a voice half stern, half quivering. George looked at his brother. "Out with it," cried he, "it is some deadly ill-luck ; I have felt it coming all day, but out with it ; what can't I bear after .the words I have borne this morning?" William hung his head. "George, there is a distress vipon the farm for the rent." George did not speak at first, he literally staggered under these words ; his proud spirit writhed in his countenance, and with a groan, he turned his back abruptly upon them all. and hid his face against the corner of his own house, the cold, hard bricks. Meadows, by strong self-command, contrived not to move a muscle of his face. Up to this day and hour, Susan Merton had always seenf^ed cool, compared with her lover; she used to treat him a little de haut en has. But when she saw his shame and despair, she was much distressed. "George, George !" she cried, "don't do so : can nothing be done ? Where is my father ? — they told me he was here : he is rich, he shall help you." She darted from them in search of Merton ; ere she could turn the angle of the house he met her. "You had better go home, my girl," said he gravely. "Oh ! no ! no ! I have been too unkind to George already," and she turned towards him like a pitying angel, with hands extended as if they would bring balm to a hurt soul. Meadows left chuckling, and was red and white by turns. Merton was one of those friends one may make sure of finding in adversity. "There," cried he, "George, I told you how it would end." George wheeled round on him like lightning. "What, do vou come here to insult over me? T must be a. 28 IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND long way lower than I am. before I shall be as low as you were when my mother took you up and made a man of you." "George, George!" cried Susan in dismay; "stop, for pity's sake, before you say words that will separate us for ever. Father," cried the peace-making angel, "how can you push poor George so hard and him in trouble ! and we have all been too unkind to him to-day." Ere either could answer, there was happily another inter- ruption. A smart servant in livery walked up to them with a letter. With the instinctive feeling of class they all endeav- oured to conceal their agitation from the gentleman's servant. He handed George the note, and saying, "I was to wait for an answer, Farmer Fielding," sauntered towards the farm stables. "From Mr. Winchester," said George, after a long and careful inspection of the outside. In the country it is a point of honour to find out the writer of a letter by the direction, not the signature. "The Honourable. Francis Winchester ! What does he write to you?" cried Merton, in a tone of great surprise. This, too, was not lost on George. Human nature is human nature : he was not sorry to be able to read a gentleman's letter in the face of one who had bit- terly reproached him, and of others who had seen him morti- fied and struck down. "Seems so," said George, drily and with a glance of defi- ance; and he read out the letter. "George Fielding, my fine fellow, think of it again : I have two berths in the ship that sails from Southampton to-mor- row, you will have every comfort on the voyage, a great point. I will do what I said for you" ("he promised me five hundred sheep and a run"). "I must have an honest man, and where can I find as honest a man as George Fielding?" — ("Thank you, Mr. Winchester, George Fielding thanks you, sir.") And there was something noble and simple in the way the young farmer drew himself up, and looked fearlessly in all his companions' eyes. "You saved my life — I can do nothing for you here — and you are doing no good at 'The Grove' — everybody says so" — 29 11 IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND ("everybody says so!" and George Fielding winced at the words.) "And it really pains me, my brave fellow, to go without you where 1 know I could put you on the way of fortune : my heart is pretty stout ; but home is home ; and be assured that I wait with some anxiety to know whether my eyes are to look on nothing but water for the next four months, or are to be cheered by the sight of something from home, the face of a thorough-bred English yeoman, and — a friend — and — and " Poor George could read no more, the kind words coming after his affronts and troubles brought his heart to his mouth. Susan took the letter from him, and read out — "And an upright, downright honest man" — "And so you ARE^ George !" cried she warmly, drawing to George's side, and darting glances of defiance vaguely around. Then she continued to read — "If the answer is favourable, a word is enough : meet me at 'The Crown,' in Newborough to-night, and we will go up to Town by the mail train." "The answer is. Yes," said George to the servant, who was at some distance. Susan, bending over the letter, heard, but could not realise the word, but the servant now came nearer : George said to him, "Tell your master. Yes." "Yes? George!" cried Susan, "what do you mean by yes? It is about going to Australia." "The answer is, Yes," said George. The servant went away with the answer. The others remained motionless. "This nobleman's son respects me if worse folk don't : but it is not the great bloodhounds and greyhounds that bark at misfortune's heels, it is only the village curs when all is done : this is my path. I'll pack up my things and go." And he did not look at Susan or any of them, but went into the house like a man walking in his sleep. There was a stupefied pause. Then Susan gave a cry like a wounded deer. "Father! what have you done?" Merton himself had been staggered, but he replied stoutly — 30 IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND "No more than my duty, girl, and I hope you will do no less than yours." At this moment, Robinson threw up the window and jumped out into the yard. Meadows under stronger interests had forgotten Robinson ; but now at sight of him he looked round, and catching the eye of a man who was peering over the farm-yard wall, made him a signal. "What is the matter?" cried Robinson. "George is going to Australia," replied Merton coldly. "Australia !" roared Robinson — "Au-stralia ! he's mad ; who ever goes there unless they are forced ? — He shan't go there ! I wouldn't go there if my passage was paid, and a new suit of clothes given me, and the governor's gig to take me ashore to a mansion provided for my reception, fires lighted, beds aired, and pipes laid across upon the table." As Robinson concluded this tirade the policeman and con- stable, who had crept round the angle of the farm-house, came one on each side, put each a hand on one of his elbows and — took him ! He looked first down at their hands in turn, then up at their faces in turn, and when he saw the metropolitan's face a look of simple disgust diffused itself over his whole counte- nance. "Ugh ! ! !" interjected Robinson. "Ay !" replied the policeman, while putting handcuffs on him — "To Australia you'll go for all that, Tom Lyon, alias Scott, alias Robinson, and you'll have a new suit of clothes, mostly one colour, and voyage paid, and a large house ashore waiting for you, and the governor's gig will come alongside for you, provided they can't find the convict's barge," and the official was pleased with himself and his wit and allowed it to appear. But by this time Robinson was on his balance again. "Gen- tlemen !" answered he. with cold dignity. "What am I to understand by this violence from persons to whom I am an utter stranger?" and he might have set for the picture of injured innocence. "I am not acquainted with you, sir," added he ; "and by the titles you give me it seems you are not acquainted with me." 31 IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND The police laughed, and took out of this injured man's pocket the stolen notes which Meadows instantly identified. Then Mr. Robinson started off into another key equally artistical in its way. "Miss Merton," snuffled he, "appearances are against me, but mark my word, my innocence will emerge all the brighter 'for this temporary cloud." Susan Merton ran in doors, saying, "Oh ! I must tell George." She was not sorry of an excuse to be by George's side, and remind him by her presence that if home had its thorns it had its rose-tree too. News soon spread; rustic heads were seen peeping over the wall to see the finale of the fine gentleman from "Lun- nun :" meantime the constable went to put his horse in a four- wheel chaise destined to convey Robinson to the county gaol. If the rural population expected to see this worthy dis- composed by so sudden a change of fortune, they were soon undeceived. "Well, Jacobs," said he, with sudden familiarity, "you seem uncommon pleased, and I am content. I would rather have gone to California ; but any place is better than England. Laugh those who win. I shall breathe a delicious climate ; you will make yourself as happy as a prince, that is to say, miserable, upon fifteen shillings and two colds a week ; my sobriety and industry will realise a fortune under a smiling sun : let chaps that never saw the world, and the beautiful countries there are in it, snivel at leaving this island of fogs and rocks and taxes and nobs, the rich man's paradise, the poor man's I never swear, it's vulgar." While he was crushing his captors with his eloquence, George and Susan came together from the house; George's face betrayed wonder and something akin to horror. "A thief!" cried he. "Have I taken the hand of a thief?" "It is a business like any other," said Robinson deprecat- ingly. "If you have no shame I have ; I long to be gone now." "George !" whined the culprit, who, strange to say, had become attached to the honest young farmer. "Did ever I take tithe of you? You have got a silver caudle cup, a heavenly old coffee-pot, no end of spoons double the weight 32 IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND those rogues the silversmiths make them now ; they are in a box under your bed in your room," added he, looking down ; "count them, they are all right ; and Miss Merton, your bracelet, the gold one with the cameo : I could have had it a hundred times. Miss Merton. ask him to shake hands with me at parting. I am so fond of him, and perhaps I shall never see him again." "Shake hands with you ?" answered George sternly ; "if your hands were loose I doubt I should ram my fist down your throat ; but there, you are not worth a thought at such a time, and you are a man in trouble, and I am another. I for- give you, and I pray Heaven I may never see your face again." And Honesty turned his back in Theft's face. Robinson bit his lips, and said nothing, but his eyes glistened; just then a little boy and girl, who had been peer- ing about mighty curious, took courage and approached hand in hand. The girl was the speaker, as a matter of course : "Farmer Fielding," said she, curtsying, a mode of rever- ence which was instantly copied by the boy, "we are come to see the thief; they say you have caught one — Oh dear!" (and her bright little countenance was overcast), "I couldn't have told it from a man !" We don't know all that is in the hearts of the wicked. Robinson was observed to change colour at these silly words. "Mr. Jacobs," said he, addressing the policeman, "have you authority to put me in the pillory before trial ?" He said this coldly and sternly ; and then added, "Perhaps you are aware that I am a man, and I might say a brother, for you were a thief, you know !" Then changing his tone en- tirely, "I say, Jacobs," said he, with cheerful briskness, "do you remember cracking the silversmith's shop in Lambeth along with Jem SaHsbury and Black George, and ?" "There the gig is ready," cried Mr. Jacobs ; "you come along," and the ex-thief pushed the thief hastily off the premises and drove him away with speed. George Fielding gave a bitter sigh : this was a fresh morti- fication. He had for the last two months been defending Robinson against the surmises of the village. 33 IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND Villagers are always concluding there is something wrong about people. "What does he do?" inquired our village. "Where does he get his blue coat with brass buttons, his tartan waistcoat and green satin tie with red ends ? We admit all this looks like a gentleman : but yet, somehow, a gentleman is a horse of another colour than this Robinson." George had sometimes laughed at all this, sometimes been very angry, and always stood up stoutly for his friend and lodger. And now the fools are right and he was wrong : his friend and protege was handcuffed before his eyes, and carried off to the county gaol amidst the grins and stares of a score of gaping rustics, who would make a fine story of it this even- ing in both public-houses ; and a hundred voices would echo some such conversational Tristich as this — 1st Rustic. "1 tawld un as much, dinn't I now, Jarge?" 2nd Rustic. "That ye did, Richard, for I heerd ee." 1st Rustic. "But, la! bless ye, he don't vally advice, he don't." George Fielding groaned out, "I'm ready to go now — I'm quite ready to go — I am leaving a nest of insults ;" and he darted into the house, as much to escape the people's eyes as to finish his light preparations for so great a journey. Two men were left alone ; sulky William and respectable Meadows. Both these men's eyes followed George into the house and each had a strong emotion they were bent on con- cealing, and did conceal from each other ; but was it con- cealed from all the world? The farm-house had two rooms looking upon the spot where most of our tale has passed. The smaller one of these was a little state parlour, seldom used by the family. Here on a table was a grand old folio Bible ; the names, births, and deaths of a century of Fieldings appeared in rustv ink and various handwritings upon its flyleaf. Framed on the walls were the first savage attempts of woman at worsted-work in these islands. There were two moral commonplaces, and there was the forbidden fruit-tree, whose branches diverged, at set distances like the radii of a 34 IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND circle, from its stem, a perpendicular line; exactly at the end of each branch hung one forbidden fruit — pre-Raphaelite worsted-work. There were also two prints of more modern date, one agri- cultural, one manufactural. No. I was a great show of farming implements at Don- caster. No. 2 showed how one day in the history of man and of mutton sheep was sheared, her wool washed, teased, carded, &c., and the cloth *'d and *'d and *'d and *'d, and a coat shaped and sewed and buttoned upon a goose, whose prep- arations for inebriating the performers and spectators of his feat appeared in a prominent part of the picture. The window of this sunny little room was open, and on the sill was a row of flower-pots, from which a sweet fresh smell crept with the passing air into the chamber. Behind these flower-pots for two hours past had crouched — all eye and ear and mind — a keen old man. To Isaac Levi age had brought vast experience, and had not yet dimmed any one of his senses. More than forty-five years ago he had been brought to see that men seldom act or speak so as to influence the fortunes of others without some motive of their own ; and that these motives are seldom the motives they advance ; and that their real motives are not always known to themselves, and yet can nearly always be read and weighed by an intelligent bystander. So for near half a century Isaac Levi read that marvel- lous page of nature written on black, white, and red parch- ments, and called "Man." One result of his perusal was this, that the heads of human tribes differ far more than their hearts. The passions and the heart he had found intelligible and much the same from Indus to the Pole. The people of our tale were like men walking together in a coppice ; they had but glimpses of each other's minds : but to Isaac behind his flower-pots they were a little human chart spread out flat before him, and not a region in it he had not travelled and surveyed before to-day : what to others passed for accident to him was design ; he penetrated more than one disguise of manner ; and above all his intelligence bored like 55 IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND a centre-bit into the deep heart of his enemy Meadows, and at each turn of the centre-bit his eye flashed, his ear hved, and he crouched patient as a cat, keen as a lynx. He was forgotten, but not by all. Meadows, a cautious man, was the one to ask himself, "Where is that old heathen, and what is he doing?" To satisfy himself, Meadows had come smoothly to the door of the little apartment, and burst suddenly into it. There he found the reverend Israelite extended on a little couch, a bandana handkerchief thrown over his face, calmly reposing. Meadows paused, eyed him keenly, listened to his gentle but audible equable breathing, relieved his mind by shaking his fist at him, and went out. Thirty seconds later, Isaac aivoke! spat in the direction of Meadows, and crouched again behind the innocent flowers, patient as a cat, keen as a lynx. So then ; when George was gone in, William Fielding and Mr. Meadows both felt a sudden need of being alone; each longed to indulge some feeling he did not care the other should see ; so they both turned their faces away from each other and strolled apart. Isaac Levi caught both faces ofif their guard, and read the men as by a lightning flash to the bottom of their hearts. For two hours he had followed the text, word by word, deed by deed, letter by letter, and now a comment on that text was written in these faces. That comment said that William was rejoiced at George's departure and ashamed of himself for the feeling. That Meadows rejoiced still more and was ashamed any- body should know he had the feeling. Isaac withdrew from his lair, his task was done. "Those men both love that woman, and this Meadows loves her with all his soul, and she — aha !" and triumph flashed from under his dark brows. But at his age calm is the natural state of the mind and spirits ; he composed himself for the present, and awaited an opportunity to strike his enemy with eflFect. The aged man had read Mr. Meadows aright ; under that 36 IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND modulated exterior raged as deep a passion as ever shook a strong nature. For some time he. had fought against it. "She is another man's sweetheart," he had said to him- self; "no good will come of courting her." But by degrees the flax bonds of prudence snapped one by one as the flame every now and then darted at them. Meadows began to rea- son the matter coolly. "They can never marry, those two. I wish they would marry or break off, to put me out of this torture ; but they can't marry, and my sweet Susan is wasting her prime for nothing, for a dream : besides, it is not as if she loved him the way I love her. She is like many a young maid : the first comer gets her promise before she knows her value. They walk together, get spoken of; she settles down into a groove, and so goes on, whether her heart is in it or not ; it is habit more than anything." Then he watched the pair, and observed that Susan's man- ner to George was cool and off-hand, and that she did not seem to seek opportunities of being alone with him. Having got so far. he now felt it his duty to think of her interest. He could not but feel that he was a great match for any farmer's daughter; whereas, "poor young Fielding," said he compassionately, "is more likely to break as a bachelor than to support a wife and children upon 'The Grove.' " He next allowed his mind to dwell with some bitterness upon the poor destiny that stood between him and the wom- an he loved. "George Fielding! a dull dog, that could be just as happy with any other girl as with my angel. An oaf, so little alive to his prize, that he doesn't even see he has rivals ; doesn't see that his brother loves her. Ah ! but I see that though, lovers' eyes are sharp : doesn't see me, who mean to take her from both these Fieldings — and what harm? It isn't as if their love was like mine. Heaven forbid I should meddle if it was. A few weeks and a few mugs of ale would wash her from what little mind either of them have ; but I never loved a woman before, and never could look at another after her." 37 IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND And so, by degrees, Meadows saw that he was quite justi- fied in his resolve to win Susan Merton, provided it was done FAIRLY. This resolve taken, all this man's words and actions began to be coloured more or less by his secret wishes ; and it is not too much to say that this was the hand which was gently but adroitly, with a touch here and a touch there, pushing George Fielding across the Ocean. You see, a respectable man can do a deal of mischief ; more than a rogue could. A shrug of the shoulders from Meadows has caused the landlord to distrain. A hint from Meadows had caused Merton to affront George about Susan. A tone of Meadows had closed the bank cash-box to the Fieldings' bill of exchange, and so on : and now, finding it almost impossible to contain his exultation, for George once in Australia he felt he could soon vanquish Susan's faint preference, the result of habit, he turned ofif, and went to meet his mare at the gate ; the boy had just returned with her. He put his foot in the stirrup, but ere he mounted, it occurred to him to ask one of the farm-servants whether the old Jew was gone. "I sin him in the barn just now," was the reply. Meadows took his foot out of the stirrup. Never leave an enemy behind you, was one of his rules. "And why does the old heathen stay?" he asked himself; he clenched his teeth, and vowed he would not leave the vil- lage till George Fielding was on his way to Australia. He sent his mare to the "Black Horse," and strolled up the village ; then he showed the boy a shilling, and said, "You be sure and run to the public-house and let me know when George Fielding is going to start — I should like to see the last of him." This was true ! 38 IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND CHAPTER III. AND now passed over "The Grove" the heaviest hours it JTjL had ever known ; hours as weary as they were bitter to George Fielding. "The Grove" was nothing to him now — in mind he was already separated from it ; his clothes were ready, he had nothing more to do, and he wished he could fling himself this moment into the ship, and hide his head, and sleep and forget his grief, until he reached the land whose fat and endless pastures were to make him rich and send him home a fitter match for Susan. As the moment of parting drew nearer there came to him that tardy consolation which often comes to the honest man then when it can but add to his pangs of regret. Perhaps no man is good, manly, tender, generous, honest, and unlucky quite in vain ; at last, when such a man is leaving all who have been unjust or cold to him, scales fall from their eyes, a sense of his value flashes like lightning across their half-empty skulls and tepid hearts, they feel and express some respect and regret, and make him sadder to leave them ; so did the neighbours of "The Grove" to young Fielding. Some hands gave him now their first warm pressure, and one or two voices even faltered as they said "God bless thee, lad !" And now the carter's lad ran in with a message from a farmer at the top of the hill. "Oh ! Master George, Farmer Dodd says if you please he couldn't think to let you walk. You are to go in his gig to Newbury, if you'll walk up as fur as his farm, he's afeard to come down our hill, a says because if he did, his mare 'ud kick his gig into toothpicks, Jic says. Oh ! Master George, / be sorry you be going," and the boy, who had begun quite cheerfully ended in a whimper. "I thank him! Take my bag, boy, and I'll follow in half an hour." Sarah brought out the bag and opened it. and weeping bitterly, put into it a bottle with her name on a bit of paper tied around the neck, to remind poor George he was not for- gotten at "The Grove," and then she gave George the key and went sadly in, her apron to her eyes. 39 IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND And now George fixed his eyes on his brother William, and said to him, "William, will you come with me, if you please?" "Ay, George, sure." They went through the farm-yard side by side ; neither spoke, and George took a last look at the ricks, and he paused, and seemed minded to speak, but he did not, he only muttered "not here." Then George led the way out into the paddock, and so into the lane, and very soon they saw the village church; William wondered George did not speak. They passed under the yew-tree into the churchyard ; William's heart fluttered. They found the vicar's cow browsing on the graves ; William took up a stone — George put out his hand not to let him hurt her, and George turned her gently into the lane — then he stepped carefully among the graves. William followed him, nis heart fluttering more and more with vague fears ; William knew now where they were going, but what was George going to say to him there? his heart beat faint-like. Bv and bv the brothers came to this — 40 IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND The grave was between the two men — and silence — both looked down. George whispered, "Good-bye, mother ! She never thought we should be parted this way." Then he turned to William, and opened his mouth to say something more to him ; doubt- less that which he had come to say, but apparently it was too much for him. I think he feared his own resolution. He gasped, and with a heavy sigh led the way home. William walked with him, not knowing what to think or do or say; at last he muttered, 'T wouldn't go, if my heart was here !" "I shall go. Will," replied George rather sternly, as it seemed. When they came back to the house they found several per- sons collected. Old Fielding, the young men's grandfather, was there ; he had made them wheel him in his great chair out into the sun. Grandfather Fielding had reached the last stage of human existence. He was 92 years of age. The lines in his face were cordage, his aspect was stony and impassible, and he was all but impervious to passing events ; his thin blood had almost ceased to circulate in his extremities; for every drop he had was needed to keep his old heart a-beating at all, in- stead of stopping like a clock that has run down. Meadows had returned to see George off, and old Merton was also there, and he was one of those whos2 hearts gave them a bit of a twinge. "George," said he, "I'm vexed for speaking unkind to you to-day of all days in the year ; I didn't think we were to part so soon, lad." "No more about it, uncle," faltered George ; "what does it matter now ?" Susan Merton came out of the house ; she had caught her father's conciliatory words ; she seemed composed, but pale ; she threw her arms round her father's neck. "Oh ! father," said she imploringly, "I thought it was a dream, but he is going, he is really going. — Oh ! don't let him go from us, speak him fair, father, his spirit is so high !" "Susan !" replied the old farmer, "mayhap the lad thinks me his enemy, but I'm not. My daughter shall not marry a 41 IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND bankrupt farmer, but you bring home a thousand pounds — just one thousand pounds — to show me you are not a fool, and you shall have my daughter, and she shall have my blessing." Meadows exulted. "Your hand on that, uncle," cried George, with ardour ; "your hand on that before heaven and all present." The old farmer gave George his hand upon it. "But, father," cried Susan, "your words are sending him away from me." "Susan !" said George, sorrowfully but firmly, "I am to go; but don't forget it is for your sake I leave you, my darling Susan — to be a better man for your sake. Uncle, since your last words there is no ill will, but (bluntly) I can't speak my heart before you." "I'll go, George, I'll go ; shan't be said my sister's son hadn't leave to speak his mind to let be who atool,^ at such an a time." Merton turned to leave them, but ere he had taken two steps a most unlooked-for interruption chained him to the spot. An old man, with a long beard and a glittering eye, was amongst them before they were aware of him ; he fixed his eye upon Meadows, and spoke a single word — but that word fell like a sledge-hammer. "No ! !" said Isaac Levi in the midst, "No ! !" repeated he to John Meadows. Meadows understood perfectly what "No" meant; a veto upon all his plans, hopes, and wishes. "Young man," said Isaac to George, "you shall not wander forth from the home of your fathers. These old eyes see deeper than yours (and he sent an eye-stab at Meadows) ; you are honest — all men say so — I will lend you the money for your rent, and one who loves you (and he gave another eye-stab at Meadows) will bless me." "Oh! yes, I bless you." cried Susan innocently. The late exulting Meadows was benumbed at this. "Surely heaven sends you to me," cried Susan. "It is Mr. Levi of Farnborough." Here was a diversion: Meadows cursed the intruder, and 'Let be who it will Cui libst, 42 IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND his own evil star that had raised him up so mahgnant an enemy. "All my web undone in a moment," thought he, and despair began to take possession of him. Susan, on the other hand, was all joy and hope; William more or less despondent. The old Jew glanced from one to another, read them all, and enjoyed his triumph. But when his eye returned to George Fielding he met with something he had not reckoned upon. The young man showed no joy, no emotion. He stood im- movable, like a statue of a man, and, when he opened his lips, it was like a statue speaking with its marble mouth. "No ! Susan. No ! old man. I am honest, though I'm poor — and proud, though you have seen me put to shame near my own homestead more than once to-day. To borrow without a chance of paying is next door to stealing; and I should never pay you. My eyes are opened in spite of my heart. I can't farm 'The Grove' with no grass, and wheat at forty shillings. I've tried all I know, and I can't do it. Will there is dying to try, and he shall try, and may heaven speed his plough better than it has poor George's." "I am not thinking of the farm now, George," said Will- iam. "I'm thinking of when we were boys, and used to play marbles — together — upon the tombstones." And he faltered a little. "Mr. Levi ! seems you have a kindness for me : show it to my brother when I'm away, if you will be so good." "Hum?" said Isaac doubtfully. "I care not to see your stout young heart give way, as it will. Ah, me ! I can pity the wanderer from home. I will speak a word with you, and then I will go home." He drew George aside, and made him a secret communi- cation. Merton called Susan to him, and made her promise to be prudent, then he shook hands with George, and went away. Now ^Meadows, from the direction of Isaac's glance, and a certain half-surprised, half-contemptuous look that stole over George's face, suspected that his enemy, whose sagacity he could no longer doubt, was warning George against him. 43 IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND This made him feel very uneasy where he was, and this respectable man dreaded some exposure of his secret. So he said hastily, "I'll go along with you, farmer," and in a mo- ment was by Merton's side, as that worthy stopped to open the gate that led out of George's premises. His feelings were anything but pleasant when George called to him — "No, sir ! stop. You are as good a witness as I could choose of what I have to say. Step this way if you please, sir. Meadows returned, clenched his teeth, and prepared for the worst, but inwardly he cursed his uneasy folly in staying here, instead of riding home the moment George had said "Yes!" to Australia. George now looked upon the ground a moment ; and there was something in his manner that arrested the attention of all. Meadows turned hot and cold. "I am going — to speak — to my brother, Mr. Meadows !" said he, syllable by syllable to Meadows in a way brimful of meaning. "To me, George ?" said William, a little uneasy. "To you! Fall back a bit." (Some rustics were encroach- ing upon the circle.) "Fall back, if you please; this is a family matter." Isaac Levi, instead of going quite away, seated himself on a bench outside the palings. It was now William's turn to flutter ; he said however to himself. "It is about the farm ; it must be about the farm." George resumed. "I've often had it on my mind to speak to you, but I was ashamed, now that's the truth ; but now I am going away from her I must speak out, and I will — William !" "Yes, George ?" "You've taken — a fancy — to my Susan, William!" At these words, which, though they had cost him so much to say, George spoke gravely and calmly like common words, William gave one startled look all around, then buried his face directly in his hands in a paroxysm of shame. Susan, who was looking at George, remonstrated loudly. 44 IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEXD "How can you be so silly, George ! I am sure that is the last idea poor William " George drew her attention to William by a wave of the hand. She held her tongue in a moment, and turned very red, and lowered her eyes to the ground. It was a very painful situation — to none more than Meadows, who was waiting his turn. George continued: "Oh, it is not to reproach you, my poor lad. Who could be near her, and not warm to her ? But she is my lass. Will, and no other man's. It is three years since she said the word. And though it was my hard luck there should be some coolness between us this bitter day, she will think of me when the ocean rolls between us, if no villain undermines me " "Villain ! George !" groaned William. "That is a word I never thought to hear from you." "That's why I speak in time," said George. "I do suppose I am safe against villainy here." And his eye swept lightly over both the men. "Any way, it shan't be a mis-take or a jnw-understanding ; it shall be villainy if 'tis done. Speak, Susanna Merton, and speak your real mind once for all." "Oh ! George," cried Susan, fluttering with love ; "you shall not go in doubt of me. We are betrothed this three years, and I never regretted my choice a single moment. I never saw, I never shall see, the man I could bear to look on be- side you, my beautiful George. Take my ring and my promise, George." And she put her ring on his little finger and kissed his hand. "Whilst you are true to me, nothing but death shall part us twain. There never was any coolness between us, dear ; you only thought so. You don't know what fools women are ; how they delight to tease the man they love, and so torment themselves ten times more. I al- ways loved you, but never as I do to-day : so honest, so proud, so unfortunate; I love you. I honour you, I adore you, oh ! my love ! — my love ! — my love !" She saw but George — she thought but of George — and how to soften his sorrow, and remove his doubts, if he had any. And she poured out these words of love with her whole soul — with blushes and tears and all the fire of a chaste and pas- 45 IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND sionate woman's heart : and she clung to her love ; and her tender bosom heaved against his; and she strained him with tears and sighs to her bosom ; and he kissed her beautiful head ; and his suffering heart drew warmth from this heaven- ly contact. The late exultant Meadows turned as pale as ashes, and trembled from head to foot. "Do you hear, William?" said George. "I hear, George," replied William in an iron whisper, with his sullen head sunk upon his breast. George left Susan, and came between her and William. "Then, Susan," said he rather loud, "here is your brother." William winced. "William! here is my life!" And he pointed to Susan. "Let no man rob me of it if one mother really bore us." It went through William's heart like a burning arrow. And this was why George had_ taken him to their mother's grave. That flashed across him too. The poor sulky fellowjs head was seen to rise inch by inch till he held it as erect as a king's. "Never!" he cried, half shouting, half weeping. "Never, s'help me God ! She's my sister from this hour — no more, no less. And may the red blight fall on my arm and my heart, if I or any man takes her from you — any man !" he cried, his temples flushing, and his eye glittering, "sooner than a hun- dred men should take her from you while I am here I'd die at their feet a hundred times." Well done, sullen and rugged but honest man ; the capital temptation of your life is wrestled with and thrown. That is always to every man a close, a deadly, a bitter struggle ; and we must all wade through this deep water at one hour or another of our lives : it is as surely our fate as it is one day to die. It is a noble sight to see an honest man "cleave his own heart in twain, and fling away the baser part of it." These words, that burst from William's better heart, knocked at his brother's, you may be sure. He came to William. "I be- lieve you," said he ; "I trust you, I thank you." Then he held out his hand ; but nature would have more than that, in a mo- ment his arm was around his brother's neck, where it had not 46 IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND been this many a year; he withdrew it as quickly half ashamed ; and Anne Fielding's two sons grasped one another's hands, and holding hands turned away their heads and tried to hide their eyes. They are stronger than bond, deed, or indenture, these fleshly compacts written by moist eyes, stamped by the gripe of eloquent hand, in those moments full of soul when men's hearts beat from their bosoms to their fingers' ends. Isaac Levi came to the brothers, and said to William, "Yes, I will now," and then he went slowly and thought- fully away to his own house. "And now," faltered George, "I feel strong enough to go, and I'll go." He looked round at all the familiar objects he was leaving, as if to bid them farewell ; and last, whilst every eye watched his movements he walked slowly up to his grandfather's chair. "Grandfather," said he, "I am going a long journey, and mayhap shall never see you again ; speak a word to me before I go." The impassive old man took no notice, so Susan came to him. "Grandfather, speak to George ; poor George is going into a far country." When she had repeated this in his ear their grandfather looked up for a moment — "George, fetch me some snuff from where you're going." A spasm crossed George's face ; he was not to have a word of good omen from the aged man. "Friends," said he, looking appealingly to all the rest. Meadows included, "I wanted him to say, God bless you, but snuff is all his thought now. Well, old man, George won't forget your last word, such as 'tis." In a hutch near the corner of the house was William's pointer Carlo. Carlo observing by the general movement that there was something on foot, had the curiosity to come out to the end of his chain, and as he stood there, giving every now and then a little uncertain wag of his tail, George took notice of him and came to him and patted his head. "Good-bye, Carlo," faltered George ; "poor Carlo — you and I shall never go after the partridges again. Carlo : the dog shows more understanding than the Christian ; bye. Carlo." 47 IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND Then he looked wistfully at William's dog, but he said noth- ing more. William watched every look of George, but he said nothing at the time. "Good-bye, little village church, where I went to church man and boy ; good-bye, churchyard where my mother lies ; there will be no church bells, Susan, where I am going; no Sunday bells to remind me of my soul and home." These words, which he spoke with great difficulty, were hardly out of young Fielding's month when a very painful circumstance occurred; one of those things that seem the contrivance of some malignant spirit. The church bells in a moment struck up their very merriest peal ! George Fielding started, he turned pale and his lips trembled. "Are they mocking me ?" he cried. "Do they take a thought what I am going through this moment, the hard- hearted " "No ! no ! no !" cried William ; "don't think it, George ; I know what 'tis— I'll tell ye." "What is it?" "Well, it is — well, George, it is Tom Clarke and Esther Borgherst married to-day : only they couldn't have the ringers till the afternoon." "Why, Will, they have only kept company a year^ and Susan and I have kept company three years ; and Tom and Esther are married to-day; and what are George and Susan doing to-day ? God help me ! Oh, God help me ! What shall I do? what shall I do?" And the stout heart gave way, and George Fielding covered his face with his hands, and burst out sobbing and crying. Susan flung her arms round his neck — "Oh ! George, my pride is all gone ; don't go, don't think to go ; have pity on us both, and don't go." And she clung to him — her bonnet fallen off, her hair dishevelled — and they sobbed and wept in one another's arms. Meadows writhed with the jealous anguish this sad sight gave him, and at that moment he could have cursed the whole creation. He tried to fly, but he was rooted to the spot. He leaned sick as death against the palings. George and Susan cried together, and then they wiped one 48 IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND another's eyes like simple country folk with one pocket-hand- kerchief ; and then they kissed one another in turn, and made each other's tears flow fast again ; and again wiped one an- other's eyes with one handkerchief. Meadows griped the palings convulsively — hell was in his heart. "Poor souls, God help them !" said William to himself in his purified heart. The silence their sorrow caused all around was suddenly invaded by a voice that seemed to come from another world — it was Grandfather Fielding. "The autumn sun is not so waarm as she used to be !" Yes, there was the whole map of humanity on that little spot in the county of Berks. The middle-aged man, a schemer, watching the success of his able scheme, and stunned and wounded by its recoil. And old age, callous to noble pain, all alive to discomfort, yet man to the last — blaming any one but Number One, cackling against heavenly bodies, accusing the sun and the kitchen-fire of frigidity — not his own empty veins ! And the two poor young things sobbing as if their hearts would break over their first great earthly sorrow. George was the first to recover himself. "Shame upon me!" he cried; he drew Susan to his bosom, and pressed a long burning kiss upon her brow. And now all felt the wrench was coming. George, with a wild half -terrified look, signalled William to come to him. "Help me, Will ! you see I have no more manhood than a girl." Susan instinctively trembled. George once more pressed his lips to her, as if they would grow there. William took her hand. She trembled more and more. "Take my hand ; take your brother's hand, my poor lass," said he. She trembled violently; and then George gave a cry that seemed to tear his heart, and darted from them in a moment. Poor Susan uttered more than one despairing scream, and stretched out both her hands for George. He did not see her, for he dared not look back. 49 IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND "Bob, loose the dog," muttered William hastily, in a broken voice. The dog was loosed, and ran after George, who, he thought, was only going for a walk. Susan was sinking pale and helpless upon her brother's bosom. "Pray, sister," said gentle William ; "pray, sister, as I must." A faint shiver was all the answer; her senses had almost left her. When George was a little way up the hill, something ran suddenly against his legs — he started — it was Carlo. He turned, and lifted up his hands to Heaven ; and William could see that George was blessing him for this. Carlo was more than a dog to poor George at that cruel moment. Soon after that, George and Carlo reached the crown of the hill. George's figure stood alone a moment between them and the sky. He was seen to take his hat off, and raise his hands once more to Heaven, whilst he looked down upon all he loved and left, and then he turned his sorrowful face again towards that distant land — and they saw him no more ! CHAPTER IV. THE world is full of trouble." While we are young we do not see how true this ancient homely saying is. That wonderful dramatic prologue, the first chapter of Job, is but a great condensation of the sorrows that fall like hail upon many a mortal house. Job's black day, like the day of the poetic prophets — the true sacri vates of the ancient world — is a type of a year — a bitter human year. It is ter- rible how quickly a human landscape, all gilded meadow, silver river, and blue sky, can cloud and darken, George Fielding had compared himself this very day to an oak-tree : "even so am I rooted to my native soil." His fate accepted his smile. The oak of centuries yields to an impalpable antagonist, whose very name stands in proverbs for weakness and insignificance. This thin light trifle, ren- dered impetuous by motion, buffets the king of the forest, 50 IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND tears his roots with fury out of the earth, and lays his tower- ing head in the dust; and even so circumstances, none of them singly irresistible, converging to one point, buffeted sore another oak pride of our fields, and for aught I know of our whole island — an honest English yeoman ; and tore him from his farm, from his house hard by his mother's grave, from the joy of his heart his Susan, and sent him, who had never travelled a hundred miles in his life, across a world of waters to keep sheep at the Antipodes. A bereaved and desolate heart went with Farmer Dodd in the gig to New- borough; sad, desolate, and stricken hearts remained behind. When tw^o loving hearts are torn bleeding asunder it is a shade better to be the one that is driven away into action, than the bereaved twin that petrifies at home. The bustle, the occupation, the active annoyances, are some sort of bitter distraction to the unfathomable grief — it is one little shade worse to lie solitary and motionless in the old scenes from which the sunlight is now fled. It needed but a look at Susan Merton as she sat moaning and quivering from head to foot in George's kitchen, to see that she was in no condition to walk back to Grassmere Farm to-night. So as she refused — almost violently refused — to stay at "The Grove," William harnessed one of the farm-horses to a cart and took her home round by the road. 'Tt is six miles that way 'stead of three, but then we shan't jolt her going that way," thought William. He walked by the side of the cart in silence. She never spoke but once all the journey, and that was about half way to complain in a sort of hopeless, pitiful tone that she was cold : it was a burning afternoon. William took off his coat, and began to tie it round her by means of the sleeves ; Susan made a little silent, peevish, and not very rational resistance; William tied it round her by brotherly force. They reached her home ; when she got out of the cart her eye was fixed, her cheek white, she seemed like one in a dream. She went into the house without speaking or looking at William. William was sorry she did not speak to him ; how- 51 .IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND ever he stood disconsolately by the cart, asking himself what he could do next for her and George; presently he heard a slight rustle, and it was Susan coming back along the pas- sage: "She has left something in the cart," thought he, and he began to look in the straw. She came like one still in a dream, and put her hand out to William, and it appeared that was what she had come back for. WilHam took her hand and pressed it to his bosom a mo- ment; at this Susan gave an hysterical sob or two, and crept away again to her own room. What she suffered in that room the first month after George's departure I could detail perhaps as well as any man living ; but I will not ; there is a degree of anguish one shirks from intruding upon too familiarly in person : and even on paper the microscope should spare sometimes these beatings of the bared heart. It will be enough if I indicate by and by her state, after time and religion and good habits had begun to struggle, sometimes gaining sometimes losing, against the tide of sorrow. For the present let us draw gently back and leave her, for she is bowed to the earth — fallen on her knees, her head buried in the curtains of her bed ; dark, faint, and leaden, on the borders of despair — a word often lightly used through ignorance. Heaven keep us all from a single hour here or hereafter of the thing the word stands for; when Heaven comforts all true and loving hearts that read me, when their turn shall come to drain the bitter cup like Susan Merton. CHAPTER V. THE moment George Fielding was out of sight, Mr. Meadows went to the public-house, flung himself on his powerful black mare, and rode homewards without a word. One strong passion after another swept across his troubled mind. He burned with love, he was sick with jealousy, cold with despondency, and for the first time smarted with re- morse. George Fielding was gone, gone of his own accord ; 52 IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND but like the flying Parthian he had shot his keenest arrow in the moment of defeat. "What the better am I ?" thus ran this man's thoughts. "I have opened my own eyes, and Susan seems farther from me than ever now — my heart is Hke a lump of lead here — I wish I had never been born ; — so much for scheming — I would have given a thousand pounds for this, and now I'd give double to be as I was before ; I had honest hopes then ; now where are they? How lucky it seemed all to go too. Ah ! that is it — 'May all your good luck turn to wormwood !' that was his word — his very word — and my good luck is wormwood; so much for Hfting a hand against grey hairs, Jew or Gentile. Why did the old heathen provoke me then? I'd as soon die as live this day. That's right, start at a handful of straw ; lie down in it one minute and tremble at the sight of it the next, ye idiot. Oh, Susan ! Susan — Why do I think of her? why do I think of her? She loves that man with every fibre of her body. How she clung to him ! how she grew to him ! And I stood there and looked on it, and did not kill them both. Seen it ! I see it now, it is burnt into my eyes and my heart for ever, I am in hell ! — I am in hell ! — Hold up, you blundering fool ; has the devil got into you too ? Perdition seize him ! May he die and rot before the year's out, ten thousand ^iles from home ! may his ship sink to the bottom of the . What right have I to curse the man, as well as drive him across sea? Curse yourself, John Meadows. They are true lovers, and I have parted them, and looked on and seen their tears. Heaven pity them and forgive me. So he knew of his brother's love for her after all. Why didn't he speak to me I wonder, as well as to Will Fielding? The old Jew warned him against me I'll swear. Why ? why because you are a respectable man, John Meadows, and he thought a hint was enough to a man of character. T do suppose I am safe from villainy here,' says he. That lad spared me, he could have given me a red face before them all ; now if there are angels that float in the air, and see what passes amongst us sinners, how must John Meadows have looked beside George Fielding that moment? This love will sink my soul ! I can't breathe between these hedges, my temples are bursting ! Oh ! you want to gallop, 53 IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND do you? gallop then, and faster than you ever did since you were foaled — confound ye !" With this he spurred his mare furiously up the bank, and went crushing through the dead hedge that surmounted it ; he struck his hat at the same mo- ment fiercely from his head (it was fast by a black ribbon to his button-hole), and as they lighted by a descent of some two feet on the edge of a grass-field he again drove his spurs into his great fiery mare, all vein and bone. Black Rachel snorted with amazement at the spur, and with warlike de- light at finding grass beneath her feet and free air whistling round her ears ; she gave one gigantic bound like a buck with arching back and all four legs in the air at once (it would have unseated many a rider, but never moved the iron Mead- ows), and with dilating nostril and ears laid back she hurled herself across country like a stone from a sling. Meadows' house was about four miles and a half distant as the crow flies, and he went home to-day as the crow flies, only faster. None would have known the staid, respectable Meadows, in this figure, that came flying over hedge and ditch and brook, his hat dangling and leaping like mad be- hind him, his hand now and then clutching his breast, his heart tossed like a boat among the breakers, his lips white, his teeth clenched, and his eyes blazing! The mare took everything in her stride, but at last they came somewhat suddenly on an enormous high stifif fence; to clear it was impossible ; by this time man and beast were equally reckless ; they went straight into it and through it as a bullet goes through a pane of glass ; and on again over brook and fence, ploughed field and meadow till Meadows found himself, he scarce knew how. at his own door. His old deaf servant came out from the stableyard, and gazed in astonishment at the mare, whose flank panted, whose tail quivered, whose back looked as if she had been in the river, while her belly was stained with half a dozen dififerent kinds of soil, and her rider's face streamed with blood from a dozen scratches he had never felt. Meadows flung himself from the saddle, and ran up to his own room ; he dashed his face and his burning hands into water : this seemed to do him a little good. He came down stairs; he lighted a pipe; (we are the children of habit;) he 54 IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND sat with his eyebrows painfully bent ; people called on him, he fiercely refused to see them. For the first time in his life he turned his back on business ; he sat for hours by the fireplace ; a fierce mental struggle wrenched him to and fro. Evening came, still he sat collapsed by the fireplace. From his window among other objects two dwellings were visible; one distant four miles was a whitewashed cottage, tiled in- stead of thatched, adorned with creepers and roses and very clean, but in other respects little superior to labourers' cot- tages. The other, distant six long miles, was the Grassmere farm- house, where the Mertons lived ; the windows seemed bur- nished gold this evening. In the small cottage lived a plain old woman — a Metho- dist ; she was Meadows' mother. She did not admire worldly people, still less envied them. He was too good a churchman and man of business to per- mit conventicles or psalm-singing at odd hours in his house. So she preferred living in her own, which moreover was her own — her very own. The old woman never spoke of her son, and checked all complaints of him, and snubbed all experimental eulogies of him. Meadows never spoke of his mother; paid her a small al- lowance with the regularity and affectionate grace of clock- work; never asked her if she didn't want any more — would not have refused her if she had asked for double. This evening, whilst the sun was shining with all his even- ing glory on Susan Merton's house, Meadows went slowly to his window and pulled down the blind ; and drawing his breath hard shut the loved prospect out. He then laid his hand upon the table, and he said — "I swear, by the holy bread and wine I took last month, that I will not put myself in the way of this strong temptation. I swear I will go no more to Grassmere Farm, never so long as I love Susan." He added faintly, "Unless they send for me ; and they won't do that, and I won't go of my own accord. I swear it. I have sworn it, however, and I swear it again unless they send for me !" 55 IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND Then he sat by the fire with his head in his hands — a pos- ture he never was seen in before; next he wrote a note, and sent it hastily with a horse and cart to that small white- washed cottage. Old Mrs. Meadows sat in her doorway reading a theologi- cal work, called "Believer's Buttons." She took the note, looked at it — "Why, this is from John, I think ; what can he have to say to me?" She put on her spectacles again, which she had taken oflf on the messenger first accosting her, and deliberately opened, smoothed, and read the note : — it ran thus — "Mother, I am lonely, come over and stay awhile with me, if you please. — Your dutiful son, "John Meadows." "Here, Hannah," cried the old woman to a neighbour's daughter that was nearly always with her. Hannah, a comely girl of fourteen, came running in. "Here's John wants me to go over to his house ; get me the pen and ink, girl, out of the cupboard, and I'll write him a word or two any way. Is there anything amiss?" said she quickly to the man. "He came in with the black mare all in a lather, just after dinner, and he hasn't spoke to a soul since, that's all I know. Missus, I think something has put him out, and he isn't soon put out, you know, he isn't." Hannah left the room, after placing the paper as she was bid. "You will all be put out that trust to an arm of flesh, all of ye, master or man, Dick Messenger," said the disciple of John Wesley somewhat grimly — "Ay, and be put out of the kingdom of heaven too if ye don't take heed." "Is that the news I'm to take back to Farnborough, Missus ?" said Messenger, with quiet rustic irony. "No ; I'll write to him." The old woman wrote a few lines reminding Meadows that the pursuit of earthly objects could never bring any steady comfort, and telling him that she should be lost in his great house — that it would seem quite strange to her to go into the 56 II IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND town after so many years' quiet — but that if he was minded to come out and see her, she would be glad to see him and glad of the opportunity to give him her advice, if he was in a better frame for listening to it than last time she offered it to him, and that was two years come Martinmas. Then the old woman paused — next she reflected — and afterwards dried her unfinished letter. And as she began slowly to fold it up and put in her pocket — "Hannah," cried she thoughtfully. Hannah appeared in the doorway. "I dare say — you may fetch — my cloak and bonnet. Why, if the wench hasn't got them on her arm. What, you made up your mind that I should go then ?" "That I did," repHed Hannah. "Your warm shawl is in the cart, Mrs. Meadows." "Oh ! you did, did you. Young folks are apt to be sure and certain — I was in two minds about it, so I don't see how the child could be sure," said she, dividing her remark be- tween vacancy and the person addressed ; a grammatical privi- lege of old age. "Oh ! but / was sure, for that matter," replied Hannah firmly. "And what made the little wench so sure, I wonder?" said the old woman, now in her black bonnet and scarlet cloak. "Why, la!" says Hannah, "because it's your son, ma'am — and you're his mother. Dame Meadows !" CHAPTER VI. JOHN MEADOWS had always been an active man, but now he was indefatigable. He was up at five every morning, and seemed ubiquitous ; added a grey gelding to his black mare, and rode them both nearly off their legs. He surveyed land in half a dozen counties — he speculated in grain in half a dozen markets, and did business in shares. His plan in dealing with this ticklish speculation was simple : he listened to nothing anybody said, examined the venture himself, and if it had a sound basis, bought when the herd 57 IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND were selling and sold whenever the herd were buying. Hence, he bought cheap and sold dear. He also lent money, and contrived to solve the usurer's problem — perfect security, and huge interest. He arrived at this by his own sagacity, and the stupidity of mankind. Mankind are not wanting in intelligence ; but, as a body, they have one intellectual defect — they are muddle-heads. Now these muddle-heads have agreed to say that land is in all cases five times a surer security for money lent than mov- ables are. Whereas the fact is that sometimes it is and sometimes it is not. Owing to the above delusion the pro- prietor of land can always borrow money at four per cent., and other proprietors are often driven to give ten — twenty — thirty. So John Meadows lent mighty little upon land, but much upon oatricks, waggons, advantageous leases, and such things, solid as land, and more easily convertible into cash. Thus without risk he got his twenty per cent. Not that he appeared in these transactions — he had too many good irons in the fire to let himself be called an usurer. He worked this business as three thousand respectable men are working it in this nation. He had a human money-bag, whose strings he went behind a screen and pulled. The human money-bag of Meadows was Peter Crawley. This Peter Crawley, some years before our tale, lay crushed beneath a barrowful of debts — many of them to publicans. In him others saw a cunning fool and a sot — Meadows an un- scrupulous tool : Meadows wanted a tool, and knew the cheap- est way to get the thing was to buy it, so he bought up all Crawley's debts, sued him, got judgments out against him. and raising the axe of the law over Peter's head with his right hand, offered him the left hand of fellowship with his left ; down on his knees went Crawley, and resigned his existence to this great man. Human creatures, whose mission it is to do whatever a man secretly bids them, are not entitled to long and interest- ing descriptions. Crawlev was fifty, and wore a brown wig, the only thing 58 IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND about him that did not attempt disguise, and slouched in a brown coat and a shirt peppered with snuff. In this life he was an infinitesimal attorney : previously, un- less Pythagoras was a goose, he had been a pole-cat. Meadows was ambidexter. The two hands he gathered coin with were Meadows and Crawley. The first his honest hard-working hand — the second his three-fingered Jack, his prestidigital hand ; with both he now worked harder than ever. He hurried from business to business — could not wait to chat, or drink a glass of ale after it ; it was all work ! work ! work ! — money ! money ! money ! with John Meadows, and everything he touched turned to gold in his hands ; yet for all this burning activity the man's heart had never been so little in business. His activity was the struggle of a sen- sible, strong mind to fight against its one weakness. "Cedit amor rebus ; res age tutus eris," is a very wise say- ing, and Meadows by his own observation and instinct sought the best antidote for love. But the Latins had another true saying, that "nobody is wise at all hours." After his day of toil and success he used to be guilty of a sad inconsistency ; he shut himself up at home for two hours, and smoked his pipe and ran his eye over the newspaper, but his mind over Susan Merton. Worse than this, in his frequent rides he used to go a mile or two out of his way to pass Grassmere farm-house : and however fast he rode the rest of his journey, he always let his nag walk by the farm-house, and his eye brightened with hope as he approached it, and his heart sank as he passed it without seeing Susan. He now bitterly regretted the vow he had made, never to visit the Mertons again unless they sent for him. "They have forgotten me altogether," said he bitterly. "Well, the best thing I can do is to forget them." Now, Susan had forgotten him ; she was absorbed in her own grief ; but Merton was labouring under a fit of rheuma- tism, and this was the reason why Meadows and he did not meet. In fact, farmer Merton often said to his daughter, "John Meadows has not been to see us a long while." 59 IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND "Hasn't he, father?" was Susan's languid and careless reply. One Sunday, Meadows, weakened by his inner struggle, could not help going to Grassmere church. At least he would see her face. He had seated himself where he could see her. She took her old place by the pillar; nobody was near her. The light from a side window streamed full upon her : she was pale, and the languor of sorrow was upon every part of her face, but she was lovely as ever. Meadows watched her, and noticed that more than once without any visible reason her eyes filled with tears, but she shed none. He saw how hard she tried to give her whole soul to the services of the church and to the word of the preacher ; he saw her succeed for a few minutes at a time, and then with a lover's keen eye he saw her heart fly away in a moment from prayer and praise and consolation, and follow and over- take the ship that was carrying her George farther and far- ther away from her across the sea : and then her lips quivered with earthly sorrow even as she repeated words that came from Heaven, and tried to bind to her heavy heart the pray- ers for succour in every mortal ill, the promises of help in every mortal woe, with which holy Church and holier writ comfort her and all the pure of heart in every age. Then Meadows, who up to this moment had been pitying himself, had a better thought and pitied Susan. He even went so far as to feel that he ought to pity George, but he did not do it, he could not, he envied him too much ; but he pitied Susan, and he longed to say something kind and friend- ly to her, even though there should not be a word or a look of love in it. Susan went out by one of the church doors. Meadows by another, intending to meet her casually upon the road home. Susan saw his intention, and took another path, so that he could not come up with her without following her. Meadows turned upon his heel and went home with his heart full of bitterness. "She hates the sight of me," was his interpretation. Poor Susan, she hated nobody, she only hated to have to speak to a stranger, and to listen to a stranger ; and in her 60 IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND present grief all were strangers to her except him she had lost and her father. She avoided Meadows not because he was Meadows, but because she wanted to be alone. Meadows rode home despondently, then he fell to abusing his folly, and vowed he would think of her no more. The next day finding himself at six o'clock in the evening seated by the fire in a reverie, he suddenly started fiercely up, saddled his horse, and rode into Newborough, and putting up his horse strolled about the streets, and tried to amuse him- self looking at the shops before they closed. Now it so happened that stopping before a bookseller's shop he saw advertised a work upon ''The Australian Colonies." "Confound Australia !" said Meadows to himself, and turned on his heel, but the next moment with a sudden change of mind he returned and bought the book : he did more, he gave the tradesman an order for every approved work on Australia that was to be had. The bookseller, as it happened, was going up to London next day, so that in the evening Meadows had some dozen volumes in his house, and a tolerably correct map of certain Australian districts. "Let me see," said Meadows, "what chance that chap has of making a thousand pounds out there." This was no doubt the beginning of it, but it did not end there. The intelligent Meadows had not read a hundred pages before he found out what a wonderful country this Australia is, how worthy a money-getter's attention or any thoughtful man's. It seemed as if his rival drew Meadows after him wherever he went, so fascinated was he with this subject. And now all the evening he sucked the books like a leech. Men observed about this time an irritable manner in Mr. Meadows which he had never shown before, and an eternal restlessness ; they little divined the cause, or dreamed what a vow he had made, and what it cost him every day to keep it. So strong was the struggle within him, that there were moments when he feared he should go mad ; and then it was that he learned the value of his mother's presence in the house. There was no explanation between them, there could be no 6i IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND sympathy ; had he opened his heart to her he knew she would have denounced his love for Susan Merton as a damnable crime. Once she invited his confidence — "What ails you, John?" said the old woman. "You had better tell me; you would feel easier, I'm thinking." But he turned it off a little fretfully, and she never re- turned to the charge; but though there could be no direct sympathy, yet there was a soothing influence in this quaint old woman's presence. She moved quietly about, protecting his habits, not disturbing them ! she seemed very thoughtful too, and cast many a secret glance of inquiry and interest at him when he was not looking at her. This had gone on some weeks when one afternoon Mead- ows, who had been silent as death for a full half hour, started from his chair and said with sudden resolution — "Mother, I must leave this part of the country for a while." "That is news, John." "Yes, I shall go into the mining district for six months, or a year perhaps." "Well ! go, John ! you want a change. I think you can't do better than go." "I will, and no later than to-morrow." "That is sudden." "If I was to give mvself time to think, I should never go at all." He went out briskly with the energy of this determina- tion. The same evening, about seven o'clock, as he sat reading by the fire, an unexpected visitor was announced. Mr. Merton. He came cordially in and scolded Meadows for never hav- ing been to see him. "I know you are a busy man," said the old farmer, "but you might have given us a look in coming home from market ; it is only a mile out of the way, and you are pretty well mounted in a general way." Then the old man, a gossip, took up one of Meadows' books. "Australia ! ah !" grunted Merton, and dropped it like a hot potato ; he tried another. "Why, this is Australia, too ; why, they are all Australia, as I am a living sinner." And he looked with a rueful curiositv into Meadows' face. 62' IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND Meadows coloured, but soon recovered his external com- posure. "I have friends there," said he hastily, "who tell me there are capital investments in that country, and they say no more than the truth." "Do you think he will do any good out there?" asked the old man, lowering his voice. "I can't say," answered Meadows drily. "Tell us something about that country, John," said Merton ; "and if you was to ask me to take a glass of your home- brewed ale I don't think I should gainsay you." The ale was sent for, and over it Meadows, whose powers of acquisition extended to facts as well as money, and who was full of this new subject, poured the agricultural contents of a dozen volumes into Mr. Merton. The old farmer sat open-mouthed, transfixed with interest, listening to his friend's clear, intelligent, and masterly de- scriptions of this wonderful land. At last the clock struck nine ; he started up in astonishment — "I shall get a scolding if I stay later," said he, and off he went to Grassmere. "Have you nothing else to say to me?" asked Meadows, as the farmer put his foot in the stirrup. "Not that I know of," replied the other, and cantered away. "Confound him !" muttered Meadows ; "he comes and stops here three hours, drinks my ale, gets my knowledge without the trouble of digging for't, and goes away, and not a word from Susan, or even a word about her — one word would have paid me for all the loss of time — but no, I was not to have it. I will be in Devonshire this time to-morrow — no, to-morrow is market-day — but the day after I will go. I cannot live here, and not see her, nor speak to her, — 'twill drive me mad." The next morning, as Meadows mounted his horse to ride to market, a carter's boy came up to him. and taking off his hat, and pulling his head down by the front lock by way of salute, put a note into his hand. Meadows took it and opened it carelessly, it was a hand- writing he did not know. But his eye had no sooner glanced at the signature than his eves gleamed, and his whole frame ^ 63 IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND trembled with emotion he could hardly hide. This was the letter— "Dear Mr. Meadows, — We have not seen you here a long time, and if you could take a cup of tea with us on your way home from market, my father would be glad to see you, if it is not troubling you too much. I believe he has some calves he wishes to show you. — I am, yours respectfully, "Susan Merton. "P. S. — Father has been confined by rheumatism, and I have not been well this last month." Meadows turned away from the messenger, and said quiet- ly, "Tell Miss Merton I will come if possible." He then galloped off, and as soon as there was no one in sight gave vent to his face and his exulting soul. Now he congratulated himself on his goodness in making a certain vow, and his firmness in keeping it. 'T kept out of their way, and they have invited me; my conscience is clear." He then asked himself why Susan had invited him ; and he could not but augur the most favourable results from this act on her part ; true, his manner to her had never gone beyond friendship, but women, he argued, are quick to discern their admirers under every disguise. She was dull and out of spirits, and wrote for him to come to her, this was a great point, a good beginning — "The sea is between her and George, and I am here, with time and opportunity on my side," said Meadows ; and as these thoughts coursed through his heart, his grey nag, spurred by an unconscious heel, broke into a hand-gallop, and after an hour and a half hard riding they clattered into the town of Newburgh. The habit of driving hard bargains is a good thing for teaching a man to suppress his feelings and feign indifference, yet the civil nonchalance with which Meadows on his return from Newborough walked into the Mertons' parlour cost him no ordinary struggle. The farmer received him cordially — Susan civilly, and with a somewhat feeble smile. The former soon engaged him in agricultural talk. Susan meanwhile made the tea in silence, 64 IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND and Meadows began to think she was capricious, and had no sooner got what she asked for than she did not care for it. After a while, however, she put in a word here and there, but with a discouraging languor. Presently Farmer Merton brought her his tea-cup to be replenished : and upon this opportunity Susan said a word to her father in an undertone. "Oh, ay," replied the farmer, very loud indeed ; and Susan coloured. "What was you saying to me about that country — that Christmas day is the hottest day in the year?" began Mr. Merton. Meadows assented, and Merton proceeded to put other questions, in order, it appeared, to draw once more from Meadows the interesting information of last night. Meadows answered shortly, and with repugnance. Then Susan put in : "And is it true, sir, that the flowers are beau- tiful to the eye but have no smell, and that the birds have all gay feathers, but no song?" Then Susan, scarcely giving him time to answer, proceeded to put several questions, and her manner was no longer languid, but bright and animated. She wound up her interrogatories with this climax — "And do you think, sir, it is a country where George will be able to do any good ? And will he have his health in that land, so far from every one to take care of him?" And this doubt raised, the bright eyes were dimmed with tears in a moment. Meadows gasped out, "Why not? why not?" but soon after, muttering some excuse about his horse, he went out with a promise to return immediately. He was no sooner alone than he gave way to a burst of rage and bitterness. "So, she only sent for me here to make me tell her about that infernal country where her George is. I'll ride home this instant — this very instant — without bidding them good- bye." Cooler thoughts came. He mused deeply a few minutes, and then clenching his teeth, returned slowly to the little par- lour ; he sat down and took his line with a brisk and cheerful air. 65 IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND "You were asking me some questions about Australia. I can tell you all about that country, for I have a relation there who writes to me. And I have read all the books about it too, as it happens." Susan brightened up. Meadows, by a great histrionic effort, brightened up too, and poured out a flood of really interesting facts and anec- dotes about this marvellous land. Then, in the middle of a narrative which enchained both his hearers, he suddenly looked at his watch, and putting on a fictitious look of dismay and annoyance, started up with many excuses and went home — not, however, till Susan had made him promise to come again next market-day. As he rode home in the moonlight Susan's face seemed still before him. The bright look of interest she had given him, the grateful smiles with which she had thanked him for his narration — all this had been so sweet at the moment, so bitter upon the least reflection. His mind was in a whirl. At last he grasped at one idea, and held it as with a vice. 'T shall be always welcome to her if I can bring myself to talk about that detestable country. Well, I will grind my tongue down to it. She shall not be able to do without my chat ; that shall be the beginning ; the middle shall be differ- ent; the end shall be just the opposite. The sea is between him and her. I am here with opportunity, resolution, and money. I will have her !" The next morning his mother said to him — "John, do you think to go to-day?" "Where, mother?" "The journey you spoke of." "What journey ?" "Among the mines." "Not I." "You have changed your mind, then." "What, didn't you see I was joking?" "No!" (very drily.) Soon after this little dialogue Dame Meadows proposed to end her visit and return home. Her son yielded a cheerful assent. She went gravely and quietly back to her little cottage. 66 IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND Meadows had determined to make himself necessary to Susan Merton. He brought a woman's cunning to bear against a woman ; for the artifice to which his strong will bent his supple talent is one that many women have had the tact and temporary self-denial to carry out, but not one man in a hundred. Men try to beat an absent rival by sneering at him, &c. By which means the asses make their absent foe present to her mind, and enlist the whole woman in his defence. But Meadows was no ordinary man. Susan had given his quick intelligence a glimpse of a way to please her : he looked at the end, and crushed his will down to the thorny means. Twice a-week he called on the Mertons, and much of his talk was Australia. Susan was grateful. To hear of the place where George would soon be was the nearest approach she could make to hearing of George. As for Meadows he gained a great point, but he went through tortures on the way. He could not hide from him- self why he was so welcome ; and many a time as he rode home from the Mertons he resolved never to return there, but he took no more oaths : it had cost him so much to keep the last; and that befell which might have been expected, after a while, the pleasure of being near the woman he loved, of being distinguished by her and greeted with pleasure, how- ever slight, grew into a habit and a need. Achilles was a man of steel, but he had a vulnerable part ; and iron natures like John Meadows have often one spot in their souls where they are far tenderer than the universal dove-eyed, and weaker than the omnipotent. He never spoke a word of love to Susan, he knew it would spoil all ; and she. occupied with another's image, and looking upon herself as confessedly belonging to another, never suspected the deep passion that filled this man's heart. But if an observer of nature had accompanied John Meadows on market-day he might have seen — diagnostics. All the morning his eye was cold and quick ; his mouth, when silent, close, firm, and unreadable ; his voice clear, de- cided, and occasionally loud. But when he got to old Mor- ton's fire-side he mellowed and softened like the sun towards evening: there his forehead unknit itself; his voice, pitched 67 IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND in quite a different key from his key of business, turned also low and gentle, and soothed and secretly won the hearer by its deep, rich, and pleasant modulation and variety; and his eye turned deeper in colour, and losing its keenness and rest- lessness, dwelt calmly and pensively for minutes at a time upon some little household object close to Susan; seldom, unless quite unobserved, upon Susan herself. But the surrounding rustics suspected nothing, so calm and deep ran Meadows. "Dear heart," said Susan to her father, "who would have thought Mr. Meadows would come a mile out of his way twice a-week to talk to me about Geo — about the country where my heart is — and the folk say he thinks of nothing but money, and won't move a step without making it." "The folk are envious of him, girl — that is all. John Meadows is too clever for fools, and too industrious for the lazy ones ; he is a good friend of mine, Susan ; if I wanted to borrow a thousand pounds I have only to draw on Meadows ; he has told me so half-a-dozen times." "We don't want his money, father," replied Susan, "nor anybody's, but I think a great deal of his kindness, and George shall thank him when he comes home — if ever he comes home to Susan again." These last words brought many tears with them, which the old farmer pretended not to notice, for he was getting tired of his daughter's tears. They were always flowing now at the least word, "and she used to be so good-humoured and cheerful like." Poor Susan ! she was very unhappy. If any one had said to her "To-morrow you die," she would have smiled on her own account, and only sighed at the pain the news would cause poor George. Her George was gone, her mother had been dead this two years. Her life, which had been full of innocent pleasures, was now utterly tasteless, except in its hours of bitterness, when sorrow overcame her like a flood. She had a pretty flower-garden, in which she used to work. When George was at home what pleasure it had been to plant them with her lover's help, to watch them expand, to water them in the summer evening, to smell their gratitude for the artificial shower after a sultry day, and then to have George in, and set him admiring them with such threadbare enthu- 68 IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND siasm, simply because they were hers, not in the least because they were Nature's. I will go back like the epic writers, and sketch one of their little garden scenes. One evening, after watering them all, she sat down on a seat at the bottom of the garden, and casting her eyes over her whole domain, said, "Well, now, I do admire flowers ; don't you, George?" "That I do," replied George, taking another seat, and coolly turning his back on the parterre, and gazing mildly into Susan's eyes. "Why, he is not even looking at them !" cried Susan, and she clapped her hands and laughed gleefully. "Oh, yes, he is ; leastways he is looking at one of them, and the brightest of the lot to my fancy." Susan coloured with pleasure. In the country compliments don't drip constantly on beauty even from the lips of love. Then, suppressing her satisfaction, she said, "You will look for a flower in return for that, young man ; come and let us see whether there is one good enough for you." So then they took hands, and Susan drew him demurely about the garden. Presently she stopped with a little start of hypocrit- ical admiration : at their feet shone a marigold. Susan culled the gaudy flower, and placed it affectionately in George's button-hole. He received it proudly, and shaking hands with her, for it was time to part, turned away slowly. She let him take a step or two, then called him back. "He was really going ofi with that nasty thing." She took it out of his button-hole, rubbed it against his nose with well-feigned anger, and then threw it away. "You are all behind in flowers, George," said Susan; "here, this is good enough for you," and she brought out from under her apron, where she had carried the furtively-culled treasure, a lovely clove-pink : pretty soul, she had nursed, and watered, and cherished this choice flower this three weeks past for George, and this was her way of giving it him at last; so a true woman gives — (her life, if need be). George took it, and smelled it, and lingered a moment at the garden gate, and moralised on it. "Well, Susan dear, now I'm not so deep in flowers as vou. but I like this a deal better than 69 IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND the marigold, and I'll tell you for why : it is more like you, Susan." "Ay ! why ?" 'T see flowers that are pretty, but have no smell, and I see women that have good looks, but no great wisdom nor good- ness when you come nearer to them. Now the marigold is like those lasses ; but this pink is good as well as pretty, so then it will stand for you, when we are apart, as we mostly are — worse luck for me." "Oh, George," said Susan, dropping her quizzing manner, "I am a long way behind the marigold or any flower in comeliness and innocence, but at least I wish I was better." "I don't." "Ay, but I do, ten times better, for — for " "For why, Susan?" Susan closed the garden gate and took a step towards the house. Then turning her head over her shoulder with an in- eflFable look of tenderness, tipped with one tint of lingering archness, she let fall, "For your sake, George," in the direc- tion of George's feet, and glided across the garden into the house. George stood watching her : he did not at first take up all she had bestowed on him, for her sex has peculiar mastery over language, being diabolically angelically subtle in the art of saying something that expresses i oz. and implies i cwt. ; but when he did comprehend, his heart exulted. He strode home as if he trod on air, and often kissed the little flower he had taken from the beloved hand, "and with it words of so sweet breath composed, as made the thing more rich ;" and as he marched past the house kissing the flower, need I tell my reader that so innocent a girl as Susan was too high- minded to watch the effect of her proceedings from behind the curtains? I hope not, it would surely be superfluous to relate what none would be green enough to believe. These were Susan's happy days : now all was changed : she hated to water her flowers now : she bade one of the farm- servants look to the garden. He accepted the charge, and her flowers' drooping heads told how nobly he had fulfilled it. Susan was charitable. Every day it had been her custom to visit more than one poor person ; she carried meal to one, 70 IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND soup to another, linen to another, meat and bread to another, money to another : to all, words and looks of sympathy ; this practice she did not even now give up, for it came under the head of her religious duties ; but she relaxed it. She often sent to places where she used to go. Until George went she had never thought of herself; and so the selfishness of those she relieved had not struck her : now it made her bitter to see that none of those she pitied, pitied her. The moment she came into their houses, it was, ''My poor head, Miss Merton ; my old bones do ache so. 'T think a bit of your nice bacon would do me good. I'm a poor sufferer, Miss Merton. My boy is 'listed. I thought as how you'd forgotten me altogether : but 'tis hard for poor folk to keep a friend. "You see, Miss, my bedroom window is broken in one or two places. John, he stopped it up with paper the best way he could, but la, bless you, paper baint like glass. It is very dull for me: you see, Miss, I can't get about now as I used to could, and I never was no great reader. I often wish as some one would step in and knock me on the head, for I be no use, I bain't, ne'er a mossel." No one of them looked up in her face, and said, "Lauks ! how pale yon ha' got to look. Miss; I hopes as how nothing amiss haven't happened to yon, that have been so kind to us this many a day :" yet suffering of some sort was plainly stamped on the face and in the manner of this relieving angel. When they poured out their vulgar woes Susan made an effort to forget her own and to cheer as well as relieve them ; but she had to compress her own heart hard to do it ; and this suppression of feeling makes people more or less bitter : she had better have out with it, and scolded them well for talking as if they alone were unhappy ; but her woman's nature would not let her. They kept asking her for pity, and she still gulped down her own heart and gave it them, till at last she began to take a spite against her pets ; so then she sent to most of them instead of going. She sent rather larger slices of beef and bacon, and rather more yards of flannel than when she used to carry the like to them herself. Susan had one or two young friends, daughters of farmers in the neighbourhood, with whom she was a favourite, though the gayer ones some- 71 IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND times quizzed her for her religious tendencies and her la- mentable indifference to flirtation : but then she was so good, and so good-humoured, and so tolerant of other people's tastes. The prattle of these young ladies became now intol- erable to Susan, and when she saw them coming to call on her, she used to snatch up her bonnet, and fly and lock her- self up in a closet at the top of the house, and read some good book as quiet as a mouse, till the servants had hunted for her, and told them she must be out. She was not in a frame of mind to sustain tarlatans, barege, the history of the last hop, and the prophecies of the next; the wounded deer shrank from its gambolling associates, and indeed from all strangers except John Meadows : "He talks to me about something worth talking about," said Susan Merton. It hap- pened one day while Susan was in this sad, and I may say dangerous state of mind, that the servant came up to her, and told her a gentleman was on his horse at the door, and wanted to see Mr. Merton. "Father is at market, Jane." "Yes, Miss, but I told the gentleman you were at home." "Me ! what have I to do with father's visitors ?" "Miss," replied Jane mysteriously, "it is a parson, and you are so fond of them, I could not think to let him go away without getting a word with anybody ; and he has such a face — La. Miss, you never saw such a face." "Silly girl, what have I to do with handsome faces?" "But he is not handsome. Miss, not in the least, only he is beautiful. You go and see else," "I hate strangers' faces ; but I will go to him, Jane ; it is my duty since it is a clergyman. I will just go up stairs." "La, Miss, what for? you are always neat, you are — no- body ever catches you in your dishables like the rest of 'em." "I'll just smooth my hair." "La, Miss, what for? it is smooth as marble — it always is." . "Where is he, Jane?" "In the front parlour." "I won't be a moment." She went upstairs. There was no necessity; Jane was right there ; but it was a strict custom in the country, and is for that matter, and will be till time and vanity shall be no 72 IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND more : more majorum a girl must go up and look at herself in the glass if she did nothing more, before coming in to re- ceive company. Susan entered the parlour; she came in so gently that she had a moment to observe her visitor before he saw her. He had seated himself with his back to the light, and was devour- ing a stupid book on husbandry that belonged to her father. The moment she closed the door he saw her, and rose from his seat. "Miss Merton?" "Yes, sir." "The living of this place has been vacant more than a month." "Yes, sir." "It will not be filled up for three months, perhaps." "So we hear, sir." "Meantime you have no church to go to nearer than Barn- stoke, which is a chapel-of-ease to this place, but two miles distant." "Two miles and a half, sir." "So then the people here have no Divine service on the Lord's day." "No, sir, not for the present," said Susan meekly, lowering her lashes, as if the clergyman had said, "this is a parish of heathens, whereof you are one." "Nor any servant of God to say a word of humility and charity to the rich, of eternal hope to the poor, and" (here his voice sunk into sudden tenderness) "of comfort to the sorrowful." Susan raised her eyes and looked him over with one dove- like glance, then instantly lowered them. "No, sir, we are all under a cloud here," said Susan sadly. "Miss Merton, I have undertaken the duty here until the living shall be filled up ; but you shall understand that I live thirty miles off, and have other duties, and I can only ride over here on Saturday afternoon, and back Monday at noon." "Oh, sir !" cried Susan, "half a loaf is better than no Bread ! The parish will bless you, sir, and no doubt," added she tim- idly, "the Lord will reward you for coming so far to us !" "I am glad you think so," said the clergyman thoughtfully. IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND "Well, let us do the best we can : tell me first, Miss Merton, do you think the absence of a clergyman is regretted here?" "Regretted, sir ! dear heart, what a question : you might as well ask me, do father's turnips long for rain after a month's drought;" and Susan turned on her visitor a face into which the innocent venerating love her sex have for an ecclesiastic flashed without disguise. Her companion smiled, but it was with benevolence, not with gratified vanity. "Let me now explain my visit. Your father is one of the principal people in the village. He can assist me or thwart me in my work. I called to invite his co-operation. Some clergymen are jealous of co-operation; I am not: it is a good thing for all parties ; best of all for those who co-operate with us ; for in giving alms wisely they receive grace, and in teach- ing the ignorant they learn themselves. Am I right?" added he rather sharply, turning suddenly upon Susan. "Oh, sir," said Susan, a little startled, "it is for me to re- ceive your words, not to judge them." "Humph !" said the reverend gentleman rather drily ; he hated intellectual subserviency : he liked people to think for themselves ; and to end by thinking with him. "Father will never thwart you, sir, and I — I will co-operate with you, sir, if you will accept of me," said Susan inno- cently. "Thank you, then let us begin at once." He took out his watch. "I have an hour and a half to spare, then I must gallop back to Oxford. Miss Merton, I should like to make acquaintance with some of the people. Suppose we go to the school, and see what the children are learning; and then visit one or two families in the village, so I shall catch a glimpse of the three generations I have to deal with. My name is Francis Eden. You are going to get your bonnet?" "Yes, sir." ' "Thank you." They passed out through the garden. Mr. Eden stopped to look at the flowers. Susan coloured. "It has been rather neglected of late," said she apologet- ically. "It must have been very well taken care of before, then," 74 ^ IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND said he, "for it looks charming now. Ah ! I love flowers dearly !" and he gave a little sigh. They reached the school, and Mr. Eden sat down and ex- I amined the little boys and girls. When he sat down, Susan i winced. How angry he will be at their ignorance ! thought Susan. But Mr. Eden, instead of putting on an awful look, and impressing on the children that a being of another gen- eration was about to attack them, made himself young to meet their minds. A pleasant smile disarmed their fears. He spoke to them in very simple words and childish idioms, and told them a pretty story, which interested them mightily. Having set their minds really working, he put questions aris- ing fairly out of his story, and so fathomed the moral sense and the intelligence of more than one. In short, he drew the brats out instead of crushing them in. Susan stood by, at first startled at the line he took, then observant, then approv- ing. Presently he turned to her. "And which is your class. Miss Merton?" Susan coloured. "I take these little girls when I come, sir." "Miss Merton has not been here this fortnight," said a pert teacher. Susan could have beat her. What will this good man think of me now ? thought poor Susan. To her grateful relief, the good man took no notice of the observation ; he looked at his watch. "Now. Miss Merton, if I am not giving you too much trouble ;" and they left the school. "You wish to see some of the folk in the village, sir?" "Yes." "Where shall I take you first, sir?" "Where I ought to go first." Susan looked puzzled. Mr. Eden stopped dead short. "Come, guess," said he, with a rediant smile, "and don't look so scared. I'll forgive you if you guess wrong." Susan looked this way and that, encouraged by his merry smile. She let out — scarce above a whisper, and in a tone of interrogation, as who should say this is not to be my last 75 IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND chance since I have only asked a question not risked an an- swer — "To the poorest, Mr. Eden?" "Brava ! she has guessed it," cried the Reverend Frank triumphantly ; for he had been more anxious she should an- swer right than she had herself. "Young lady, I have friends with their heads full of Latin and Greek who could not have answered that so quickly as you ; one proof more how goodness brightens intelligence," added he in soliloquy. "Here's a cottage." "Yes, sir, I was going to take you into this one, if you please." They found in the cottage a rheumatic old man, one of those we alluded to as full of his own complaints. Mr, Eden heard these with patience, and then, after a few words of kind sympathy and acquiescence, for he was none of those hard humbugs who tell a man that old age, rheumatism, and poverty are strokes with a feather, he said quietly — "And now for the other side; now tell me what you have to be grateful for." The old man was taken aback, and his fluency deserted him. On the question being repeated, he began to say that he had many mercies to be thankful for. Then he higgled and hammered and fumbled for the said mercies, and tried to enumerate them, but in phrases conventional and derived from tracts and sermons ; whereas his statement of grievances had been idiomatic. "There, that will do," said Mr. Eden, smiling, "say noth- ing you don't feel ; what is the use ? May I ask you a few questions ?" added he courteously ; then, without waiting for permission, he dived skilfully into this man's life, and fished up all the pearls — the more remarkable passages. Many years ago this old man had been a soldier, had fought in more than one great battle, had retreated with Sir John Moore upon Corunna, and been one of the battered and weary but invincible band, who wheeled round and stunned the pursuers on that bloody and glorious day. Mr. Eden went with the old man to Spain, discussed with great animation the retreat, the battle, the position of the forces, and the old soldier's personal prowess. Old Giles perked up, 7^ IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO AiEND and dilated, and was another man ; he forgot his rheumatism, and even his old age. Twice he suddenly stood upright as a dart on the floor, and gave the word of command like a trum- pet in some brave captain's name ; and his cheek flushed, and his eye glittered with the light of battle. Susan looked at him with astonishment. Then when his heart was warm and his spirits attentive, Air. Eden began to throw in a few words of exhortation. But even then he did not bully the man into being a Christian ; gently, firmly, and with a win- ning modesty, he said, 'T think you have much to be thank- ful for, like all the rest of us. Is it not a mercy you were not cut off in your wild and dissolute youth? You might have been slain in battle." "That I might, sir; three of us went from this parish, and only one came home again." "You might have lost a leg or an arm, as many a brave fellow did ; you might have been a cripple all your days." "That is true, sir." "You survive here in a Christian land, in possession of your faculties ; the world, it is true, has but few pleasures to offer you — all the better for you. Oh, if I could but make that as plain to you as it is to me. You have every encourage- ment to look for happiness there, where alone it is to be found. Then courage, corporal ; you stood firm at Corunna — do not give way in this your last and most glorious battle. The stake is greater than it was at Vittoria, or Salamanca, or Corunna, or Waterloo. The eternal welfare of a single human soul weighs a thousand times more than all the crowns and empires in the globe. You are in danger, sir. Discon- tent is a great enemy of the soul. You must pray against it — you must fight against it." "And so I will, sir ; you see if I don't." "You read, Mr. Giles?" Susan had told Mr. Eden his name at the threshold. "Yes, sir; but I can't abide them nasty little prints they bring me." "Of course you can't. Printed to sell, not to read, eh? Here is a book. The type is large, clear, and sharp. This is an order-book, corporal. It comes from the great Captain of our salvation. Every sentence in it is gold ; yet I think I may 77 IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND safely pick out a few for your especial use at present." And Mr. Eden sat down ; and producing from his side pockets, which were very profound, some long, thin slips of paper, he rapidly turned the leaves of the Testament and inserted his markers ; but this occupation did not for a moment inter- rupt his other proceedings. "There is a pipe — you don't smoke, I hope?" "No, sir; leastways not when I han't got any baccy, and I've been out of that this three days, worse luck." "Give up smoking, corporal; it is a foul habit." "Ah, sir ! you don't ever have a half-empty belly and a sor- rowful heart, or you wouldn't tell an old soldier to give up his pipe." "Take my advice. Give up all such false consolation, to oblige me, now." "Well, sir, to oblige you, I'll try ; but you don't know what his pipe is to a poor old man full of nothing but aches and pains, or you wouldn't have asked me," and old Giles sighed. Susan sighed, too, for she thought Mr. Eden cruel for once. "Miss Merton," said the latter sternly, his eye twinkling all the time, "he is incorrigible ; and I see you agree with me that it is idle to torment the incurable. So" (diving into the capacious pocket) "here is an ounce of his beloved poison," and out came a paper of tobacco. Corporal's eyes brightened with surprise and satisfaction. "Poison him, Miss Merton, poison him quick, don't keep him waiting." "Poison him^ sir?" "Fill his pipe for him, if you please." "That I will, sir, with pleasure." A white hand, with quick and supple fingers, filled the brown pipe. "That is as it should be ; let beauty pay honour to courage — above all, to courage in its decay." The old man grinned with gratified pride. The white hand lighted the pipe and gave it to the old soldier. He smiled gratefully all round, and sucked his homely consola- tion. "I compound with you, corporal. You must let me put you on the road to heaven, and, in return, I must let you go there in a cloud of tobacco — ugh !" 78 IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND "Fm agreeable, sir," said Giles drily, withdrawing his pipe for a moment. "There," said Mr. Eden, closing the marked Testament, "read often in this book. Read first the verses I have marked, for these very verses have dropped comfort on the poor, the aged, and the distressed for more than eighteen hundred years, and will till time shall be no more. And now good-bye, and God bless you." "God bless you, sir, wherever you go !" cried the old man with sudden energy, "for you have comforted my poor old heart. I feel as I han't felt this many a day ; your words are like the bugles sounding a charge all down the line. You must go, I suppose ; but do you come again and see me. And, Miss Merton, you never come to see me now, as you used." "Miss Merton has her occupations, like the rest of us," said Mr. Eden quickly ; "but she will come to see you — won't she ?" "Oh, yes, sir !" repHed Susan hastily. So then they re- turned to the farm, for Mr. Eden's horse was in the stable. At the door they found Mr. Merton. "This is father, sir. Father, this is Mr. Eden, that is com- ing to take the duty here for awhile." After the ordinary civilities Susan drew her father aside, and exchanging a few words with him, disappeared into the house. As Mr. Eden was mounting his horse, Air. Merton came forward, and invited him to stay at his house whenever he should come to the parish. Mr. Eden hesitated. "Sir," said the farmer, "you will find no lodgings comfort- able within a mile of the church, and we have a large house not half occupied. You can make yourself quite at home." "I am much obliged to you, Mr. Merton, but must not tres- pass too far upon your courtesy." "Well, sir," replied the farmer, "we shall feel proud if you can put up with the like of us." "I will come. I am much obliged to you, sir, and to your daughter." He mounted his horse and bade the farmer good miorning. Susan came out and stood on the steps and curtsied low — rustic fashion — but with a grace of her own. He took off his hat to her as he rode out of the gate, gave her a sweet 79 IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND bright smile of adieu, and went down the lane fourteen miles an hour. Old Giles was seated outside his own door with a pipe and a book. At the sound of horses' feet he looked up, and recognised his visitor, whom he had seen pass in the morning. He rose up erect and saluted him, by bringing his thumb with a military wave to his forehead. Mr. Eden sa- luted him in the same manner, but without stopping. The old soldier sat down again, and read and smoked. The pipe ended — that solace was not of an immortal kind — but the book remained ; he read it calmly but earnestly in the warm air till day declined. CHAPTER VII. THE next Saturday Susan was busy preparing two rooms for Mr. Eden — a homely but bright bed-room looking eastward, and a snug room where he could be quiet down- stairs. Snowy sheets and curtains and toilet-cover showed the good housewife. The windows were open, and a beauti- ful nosegay of Susan's flowers on the table. Mr. Eden's eye brightened at the comfort, neatness, and freshness of the whole thing; and Susan, who watched him furtively, felt pleased to see him pleased. On Sunday he preached in the parish church. The sermon was opposite to what the good people here had been subject to ; instead of the vague and cold generalities of an English sermon, he drove home-truths home in business-like English. He used a good many illustrations, and these were drawn from matters with which this particular congregation were conversant. He was as full of similes here as he was sparing of them when he preached before the University of Oxford. Any one who had read this sermon in a book of sermons would have divined what sort of congregation it was preached to — a primrose of a sermon. Mr. Eden preached from notes and to the people — not the air. Like every born orator, he felt his way with his audience, whereas the preacher, who is not an orator, throws out his fine things, hit or miss, and does not know and feel and care whether he is hitting or missing. "Open your hand, shut vour eves, and fling out the good 80 ■ IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO }.IEXD seed so much per foot — that is enough." No. This man preached to the faces and hearts that happened to be round him. He established between himself and them a pulse, every throb of which he felt and followed. If he could not get hold of them one way, he tried another, he would have them — he was not there to fail. His discourse was human ; it was man speaking to man on the most vital and interesting topic in the world or out of it ; it was more, it was brother speaking to brother. Hence some singular phenomena : — First, when he gave the blessing (which is a great piece of eloquence commonly reduced to a very small one by monoto- nous or feeble delivery), and uttered it, like his discourse, with solemnity, warmth, tenderness, and all his soul, the peo- ple lingered some moments in the church and seemed unwill- ing to go at all. Second, nobody mistook their pew for their four-poster during the sermon. This was the more remark- able, as many of the congregation had formed a steady habit of coming to this place once a week with the single view of snatching an hour's repose from earthly and heavenly cares. The next morning Mr. Eden visited some of the poorest people in the parish. Susan accompanied him, all eyes and ears ; she observed that his line was not to begin by dictating his own topic, but lie in wait for them ; let them first choose their favourite theme, and so meet them on this ground, and bring religion to bear on it. "Oh, how wise he is !" thought Susan, "and how he knows the heart !" One Sunday evening, three weeks after his first official visit, he had been by himself to see some of the poor people, and on his return found Susan alone. He sat down and gave an account of his visits. "How many ounces of tea and tobacco did you give away, sir?" asked Susan, with an arch smile. "Four tea, two tobacco," replied the reverend gentleman. "I do notice, sir, you never carry gingerbread or the like for the children." "No ; the young don't want lollypops, for they have youth. Old age- wants everything, so the old are my children, and I tea and tobacco them." After this there was a pause. « 8i IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND "Miss Merton, you have shown me many persons who need consolation, but there is one you say nothing about." "Have I, sir? Who? Oh, I think I know. Old dame Clayton ?" "No, it is a young demoiselle." "Then I don't know who it can be." "Guess." "No, sir," said Susan, looking down. "It is yourself, Miss Merton." "Me, sir! Why, what is the matter with me?" "That you shall tell me, if you think me worthy of your confidence." "Oh, thank you, sir. I have my little crosses, no doubt, like all the world ; but I have health and strength ; I have mv father." "My child, you are in trouble. You were crying when I came in." "Indeed I was not, sir! — how did you know I was crying?" "When I came in you turned your back to me, instead of facing me, which is more natural when any one enters a room; and soon after you made an excuse for leaving the room, and when you came back there was a drop of water in your right eyelash." "It need not have been a tear, sir !" "It was not : it was water ; you had been removing the traces of tears." "Girls are mostly always crying, sir, often they don't know for why, but they don't care to have it noticed always." "Nor would it be polite or generous ; but this of yours is a deep grief, and alarms me for you. Shall I tell you how I know ? You often yawn and often sigh ; when these two things come together at your age they are signs of a heavy grief ; then it comes out that you have lost your relish for things that once pleased you. The first day I came here you told me your garden had been neglected of late, and you blushed in saying so. Old Giles and others asked you before me why you had given up visiting them ; you coloured and looked down. I could almost have told them, but that would have made you uncomfortable. You are in grief, and no common grief." 82 IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND "Nothing worth speaking to you about, sir; nothing I will ever complain of to any one." "There I think you are wrong; religion has consoled many griefs ; great griefs admit of no other consolation. The sweetest exercise of my office is to comfort the heavy hearted. Your heart is heavy,, mv poor Iamb — tell me — what is it?" "It is nothing, sir, that you would understand ; you are very skilled, and notice-taking, as well as good, but you are not a woman, and you must excuse me, sir, if I beg you not to question me further on what would not interest you." Mr. Eden looked at her compassionately, and merely said to her again, "What is it ?" in a low tone of ineffable tender- ness. At this Susan looked in a scared manner this way and that. "Sir, do not ask me, pray do not ask me so;" then she sud- denly lifted her hands, "My George is gone across the sea ! What shall I do ! what shall I do ! !" and she buried her face in her apron. This burst of pure Nature — this simple cry of a suffering heart — was very touching ; and Mr. Eden, spite of his many experiences, was not a little moved. He sat silent looking on her as an angel might be supposed to look upon human griefs, and as he looked on her various expressions chased one an- other across that eloquent face. Sweet and tender memories and regrets were not wanting amongst them. After a long pause he spoke in a tone soft and gentle as a woman's, and at first in a voice so faltering, that Susan, though her face was Ijidden, felt there was no common sympathy there, and si- lently put out her hand towards it. He murmured consolation. He said many gentle, soothing things. He told her that it was sad — very sad the immense ocean should roll between two loving hearts, "but," said he, "there are barriers more impassable than the sea. Better so than that he should be here and jealousy, mistrust, caprice, or even temper come between you. I hope he will come back; I think he will come back." She blessed him for saying so. She was learning to be- lieve everything this man uttered. Frotn consolation he passed to advice — 83 IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND "You must do the exact opposite of what you have been doing." "Must I ?" "You must visit those poor people ; ay, more than ever you did ; hear patiently their griefs ; do not expect much in return, neither sympathy nor a great deal of gratitude ; vulgar sorrow is selfish. Do it for God's sake and your own single-heart- edly. Go to the school, return to your flowers, and never shun innocent society, however dull. IVIilk and water is a poor thing, but it is a diluent, and all we can do just now is to dilute your grief." He made her promise : "Next time I come, tell me all about you and George. Give sorrow words, the grief that does not speak whispers the o'erfraught heart and bids it break." "Oh ! that is a true word," sobbed Susan, "that is very true. Why, a little of the lead seems to have dropped off my heart now I have spoken to you, sir." All the next week Susan bore up as bravely as she could, and did what Mr. Eden had bade her, and profited by his example. She learned to draw from others the full history of their woes ; and she found that many a grief bitter as her own had passed over the dwellers in those small cottages ; it did her some little good to discover kindred woes, and much good to go out of herself awhile and pity them. This drooping flower recovered her head a little, but still the sweetest hour in all the working days of the week was that which brought John Meadows to talk to her of Australia. CHAPTER VIIL SUSAN MERTON had two unfavoured lovers ; it is well to observe how diflFerently these two behaved. William Fielding stayed at home, threw his whole soul into his farm, and seldom went near the woman he loved but had no right to love. Meadows dangled about the flame ; ashamed and afraid to own his love, he fed it to a prodigious height by encouraging it and not expressing it. William Fielding was moody and cross and sad enough at times; but at others, a 84 IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND little spark ignited inside his heart, and a warm glow diffused itself from that small point over all his being. I think this spark igniting was an approving conscience commencing its uphill work of making a disappointed love, but honest man content. Meadows on his part began to feel content and a certain complacency take the place of his stormy feelings. Twice a week he passed two hours with Susan. She always greeted him with a smile, and naturally showed an innocent satisfac- tion in these visits, managed as they were with so much art and self-restraint. On Sunday, too, he had always a word or two with her. Meadows, though an observer of rehgious forms, had the character of a very worldly man, and Susan thought it highly to his credit that he came six miles to hear Mr. Eden. "But, Mr, Meadows, your poor horse," said she, one day. "I doubt it is no Sabbath to him now." "No more it is," said Meadows, as if a new light came to him from Susan. The next Sunday he appeared in dusty shoes, instead of top-boots. Susan looked down at them, and saw, and said nothing, but she smiled. Her love of goodness and her vanity were both gratified a little. Meadows did not stop there ; wherever Susan went he fol- lowed modestly in her steps. Nor was this mere cunning. He loved her quite well enough to imitate her, and try and feel with her ; and he began to be kinder to the poor, and to feel good all over, and comfortable. He felt as if he had not an enemy in the world. One day in Farnborough he saw William Fielding on the other side of the street. Susan Mer- ton did not love William, therefore Meadows had no cause to hate him. He remembered William had asked a loan of him and he had declined. He crossed over to him. "Good day, Mr. WilHam." "Good day, Mr. Meadows." "You were speaking to me one day about a trifling loan. I could not manage it just then, but now " Here Mead- ows paused. He had been on the point of offering the money, but suddenly, by one of those instincts of foresight these able men have, he turned it off thus : "but I know who 85 IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND will. You go to Lawyer Crawley ; he lends money to people of credit." "I know he does ; but he won't lend it me." "Why not ?" "He does not like us. He is a poor sneaking creature; and my brother George he caught Crawley selling up some poor fellow or other, and they had words ; leastways it went beyond words, I fancy. I don't know the rights of it, but George was a little rough with him by all accounts." "And what has that to do with this?" said the man of business coolly. "Why, I am George's brother." "And if you were George himself, and he saw his way to make a shilling out of you he would do it, wouldn't he? There, you go to Crawley and ask him to lend you one hun- dred pounds, and he will lend it you, only he will make you pay heavy interest, heavier than I should, you know, if I could manage it myself." "Oh, I don't care," said simple William ; "thank you kind- ly, Mr. Meadows," and off he went to Crawley. He found that worthy in his office. Crawley, who in- stantly guessed his errand, and had no instructions from Meadows, promised himself the satisfaction of refusing the young man. He asked with a cringing manner and a treach- erous smile, "What security, sir?" Poor William higgled and hammered, and offered first one thing, which was blandly declined for this reason ; then an- other, which was blandly declined for that, Crawley drinking deep draughts of mean vengeance all the while from the young man's shame and mortification, when the door opened, a man walked in. and gave Crawley a note, and vanished. Crawley opened the note ; it contained a cheque drawn by Meadows, and these words : "Lend W. F. the money at ten per cent, on his acceptance of your draft at two months." Crawley put the note and cheque in his pocket. "Well, sir," said he to William, "you stay here, and I will see if I have got a loose hundred in the bank to spare." He went oyer to the bank, cashed the cheque, drew a bill of ex- change at two months' date, deducted the interest and stamp, and William accepted it, and Crawlev bowed him out, cring- 86 IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND ing, smiling, and secretly shooting poisoned arrows out of his venomous eye in the direction of Wilham's heels. William thanked him warmly. This loan made him feel happy. He had paid his brother's debt to the landlord by sacrificing a large portion of his grain at a time the price was low ; and now he was so cramped he had much ado to pay his labour when this loan came. The very next day he bought several hogs ; — hogs, as George had sarcastically observed, were William Fielding's hobby ; he had confidence in that animal. Potatoes and pigs versus sheep and turnips was the theory of William. Fielding. Now the good understanding between William and Mead- ows was not to last long. William, though he was too wise to visit Grassmere Farm much, was mindful of his promise to George, and used to make occasional inquiries after Susan. He heard that Meadows called at the farm twice a week, and he thought it a little odd. He pondered on it, but did not quite go the length of suspecting anything, still less of sus- pecting Susan. Still he thought it odd, but he thought it odder, when one market-day old Isaac Levi said to him — "Do you remember the promise you made to the lion- hearted young man your brother?" "Do you ask that to affront me ?" "You never visit her; and others are not so neglectful." "Who?" "Go this evening and you will see." "Yes, I will go, and I will soon see if there is anything in it," said William, not stopping even to inquire why the old Jew took all this interest in the affair. That evening, as Meadows was in the middle of a descrip- tion of the town of Sydney, Susan started up. "Why here is William Fielding!" and she ran out and welcomed him in with much cordiality, perhaps with some excess of cordiality. William came in, and saluted the farmer and Meadows in his dogged way. Meadows was not best pleased, but kept his temper admirably, and leaving Australia, engaged both the farmers in a conversation on home topics. Susan looked disappointed. Meadows was content with that, and the party separated half an hour sooner than usual. 87 IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND The next market evening in strolls William ; Meadows again plays the same game. This time Susan could hardly restrain her temper. She did not want to hear about the Grassmere acres, and "The Grove," and oxen and hogs, but about something that mattered to George. But when the next market evening William arrived before Mr. Meadows, she was downright provoked and gave him short answers, which raised his suspicions and made him think he had done wisely in coming. This evening Susan excused herself and went to bed early. She was in Farnborough the next market-day, and William met her and said — "I'll take a cup of tea with you to-night, Susan, if you are agreeable." "William," said Susan sharply, "what makes you always come to us on market-day?" "I don't know. What makes Mr. Meadows come that day?" "Because he passes our house to go to his own, I suppose ; but you live but two miles ofif; you can come any day that you are minded." "Should I be welcome, Susan?" "What do you think. Will ? Speak your mind ; I don't understand you." "Seems to me I was not very welcome last time." "If I thought that I wouldn't come again," replied Susan, as sharp as a needle. Then instantly repenting a little, she explained — "You are welcome to me. Will, and you know that as well as I do, but I want you to come some other evening, if it is all the same to you." "Why?" "Why? because I am dull other evenings, and it would be nice to have a chat with you." "Would it, Susan?" "Of course it would ; but that evening I have company — and he talks to me of Australia." "Nothing else?" sneered the unlucky William. Susan gave him such a look. "And that interests me more than anything you can say to me — if you won't be ofifended," snapped Susan. 88 IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND William bit his lip. "Well, then, I won't come this evening, eh, Susan?" "No, don't, that is a good soul." "Les femmes sont impitoyables pour ceux qu'elles n'aiment pas." This is a harsh saying, and of course, not pure truth ; but there is a deal of truth in it. William was proud ; and the consciousness of his own love for her made him less able to persist, for he knew she might be so ungenerous as to retort if he angered her too far. So he altered the direction of his battery. He planted himself at the gate of Grassmere Farm, and as Meadows got off his horse requested a few words with him. Meadows ran him over with one lightning glance, and then the whole man was on the defensive. William bluntly opened the affair. "You heard me promise to look on Susan as my sister, and keep her as she is for my brother that is far away." "I heard you, Mr, William," said Meadows, with a smile that provoked William as the artful one intended it should. "You come here too often, sir." "Too often for who?" "Too often for me, too often for George, too often for the girl herself. I won't have George's sweetheart talked about." "You are the first to talk about her ; if there's scandal it is of your making." "I won't have it — at a word." Meadows called out — "Miss Merton, will you step here?" William was astonished at his audacity ; he did not know his man. Susan opened the parlour-window. "What is it, Mr. Meadows ?" "Will you step here, if you please?" Susan came. "Here is a young man tells me I must not call on vour father or you." "I say you must not do it often enough to make her talked of." "Who dares to talk of me !" cried Susan, scarlet. "Nobody, Miss Merton. Nobody but the young man him- self; and so I told him. Is your father within? Then Til step in and speak with him anv wav." And the siv Mead- 89 IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND ows vanished to give Susan an opportunity of quarrelling with William while she was hot. "I don't know how you came to take such liberties with me," began Susan, quite pale now with anger. *Tt is for George's sake," said William doggedly. "Did George bid you insult my friends and me? I would not put up with it from George himself, much less from you. I shall write to George, and ask him whether he wishes me to be your slave." "Don't ye do so. Don't set my brother against me," re- monstrated William ruefully. "The best thing you can do is to go home and mind your farm, and get a sweetheart for yourself, and then you won't trouble your head about me more than you have any business to do." This last cut wounded William to the quick. "Good evening, Susan." "Good evening." "Won't you shake hands?" "It would serve you right if I said, No! But I won't make you of so much importance as you want to be. There ! And come again as soon as ever you can treat my friends with respect." "I shan't trouble you again for a while," said William sad- ly. "Good-bye. God bless you, Susan dear." When he was gone the tears came into Susan's eyes, but she was bitterly indignant with him for making a scene about her, which a really modest girl hates. On her reaching the parlour Mr. Meadows was gone too, and that incensed her still more against William. "Mr. Meadows is afifronted, no doubt," said she, "and of course he would not come here to be talked of; he would not like that any more than I. A man that comes here to us out of pure good nature and nothing else." The next market-day the deep Meadows did not come ; Susan missed him and his talk; she had few pleasures, and this was one of them ; but the next after he came as usual, and Susan did not conceal her satisfaction. She was too shy and he too wise to allude to William's interference. They both ignored the poor fellow and his honest, clumsy attempt. 90 IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND William, discomfited but not convinced, determined to keep his eye upon them both. "I swore it, and I'll do it," said this honest fellow. "But I can't face her tongue; it goes through me like a pitchfork ; but as for him" — and he clenched his fist most significantly; then he revolved one or two plans in his head, and rejected them each in turn. At last, a thought struck him — "Mr. Levi ! he 'twas that put me on my guard. I'll tell him." Accordingly, he recounted the whole afifair and his failure to Mr. Levi. The old man smiled. "You are no match for either of these. You have given the maiden offence, just offence." "J"st offence! Mr. Levi. Now don't ye say so: why, how ?" "By your unskilfulness, my son." "It is all very well for you to say that, sir, but I can tell you women are kittle folk — manage them who can. T don't know what to do, I'm sure." "Stay at home and till the land," replied Isaac, somewhat drily. "I will go to Grassmere Farm." CHAPTER IX. YOU going to leave us, Mr. Eden, and going to live in a gaol. Oh ! Mr. Eden, I can't bear to think of it. You to be cooped up there among thieves and rogues, and perhaps murderers." "They have the more need of me." "And you, who love the air of heaven so; why, sir, I see you take off your very hat at times to enjoy it as you are walking along; you would be choked in a prison. Besides, sir, it is only little parsons that go there." "What are little parsons?" "Those that are not clever enough or good enough to be bishops and vicars, and so forth ; not such ones as you." "How odd ! This is exactly what the devil whispered in my ear when the question was first raised, but I did not ex- pect to find you on his side." "Didn't you, sir? Ah! well, if it is your duty I know I may as well hold my tongue. And then, such as you are not 9'- IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND like other folk ; you come like sunshine to some dark place, and when you have warmed it and lighted it a bit, Heaven, that sent you, will have you go and shine elsewhere. You came here, sir, you waked up the impenitent folk in this village, and comforted the distressed, and relieved the poor, and you have saved one poor broken-hearted girl from de- spair, from madness belike ; and now we are not to be selfish, we must not hold you back, but let you run the race that is set before you, and remember your words and your deeds, and your dear face and voice to the last hour of our lives." "And give me the benefit of your prayers, little sister, do not deny me them ; your prayers that I may persevere to the end. Ay ! it is too true, Susan ; in this world there is nothing but meeting and parting; it is sad. We have need to be stout-hearted — stouter-hearted than you are. But it will not always be so : a few short years and we who have fought the good fight shall meet to part no more — to part no more — to part no more !" As he repeated these words half mechanically, Susan could see that he had suddenly become scarce conscious of her presence : the light of other days was in his eye, and his lips moved inarticulately. Delicate-minded Susan left him, and with the aid of the servant brought out the tea-things, and set the little table on the grass square in her garden, where you could see the western sun. And then she came for Mr. Eden. "Come, sir, there is not a breath of wind this evening, so the tea-things are set in the air. I know you like that." The little party sat down in the open air. The butter, churned by Susan, was solidified cream. The bread not very white, but home made, juicy, and sweet as milk. The tea seemed to diffuse a more flowery flagrance out of doors than it does in, and to mix fraternally with the hundred odours of Susan's flowers that now perfumed the air, and the whole innocent meal, unlike coarse dinner or supper, mingled har- moniously with the scene, with the balmy air, the blue sky, and the bright emerald grass sprinkled with gold by the descending sun. Farmer Merton soon left them, and then Susan went in and brought out pen and ink and a large sheet of paper, 92 IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND Susan sat apart working with her needle, Mr. Eden sketched a sermon and sipped his tea, and now and then purred three words to Susan, who purred as many in reply. And yet over this pleasant scene there hung a gentle sadness, felt most by Susan, as with head bent down she plied her needle in silence. "He will not sit in my garden many times more, nor write many more notes of sermons under my eye, nor preach to us all many more sermons ; and then he is go- ing to a nasty gaol, where he won't have his health, I'm doubtful. And then I'm fearful he won't be comfortable in his house, with nobody to take care of him that really cares for him; servants soon find out where there is no woman to scold them as should be, and he is not the man to take his own part against them." And Susan sighed at the domestic prospects of her friend, and her needle went slower and slower. These reflections were interrupted by the servant, who an- nounced a visitor. Susan laid down her work and went into the parlour, and there found Isaac Levi. She greeted him with open arms and heightened colour, and never for a mo- ment suspected that he was come there full of suspicions of her. After the first greeting a few things of little importance were said on either side. Isaac watching to see whether Mr. Meadows had succeeded in supplanting George, and too cun- ning to lead the conversation that way himself, lay patiently in wait like a sly old fox. However, he soon found he was playing the politician superfluously, for Susan laid bare her whole heart to the simplest capacity. Instead of waiting for the skilful, subtle, almost invisible cross-examination, which the descendant of Maimonides was preparing for her, she answered all his questions before they were asked. It came out that her thought by day and night was George, that she had been very dull, and very unhappy. "But I am better now, Mr. Levi, thank God : He has been very good to me. He has sent me a friend, a clergyman, or an angel in the dress of one, I sometimes think. He knows all about me and George, sir; so that makes me feel quite at home with him. and I can — and now Mr. Meadows stops an hour on market- days, and he is so kind as to tell me all about Australia, and 93 IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND you may guess I like to hear about — Mr. Levi, come and see us some market evening. Mr. Meadows is capital company ; to hear him you would think he had passed half his life in Australia. Were you ever in Australia, sir, if you please?" "Never, but I shall." "Shall you, sir?" "Yes ; the old Jew is not to die till he has drifted to every part in the globe. In my old days I shall go back towards the East, and there methinks I shall lay these wandering bones." "Oh, sir, inquire after George and show him some kind- ness, and don't see him wronged — he is very simple. No ! no ! no ! you are too old ; you must not cross the seas at your age ; don't think of it ; stay quiet at home till you leave us for a better world." "At home!" said the old man sorrowfully; "I have no home. I had a home, but the man Meadows has driven me out of it." "Mr. Meadows? La, sir, as how?" "He bought the house I live in, and next Ladyday, as the woman worshipper calls it, he turns me to the door." "But he won't if you ask him. He is a very good-natured man. You go and ask him to be so good as let you stay ; he won't gainsay you, you take my word." "Susannah !" replied Isaac, "you are good and innocent ; you cannot fathom the hearts of the wicked. This Meadows is a man of Belial. I did beseech him ; I bowed these grey hairs to him, to let me stay in the house where I lived so happily with my Leah twenty years, where my children were born to me and died from me, where my Leah consoled me for their loss awhile, but took no comfort herself and left me too." "Poor old man! and what did he say?" "He refused me with harsh words. To make the refusal more bitter he insulted my religion and my much-enduring tribe, and at the day appointed he turns me at three-score years and ten adrift upon the earth." "Eh ! dear ! how hard the world is !" cried Susan ; "I had a great respect for Mr. Meadows, but now if he comes here I know I shall shut the door in his face." 94 IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND Isaac reflected. This would not have suited a certain subtle Eastern plan of vengeance he had formed. "No !" said he, "that is folly. Take not another man's quarrel on your shoulders. A Jew knows how to revenge himself without your aid." So then her inquisitor was satisfied ; Australia really was the topic that made Meadows welcome. He departed, re- volving oriental vengeance. Smooth Meadows at his next visit removed the impression excited against him, and easily persuaded Susan that Levi was more in the wrong than he; in which opinion she stood firm till Levi's next visit. At last she gave up all hope of dijudicating, and determined to end the matter by bringing them together and making them friends. And now approached the day of Mr. Eden's departure. The last sermon — the last quiet tea in the garden. On Mon- day afternoon he was to go to Oxford, and the following week to his new sphere of duties which he had selected to the astonishment of some hundred persons who knew him super- ficially — knew him by his face, by his pretensions as a scholar, a divine, and a gentleman of descent and independent means, but had not sounded his depths. All Sunday Susan sought every opportunity of conversing with him even on indifferent matters. She was garnering up his words, his very syllables, and twenty times in the day he saw her eyes fill with tears apropos of such observations as this — "We shall have a nice warm afternoon, Susan." "It is to be hoped so, sir ; the blackbirds are giving a chir- rup or two." All Monday forenoon Susan was very busy. There was bread to be baked and butter to be made. Mr. Eden must take some of each to Oxford. They would keep Grassmere in his mind a day or two longer ; and besides they were whole- some and he was fond of them. Then there was his linen to be looked over, and buttons sewed on for the last time. Then he must eat a good dinner before he went, so then he would want nothing but his tea when he got to Oxford ; and the bread would be fit to eat by tea-time, especially a small crusty 95 IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND cake she had made for that purpose. So with all this Susan was energetic, almost lively; and even when it was all done and they were at dinner, her principal anxiety seemed to be that he should eat more than usual because he was going a journey. But when all bustle of every kind was over, and the actual hour of parting came, she suddenly burst out cry- ing before her father and the servant, who bade her not take on, and instantly burst out crying too from vague sympathy. The old farmer ordered the girl out of the room directly, and without the least emotion proceeded to make excuses to Mr. Eden for Susan. "A young maid's eyes soon flow over," &c. Mr. Eden interrupted him. "Such tears as these do not scald the heart. I feel this separation from my dear kind friend as much as she feels it. But I am more than twice her age, and have passed through — I should feel it bitterly if I thought our friendship and Christian love were to end because our path of duty lies sep- arate. But no, Susan, still look on me as your adviser, your elder brother, and in some measure your pastor. I shall write to you and watch over you, though at some distance— and not so great a distance. I am always well horsed, and I know you will give me a bed at Grassmere once a quarter." "That we will," cried the farmer warmly, "and proud and happy to see you cross the threshold, sir." "And Mr. Merton, my new house is large. I shall be alone in it. Whenever you and Miss Merton have nothing better to do, pray come and visit me. I will make you as uncomfortable as you have made me comfortable, but as wel- come as you have made me welcome." "We will come, sir ! we will come some one of these days, and thank you for the honour." So Mr. Eden went from Grassmere village and Grassmere farm-house — but he left neither as he found them ; fifty years hence an old man and woman or two will speak to their grandchildren of "the Sower," and Susan Merton (if she is on earth then), of "the Good Physician." She may well do so, for it v;as no vulgar service he rendered h^r — no vulgar malady he checked. Not everv good man could have penetrated so quicklv a 96 IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND coy woman's grief, nor, the wound found, have soothed her fever and deadened her smart with a hand as firm as gentle, as gentle as firm. Such men are human suns ! They brighten and warm wherever they pass. Fools count them mad, till death wrenches open foolish eyes ; they are not often called "my Lord,"^ nor sung by poets when they die ; but the hearts they heal, and their own, are their rich reward on earth, and their place is high in heaven. CHAPTER X. MR. MEADOWS lived in a house that he had conquered three years ago by lending money on it at fair interest in his own name. Mr. David Hall, the proprietor, paid neither principal nor interest. Mr. Meadows expected this contingency, and therefore lent his money. He threatened to foreclose and sell the house under the hammer ; to avoid this Mr. Hall said, "Pay yourself the interest by living rent free in the house till such time as my old aunt dies, drat her, and then I'll pay your money ; I wish I had never borrowed it." Meadows acquiesced with feigned reluctance. "Well, if I must, I must ; but let me have my money as soon as you can" (aside) "I will end my days in this house." It had many conveniences : among the rest a very long though narrow garden enclosed within high walls ; at the end of the garden was a door, which anybody could open from the inside, but from the outside only by a Bramah key. The access to this part of the premises was by a short, nar- row lane, very dirty, and very little used, because, whatever might have been in old times, it led now from nowhere to nowhere. Meadows received by this entrance one or two persons whom he never allowed to desecrate his knocker. At the head of these furtive visitors was Peter Crawley, attor- ney-at-law, a gentleman who every New Year's Eve used to say to himself with a look of gratified amazement — "Another year gone, and I not struck off the rolls ! ! !" Peter had a Bramah key entrusted to him. ' Sometimes thought. ' 97 IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND His visits to Mr. Meadows were conducted thus : he opened the garden-gate, and looked up at the window in a certain passage. This passage was not accessible to the servants, and the window with its blinds was a signal-book. Blinds up, Mr. Meadows out. White blind down, Mr. Meadows in. Blue blind down, Mr. Meadows in, but not alone. The same key that opened the garden-door opened a door at the back of the house which led direct to the passage above mentioned. On the window-seat lay a peculiar whistle con- structed to imitate the whining of a dog. Then Meadows would go to his book-shelves, which lined one side of the room, and pressing a hidden spring, open a door that nobody ever suspected, for the books came along with it. To provide for every contingency, there was a small secret opening in another part of the shelves, by which Meadows could shoot unobserved a note or the like into the passage, and so give Crawley instructions without dismissing a visitor, if he had one. Meadows provided against surprise and discovery. His study had double doors ; neither of them could be opened from the outside. His visitors or servants must rap with an iron knocker; and whilst Meadows went to open, the secret visitor stepped into the passage, and shut the books behind him. It was a room that looked business. One side was almost papered with ordnance maps of this and an adjoining county. Pigeon-holes abounded too, and there was a desk six feet long, chock-full of little drawers — contents indicated outside in letters of which the proprietor knew the meaning, not I. Between the door and the fire-place was a screen, on which, in place of idle pictures, might be seen his plans and calcula- tions as a land surveyer, especially those that happened to be at present in operation or under consideration. So he kept his business before his eye, on the chance of a good idea striking him at a leisure moment. "Will Fielding's acceptance falls due to-morrow, Crawley." "Yes, sir, what shall I do?" "Present it ; he is not ready for it, I know." "Well, sir, what next?" 98 IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND "Serve him with a writ." "He will be preciously put about." "He will. Seem sorry; say you are a little short, but won't trouble him for a month, if it is inconvenient ; but he must make you safe by signing a judgment." "Ay! ay! sir. May I make bold to ask what is the game with this young Fielding?" "You ought to know the game — to get him in my power." "And a very good game it is, sir ! Nobody plays it better than you. He won't be the only one that is in your power in these parts — he ! he !" And Crawley chuckled without merri- ment. "Excuse my curiositv, sir, but when about is the blow to fall?" "What is that to you ?" "Nothing, sir, only the sooner the better. I have a grudge against the family." "Have you? then don't act upon it. I don't employ you to do your business, but mine." "Certainly, Mr. Meadows. You don't think I'd be so un- grateful as to spoil your admirable plans by acting upon any little feeling of my own." "I don't think you would be so silly. For if you did, we should part." "Don't mention such an event, sir." "You have been drinking, Crawley !" "Not a drop, sir, this two days." "You are a liar! The smell of it comes through your skin. I won't have it. Do you hear what I say? I won't have it. No man that drinks can do business — especially mine." "I'll never touch a drop again. They called me into the public-house — they wouldn't take a denial." "Hold your prate and listen to me. The next time you look at a public-house, say to yourself, Peter Crawley, that is not a public-house to you — it is a hospital, a workhouse, or a dung-hill — for if you go in there, John Meadows, that is your friend, will be your enemy." "Heaven forbid, Mr. Meadows." "Drink this basin-full of coffee." "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. It is very bitter." "Is your head clear now?" 99 IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND "As a bell." "Then go and do my work, and don't do an atom more or an atom less than your task." "No, sir. Oh, Mr, Meadows ! it is a pleasure to serve you. You are as deep as the sea, sir, and as firm as the rock. You never drink, nor anything else, that I can find. A man out of a thousand ! No little weakness, like the rest of us, sir. You are a great man, sir. You are a model of a man of bus " "Good morning," growled Meadows roughly, and turned his back. "Good morning, sir," said Peter mellifluously. And open- ing the back door about ten inches, he wriggled out like a weasel going through a chink in a wall. , William Fielding fell like a child into the trap. "Give me time, and it will be all right," is the debtor's delusion. Will- iam thanked Crawley for not pressing him, and so compelling him to force a sale of all his hogs, fat or lean. Crawley re- ceived his thanks with a leer, returned in four days, got the judgment signed, and wriggled away with it to Meadows' back door. "You take out an arrest" — Meadows gave him a pocket- book — "put it in this, and keep it ready in your pocket night and day." "I dare sav it will come into use before the year is out, sir." "I hope not." George Fielding gone to Australia to make a thousand pounds by farming and cattle-feeding, that so he may claim old Merton's promised consent to marry Susan : Susan ob- serving Mr. Eden's precepts even more religiously than when he was with her ; active, full of charitable deeds, often pen- sive, always anxious, but not despondent now. thanks to the good physician : Meadows falling deeper and deeper in love, but keeping it more jealously secret than ever; on his guard against Isaac, on his guard against William, on his guard against John Meadows ; hoping everything from time and accidents, from the distance between the lovers, from George's incapacity, of which he had a great opinion — "He will never make a thousand pence," — but not trusting to the 100 1 IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND things he hoped : on the contrary, watching with keen eye, and working with subtle threads to draw everybody into his power who could assist or thwart him in the object his deep heart and iron will were set on : William Fielding going down the hill Meadows was mounting; getting the better of his passion, and substituting, by degrees, a brother-in-law's regard. Flowers and weeds have one thing in common — while they live they grow. Natural growth is a slow process, to de- scribe it day by day a slower. For the next four months matters glided so quietly on the slopes I have just indicated, that an intelligent calculation by the reader may very well take the place of a tedious chronicle by the writer. More- over, the same monotony did not hang over every part of our story. These very four months were eventful enough to one of our characters, and through him, by subtle and positive links, to every man and every woman who fills any considerable position in this matter-of-fact romance. There- fore our story drags us from the meadows round Grassmere to a massive castellated building, glaring red brick with white stone corners. These colours and their contrast relieve the stately mass of some of that grimness which characterises the castles of antiquity ; but enough remains to strike some awe into the beholder. Two round towers flank the principal entrance. On one side of the right-hand tower is a small house constructed in the same style as the grand pile. The castle is massive and grand : this, its satellite, is massive and tiny, like the frog doing his little bit of bull, — like Signor Hervio Nano. a tremendous thick dwarf now no more. There is one dimple to all this gloomy grandeur : a rich little flower-garden, whose frame of emerald turf goes smiling up to the very ankle of the frowning fortress, as some few happy lakes in the world wash the very foot of the mountains that hem them. From this green spot a few flowers look up with bright and wondering wide-opened eyes at the great bullying masonry over their heads; and to the spectator of both, these sparks of colour at the castle-foot are dazzling and charming; they are like rubies, sapphires, and pink topaz, in some uncouth angular ancient setting. IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND Between the central towers is a sharp arch, filled by a huge oak door of the same shape and size, which, for further se- curity or ornament, is closely studded with large diamond- headed nails. A man with keys at his girdle, like the ancient housewives, opens the huge door to you with slight effort, so well oiled is it. You slip under a porch into an enclosed yard, the great door shuts almost of itself, and now it de- pends upon the housewifely man whether you ever see the vain, idle, and everyway-objectionable world again. Passing into the interior of the vast buliding, you find yourself in an extensive aisle traversed at right angles by another of similar dimensions, the whole in form of a cross. In the centre of each aisle is an iron staircase, so narrow that two people cannot pass, and so light and open that it merely ornaments, not obstructs, the view of the aisle. These stair- cases make two springs ; the first takes them to the level of two corridors on the first floor. Here there is a horizontal space of about a yard, whence the continuation staircase rises to the second and highest floor. This gives three corridors, all studded with doors opening on small separate apartments, whereof anon. Nearly all the inmates of this grim palace wear a peculiar costume and disguise, one feature of which is a cap of coarse material, with a vizor to it, which conceals the features all but the chin and the eyes, which last peep, in a very droll way, through two holes cut for that purpose. They are distinguished by a courteous manner to strang- ers, whom they never fail to salute in passing, with great apparent cordiality ; indeed, we fear we shall never meet in the busy world with such uniform urbanity as in this and similar retreats. It arises from two causes : one is that here strangers are welcome from their rarity ; another that polite- ness is a part of the education of the place, which, besides its other uses, is an adult school of manners, morals, religion, grammar, writing, and cobbling. With the exception of its halls and corridors, the build- ing is almost entirely divided into an immense number of the small apartments noticed above. These are homely in- side, but exquisitely clean. The furniture, moveable and fixed, none of which is superfluous, can be briefly described : 102 IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND — A bedstead, consisting of the side walls of the apartment ; polished steel staples are fixed in these walls, two on each side the apartment at an elevation of about two feet and a half. The occupant's mattress (made of cocoa bark) has two stout steel hooks at each end ; these are hooked into the staples, and so he lies across his abode. A deal table the size of a pocket-handkerchief ; also a deal tripod. A water- spout so ingeniously contrived, that, turned to the right, it sends a small stream into a copper basin, and to the left, into a bottomless close stool at some distance. A small gas- pipe tipped with polished brass. In one angle of the wall a sort of commode or open cupboard, on whose shelves a bright pewter plate, a knife and fork, and a wooden spoon: in a drawer of this commode yellow soap and a comb and brush. A grating down low for hot air to come in, if it Hkes, and another up high for foul air to go out, if it chooses. On the wall a large placard containing rules for the tenant's direction, and smaller placards containing texts from Scrip- ture, the propriety of returning thanks after food, &c. ; a slate, and a couple of leathern knee-guards used in polishing the room. And that is all. But the deal furniture is so clean you might eat off it. The walls are snow, the copper basin and the brass gas-pipe glitter like red gold and pale gold, and the bed-hooks like silver hot from the furnace. Al- together it is inviting at first sight. To one of these snowy snug retreats was now ushered an acquaintance of ours, Tom Robinson. A brief retrospect must dispose of his intermediate history. When he left us he went to the county bridewell, where he remained until the assizes, an interval of about a month. He was tried ; direct evidence was strong against him, and he de- fended himself with so much ingenuity and sleight of intel- lect that the jury could not doubt his sleight of hand and morals too. He was found guilty, identified as a notorious thief, and condemned to twelve months' imprisonment and ten years' transportation. He returned to the county bride- well for a few days, and then was shifted to the castellated building. Tom Robinson had not been in gaol this four years, and, since his last visit, great changes had begun to take 103 IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND place in the internal economy of these skeleton palaces, and in the treatment of their prisoners. Prisons might be said to be in a transition state. In some, as in the county bridewell Robinson had just left, the old system prevailed in full force. The two systems vary in their aims. Under the old gaol was a finishing school of felony and petty larceny. Under the new it is intended to be a penal hospital for diseased and contagious souls. The treatment of prisoners is not at present invariable. Within certain limits the law unwisely allows a discretionary power to the magistrates of the county where the gaol is ; and the gaoler, or, as he is now called, the governor, is their agent in these particulars. Hence, in some new gaols you may now see the non-sepa- rate system; in others, the separate system without silence; in others, the separate and silent system ; in others, a mix- ture of these, i.e., the hardened offenders kept separate, the improving ones allowed to mix ; and these varieties are at the discretion of the magistrates, who settle within the legal limits each gaol's system. The magistrates, in this part of their business, are repre- sented by certain of their own body, who are called "the visiting justices;" and these visiting justices can even order and authorise a gaoler to flog a prisoner for offences com- mitted in gaol. Now, a year or two before our tale, one Captain O'Connor was governor of this gaol. Captain O'Connor was a man of great public merit. He had been one of the first dissatis- fied with the old system, and had written very intelligent books on crime and punishment, which are supposed to have done their share in opening the nation's eyes to the necessity of regenerating its prisons. But after a while the visiting justices of this particular county became dissatisfied with him ; he did not go far enough nor fast enough with the stone he had helped to roll. Books and reports came out which convinced the magistrates that severe punishment of mind and body was the essential object of a gaol, and that it was wrong and chimerical to attempt any cures by any other means. Captain O'Connor had been very successful by other 104 IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND means, and could not quite come to this opinion ; but he had a deputy governor who did. System, when it takes a hold of the mind, takes a strong hold, and the men of system became very impatient of opposition, and grateful for thor- ough acquiescence. Hence it came to pass that in the course of a few months Captain O'Connor found himself in an uncomfortable posi- tion. His deputy-governor, ]Mr. Hawes, enjoyed the confi- dence of the visiting justices ; he did not. His suggestions were negatived; Hawes accepted. And to tell the truth, he became at last useless as well as uncomfortable, for these gentlemen were determined to carry out their system, and had a willing agent in the prison. O'Connor was little more than a drag on the wheel he could not hinder from gliding down the hill. At last, it happened that he had overdrawn his account, without clearly stating at the time that the sum, which amounted nearly to one hundred pounds, was taken by him as an accommodation, or advance of salary. This, which though by no means unprecedented, was an unbusi- ness-like though innocent omission, justified censure. The magistrates went farther than censure ; they had long been looking for an excuse to get rid of him, and avail themselves of the zeal and energy of Hawes. They there- fore removed O'Connor, stating publicly as their reason that he was old, and their interest put Hawes into his place. There was something melancholy in such a close to O'Connor's public career. Fortune used him hardly. He had been one of the first to improve prisons, yet he was dismissed on this or that pretence, but really because he could not keep pace with the soi-disant improvements of three inexperienced per- sons. Honourable mention of his name, his doings, and his words, is scattered about various respectable works by re- spectable men on this subject, yet he ended in something very like discredit. However, the public gained this by the injustice done him — that an important experiment was tried under an active and willing agent. With Governor Hawes the separate and silent system flour- ished in Gaol. The justices and the new governor were of one mind. 105 IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND They had been working together about two years when Robinson came into the gaol. During this period three justices had periodically visited the gaol, perused the reports, examined, as in duty bound, the surgeon, the officers, and prisoners, and were proud of the system and its practical working here. With respect to Hawes the governor, their opinion of him was best shown in the reports they had to make to the Home Office from time to time. In these they invariably spoke of him as an active, zealous, and deserving officer. Robinson had heard much of the changes in gaol treat- ment, but they had not yet come home to him; when, there- fore, instead of being turned adrift among seventy other spir- its as bad as himself, and greeted with their boisterous accla- mations, and the friendly pressure of seven or eight felonious hands, he was ushered into a cell white as driven snow, and his housewifely duties explained to him, under a heavy penalty if a speck of dirt should ever be discovered on his little wall, his little floor, his little table, or if his cocoa-bark mattress should not be neatly rolled up after use, and the strap tight, and the steel hook polished like glass, and his little brass gas-pipe glittering like gold, &c., Thomas looked blank and had a misgiving. "T say, gov'nor," said he to the under-turnkey, "how long am I to be here before I go into the yard ?" "Talking not allowed out of hours," was the only reply. Robinson whistled. The turnkey, whose name was Evans, looked at him with a doubtful air, as much as to say, "Shall I let that pass unpunished or not?" However, he went out without any further observation, leaving the door open ; but the next moment he returned and put his head in : "Prisoners shut their own doors," said he. "Well," drawled Robinson, looking coolly and insolently into the man's face, "I don't see what I shall gain by that." And Mr. Robinson seated himself, and turning his back a little rudely, immersed himself ostentatiously in his own thoughts. "You will gain as you won't be put in the black hole for refractory conduct. No. 19," replied Evans, quietly and sternly, 106 IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND Robinson made a wry face, and pushed the door peevishly : it shut with a spring, and no mortal power or ingenuity could now open it from the inside. "Well, I'm blest," said the self-immured, "every man his own turnkey now ; save the Queen's pocket, whatever you do. Times are so hard. Box at the opera costs no end. What have we got here ? A Bible ! my eye ! invisible print ! Oh, I see; 'tisn't for us to read; 'tis for the visitors to ad- mire — like the new sheet over the dirty blankets ! What's this hung up? 'Grace after Meat/ "Oh, with all my heart, your reverence! Here, turnkey, fetch up the venison and the sweet sauce — you may leave the water-gruel till I ring for it. If I am to say grace, let me feel it first ; dart your eyes all round, governor, turnkeys, chaplain, and all the hypocritical crew !" The next morning, at half-past five, the prison bell rang for the officers to rise, and at six a turnkey unlocked Robin- son's door, and delivered the following in an imperious key all in one note and without any rests : — "Prisoner to open and shake bedding wash face hands and neck on pain of punishment and roll up hammocks and clean cells and be ready to clean corridors if required." So chanting — slammed door — vanished. Robinson set to work with alacrity upon the little arrange- ments ; he soon finished them, and then he would not have been sorry to turn out and clean the corridor for a change, but it was not his turn. He sat, dull and lonely, till eight o'clock, when suddenly a key was inserted into a small lock in the centre of his door, but outside ; the efifect of this was to open a small trap in the door, through this aperture a turnkey shoved in the man's breakfast, without a word, "like one flinging guts to a bear" (Scott) ; and on the sociable Tom attempting to say a civil word to him, drew the trap sharply back, and hermetically sealed the aperture with a snap. The breakfast was in a rovmd tin, with two compart- ments ; one pint of gruel and six ounces of bread. These two phases of farina were familiar to l\Ir. Robinson. He ate the bread and drank the gruel, adding a good deal of salt. 107 IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND At nine the chapel bell rang. Robinson was glad ; not that he admired the Liturgy, but he said to himself, "Now I shall see a face or two, perhaps some old pals." To his dismay, the warden who opened his cell bade him at the same time put on the prison cap, with the peak down ; and when he and the other male prisoners were mustered in the corridor, he found them all like himself, vizor down, eyes glittering like basilisks' or cats' through two holes, features undistinguishable. The word was given to march in per- fect silence, five paces apart, to the chapel. The sullen pageant started. "I've heard of this, but who'd have thought they carried the game so far? Well, I must wait till we are in chapel, and pick up a pal by the voice, whilst the parson is doing his patter." On reaching the chapel, he found to his dismay that the chapel was as cellular as any other part of the prison ; it was an agglomeration of one hundred sentry-boxes, open only on the side facing the clergyman, and even there only from the prisoner's third button upwards. Warders stood on raised platforms, and pointed out his sentry-box to each prisoner with very long slender wands ; the prisoner went into it and pulled the door (it shut with a spring), and next took his badge or number from his neck and hung it up on a nail above his head in the sentry-box. Between the read- ing-desk and the male prisoners was a small area where the debtors sat together. The female prisoners were behind a thick veil of close lattice-work. Service concluded, the governor began to turn a wheel in his pew : this wheel exhibited to the congregation a number, the convict whose number corresponded instantly took down his badge (the sight and position of which had determined the governor in working his wheel) drew the peak of his cap over his face, and went out and waited in the lobby. When all the sentry-boxes were thus emptied, dead march of the whole party back to the main building; here the warders separated them, and sent them dead silent, vizors down, some to clean the prison, some to their cells, some to hard labour, and some to an airing in the yard. 1 08 IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND Robinson was to be aired. "Hurrah !" thought sociable Tom. Alas ! he found the system in the yard as well as in the chapel. The promenade was a number of passages radi- ating from a common centre ; the sides of the passage were thick walls ; entrance to passage an iron gate locked behind the promenader. An officer remained on the watch the whole time to see that a word did not creep out or in through one of the gates. "And this they call out of doors," grunted Robinson. After an hour's promenade he was taken into his cell, where, at twelve, the trap in his door was opened and his dinner shoved in, and the trap snapped-to again all in three seconds. A very good dinner, better than paupers always get — three ounces of meat — no bone, eight ounces of potatoes, and eight ounces of bread. After dinner, three weary hours without an incident. At about three o'clock one of the ward- ers opened his cell door, and put his head in and swiftly withdrew it. Three more monotonous hours, and then sup- per — one pint of gruel, and eight ounces of bread. He ate it as slowly as he could, to eke out a few minutes in the heavy day. Quarter before eight a bell to go to bed. At eight the warders came round, and saw that all the prisoners were all in bed. The next day the same thing, and the next ditto, with this exception, that one of the warders came into his cell and minutely examined it in dead silence. The fourth day the chaplain visited him, asked him a few questions, re- peated a few sentences on the moral responsibility of every human being, and set him some texts of Scripture to learn by heart. This visit, though merely one of routine, broke the thief's dead silence and solitude, and he would have been thankful to have a visit every day from the chaplain, whose manner was formal, but not surly and forbidding like the turnkeys or warders. Next day the governor of the gaol came suddenly into the cell, and put to Robinson several questions, which he answered with great affability ; then, turning on his heel, said brusquely, "Have you anything to say to me?" "Yes, sir, if you please." "Out with it then, my man," said the governor impa- tiently. 109 IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND "Sir, I was condemned to hard labour; now I wanted to ask you when my hard labour is to begin, because I have not been put upon anything yet." "We are kinder to you than the judges, then, it seems." "Yes, sir ; but I am not naturally lazy, and " "A little hard work would amuse you just now?" "Indeed, sir, I think it would ; I am very much depressed in spirits." "You will be worse before you are better." "Heaven forbid ! I think if you don't give me something to do I shall go out of my mind soon, sir." "That is what they all say. You will be put on hard la- bour, I promise you, but not when it suits you. We'll choose the time." And the governor went out with a knowing smile upon his face. The thief sat himself down disconsolately, and the heavy hours, like leaden waves, seemed to rise and rise, and roll over his head and suffocate him, and weigh him down, down, down to bottomless despair. At length, about the tenth day, this human being's desire to change a friendly word with some other human creature became so strong, that in the chapel, during service, he scratched the door of his sentry box, and whispered, "Mate, whisper me a word, for pity's sake." He received no an- swer; but even to have spoken himself relieved his swelling soul for a minute or two. Half an hour later four turnkeys came into his cell, and took him downstairs, and confined him in a pitch-dark dungeon. The prisoner whose attention he had tried to attract in chapel had told to curry favor, and was reported favourably for the same. The darkness in which Robinson now lay was not like the darkness of our bedrooms at night, in which the outHnes of objects are more or less visible ; it was the frightful darkness that chilled and crushed the Egyptians, soul and body — it was a darkness that might be felt. This terrible and unnatural privation of all light is very trying to all God's creatures, to none more so than to man, and amongst men it is most dangerous and distressing to those who have imagination and excitability. Now Robin- lio 'IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND son was a man of this class, a man of rare capacity, full of talent and the courage and energy that vent themselves in action, but not rich in the tough fortitude which does little, feels little, and bears much. When they took him out of the black-hole, after six hours' confinement, he was observed to be white as a sheet, and to tremble violently all over, and in this state, at the word of command, he crept back all the way to his cell, his hand to his eyes, that were dazzled by what seemed to him bright daylight, his body shaking, while every now and then a loud convulsive sob burst from his bosom. The governor happened to be on the corridor, looking down over the rails, as Robinson passed him. He said to him. with a victorious sneer, 'You won't be refractory in chapel again in a hurry." "No," said the thief, in a low gentle voice, despairingly. The day after Robinson was put in the black-hole the sur- geon came his rounds : he found him in a corner of his cell with his eyes fixed on the floor. The man took no notice of his entrance. The surgeon Avent up to him, and shook him rather roughly. Robinson raised his heavy eyes, and looked stupidly at him. The surgeon laid hold of him, and placing a thumb on each side of his eye, inspected that organ fully. He then felt his pulse; this done, he went out with the warder. JMaking his report to the governor, he came in turn to Robinson. "No. 19 is sinking." "Oh, is he? Fry," (turning to a warder), "what has 19's treatment been?" "Been in his cell, sir, without labour since he came. Black- hole yesterday, for communicating in chapel." "What is the matter with him ?" "Doctor says he is sinking." "What the devil do you mean by his sinking?" "Well, sir," replied the surgeon, with a sort of dry defer- ence, "he is dying — that is what I mean." "Oh, he is dying, is he? d — n him, we'll stop that! here, Fry, take No. 19 out into the garden, and set him to work, and put him on the corridors to-morrow." "Is he to be let talk to us, sir?" Ill IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND "Humph ! yes !" Robinson was taken out into the garden ; it was a small piece of ground that had once been a yard; it was enclosed within walls of great height, and to us would have seemed a cheerless place for horticulture, but to Robinson it ap- peared the garden of Eden : he gave a sigh of relief and pleasure, but the next moment his countenance fell. "They won't let me stay here !" Fry took him into the centre of the garden, and put a spade into his hand. "Now you dig this piece," said he, in his dry, unfriendly tone, "and if you have time cut the edges of the grass path square." The words were scarcely out of his mouth, before Robinson drove the spade into the soil with all the energy of one of God's creatures escaping from sys- tem back to nature. Fry left him in the garden after making him pull down his vizor, for there was one more prisoner working at some distance. Robinson set to with energy, and dug for the bare life. It was a sort of work he knew very little about, and a gar- dener would have been disgusted at his ridges, but he threw his whole soul into it, and very soon had nearly completed his task. Having been confined so long without exercise, his breath was short, and he perspired profusely; but he did not care for that. "Oh, how sweet this is after being buried alive," cried he, and in went the spade again. Presently he was seized with a strange desire to try the other part of his task, the more so as it required more skill and presented a difficulty to overcome. A part of the path had been shaved, and the knippers lay where they had been last used. Robin- son inspected the recent work with an intelligent eye, and soon discovered traces of a white line on one side of the path, that served as a guide to the knippers. "Oh, I must draw a straight line," said Robinson, out loud, indulging himself with the sound of a human voice : "but how ? can you tell me that?" he inquired of a gooseberry bush that grew near. The words were hardly out of his mouth, before peering about in every direction, he discovered an iron spike with some cord wrapped around it, and, not far off, a piece of chalk. He pounced on them, and fastening the spike at 112 IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND the edge of the path, attempted to draw a Hne with the chalk, using the string as a ruler. Not succeeding, he reflected a little, and the result was that he chalked several feet of the line all round until it was all white ; then with the help of a stake, which he took for his other terminus, he got the chalked string into a straight line just above the edge of the grass ; next pressing it tightly down with his foot, he effected a white line on the grass ; he now removed the string, took the knippers, and following his white line trimmed the path secundum arfem. "There," said Robinson to the gooseberry- bush, but not very loud for fear of being heard and punished, "I wonder whether that is how the gardeners do it? I think it must be." He viewed his work with satisfaction, then went back to his digging, and as he put the finishing stroke. Fry came to bring him back to his cell ; it was bed- time. "I never worked in a garden before," began Robinson, "so it is not so well done as it might be, but if I was to come every day for a week I think I could master it. I did not know there was a garden in this prison. If ever I build a prison, there shall be a garden in it as big as Belgrave Square." "You are precious fond of the sound of your own voice, No. 19," said Fry drily. "We are not forbidden to speak to the warders, are we?" "Not at proper times." He threw open cell-door 19, and Robinson entered. Before he could close the door Robinson said "Good night and thank you." "G'night," snarled Fry sullenly, as one shamed against his will into a civility. Robinson lay awake half the night, and awoke the next morning rather feverish and stifif, but not the leaden thing he was the day before. A feather turns a balance scale. This man's life and rea- son had been engaged in a drawn battle with the three mortal enemies — solitude, silence, and privation of all employment. That little bit of labour and wholesome thought, whose pal- try and childish details I half blush to have given you, were yet due to my story, for they took a man out of himself, « 113 IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND checked the self-devouring process, and helped elastic nature to recover herself this bout. The next day Robinson was employed washing the prison. The next he got two hours in the garden again, and the next the trades-master was sent into his cell to' teach him how to make scrubbing-brushes. The man sat down and was com- mencing a discourse when Robinson interrupted him politely. "Sir, let me see you work, and watch me try to do the same, and correct me." "With all my heart," said the trades-master. He remained about half-an-hour with his pupil, and when he went out he said to one of the turnkeys, "There is a chap in there that can pick up a handicraft as a pigeon picks up peas." The next day the surgeon happened to look in. He found Robinson as busy as a bee making brushes, pulled his eye open again, felt his pulse, and wrote something down in his memorandum-book. He left directions with the turnkey that No. 19 should be kept employed, with the governor's per- mission. Robinson's hands were now full ; he made brushes, and every day put some of them to the test upon the floor and walls of the building. It happened one day as he was doing housemaid in corri- dor B, that he suddenly heard unwonted sounds issue from a part of the premises into which he had not yet been intro- duced, the yard devoted to hard labour. First he heard a single voice shouting; that did not last long; then a dead silence ; then several voices, among which his quick ear recog- nised Fry's and the governor's. He could see nothing; the sounds came from one of the hard-labour cells. Robinson was surprised and puzzled ; what were these sounds that broke the silence of the living tomb ? An instinct told him it was no use asking a turnkey, so he devoured his curiosity and surprise as best he might. The very next day about the same hour, both were again excited by voices from the same quarter equally unintelligible. He heard a great noise of water slashed in bucketsful against a wall, and this was followed by a sort of gurgling that 114 I IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND seemed to him to come from, a human tliroat ; this latter, however, was almost drowned in an exulting chuckle of sev- eral persons, amongst whom he caught the tones of a turnkey called Hodges, and of the governor himself. Robinson puz- zled and puzzled himself, but could not understand these curious sounds, and he could see nothing except a quantity of water running out of one of the labour cells, and coursing along till it escaped by one of the two gutters that drained the yard. Often and often Robinson meditated on this, and exerted all his ingenuity to conceive what it meant. His previous gaol experience afforded him no clue, and he was one of those who hate to be in the dark about anything, this new riddle tortured him. However, the prison was generally so dead dumb and gloomy, that upon two such cheerful events as water splash- ing and creatures laughing, he could not help crowing a little out of sympathy without knowing why. The next day, as Robinson was working in the corridor, the governor came in with a gentleman whom he treated with unusual and marked respect. This gentleman was the chair- man of the quarter sessions, and one of those magistrates who had favoured the adoption of the present system. Mr. Williams inspected the prison ; was justly pleased with its exquisite cleanliness ; he questioned the governor as to the health of the prisoners, and received for answer that most of them were well, but that there were some exceptions : this appeared to satisfy him. He went into the labour-yard, looked at the cranks, examined the numbers printed on each in order to learn their respective weights, and see that the prisoners were not overburdened. \\'ent with the governor into three or four cells, and asked the prisoners if they had any complaint to make. The unanimous answer was "No !" He then complimented the governor, and drove home to his own house, Ashton Park. There, after dinner, he said to a brother magistrate, "I inspected the gaol to-day — was all over it." The next morning Fry the morose came into Robinson's cell with a more cheerful countenance than usual. Robinson noticed it. 115 IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND 1 "You are put on the crank," said Fry. "Oh, am I?" "Of course you are. Your sentence was hard labour, wasn't it ? I don't know why you weren't sent on a fortnight ago." Fry then took him out into the labour-yard, which he found perforated with cells about half the size of his hermit- age in the corridor. In each of these little quiet grottoes lurked a monster called a crank. A crank is a machine of this sort — there springs out of a vertical post an iron handle, which the workmen, taking it by both hands, work round and round as in some country places you may have seen the villagers draw a bucket up from a well. The iron handle goes at the shoulder into a small iron box at the top of the post, and inside that box the resistance to the turner is regu- lated by the manufacturer, who states the value of the re- sistance outside in cast-iron letters. Thus — 5lb. crank. 7lb. crank. lo, 12, &c., &c. "Eighteen hundred revolutions per hour," said Mr. Fry in his voice of routine, "and you are to work two hours be- fore dinner." So saying he left him, and Robinson, with the fear of punishment before him, lost not a moment in getting to work. He found the crank go easy enough at first, but the longer he was at it the stiffer it seemed to turn. And after about four hundred turns he was fain to breathe and rest himself. He took three minutes rest, then at it again. All this time there was no taskmaster, as in Egypt, nor whipper-up of declining sable energy, as in Old Kentucky. So that if I am so fortunate as to have a reader aged ten, he is wondering why the fool did not confine his exertions to saying he had made the turns. My dear, it would not do. Though no mortal oversaw the thief at his task, the eye of science was in that cell and watched every stroke, and her inexorable finger marked it down. In plain English, on the face of the machine was a thing like a chronometer with numbers set all round, and a hand which, somehow or other, always pointed to the exact number of turns the thief had made. The crank was an autometer or self-measurer, and in that respect your superior and mine, my little drake. 116 IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND This was Robinson's first acquaintance with the crank. The tread- wheel had been the mode in his time ; so by the time he had made three thousand turns he was rather ex- hausted. He leaned upon the iron handle, and sadly re- gretted his garden and his brushes ; but fear and dire neces- sity were upon him ; he set to his task and to work again. 'T won't look at the meter again, for it always tells me less than I expect. I'll just plough on till that beggar comes. I know he will come to the minute." Sadly and doggedly he turned the iron handle, and turned and turned again ; and then he panted and rested a minute, and then doggedly to his idle toil again. He was now so fa- tigued that his head seemed to have come loose, he could not hold it up, and it went round and round and round with the crank-handle. Hence it was that Mr. Fry stood at the mouth of the den without the other seeing him. "Halt," said Fry, Robinson looked up, and there was the turnkey inspecting him with a discontented air. "I'm done," thought Robinson, "here he is as black as thunder — the number not right, no doubt." "What are ye at?" growled Fry. "You are forty over," and the said Fry looked not only ill-used, but a little un- happy. Robinson's good behaviour had disappointed the poor soul. This Fry was a grim oddity ; he experienced a feeble com- placency when things went wrong — but never else. The thief exulted, and was taken back to his cell. Din- ner came almost immediately ; four ounces of meat instead of three, two ounces less bread, but a large access of potatoes, which more than balanced the account. The next day Robinson was put on the crank again, but not till the afternoon. He had finished about half his task when he heard at some little distance from him a faint moan- ing. His first impulse was to run out of his cell and see what was the matter, but Hodges and Fry were both in the yard, and he knew that they would report him for punishment upon the least breach of discipline. So he turned and turned the crank, with these moans ringing in his ears and perplex- ing his soul. Finding that they did not cease, he peeped cautiously into 117 IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND the yard, and there he saw the governor himself as well as Hodges and Fry ; all three were standing close to the place whence these groans issued, and with an air of complete un- concern. But presently the groans ceased, and then mysteriously enough the little group of disciplinarians threw off their apathy. Hodges and Fry went hastily to the pump with buckets, which they filled, and then came back to the gover- nor ; the next minute Robinson heard water dash repeated- ly against the walls of the cell, and then the governor laughed, and Hodges laughed, and even the gloomy Fry vented a brief grim chuckle. And now Robinson quivered with curiosity as he turned his crank, but there was no means of gratifying it. It so happened, however, that some ten minutes later the gover- nor sent Hodges and Fry to another part of the prison, and they had not been gone long before a message came to him- self, on which he went hastily out, and the yard was left empty. Robinson's curiosity had reached such a pitch, that notwithstanding the risk he ran, for he knew the governor would send back to the yard the very first disengaged offi- cer he met, he could not stay quiet. As the governor closed the gate he ran with all speed to the cell, he darted in, and then the thief saw what made the three honest men laugh so. He saw it, and started back with a cry of dismay, for the sight chilled the felon to the bone. A lad about fifteen years of age was pinned against the wall in agony by a leathern belt passed round his shoulders and drawn violently round two staples in the wall. Has arms were jammed against his sides by a straight waistcoat fast- ened with straps behind, and those straps drawn with the utmost severity. Rut this was not all. A high leathern collar. a quarter of an inch thick, squeezed his throat in its iron grasp. His hair and his clothes were drenched with water which had been thrown in bucketsful over him, and now dripped from him on the floor. His face was white, his lips livid, his eyes were nearly glazed, and his teeth chattered with cold and pain. A more unprincipled man than Robinson did not exist ; but burglary and larceny do not extinguish humanity in a think- ii8 IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND ing rascal, as resigning the soul to system can extinguish it in a dull dog, "Oh, what is this ?'' cried Robinson, "what are the villains doing to you ?" He received no answer; but the boy's eyes opened wide, and he turned those glazing eyes, the only part of his body he could turn, toward the speaker. Robinson ran up to him, and began to try and loosen him. At this the boy cried out, almost screaming with terror, "Let me alone! let me alone! They'll give it me worse if you do, and they'll serve you out too I" "But you will die, boy. Look at his poor lips !" "No, no, no! I shan't die! No such luck!" cried the boy, impatiently and wildly. "Thank you for speaking kind to me. Who are you ? tell me quick and go. I am Josephs, No. 15, Corridor A." "I am Robinson, No. 19, Corridor B." "Good-bye, Robinson ; I shan't forget you. Hark, the door ! Go ! go ! go ! go ! go !" Robinson was already gone. He had fled at the first click of a key in the outward door, and darted into his cell at the moment Fry got into the yard. An instinct of suspicion led this man straight to Robinson's hermitage. He found him hard at work. Fry scrutinised his countenance, but Robinson was too good an actor to betray himself ; only when Fry passed on he drew a long breath. What he had seen surprised as well as alarmed him, for he had always been told the new system discouraged personal violence of all sorts ; and in all his experience of the old gaols he had never seen a prisoner abused so savagely as the young martyr in the ad- joining cell. His own work done, he left for his own dormi- tory. He was uneasy, and his heart was heavy for poor Josephs, but he dared not even cast a look towards his place of torture, for the other executioners had returned, and Fry followed grim at his heels like a mastiff dogging a stranger out of the premises. That evening Robinson spent in gloomy reflections and forebodings. "I wish I was in the hulks, or anywhere out of this place," said he. As for Josephs, the governor, after inspecting his torture for a few minutes, left the yard again 119 IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND with the subordinates, and Josephs was left alone with his great torture for two hours more; then Hodges came in. and began to loose him, swearing at him all the time for a little rebellious monkey that gave more trouble than enough. The rebellious monkey made no answer, but crawled slowly away to his dungeon, shivering in his drenched clothes, stiff and sore, his bones full of pain, his heart full of despondency. Robinson had now eight thousand turns of the crank per day, and very hard work he found it ; but he preferred it to being buried alive all day in his cell ; and warned by Josephs' fate, he went at the crank with all his soul, and never gave them an excuse for calling him "refractory." It happened, however, one day just after breakfast, that he was taken with a headache and shivering; and not getting better after chapel, but rather worse, he rang his bell and begged to see the surgeon. The surgeon ought to have been in the gaol at this hour ; he was not though, and as he had been the day before, and was accustomed to neglect the prisoners for any one who paid better, he was not expected this day. Soon after Fry came to the cell and ordered Robinson out to the crank. Robinson told him he was too ill to work. *T must have the surgeon's authority for that, before I listen to it," replied Fry, amateur of routine. "But he is not in the gaol, or you would have it." "Then he ought to be." "Well, is it my fault he's shirking his duty? Send for him, and you'll see he will tell you I am not fit for the crank to-day ; my head is splitting." "Come, no gammon, No. 19; it is the crank or the jacket, or else the black hole. So take which you like best." Robinson rose with a groan of pain and despondency. "It is only eight thousand words you have got to say to it ; and that is not many for such a tongue as yours." At the end of the time Fry came to the mouth of the labour-cell with a grim chuckle : "He will never have done his number this time." He found Robinson kneeling on th,e ground, almost insensible, the crank-handle convulsively grasped in his hands. Fry's first glance was at this figure, that a painter might have taken for a picture of labour over- tasked, but this was neither new nor interesting to Fry. He 120 IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND went eagerly to examine the meter of the crank — there lay his heart, such as it was — and to his sorrow he found that No. 19 had done his work before he broke down. What it cost the poor fever-stricken wretch to do it can easier be imagined than described. They assisted Robinson to his cell, and that night he was in a burning fever. The next day the surgeon happened by some accident to be at his post, and prescribed change of diet and medicines for him. "He would be better in the in- firmary." "Why ?" said the governor. "More air." "Nonsense, there is plenty of air here ; there is a constant stream of air comes in through this," and he pointed to a revolving cylinder in the window constructed for that pur- pose. "You give him the right stuff, doctor," said Hawes jocosely, "and he won't slip his wind this time." The surgeon acquiesced, according to custom. It was not for him to contradict Hawes, who allowed him to attend the gaol or neglect it according to his convenience, i.e., to come three or four times a week at different hours, instead of twice every day at fixed hours. It was two days after this that the governor saw Hodges come out of a cell, laughing. "What are ye grinning at?" said he, in his amiable way. "No 19 is light-headed, sir, and I have been listening to him. It would make a cat laugh," said Hodges apologeti- cally. He knew well enough the governor did not approve of laughing in the gaol. The governor said nothing, but made a motion with his hand, and Hodges opened cell 19, and they both went in. No. 19 lay on his back flushed and restless, with his eyes fixed on vacancy. He was talking incessantly and without sequence. I should fail signally were I to attempt to trans- fer his words to paper. I feel my weakness, and the strength of others who in my day have shown a singular power of fixing on paper the volatile particles of frenzy. However, in a word, the poor thief was talking as our poetasters write, and amidst his gunpowder, daffodils, bosh, and other con- 121 IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND stellations, there mingled gleams of sense and feeling that would have made you and me very sad. He often recurred to a girl he called Mary, and said a few gentle words to her ; then off again into the wildest flights. While Mr. Hawes and his myrmidons were laughing at him, he suddenly fixed his eyes on some imaginary figure on the opposite wall, and began to cry out loudly, "Take him down. Don't you see you are killing him? The col- lar is choking him ! See how white he is ! His eyes stare ! The boy will die ! Murder, murder, murder ! I can't bear to see him die." And with these words he buried his head in the bed-clothes. Mr. Hawes looked at Mr. Fry. Mr. Fry answered the look : "He must have seen Josephs the other day." "Ay, he is mighty curious. Well, when he gets well!" and, shaking his fist at the sufferer, Mr, Hawes went out of the cell soon after. CHAPTER XL WHAT is your report, about No. 19, doctor?" "The fever is gone." "He is well, then?" "He is well of the fever, but a fever leaves the patient in a state of debility for some days. I have ordered him meat twice a-day — that is, meat once and soup once." "Then you report him cured of his fever?" "Certainly." "Hodges, put No. 19 on the crank." "Yes, sir/" Even the surgeon opened his eyes at this. "Why, he is as weak as a child." said he. "Will it kill him?" "Certainly not; and for the best of all reasons. He can't possibly do it." "You don't know what these fellows can do when they are forced." The surgeon shrugged his shoulders and passed on to his other patients. Robinson was taken put into the yard. 122 IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND "What a blessing the fresh air is," said he, gulping in the atmosphere of the yard. "I should have got well long ago if I had not been stifled in my cell for want of room and air." Robinson went to the crank in good spirits. He did not know how weak he was till he began to work, but he soon found out he could not do the task in the time. He thought, therefore, the wisest plan would be not to exhaust him- self in vain efiforts, and he sat quietly down and did nothing. In this posture he was found by Hawes and his myrmidons. "What are you doing there not working?" "Sir, I am only just getting well of a fever, and I am as weak as water." "And that is why you are not trying to do anything, eh ?" "I have tried, sir, and it is impossible. I am not fit to turn this heavy crank." "Well, then, I must try if I can't make you. Fetch the jacket." "Oh, for heaven's sake, don't torture me, sir. There is nobody more willing to work than I am ; and if you will but give me a day or two to get my strength after the fever, you shall see how I will work." "There, there ! your palaver ! Strap him up." He was in no condition to resist, and moreover knew re- sistance was useless. They jammed him in the jacket, pinned him tight to the wall, and throttled him in the collar. This collar, by a refinement of cruelty, was made with un- bound edges, so that when the victim, exhausted with the cruel cramp that racked his aching bones in the fierce gripe of Hawes' infernal machine, sank his heavy head and drooped his chin, the jagged collar sawed him directly, and lacerating the flesh drove him away from even this miserable approach to ease. Robinson had formed no idea of the torture. The victims of the Inquisition would have gained but little by becoming the victims of the separate and silent system in Gaol. They left the poor fellow pinned to the wall, jammed in the strait waistcoat, and throttled in the round saw. Weak- ened by fever and unnatural exertion, he succumbed sooner than the inquisitors had calculated upon. The next time 123 IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND they came into the yard they found him black in the face, his Hps Hvid, insensible, throttled, and dying. Another half- minute and there would have hung a corpse in the Hawes pillory. When they saw how nearly he was gone they were all at him together. One unclasped the saw collar, one unbraced the waistcoat, another sprinkled water over him — not a bucketful this time, because they would have wetted them- selves. Released from the infernal machine, the body of No. 19 fell like a lump of clay upon the men who had reduced him to this condition. Then these worthies were in some little trepidation; for though they had caused the death of many men during the last two years, they had not yet, as it happened, murdered a single one on the spot openly and hon- estly like this, and they feared they might get into trouble. Adjoining the yard was a bath-room: to this they carried No. 19 ; they stripped him, and let the water run upon him from the cock, but he did not come to; then they scrubbed him just as they would a brick floor with a hard brush upon the back, till his flesh was as red as blood ; with this and the water together he began to gasp and sigh and faintly come back from insensibility to a new set of tortures ; but so long was the struggle between life and death, that these men of business, detained thus unconsciously about a single thief, lost all patience with him ; one scrubbed him till the blood came under the bristles, another seized him by the hair of his head and jerked his head violently back several times, and this gave him such pain that he began to struggle instinctively, and, the blood now fairly set in motion, he soon moved. The last thing he remembered was a body full of aching bones ; the first he awoke to was the sensation of being flayed alive from the crown of his head to the sole of his foot. The first word he heard was — 'Tut his clothes on his shamming carcass !" "Shall we dry him, sir?" "Dry him!" roared the governor, with an oath. "No! Hasn't he given us trouble enough?" (Another oath.) They flung his clothes upon his red-hot dripping skin, and Hodges gave him a brutal push. "Go to your cell." Rob- inson crawled ofif, often wincing, and trying in vain to keep 124 IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND his clothes from rubbing those parts of his person where they had scrubbed the skin off him. Hawes eyed him with grim superiority. Suddenly he had an inspiration. "Come back!" shouted he. 'T never was beat by a prisoner yet, and I never will. Strap him up." At this command even the turnkeys looked amazed at one another, and hesitated. Then the governor swore horribly at them, and Hodges without another word went for the jacket. They took hold of him ; he made no resistance ; he never even looked at them. He never took his eye off Hawes ; on him his eye fastened like a basilisk. They took him away, and pinioned, jammed, and throttled him to the wall again. Hodges was set to watch him, and a bucket of water near to throw over him should he show the least sign of sham- ming again. In an hour another turnkey came and relieved Hodges — in another hour Fry relieved him, for this was tire- some work for a poor turnkey — in another hour a new hand relieved Fry, but nobody relieved No. 19. Five mortal hours had he been in the vice without sham- ming. The pain his skin suffered from the late remedies, and the deadly rage at his heart, gave him unnatural powers of resistance, but at last the infernal machine conquered, and he began to turn dead faint ; then Hodges, his sentinel at the time, caught up the bucket and dashed the whole contents over him. The effect was magical ; the shock took away his breath for a moment, but the next the blood seemed to glow with fire in his veins, and he felt a general access of vigour to bear his torture. When this man had been six hours in. the vice the governor and his myrmidons came into the yard and unstrapped him. "You did not beat me, you see, after all," said the gover- nor to No. 19. The turnkeys heard and revered their chief. No. 19 looked him full in the face with an eye glittering like a sabre, but said no word. "Sulky brute!" cried the governor, "lock him up" (oath). And that evening, as a warder was rolling the prisoner's supper along the little natural railway made by the two rail- ings of corridor B, the governor stopped the carriage and asked for 19's tin. It was given him, and he abstracted one- 125 IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND half of the man's gruel. "Reiractory in the yard to-day ; but I'll break him before I've done with him" (oath). The next day, brushes were wanted for the gaol. This saved Robinson for that day. It was little Josephs' turn to sufifer. The governor put him on a favourite crank of his, and gave him eight thousand turns to do in four hours and a-half. He knew the boy could not do it, and this was only a formula he wept through previous to pillorying the lad. Jo- sephs had been in the pillory about an hour, when it so hap- pened that the Reverend John Jones, the chaplain of the gaol, came into the yard. Seeing a group of warders at the mouth of a labour-cell, he walked up to them, and there was Josephs in peine forte et dure. "What is this lad's ofifence?" inquired Mr. Jones. "Refractory at the crank," was the reply. "Why, Josephs," said the reverend gentleman, "you told me you would always do your best." "So I do, your reverence," gasped Josephs, "but this crank is too heavy for a lad like me, and that is why I am put on it to get punished." "Hold your tongue," said Hodges roughly. "Why is he to hold his tongue, Mr. Hodges?" said the chaplain quietly; "how is he to answer my question if he holds his tongue? You forget yourself." "Ugh! beg your pardon, sir, but this one has always got some excuse or other." "What is the matter?" roared a rough voice behind the speakers. This was Hawes, who had approached them un- observed. "He is gammoning his reverence, sir — that is all." "What has he been saying?" "That the crank is too heavy for him, sir, and the waist- coat is strapped too tight, it seems." "Who says so?" "I think so, Mr. Hawes." "Will you take a bit of advice, sir? If you wish a prisoner well, don't you come between him and me. It will always be the worse for him, for I am master here, and master I will be." "Mr. Hawes," replied the chaplain, "I have never done or 126 IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND- said anything in the prison to lessen your authority, but privately I must remonstrate against the uncommon severities practised upon prisoners in this gaol. If you will listen to me, I shall be much obliged to you ; if not, I am afraid I must as a matter of conscience call the attention of the visiting justices to the question." **Well, parson, the justices will be in the gaol to-day; you tell them your story, and I will tell them mine," said Hawes, with a cool air of defiance. Sure enough, at five o'clock in the afternoon, two of the visiting justices arrived, accompanied by Mr. Wright, a young magistrate. They were met at the door by Hawes, who wore a look of delight at their appearance. They went round the prison with him, whilst he detained them in the centre of the building, till he had sent Hodges secretly to undo Josephs and set him on the crank ; and here the party found him at work. "You have been a long time on the crank, my lad," said Hawes ; "you may go to your cell." Josephs touched his cap to the governor and the gentleman, and went off. "That is a nice, quiet-looking boy," said one of the jus- tices; "what is he in for?" "He is in this time for stealing a piece of beef out of a butcher's shop." "This time ! what ! is he a hardened offender ? He does not look it." "He has been three times in prison ; once for throwing stones, once for orchard-robbing, and this time for the beef." "What a young villain ! at his age !" "Don't say that, Williams," said Mr. Wright dryly, "you and I were just as great villains at his age. Didn't we throw stones? rather!" Hawes laughed in an adulatory manner, but observing that Mr. Williams, who was a grave pompous personage, did not smile at all, he added — "But not to do mischief, like this one, I'll be bound." "No," said Mr. Williams, with an air of ruffled dignity. , "No?" cried the other, "where is your memory? Why. we threw stones at everything and everybody, and I suppose we 127 IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND did not always miss, eh? I remember your throwing a stone through the whidow of a place of worship — (this was a school-fellow of mine, and led me into all sorts of wicked- ness) : I say, was it a Wesleyan shop, WilHam, or a Baptist? for I forget. Never mind, you had a fit of orthodoxy. What was the young villain's second offence?" "Robbing an orchard, sir." "The scoundrel ! robbing an orchard ? Oh, what sweet reminiscences those words recall. I say, Williams, do yon remember us two robbing Farmer Harris's orchard?" "I remember you robbing it, and my character suffering for it." 'T don't remember that; but I remember my climbing the pear-tree, and flinging the pears down, and finding them all grabbed on my descent. What is the young villain's next? Oh, snapping a piece oflf a counter. Ah ! we never did that, because we could always get it without stealing it." With this Mr. Wright strolled away from the others, hav- ing had what the jocose wretch used to call "a slap at hum- bug." His absence was a relief to the others. These did not come there to utter sense in fun, but to jest in sober earnest. Mr. Williams hinted as much, and Hawes, whose cue it was to assent in everything to the justices, brightened his face up at the remark. "Will you visit the cells, gentlemen," said he, with an accent of cordial invitation, "or inspect the book first ?" They gave precedence to the latter. By the book was meant the log-book of the gaol. In it the governor was required to report for the justices and the Home Office all gaol events a little out of the usual routine. For instance, all punishments of prisoners, all considerable sickness, deaths, and their supposed causes, &c., &c. "This Joseph seems by the book to be an ill-conditioned fellow, he is often down for punishment." "Yes ; he hates, work. About Gillies, sir — ringing his bell, and pretending it was an accident !" "Yes; how old is he?" "Thirteen." "Is this his first oflfence?" 128 ii IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND "Not by a good many. I think, gentlemen, if you were to order him a flogging, it would be better for him in the end." "Well, give him twenty lashes. Eh! Palmer?" Mr. Palmer assented by a nod. "I beg your pardon, sir," said Hawes, "but will you allow me to make a remark?" "Certainly, Mr. Hawes, certainly !" "I find twenty lashes all at once rather too much for a lad of that age. Now, if you would allow me to divide the punishment into two, so that his health might not be en- dangered by it, then we could give him ten or even twelve, and after a day or two as many more." "That speaks well for your humanity, Mr. Hawes; your zeal we have long known." "Augh! sir! sir!" "I will sign the order ; and we authorize you here to divide the punishment according to your own suggestion." — (order signed). The justices then went round the cells accompanied by Hawes. They went into the cells with an expression of a littlje curiosity, but more repugnance on their faces, and asked several prisoners if they were well and contented. The men looked with the shrewdness of their class into their visitors' faces and measured them ; saw there^ first a feeble under- standing, secondly an adamantine prejudice; saw that in those eyes they were wild beasts and Hawes an angel, and an- swered to please Hawes, whose eye was fixed on them all this time, and in whose power they felt they were. All expressed their content : some in tones so languid and empty of heart that none but Justice Shallow could have helped seeing through the humbug. Others did it better; and not a few over-did it, so that any but Justice Shallow would have seen through them. These last told Messrs. Shallow and Slender that the best thing that ever happened to them was coming to Gaol. They thanked heaven they had been pulled up short in an evil career that must have ended in their ruin, body and soul. As for their present situation, they were never happier in their lives, and some of them doubted much whether, when they should reach the penal settlements, the access of liberty would repay them for * 129 IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND the increased temptations and the loss of quiet meditation and self-communion, and the good advice of Mr. Hawes, and of his reverence the chaplain. The gaol-birds who piped this tune were without a single exception the desperate cases of this moral hospital ; they were old offenders — hardened scoundrels who meant to rob and kill and deceive to their dying day. While in prison their game was to be as comfortable as they could. Hawes could make them uncomfortable ; he was always there. Un- der these circumstances, to lie came on the instant as natural to them as to rob would have come had some power trans- ported them outside the prison doors with these words of penitence on their lips. They asked where that Josephs' cell was. Hawes took them to him. They inspected him with a profound zoological look, to see whether it was more wolf or badger. Strange to say, it looked neither, but a simple quiet youth of the human genus — species snob. "He is very small to be such a ruffian," said Mr. Palmer. "I am sorry, Josephs," said Mr. Williams, pompously, "to find your name so often down for punishment." Josephs looked up, hoping to see the light of sympathy in this speaker's eyes. He saw two owls' faces attempting eagle ; but not reaching up to sparrow-hawk, and he was silent. He had no hope of being believed ; moreover, the grim eye of Hawes rested on him, and no feebleness in it. Messrs. Shallow and Slender receiving no answer from Josephs, who was afraid to tell the truth, were nettled, and left the cell shrugging their shoulders. In the corridor they met the train just coming along the banisters with supper. Pompous Mr. Williams tasted the prison diet on the spot. "It is excellent," cried he; "why, the gruel is like glue." And he fell into meditation. "So far everything is as we could wish, Mr. Hawes, and it speaks well for the discipline and for yourself." Hawes bowed with a gratified air. "I will complete the inspection to-morrow." Hawes accompanied the gentlemen to the outside gate. Here Mr. Williams turned. For the last minute or two he 130 IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND had been in the throes of an idea, and now he deHvered him- self of it. "It would be well if Josephs' gruel were not made so strong for him." Mr. Williams was not one of those who often say a great thing, but this deserves immortality, and could I confer im- mortality, this of Williams' should never die ! Unlike most of the things we say, it does not deserve ever to die : — "It would be well if Josephs' gruel were not made so STRONG FOR HIM ! !" CHAPTER XII. WILL you eat your mutton with me to-day, Palmer?" said Mr. Williams, at the gate of the gaol. "I should be very happy, but I am engaged to dine with the !crd lieutenant." So Mr. Williams drove home to Ashton Park, and had to sit down to dinner with his own small family party. Mr. Williams' mutton consisted of first a little strong gravy soup lubricated and gelatinised with a little tapioca ; vis-a-vis the soup a little piece of salmon cut out of the fish's centre; lobster patties, rissoles, and two things with French names, stinking of garlic, on the flank. Enter a boiled turkey poult with delicate white sauce ; a nice tongue, not too green nor too salt, and a small saddle of six-tooth mutton, home-bred, home-fed ; after this a stewed pigeon, faced by greengage tart, and some yellow cream twenty-four hours old; item, an iced pudding. A little Stil- ton cheese brought up the rear with a nice salad. This made way for a foolish, trifling dessert of muscadel grapes, guava jelly, and divers kickshaws, diluted with agreeable wines varied by a little glass of Marasquino and Co., at junctures. So far so nice ! But alas! nothing is complete in this world, not even the dinner of a fair round justice with fat capon lined. There is always some drawback or deficiency here below — con- found it ! the wretch of a cook had forgotten to send up the gruel a la Josephs. 131 IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND Next day, after Mr. Williams had visited the female pris- oners, and complimented Hawes on having initiated them into the art of silence, he asked where the chaplain was. Hawes instantly despatched a messenger to inquire, and re- membering that gentleman's threatened remonstrance, parried him by anticipation thus — "By-the-by, sir, I have a little complaint to make of him." "Indeed!" said Mr. Williams, "what is that?" "He took a prisoner's part against the discipline ; but he doesn't know them, and they humbug him. But, sir, ought he to preach against me in the chapel of the gaol ?" "Certainly not ! Surely he has not been guilty of such a breach of discipline and good taste." "Oh, but wait, sir," said Hawes, "hear the whole truth, and then perhaps you will blame me. You must know, sir, that I sometimes let out an oath. I was in the army, and we used all to swear there; and now a little of it sticks to me in spite of my teeth, and if his reverence had done me the honour to take me to task privately about it, I would have taken off my hat to him; but it is another thing to go and preach at me for it before all the gaol." "Of course it is. Do you mean to say he did that?" "He did, sir. Of course, he did not mention my name, but he preached five-ar.d-thirty minutes all about swearing, and they all knew who he was hitting. I could see the warders grinning from ear \d ear, as much as to say, 'There's another rap for you, governor !' " "I'll speak to him." "Thank you, sir ; don't be hard on him, for he is a deserv- ing officer; but if you would give him a quiet hint not to interfere with me. We have all of us plenty to do of our own in a gaol, if he could but see it. Ah! here comes the chaplain, sir. I will leave you together, if you please;" and Mr. Hawes made off with a business air. The chaplain came up and bowed to Mr. Williams, who saluted him in turn somewhat coldly. There was a short silence. Mr. Williams was concocting a dignified rebuke. Before he could get it out the chaplain began — "I wished to speak with you yesterday, sir." "I am at your service, Mr. Jones. What is it?" 132 "IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND" "I want you to look into our punishments ; they are far more numerous and severe than they used to be." "On the contrary, I find them less numerous." "Why, there is one punished every day." "I have been carefully over the books, and I assure you there is a marked decrease in the number of punishments." "Then they cannot be all put down." "Nonsense, Mr. Jones, nonsense !" "And then the severity of these punishments, sir! Is it your wish that a prisoner should be strapped in the jacket so tight that we cannot get a finger between the leather and his flesh?" "Not unless he is refractory." "But prisoners are very seldom refractory." "Indeed ! that is news to me." "I assure you, sir, there are no quieter set of men than prisoners generally. They know there is nothing to be gained by resistance." "They are on their good behaviour before you. You don't see through them, my good sir. They are like madmen — you would take them for lambs till they break out. Do you know a prisoner here called Josephs ?" "Yes, sir, perfectly well." "Well, now, what is his character, may I ask?" "He is a mild, quiet, docile lad." "Ha ! ha ! ha ! I thought so. Prisoners are the refuse of the earth. The governor knows them, and how to mat/age them. A discretion must be allowed him, and I see no rea- son to interfere between him and refractory prisoners, except when he invites us." "You are aware that several attempts at suicide have been made within the last few months ?" "Sham attempts, yes." "One was not sham, sir," said Mr. Jones gravely. "Oh, Jackson, you mean. No, but he was a lunatic, and would have made awa;- with himself anywhere — Hawes is convinced of that." "Well, sir, I have told you the fact; I have remonstrated against the uncommon severities practised in this gaol — severities unknown in Captain O'Conner's day." ^33 IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND "And I have received and answered your remonstrance, sir, and there that matter ought to end." This, and the haughty tone with which it was said, dis- couraged and nettled the chaplain ; he turned red, and said — "In that case, sir, I have no more to say. I have dis- charged my conscience." With these words he was about to withdraw, but Mr. Williams stopped him. "Mr. Jones, do you consider a clergyman justified in preaching at people ?" "Certainly not." "The pulpit surely ought not to be made a handle for per- sonality. It is not the way to make the pulpit itself re- spected." "I don't vmderstand you, sir." "Mr. Hawes is much hurt at a sermon you preached against him." "A sermon against him — never !" "I beg your pardon ; you preached a whole sermon against swearing — and he swears." "Oh — yes ! I remember — the Sunday before last. I cer- tainly did reprobate in my discourse the habit of swearing, but no personality to Hawes was intended." "No personality intended when you know he swears !" "Yes, but the warders swear too. Why should Mr. Hawes take it all to himself?" "Oh, if the turnkeys swear, then it was not so strictly personal." "To be sure," put in Mr. Jones inadvertently, "I believe they learned it of the governor." "There, you see ! Well, and even if they did not, why preach against the turnkeys? why preach at any individuals or upon passing events at all? I can remember the time no clergyman throughout the length and breadth of the land noticed passing events from the pulpit." "I am as far from approving the practice as you are, sir." "In those days the clergy and laity respected one another, and there was peace in the church." "I can only repeat, sir, that I agree with you ; the pulpit should be consecrated to eternal truths, not passing events." "Good! very good! Well then?" 134 IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND "What Mr. Hawes complains of was a mere accident." "An accident, Mr. Jones? Oh, Mr. Jones!" "An accident which I undertake to explain to Mr. Hawes himself." "By all means ; that will be the best way of making friends again. I need not tell you that a gaol could not go on in which the governor and the chaplain did not pull together. The fact is, Mr. Jones, the clergy of late have been assuming a little too much, and that has made the laity a Httle jealous. Now, although you are a clergyman, you are Her Majesty's servant so long as you are here, and must co-operate with the general system of the gaol. Come, sir, you are younger than I am ; let me give you a piece of advice — 'Don^t over- step YOUR DUTY, &C." In this strain Mr. Williams buz, buz, buzzed longer than I can afford him paper, it is so dear. He pumped a strain of time-honoured phrases on his hearer, and dissolved away with him as the overflow of a pump carries away a straw on its shallow stream down a stable-yard. When the pump was pumped dry, he stopped. Then the chaplain, who had listened with singular polite- ness, got in a word. "You forget, sir, I have resigned the chaplaincy of the gaol !" "Oh ! ah ! yes ! well, then, I need say no more, sir ; good day, Mr. Jones." "Good morning, sir." Soon after this up came Hawes with a cheerful counte- nance. "Well, parson, are you to manage the prisoners and I to preach to them, or are we to go on as we are?" "Things are to go on as they are, Mr. Hawes ; but that is nothing to me, I have discharged my conscience. I have re- monstrated against the severities practised on our prisoners. Cold water has been thrown on my remonstrances, and I shall therefore interfere no more." "That is the wise way to look at it, you may depend." "We shall see which was in the right; I have discharged my conscience. But, Mr. Hawes, I am hurt you should say I preached a sermon against you." "I dare say you are, sir, but who began it? if you had not 135 IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND talked of complaining to the justices of me I should never have said a word against you." "That is all settled ; but it is due to my character to show you that I had no intention of pointing at you or any living creature from the pulpit." "Well, make me believe that." "If you will do me the favour to come to my room I can prove it to you." The chaplain took the governor to his room and opened two drawers in a massive table. "Mr. Hawes," said he, "do you see this pile of sermons in this right hand drawer?" "I see them," said Hawes, with a doleful air; "and I sup- pose I shall hear some of them before long." "These," said Mr. Jones, smiling with perfect good- humour at the innocuous sneer, "are sermons I composed when I was curate of Little-Stoke. Of late I have been go- ing regularly through my Little- Stoke discourses, as you may see. I take one from the pile in this drawer, and after first preaching it in the gaol, I place it in the left drawer on that smaller pile." "That you mayn't preach it again by accident ; well, that is business." "If you look into the left pile near the top, you will find the one I preached against profane discourse, with the date at which it was first composed." "Here it is, sir,— Li-ttle-Stoke, May 15, 1847." "Well, Mr. Hawkes, now was that written against you? — come !" "No ! I confess it could not ; but look here, if a man sends a bullet into me, it doesn't matter to me whether he made the gun on purpose or shot me out of an old one that he had got by him." "But I tell you that I took the sermon out in its turn, and knew no more what it was about until I opened it in the pul- pit, than I know what this one was about which I am going to preach next Sunday morning — it was all chance." "It was my bad luck, I suppose," said Hawes, a little sulkily. "And mine too. Could I anticipate that a discourse com- 136 II IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND posed for and preached to a rural congregation would be deemed to have a personal application here?" "Well, no!" 'T have now only to add that I extremely regret the cir- cumstance." "Say no more, sir. When a gentleman expresses his re- gret to another gentleman, there is an end of the grievance." "I will take care that sort of thing never happens again." "Enough said, sir." "It never can, however, for I shall preach but one more Sunday here." "And I am very sorry for it, Mr. Jones." "And after this occurrence I am determined to write both sermons for the occasion, so there is sure to be nothing per- sonal in them." "Yes, that is the surest way. Well, sir, you and I never had but this one little misunderstanding, and now that is ex- plained, we shall part friends." "A glass of ale, Mr. Hawes?" 'T don't care if I do, sir," — (the glasses were filled and emptied) — "I must go and look after my chickens; the jus- tices have ordered Gillies to be flogged. You will be there, I suppose, in half an hour." "Well, if my attendance is not absolutely necessary " "We will excuse you, sir, if not convenient." "Thank you — good morning!" and the reconciled officials parted. Little Gillies was hoisted to receive twenty lashes ; at the twelfth the governor ordered him down. He broke off the tale as our magazines do, with a promise — "To be continued." Little Gillies, like their readers, cried out, "No, sir. Oh, sir, please flog me to an end. and ha' done with it. I don't feel the cuts near so much now — my back seems dead like." Little Gillies was arguing against himself. Hawes had not divided his punishment with the view of lessening his pain. It was droll, but more sad than droll, to hear the poor little fellow begging Hawes to flog him to an end, to flog him out, with similar idioms. "Hold your (oath) noise!" Hawes shrank with disgust 137 IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND from noist in his prison, and could not comprehend why the prisoners could not take their punishments without infringing upon the great and glorious silence of which the gaol was the temple and he the high priest. "The beggars get no good by kicking up a row," argued he. "Hold your noise ! — take him to his cell !" Whether it was because he had desecrated the temple with noise, or from the accident of having attracted the governor's attention, the weight of the system fell on this small object now. Gillies was ordered to make a fabulous number of crank revolutions — fabulous, at least, in connection with his tender age; he was put on the lightest crank, but the lightest was heavy to thirteen years. Not being the infant Hercules he could not perform this labour; so Hawes put him in jacket and collar almost the whole day. His young and supple frame was in his favour, but once or twice he could hardly help shamming, and then they threw half a bucket over him. The next day he was put on the crank, and not being able to complete the task that was set him before dinner, he was strapped up until the evening. The next day the governor tried another tack. He took away his meat, soup, and gruel, and gave him nothing but bread and water. Strange to say, this change of diet did not supply the deficiency ; he could not do the infant Hercules his work even on bread and water. Then the governor deprived the obstinate little dog of his chapel. "If you won't work, I'm (participle) if you shall pray." The boy missed the recreation of hearing Mr. Jones hum the Liturgy — missed it in a way you cannot conceive. Your soporific was his excitement ; think of that. Little Gillies became sadly dispirited and weaker at the crank than before ; ergo, the governor sentenced him to be fourteen days without bed or gas. But when they took away his bed and did not light his gas, little Gillies began to lose his temper ; he made a great row about this last stroke of discipline. "I won't live such a life as this," said little Gillies, in a pet. "Why don't the governor hang me at once ?" "What is that noise ?" roared the governor, who was in the corridor, and had long ears. 138 IT IS NEVER TOO LATE TO MEND "It is No. 5 kicking up a row at having his bed and gas taken," repHed a turnkey, with a note of admiration in his voice. The governor bounced into the cell "Are you grumbling at that, you rebellious young rascal? you forget there are a dozen lashes owing you yet." Now the boy had not forgot- ten, but he hoped the governor had. "Well, you shall have the rest to-morrow." With these words ringing in his ears, little Gillies was locked up for the night at six o'clock. His companions dark- ness and unrest — for a prisoner's bed is the most comfortable thing he has, and the change from it to a stone floor is as great to him as it would be to us — darkness and unrest, and the cat waiting to spring on him at break of day. Qii