II B RAR.Y 
 
 OF THE 
 UNIVERSITY 
 Of ILLINOIS 
 
 82.3 
 
 H4/2 
 
 v./ 
 
HER DIGNITY AND GEACE. 
 
 VOL. 
 
HER DIGNITY AND GRACE. 
 
 J Salt. 
 
 BY 
 
 H. C. 
 
 7A r THREE VOLUMES. 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 CHAPMAN AND HALL, LIMITED, 
 
 193, PICCADILLY. 
 
 18S0. 
 [Alt Rights reserved.] 
 
CLAY AND TAYLOR, THE CHAUCER PRESS 
 
»-l 
 
 CONTENTS OF VOL. I. 
 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 TAGE 
 
 ULSFORD 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 1 
 
 WOODNASTON 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 . . n 
 
 THE TRAVELLERS 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 . . 21 
 
 WILL STOKES 
 
 
 . . 28 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 > j 
 farmer Giles's gossip 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 THE FALLING TREE 
 
V1 CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 PAGB 
 
 THE STRANGER . . . . # # 52 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 AT THE RECTORY . . . . . . . . 58 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 AT THE HALL 
 
 67 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 THE ACCUSED AND THE SLAIN . . . 77 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 THE MISSES CAVENDISH . . . . . . 80 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 the weaver's story . . . . . . 102 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 THE INQUEST . . . . . . . . 112 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 MOTHER PENDLE . . . . . . • . # ]:>>' 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 AT THE COTTAGE . . . . . . . . 153 
 
CONTENTS. vil 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 pag 
 
 AGAIN AT THE COTTAGE . . . . . . 176 
 
 CHAPTEE XVII. 
 
 MR. DALE DINES AT THE HALL . . . . 187 
 
 CHAPTER XVI II. 
 
 THE SEARCH FOR RECORDS . . 
 
 CHAPTEE XIX. 
 
 A LETTER FOUND 
 
 CHAPTEE XX. 
 
 JOHN FERNER 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 MARY BOWES 
 
 CHAPTEE XXII 
 
 MR. DALE HEARS FROM MRS. PAGE 
 
 196 
 
 11 
 
 •)•>■ 
 
HEE DIGNITY AND GEACE. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 ULSFORD. 
 
 Not many miles from Woodnaston, where the 
 principal events of our story took place, was 
 TJlsford, the nearest town and chief place for 
 business in a large district. Ulsford was a neat 
 little market-town, as dull as any little town in 
 the kingdom every day in the week but market- 
 day, when it was suddenly roused up into the 
 greatest activity and bustle; the cooks' -shops 
 were especially busy, as they were famous for 
 certain little meat-pies much in request, Dot 
 only for the market people and farmers who 
 frequented the market, but for such of the 
 gentry who came there, avowedly, in many 
 
 As VOL. I. B 
 
 V 
 
2 HER DIGNITY AND GRACE. 
 
 instances, to regale themselves on these deli- 
 cacies at the houses of their friends in the town. 
 When the market was over, Ulsford relapsed into 
 its wonted repose and neatness ; but beauty it 
 had not. The market-place, with its centre 
 stone cross, was a good-sized square, from which 
 short and not very wide streets stretched away. 
 The church and vicarage were in the principal 
 street. The post-office, the magistrates' offices, 
 and the small bank, with the market -hall and 
 the best shops, were in the market-place. Some 
 small inns were dispersed about the town — one 
 especially noticeable in our story was the nearest 
 to the market-place, but in a bye street, and 
 was the most modest in appearance of them all. 
 It was called "The Traveller's Rest," and its 
 accommodation was in keeping with its unpre- 
 tending name ; a " rest " it was, clean and 
 wholesome, for those who required it, but they 
 were of the humbler class, and no gentry were 
 ever seen within its doors. It was a place of call 
 for carriers, and did a little business of its own in 
 that line. It was kept by one Ned Staples and 
 his wife Sally, a homely pair who believed in 
 the adage of " early to bed and early to rise," 
 
ulsford. ; ; 
 
 and the great advantages to be derived there- 
 from. 
 
 Late one evening, a few years before the com- 
 mencement of this story, there arrived at this 
 little inn, a cart — not a carrier's cart — with one 
 old woman and many boxes and packages, on 
 the largest of which she was seated. The carter 
 got down from his cart, and after the usual 
 greetings with Ned Staples and his wife, said he 
 had brought an old body who was a traveller, 
 and wanted a quiet lodging for a day or two ; 
 could they take her in? Yes, there was room 
 for her, but wdiat were they to do with all those 
 packages? The innkeeper said he would go 
 and have a look at her ; the carter said he was 
 sure she was respectable but poor; he had not 
 spoken to her much for she was sad, and he was 
 sorry for her. Except to ask a few questions, 
 she had not opened her lips the whole da\ , 
 and save a bit of something she had with her, 
 had tasted nothing. To shorten the way, tucv 
 had come by cross-roads from the place 
 brought her from, Thorpeford, and she didn't 
 seem to know a creature. She had stai 
 that town one night, he heard, but h< 
 
4 HER DIGNITY AND GRACE. 
 
 know where she came from before that, nor her 
 name. 
 
 All this was told to the innkeeper whilst his 
 wife was attending to the old woman, whom she 
 put into the best room, and invited her down to 
 have some supper in the tap -room which had 
 no other occupant but the carter who brought 
 her. 
 
 The poor old woman was starved with cold, 
 and tired and bruised by the shaking of the 
 cart. Sally Staples, the innkeeper's wife, got 
 her a cordial, which, with some good food, soon 
 restored a little animation, but she continued 
 silent and sad, and was glad to go to her room. 
 She looked so poorly in health that Sally wished 
 to assist her, but she declared she wanted no 
 help, and sleep would soon restore her. 
 
 The carter told them the old woman was 
 careful of her packages, though he believed they 
 were nothing but a pack of old things not worth 
 the carriage; and " some books," she said, which 
 were heavy ; and recommended the innkeeper to 
 put them away safely for her, " for she holds 
 great store by 'em though they be so poor," he 
 said. 
 
ULSFORD. O 
 
 The old woman puzzled the innkeeper and 
 his wife by her silence and sadness. Sally tried 
 every possible means to worm something from 
 her, but to no purpose. She was a kindly soul 
 and pitied her, took her into her own little room 
 behind the bar, where she had her meals with 
 the innkeeper and his wife, and took every pains 
 to please her, always hoping for a little informa- 
 tion about herself in return. But no ; scarcely 
 a word beyond a monosyllable could be got 
 from her. She sat silent and melancholy in a 
 corner, busy at some small piece of needlework ; 
 the people who came in to chat on the market- 
 day went on with their gossip not heeding her, 
 nor noticing that she watched them. 
 
 Ned Stapes was specially interested about her ; 
 " tears allays conquested him," as his wife said, 
 and he owned that he could not do enough to aid 
 a woman who was sorrowful. His wife, on the 
 contrary, reserved her sympathy till " she knew 
 the reason why," for, as she further asserted, 
 " it's easy enough to put on tears." So she set 
 to work to watch her narrowly, and try to find 
 out by her manners and ways, as she could not 
 from her lips, what her antecedents had been, 
 
b HER DIGNITY AND GRACE. 
 
 having made a shrewd guess that she was not 
 altogether what she appeared to be. 
 
 The good folks liked to know who came to 
 their inn, it was but natural they should; and 
 they were the more curious when there was 
 reticence on the part of the traveller ; that was 
 but natural also. In that case they might sus- 
 pect some evil had the mystery been concerning 
 a man ; but with this old woman, who was only 
 sick and sorrowful, no such suspicions could 
 arise. Yet her " ways," as they said, were so 
 strangely out of keeping with her garb and with 
 those of their general customers that they were 
 more and more puzzled to think how that could 
 be. They never had had one who carried about 
 so much old rubbish — they in general had no 
 baggage ; nor had they ever had one with so 
 many " fads." 
 
 One night when Sally and her husband were 
 retiring to rest, they were talking over their 
 customers according to their habit, the old 
 woman being now the subject ; and, said Sally : 
 
 " The old dame has owned she has been in 
 good houses." 
 
 " Well, I b'lieve her there ; she's seen a more 
 
ULSFORD. 7 
 
 nor we think on, you may be sartain," he 
 replied. 
 
 " To be sure, Ned," said his wife, " and she's 
 no fool to keep it all to hersel' neither. But, 
 lors, Ned, any one can see she's used to good 
 things. See at dinner or supper how she'll speer 
 on the knives and forks, to see if they're clean ; 
 t'other day she set 'em aside. ' Is anything amiss, 
 ma'am ? ' says I ; says she, ' they'd be the better 
 washed in hot water,' says she. So I did it for 
 her, and she smiled and looked so pleased. I 
 allays takes care she shall have 'em as she likes, 
 ever since, and it keeps 'em fresh I do b'lieve, 
 Ned. Then she takes her knife and fork so 
 delicate like, not like the like's o' we, and she 
 picks and picks about her meat, be it ever so 
 good, and I'm blessed if it beant as fresh and 
 sweet as possible." 
 
 " Why bless me, Sal, how thee do watch a 
 body ; I never see'd a woman like thee for 
 gumshon." 
 
 " Gumshon, Ned ? we need have that to be in 
 our place. I tell'ee what, too, Ned, she's never 
 been brought up to hard work nither, with them 
 tittivating fingers of harn. She'd hardly be fit 
 
8 HER DIGNITY AND GRACE. 
 
 to lift a big kettle off the fire. She's more like a 
 leddy nor that." 
 
 "Like a leddy, Sal? Why I tell'ee if 
 she'd been born a leddy, she'd do to be a 
 queen." 
 
 " Lors, Ned, how you do talk to be sure ! 
 Like a leddy? Why, what'll ye say next? 
 There's a long lane 'twixt her and a leddy, let 
 alone a queen. Why, Ned, you're quite doited 
 about her ; ye'll be saying I'm like a queen 
 next." 
 
 " Nay, Sally, nay. I shouldn't a courted 
 thee, if so be thee wur a leddy. Thee's a right 
 good body, and a precious good wife, old girl, 
 but thee'll never be like a leddy, nor a queen. 
 Now don't look so turned off like, at my saying 
 of it ; thee never will, I do assure thee. So, old 
 girl, give us a kiss and a done with it." 
 
 " You're mighty foine, Ned, but I'll no kiss 
 ye till ye give me that new kirtle ye promised 
 me long ago." 
 
 " Heck, Sally ! So thee can't forget that ! A 
 woman's made up of kirtles and flaunts, and she 
 can't think o' nothin' else from the time she can 
 prattle till her dying hour. Aye, thee shall 
 
ULSFORD. 9 
 
 have the kirtle and welcome, Sally, if so be it's 
 only for thy good care o' the old dame." 
 
 " The old dame ! ye think of nothin' else, 
 Ned." 
 
 "Aye, I do think on her, all the time I am 
 a rubbin' down the 'osses; and when I was a 
 feeding o' the pigs, as yesterday evening, I well 
 nigh let the old sow eat the whole trough ful 
 to hersel', a thinking that the puir old dame 
 must ha' fell out of her spere like to be so low 
 as she. Even if she'd a been a housekeeper in a 
 grand house, it 'ud be better to a kep' to that, 
 nor fiddle-faddle about the world with mincing 
 footsteps as she do in they clogs o' harn, right 
 afeard o' getting a speck o' mud on her." 
 
 " Then I s'pose, Ned, it wor you that set the 
 young 'uns a grunting, as I remember, afore 
 supper ; a grunting enough to grunt their 
 hearts out, for want of their meat. And I went 
 and danged at Chucky, the swine-herd, right 
 about for it, and clapped his ears for telling 
 a lie, when he said he didn't." 
 
 " Ha, ha, ha," laughed Ned Staples. " So ye 
 clapped his ears, did ye ? Are ye goin' to clap 
 my ears now ? Don't look so fierce-like, Sally, 
 
10 HER DIGNITY AND GRACE. 
 
 old girl ; but be kind to the old dame allays as 
 ye have been, there's a good wench. Ye'll have 
 your gain, for I'll give thee all thy flaunts." 
 
 " Ah, you've a soft heart, Ned. The parson 
 said 'twas in the right place, t'other day. How 
 does he know what's the right place ? — but if 
 he'd said it was soft and good, I should a 
 believed him. And, Ned," she said, putting her 
 arms round his neck, "I'd like some blue 
 ribbons with the kirtle. And ye be sure to 
 mind that Mr. Sharp's is the best shop to buy 
 them things ; all the gentlefolks goes to him." 
 
 " Thee'll tell me that to-morrow, Sal ; I'm 
 right down sleepy now." 
 
WOODNASTON. 1 1 
 
 CHAPTER II 
 
 WOODNASTON. 
 
 The estate of Wooclnaston comprised not only 
 the park belonging to Mr. Askham, and his 
 favourite residence, but the whole parish and 
 village of that name, the latter being situated 
 quite close to the park gates, between those 
 called the south and the east gates. It was a 
 very pretty little village, neat and compact ; Mr. 
 Askham took infinite pains to have it kept clean 
 and picturesque, and the " greatest sin " (as the 
 villagers said) was to let anything go uncared 
 for, or out of repair. There were seldom any 
 new comers ; all the inhabitants had been more 
 or less in the service of the Askham family, or 
 the families of the neighbouring gentry, for 
 generations ; the same names kept the same 
 cottages ; when the population increased, new 
 cottages were built in much the same style as 
 the rest. All were thatched ; some were brick ; 
 others, and more often, wood and brick with 
 
12 HER DIGNITY AND GRACE. 
 
 white plaster between the wood, in the old black- 
 and-white style, with gables. Many were covered 
 with ivy like the old church and parsonage; 
 others, with more pretension to horticulture, 
 were ornamented with trained clematis and 
 monthly roses. They had all good gardens to 
 the back, with a small patch for flowers inside 
 wooden railings to the front. As a matter of 
 course, the villagers were not all equally inclined 
 to keep their premises as neat " as the Squire," 
 as he was called, wished, but for the most part 
 he was well pleased with them, and they with 
 him, for he was kind and benevolent, and a 
 most just man ; on the latter virtue they most 
 implicitly relied. 
 
 The first and most genial inhabitant of the 
 village was the rector, Mr. Dale, " ta parson," 
 as the villagers called him. He was a man of 
 good private fortune besides his rich living — one 
 of the best in the kingdom — and was famed all 
 round the country for his hospitality and bene- 
 volence. He was a " hunting parson " too, and 
 kept a small pack of beagles, "just to keep me 
 in good spirits and exercise," he said ; he knew 
 every one in his extensive parish, and many 
 
WOODNASTON. 13 
 
 beyond it for miles round, where his hunting 
 excursions took him, and was on friendly terms 
 with them. 
 
 Then there was the doctor, Mr. Vyal, a man 
 of rather eccentric character, who either rode 
 about the country on a rough pony, with huge 
 saddle-bags, and a valise attached to the crupper 
 of his saddle, or drove a small spring-cart, a 
 match for his pony, both being equally suited to 
 the roughness of the roads across heaths, and 
 over hill and dale. He was a sportsman in his 
 way, and had generally his dogs and gun with 
 him. His homely wife acted as his assistant 
 in " the surgery " in his absence. 
 
 The village inn, " the King's Head," was the 
 usual centre of gossip. And lastly, as a place 
 of note, there was the post-office, of smallest 
 amount of business. 
 
 Without an exception they were all tenants 
 of Mr. Askham ; the living was in his gift, and 
 the then occupant was a distant relation of Mr. 
 Askham's, the Rev. Alan Dale, whom we 
 mentioned before, a Yorkshireman, who prided 
 himself on being a lineal descendant of the 
 once famous Alan-a-Dale, the companion of 
 
14 HER DIGNITY AND GRACE. 
 
 Robin Hood — or Robin-of-the-wood, more 
 properly. 
 
 The most picturesque entrance to the village 
 was at the east end of the long avenue of elms, 
 which reached far beyond the east lodge of the 
 park. The wheelwright, who was also the car- 
 penter, lived there, and his yard, with its careless 
 grouping of old carts and wheels, added much 
 to the beauty of the scene j and the " har- 
 monious blacksmith " was his next door neigh- 
 bour. The fine old trees nearly met over the 
 road, giving a most delightful shade in summer. 
 It was, in fact, a treble avenue, for the trees over 
 the park palings made an avenue of the foot- 
 path, and on the other side of the road was 
 another row of elms, with a wide grass path. 
 The further and west end of the village street 
 was not so attractive in appearance ; it opened 
 on the rising slope of a large common, on which 
 stood a small solitary cottage. Prom it there 
 was a most extensive view. It had always been 
 considered by the villagers there was some spell 
 upon this cottage. It was "no cannie," they 
 said, and but few would venture near it after 
 dark. 
 
WOODNASTON. 15 
 
 The park paling retreated from the centre of 
 the village up to the south lodge, the remaining 
 lodge being to the north of the park. A belt 
 of wood, with a wide green drive, ran on the 
 north, east, and south sides of the park ; on the 
 west there was merely a gate, without a lodge, 
 which led into a wooded enclosure, walled in by 
 a low stone wall on the park side, a public path 
 going through the enclosure. There were woods, 
 and heath, and arable lands, on the north side, 
 beyond the park palings, and the park itself 
 was finely wooded. An avenue from the south 
 lodge led to the substantial, plainly-built 
 mansion, with lawns and gardens around it. 
 This was the principal lodge, and nearest to the 
 village. The other two were in the belt, and 
 were private entrances ; the west gate was 
 merely an outlet to the woods, there being a 
 public footpath from the village through it and 
 the adjacent woods to the quarries beyond. 
 
 The park lay so sheltered by the hills to the 
 north and east, that there were few places in the 
 county more desirable as a residence. 
 
 As a matter of course, the village had its 
 schools. With the exception of Mr. Askham's 
 
16 HER DIGNITY AND GRACE. 
 
 school for boys, they were the old-fashioned and 
 excellent " dames' schools/' where the girls and 
 little boys received their little learning. 
 
 The elder and most advanced boys in Mr. 
 Askham's school were made monitors over the 
 others. This was not an enviable position ; it 
 had not long been the rule of the school ; it was 
 not pleasing to them to be ruled by their school- 
 fellows, and led to strife, where before all was 
 peace. Thus, these monitors were not always 
 popular with the other lads ; they were far more 
 strict and exacting than John Rule, the master, 
 and overlooked nothing. Children of both sexes 
 are great sticklers for justice; and so long as 
 they were fairly dealt by, the boys put up with 
 the domineering of the monitors, but any unfair- 
 ness was sure to be summarily dealt with when 
 school was over, though they had to submit, 
 with a bad grace, during school hours. Many a 
 black eye told of the resentment shown out of 
 school ; and on one occasion, the enmity against 
 one monitor, the cleverest boy in the school, but 
 whose truthfulness the other boys said was not 
 to be depended upon, grew to such a height 
 that an open rebellion seemed imminent, and 
 
WOODNASTON. 17 
 
 Mr. Askham was sought by the majority of the 
 boys, and appealed to for justice. He told 
 them he would not hear a one-sided complaint, 
 but when all the boys were assembled in the 
 schoolroom, the said monitor, William Meres, 
 and the schoolmaster included, he would hear 
 what they had to say. 
 
 The boys promised to be all assembled as 
 he desired, in the course of an hour, and 
 "William Meres was so certain he was right 
 that he'd be sure to come." They had reckoned, 
 however, without knowledge of his character, 
 for as soon as he heard that Mr. Askham was 
 going to inquire into his conduct he hid himself ; 
 but although assisted by his mother, he was 
 eventually caught and brought into the school- 
 room, after keeping Mr. Askham waiting some 
 minutes. 
 
 William Meres was a good-looking boy, 
 strongly and compactly made. Everything he 
 did he did well. He was first as a bowler in the 
 cricket-field ; a very fair hand at quoits ; a pretty 
 good shot for his age, as he proved when he 
 went out with his father, who was one of the 
 gamekeepers ; but for running or leaping, or any 
 vol. i. c 
 
18 HER DIGNITY AND GRACE. 
 
 sport that required agility, he was not fitted, and 
 it was the jealousy inspired by this failing at 
 some recent games, that chiefly led to the 
 present outbreak. He determined to take his 
 revenge in the schoolroom, and the offenders, 
 two agile youths, were without sufficient cause 
 turned back to work their way up again to their 
 late places in their class. 
 
 On investigating the subject his want of truth 
 and justice was clearly proved. Mr. Askham 
 gave him a severe reprimand, with threatened 
 punishment, if anything of the sort occurred 
 again ; upon which the delinquent said, address- 
 ing Mr. Askham ; 
 
 " Please, sir, I hope you won't be angry, but 
 I should like to leave school, though I should 
 not like to be sent away ; I think I have done 
 my learning now." 
 
 " What is the cause of this sudden thought ? " 
 said Mr. Askham. 
 
 " It is no sudden thought, sir ; I've thought of 
 it a long time." 
 
 " What would you mean to do then ? — have 
 you made up your mind as to your future career 
 in life?" 
 
WOODNASTON. 19 
 
 " Yes, sir ; I want to be a soldier. I want to 
 go to the wars we hear of." 
 
 Here there was a general murmur amongst 
 the boys, who sat with staring eyes and open 
 mouths in expectation of what was coming 
 next. 
 
 "Well," said Mr. Askham, "what do your 
 father and mother say ? — would they like it ? 
 You are very young to enlist." 
 
 "Father, sir, doesn't say much, but mother 
 cries, and it's enough to make me cry too to see 
 her ; for I must go ; I'm bound to go ; I can't 
 stay at home ; I must go and do some of the 
 shooting. Oh, sir," he continued, in a very 
 excited way, " I'm very sorry if I have offended 
 you or done wrong about the boys ; but pray do 
 help me, sir, to be a soldier, or I shall go along, 
 I know I shall, with the first soldier man that 
 comes round." 
 
 " If you are so determined I will see what 
 can be done for you ; it will not be difficult to 
 get you into a marching regiment ; but remem- 
 ber, Meres, fair play is required everywhere, and 
 truthfulness above all, whether in the array or 
 out of it ; and you must try and correct that 
 
20 HER DIGNITY AND GRACE. 
 
 spirit of jealousy and revenge which is so strong 
 in you." 
 
 "Thank you, sir. If you will only get me 
 into a regiment I will do all you say." 
 
 "And me too, and me too," shouted a 
 number of voices, for the idea of "fighting 
 Boney " was the first amongst the youths at that 
 time. 
 
 The assembly then broke up, and the former 
 culprit was a hero for the time being ; his 
 enemies of fifteen minutes ago were now his 
 devoted admirers, and ran about shouting, " Bill 
 Meres is going to be a soldier; he is going to 
 the wars to fight old Boney — Hoorah ! hoorah ! 
 hoorah ! God save the king," &c, to their great 
 gratification. 
 
 His new character of hero lasted for some 
 days ; even his mother was startled, by the 
 suddenness of the news, into enthusiasm. 
 
THE TRAVELLERS. 21 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 THE TRAVELLERS. 
 
 From a quiet homestead, near Hebden Bridge, 
 there came a cavalcade. 
 
 A tall man of past sixty years of age riding 
 first on a good hackney ; then a string of nine 
 pack-horses, the leader with a collar of bells, 
 attended by the old man's son, a tall young man 
 of light complexion, who also rode, and by five 
 others, servants, each of whom either led or 
 walked beside a horse, down the steep narrow 
 horse-path that led down into the valley of 
 Todmorden, in Yorkshire, a picturesque but 
 broken road. 
 
 There had been some heavy rain, and the 
 small brook that fell down the side of the steep 
 horse-path in cascades, was swollen to a noisy 
 foam-covered stream — " a great swash," in the 
 dialect of the country — rushing with precipitous 
 force over the rocks, and discomfiting the ivy and 
 brambles which hung in wreaths at the sides. 
 
22 HER DIGNITY AND GRACE. 
 
 It was a lovely morning at the end of April, 
 unusually warm and balmy for the time of year, 
 and the little train were all, including the horses, 
 quite inspirited, evidently enjoying the weather, 
 the scene, and the early morning sunbeams that 
 darted down the valley, which though winding a 
 little, runs nearly due east and west. It was 
 barely six o'clock; all the people were astir, many 
 hurrying to the manufactories, then worked by 
 water-power, spinning with the mule machinery 
 which had almost entirely superseded the first 
 ingenious invention of spinning-jennies. 
 
 They travelled along through the valley and 
 town in a westerly direction, having a good word 
 or a jest with their neighbours as they passed. 
 The merry jingle of the packhorse bells sounded 
 pleasantly in the calm morning air, as the horses 
 slowly came along, for they were heavily laden 
 and did not go out of a walk, for the old man 
 remembered the adage, " the good man is mer- 
 ciful to his beast," and invariably acted upon it. 
 The horses knew their masters, and there existed 
 a confidence and fellowship between them that 
 greatly added to the comfort of both, and 
 lessened the trouble of their management. 
 
THE TRAVELLERS. 23 
 
 They had not proceeded far when a lad came 
 running breathless to them saying, as well as his 
 beating heart would allow him : 
 
 " Hey ! Eaither. Stop ! " 
 
 " Hey, Jooas ! what's to do, lad ? " cried the 
 old man before the lad could say more. 
 
 "Eaither, moother says, please not to forget 
 ta new harness when ye get to ta graat toon. 
 And ta red cloth for ta cloock and kirtle." 
 
 " Aye, the femmels never forget their gear," 
 he said laughing. 
 
 " And, Earn," said the lad to his brother, 
 " mind to heat this fettled ale for faither, 
 moother says, when it comes chil o' nights ; " 
 and he gave him a stone jar. " Ye maun pit it 
 in ta maund, so it be little shaken." 
 
 " Ye don't ca' your shakin' nothin' then," said 
 Earn. 
 
 " Eettled ale ! " said the old man, laughing ; 
 " yer moother allays fears I be clemmed ; good 
 soul ! Tell yer moother," he continued, " I'll be 
 thinking o' her duds and Abie's too. And, Jooas, 
 ye mind the mare and colt ; take 'em in o' chil 
 nights. God bless ye, lad ; rin whoam." 
 
 Farther on he stopped to speak to a man on 
 
24 HER DIGNITY AND GRACE. 
 
 the road, but the train continued its route ; when 
 he overtook them he said to his son : 
 
 " Earn, didn't ye pay that chap for the 
 earn ? " 
 
 " Aye, faither ; but we owe him for grinding 
 the meaal. Moother '11 see to that." 
 
 " Puir chap ! ye soold ha' told me that, there'll 
 be but little owing then." 
 
 " Did he ax for his mooney ? " 
 
 " Nay ; but he looked so worn and sick, and 
 says his missis is down bad and can't get about, 
 and he's hard pressed with the bairns who greet 
 sore; and there's little comin' in, for he can't 
 sit to his loom as he did; so he was going to 
 Maester Warden's factory to see if they could 
 give him a job, 'twould be mooney quicker got ; 
 his mill doesn't pay him much at this season." 
 
 " Well, faither, what says you ? " 
 
 The old man listened but said nothing ; then 
 after a pause, Earn continued : 
 
 " I says he gets into good hands if so be he 
 gets to Maester Warden's j he'll never starve no 
 more, and have a doctor to look after he ; and 
 if so be he's good at his work, he'll get on. 
 Rale good measters they be, and as to the leddy, 
 
THE TRAVELLERS. 25 
 
 she's somewhat sharp in her tongue, she can't 
 have no answers to her say, but she's rale good- 
 hearted and kind in the main." 
 
 " Aye ; her bark's worse nor her bite, as the 
 sayins go," said his father. 
 
 " An' they be rale staunch folk too." 
 They journeyed on over hill and dale, by the 
 pack-horse tracks and bridle-paths to Wakefield, 
 " ta graat toon " as compared with Todmorden. 
 Thence through a part of Westmoreland and 
 Cumberland, stopping at their various places 
 of call of several generations standing, for the 
 name of Greenwood of Hebden Bridge and Tod- 
 morden was well-known for its good, well-made 
 stuffs. This spring their journey was to be 
 longer than usual in consequence of a consider- 
 able order from Whitehaven, whither they were 
 hastening. The younger Greenwood fell ill by 
 the way after leaving Wakefield, and they left him 
 at a cottage to be taken care of till their return. 
 The poor fellow was quite light-headed, and 
 shivered with ague when he was carried into 
 the peat- digger's cottage on the border of the 
 moor. His father saw him comfortably lodged, 
 and left money for his sustenance ; on his return 
 
26 HER DIGxXITY AND GRACE. 
 
 he called to see his son, who was improved in 
 health, but not fit to travel. The woman at the 
 cottage said he was as gentle as a baby ; even 
 in his delirium he was easily soothed with a 
 kind word and a smile. She declared he was 
 " that good and kindly like " she quite loved him j 
 she should be sorry to part with him, and so 
 would her sister who was there to help her, and 
 as to her " mon," he wanted to keep him " for 
 aie." 
 
 The father said he would come or send by 
 a carrier to fetch him when he was well enough 
 to travel, and gave her more money that he 
 might want for nothing. He did not know 
 what his mother would say when he went home 
 without him, for though he was not their only 
 child, he was the favourite with them all ; they 
 would be right dull without him ; he cheered 
 them all with his merry ways. And for the cows 
 and horses, they'd miss him rarely too ; he was 
 so gentle with them, they'd follow him about 
 anywhere ; he was sure the pack-horses missed 
 him when he was left at the cottage, for they 
 " fell to a ' nickerring' for all the world as if they 
 wanted him to come along ; " he was " that good 
 
THE TRAVELLERS. 27 
 
 he didn't think he could hurt a fly." The old 
 man broke down in his eulogium on his son, and 
 the tears rolled down his cheeks. 
 
 " Keep heart, measter, keep heart," said the 
 woman ; " he'll get on well, he's got the cheery 
 spirit that keeps people back from harm — 
 anyways, so far as please God," she said in a 
 softer tone. 
 
28 HER DIGNITY AND GRACE. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 WILL STOKES. 
 
 Beyond the heath to the north side of Wood- 
 naston Park, but still on the outskirts of one of 
 Mr. Askham's woods, at a place called Ashen- 
 croft gate, lived William Stokes and his wife 
 Mary, as handsome a couple as one would wish 
 to see. He was under-shepherd on the estate, 
 and having a wide range of duty, his hours of 
 coming and going .from home were often very 
 uncertain. 
 
 He had been married five years to an indus- 
 trious girl from Northumberland, and with their 
 two children were apparently happy and con- 
 tented: good wages, a cottage, and a piece of good 
 garden ground, they had all they required ; and, 
 above all, the best of masters — firm, just, and 
 considerate. They were fully aware of their good 
 fortune, and all went smoothly on, till a short 
 time before our story commences. Mary's genial 
 countenance as she went through her daily work 
 
WILL STOKES. 29 
 
 lent a charm to the scene, and sitting at her 
 spinning-wheel, when all the house-work was 
 over, with her little children playing round her, 
 either at the cottage- door or by the peat fire, 
 the comely young mother looked the picture of 
 content. 
 
 She, like all the women in those days, espe- 
 cially in the North, had learned to spin from her 
 earliest childhood, and became an adept at her 
 wheel, whether for flax or wool. She had no 
 near neighbours at Ashencroft to bear her com- 
 pany at spinning-time, as she had had in her 
 former village-home, where groups of women 
 and girls were to be seen sitting at their wheels, 
 spinning and chatting outside their doors — 
 tongues, feet, and fingers vying with each other 
 as to which could go the fastest, and so well 
 accustomed to the work that they seemed to 
 spin mechanically, and to make good yarn with- 
 out its needing their attention. How well clothed 
 they were too, in their really homespun apparel ; 
 so well made, warm, and comfortable, likely to 
 last an indefinite length of time ; good to the last 
 rag ; no " shoddy," no adulterated linen or wool 
 " faced " over to make that look good which was 
 
30 HER DIGNITY AND GRACE. 
 
 not. No warp of one quality and woof of 
 another, causing the material to be rotten. No ; 
 in the days of home manufactures all was sub- 
 stantial, worth wearing, and the trouble of 
 making, though the general aspect might not be 
 of the fineness of modern machine-made fabrics. 
 Little did the people know, in the days of the 
 riots, how much right they had on their side, when 
 they opposed the introduction of machinery - 
 looms and spinning. They thought only of the 
 loss of the little money they earned at their 
 wheels and hand-looms ; they could not anticipate 
 the irreparable loss it would be to their inde- 
 pendence and personal comfort. As to the cost, 
 how little the wool and flax cost at the outset ! 
 the trouble — it was a perpetual source of enjoy- 
 ment, with profit in the end. 
 
 But to return to Will Stokes and Mary. He 
 was madly fond of all sorts of field sports ; 
 hunting (on foot), shooting, trapping; he had 
 invented springes and gins that were ingeniously 
 contrived ; whistles and calls he made neatly } 
 nets, snares, everything connected with catching 
 animals or birds, he made a study. He would 
 have been a better gamekeeper than shepherd ; 
 
WILL STOKES. 31 
 
 but he was in fact a poacher by nature and 
 inclination. No doubt he might have been 
 employed under the gamekeeper if he had so 
 wished, but there was a disposition towards con- 
 cealment and adventure in all his acts which was 
 not in accordance with it. His wife, when this 
 failing became prominent, was constantly taken 
 by surprise at the discovery of hidden things — 
 dogs of suspicious appearance concealed in the 
 outhouse ; two new guns in place of his old one, 
 with baskets and packages concealed in the 
 cupboard ; and when she asked about them, 
 she got for answer : " Never mind, lass ; they 
 don't concern thee." Men whom she knew to be 
 poachers came to the cottage asking for him, and 
 if he happened to be there, took him away with 
 them, sometimes not to return till the next day. ■ j 
 In the mean time the head shepherd would 
 send for him ; he was shirking his work ; or the 
 shepherd would come himself. Mary could not 
 hide from him that her husband was not at home, 
 and she knew not where he was gone ; but she 
 never would say who he was gone with, she 
 would keep that secret if she could. The shepherd 
 said if Will Stokes would not do his work he 
 
32 HER DIGNITY AND GRACE. 
 
 must have another who would, and frightened 
 poor Mary, who stood trembling. 
 
 When her husband was gone on his secret 
 
 expeditions, her spirit seemed to have gone too. 
 
 She was quite unnerved. What should she do ? 
 
 What would become of them ? She knew the truth 
 
 must at last be found out. How wrong to deceive 
 
 their master, who was so good to them ! She 
 
 knew some angry words had passed between 
 
 Mr. Askham and Will. She had never seen her 
 
 master angry before; and Will afterwards had 
 
 come into the cottage in a great rage muttering 
 
 to himself, and would not be pacified. " He 
 
 couldn't 'bide it," he said; " some one should pay 
 
 for it." " His master had said he was a poacher, 
 
 and then that a poacher was no better nor a 
 
 thief." "He couldn't 'bide it." "Some one 
 
 should pay for it," he said. She made no 
 
 remark, but as his former associates kept aloof 
 
 from the cottage, she hoped and believed they 
 
 were "to pay for it," and therefore kept 
 
 away. 
 
 Matters did not mend ; she got worried and 
 anxious at Will's more frequent absences. She 
 entreated him to be regular at his work ; he 
 
WILL STOKES. 33 
 
 soothed her with soft words and caresses. She 
 believed him and was happier ; but still the 
 course of his conduct did not materially mend, 
 and she would be happy one day, and full of care 
 
 the next. 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
34 HER DIGNITY AND GRACE. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 farmer Giles's gossip. 
 
 "Well, sir, I'll look round 'em as I go that 
 way," said Farmer Giles to his landlord, Squire 
 Askham of Woodnaston. 
 
 " I wish you would, for the sheep do not look 
 as well as they did in poor old Fleace's time." 
 
 " Wade's called a good shepherd too, sir, 
 though he don't know this country I do b'lieve. 
 He keeps 'em too long on the low land, sir ; he 
 should take 'em up to the fells before this. But 
 Will Stokes, who's on the hills from a lad, and 
 wur under old Fleace, here, should know that, 
 and he do know, for he's as good a shepherd as 
 any round the country." 
 
 " I fear he is apt to neglect his work, and has 
 got into bad company." 
 
 " May be, sir ; I've had my doubts about 'un, 
 for his wife looks sad and weary-like. She was 
 a winsome lass when he brought her home." 
 
 " She was indeed," said the Squire. 
 
farmer Giles's gossip. 35 
 
 " What's this we hear, sir, about them wars ? 
 More killed, and more killed, and the battles got 
 such outlandish names I can't turn my tongue 
 to speak 'em. My wife sits and cries when I 
 read about 'em in the 'Weekly Courant.' Ah, 
 sir, that's a wonderful newspaper! I can't tell 
 how it can tell of such things • and so wonderful 
 quick too in comin' here. Why it's wrote on it, 
 1 Published by Charles Cocks at the Poultry, 
 London, Saturday, May 20.' My brother Joe, 
 he lives in London town, and he buys it, and we 
 go shares in it ; he likes to have a readin' o' 
 Sundays, so does I, so he sends it to me the 
 Friday follerin', an' I gets it as soon as may be. 
 Last Saturday it wur June 5th, but a fortnight 
 since it be published out ; it be wonderful 
 quick." 
 
 " Yes, the mail is much increased in speed. It 
 takes but three days now from London to York ; 
 and owing to the roads being hard this summer 
 time, communication is more speedy about here 
 also. When the war is over and there is time 
 to improve the roads, we may have the mails 
 nearly as fast in the winter as well. You will 
 remember how sadly we were behind time the 
 
36 HER DIGNITY AND GRACE. 
 
 last bad winter — more than six weeks without 
 either mails, letters, newspapers, or travellers." 
 
 " Aye, sir," said the farmer, shaking his head, 
 " that was a time ! And to think of the sheep 
 as was lost in the snow, and all the poor people 
 out o' work — froze out — and poor old ' Mother 
 Pendle ' too, she wur buried in the snow. Poor 
 old soul, she was a good body ! Ah ! and how 
 they good -for-nothin' fellers shouted, and roistered, 
 and hooted, it wur shameful, when she could na' 
 be found ; and said they wur certain sure then 
 that she wur a witch, and carried off by the 
 devil. If you mind, sir, there was thunder and 
 lightnin' too, and they swore it was she that 
 made it as the devil took'd her away. Well, if 
 she wur a witch or a devil 1 wish there'd be 
 many of 'em, for she wur a rare good soul, and 
 honest as the sun, for he never says he don't 
 shine when he do, though she did turn round 
 ' and swear and shake her stick,' as they boys 
 said, when they hooted at her." 
 
 " I do not believe she swore at them," said 
 the squire, " nor can I understand why she got 
 the name of a witch, for she never harmed any 
 one that I heard of." 
 
farmer Giles's gossip. 37 
 
 " Well, sir, you see, they urchins will do 
 anything to plague a puir body. They speered 
 at her through the window till she smeared it 
 over wi' pipeclay ; then the boys cried out that 
 she roasted hedgehogs alive, and wouldn't let 'em 
 see what she was about ; that's, they said, why she 
 whitened her window. So her chimney catched 
 fire one day ; it was out o' school-hours, so they 
 all ran to see, and shouted that she was roasting 
 little Betty Pickles which went up with a 
 message ; so they broke the puir old crone's 
 windows, calling her more of a witch nor ever, 
 and all sorts of bad names, and little Betty 
 comes to the window and cries out as loud as 
 she could, ' Shame on ye, boys, shame.' Then 
 they got madder than ever, and said the old 
 witch had tried, but the devil and she together 
 wur not strong enough to burn the child. Well, 
 sir, by that time the fire had burnt itself out ; 
 the old woman never tried to put it out, for in 
 her knowing ways, she knew," he said, laughing 
 and jerking his head, " it would clean the 
 chimley better than 'ere a sweep, and it wur a 
 good hut of brick and tile, so it wouldn't be 
 burnt; so she went out by the biggin at the 
 
38 HER DIGNITY AND GRACE. 
 
 back with her crutch stick arid heavy wooden 
 clogs on, and the first lad she catched, didn't 
 she set him right on end! Ha, ha, ha! till 
 he howled and cried mercy, and all the others 
 ran away, a pack of cowards ! " and the farmer 
 laughed loud at their cowardice. " So, sir," he 
 resumed, "finding she had a mighty strong 
 stick and could use it, they've contented they- 
 selves wi' calling her foul names and a witch 
 ever since. You heerd say, p'raps, sir, what a 
 clanging and clinking they made 'to lay her 
 ghost/ as they said, when she was found, puir 
 old bodie, buried in the snow? There wasn't 
 an old key or a pan, brass or iron, they could 
 catch hold on that wasn't had out to make the 
 noise louder; and they would have done the 
 same at the funeral but ta parson, God bless 
 him ! looked sharp to forbid it." 
 
 " Poor old woman, she was very harmless. 
 I have often heard of her truly charitable acts." 
 
 " Aye, sir, they wur true charity, for she had 
 but little of her own, but that little wus for any 
 one poorer. And as for childer ! if she found 
 one wandering late on the common, she'd take it 
 to her whoam and feed it and warm it by her 
 
farmer Giles's gossip. 39 
 
 peat fire, and dry its clo'es if they be wet, and 
 then lead it near its own mother's, but not 
 far in the village, because o' they boys. I do 
 
 believe Hulloa ! what's thee after there 
 
 wi' they calves ? " cried he to a boy who was 
 chasing some calves in the garden. " Heigh 
 there ! You maun excuse me for a minute, 
 sir," he said, as he ran off; and his wife, who 
 came to fetch him, came up to Mr. Askham, 
 and with a curtsey asked him, " if he'd please to 
 walk into the parlour ? " He declined, saying, 
 after a few minutes' chat with her, he was going 
 to the Holt (the next farm), and he wished her 
 good morning. 
 
 She watched him along the lane till he got to the 
 high road ; and then went to assist in catching 
 the calves which were making sad havoc in the 
 garden, breaking the cabbages, and treading 
 down the young potatoes. 
 
 " Have a care there ; have a care ; don't hunt 
 'em so fierce. Don't ye see they'll knock over 
 the bees and be stung to death ? Drat the boy ! 
 what are ye thinking on ? — come away, come 
 aw T ay I say." 
 
 The boy at last did as he was bid, and the 
 
40 HER DIGNITY AND GRACE. 
 
 calves, left to themselves, one after the other 
 quietly trotted out of the open gate into the 
 field. 
 
 " Thee has no more sense nor a stick," the 
 farmer said when he got up to the boy. " I 
 should like to give thee a good hiding. Now 
 yell have to fettle up the garden agen. Shut 
 the gate, can't ye ? — we shall have 'em in agen ; 
 when they've once tasted greens, they're sure to 
 come back for more." 
 
 Farmer Giles had locked out the calves by 
 the time his wife got up to him, and they 
 walked towards the house together. 
 
 " The squire be looking uncommon well," 
 said Sally Giles to her husband. 
 
 " Yes, he be. It's a good thing he's here and 
 not in them wars ; they hadn't gone at it so 
 furious when ta old squire died, and he had to 
 come here. Poor master Roger ! he'd a been 
 better here too ; he wus about the first we heerd 
 on that wus killed in the wars, of our people." 
 
 " Ah, a fine young gentleman he was too. 
 But two year younger than our squire. In 
 looks though, they wus not much like brothers ; 
 this one, fair and so free ; master Roger, with his 
 
farmer Giles's gossip. 41 
 
 dark eyes, so silent. They wus both wild to be 
 sogers and go to the wars, and master Frank 
 takes after 'em. I heerd his ma' say, he sits 
 on the end of the sofy astride, and hacks the 
 cushions with his wooden sword, saying, he'll 
 kill old Boney." 
 
 " Ha, ha, ha ! " laughed the farmer, " though 
 'twould be a good thing for Boney to be locked 
 up, he does a deal of mischief." 
 
 " Ah ! they say he's killed all his own people, 
 and he's obliged to fight to get more sogers. 
 Sure some people be wicked." 
 
 " Why he should be allowed to go on killing 
 people passes my 'standing, as ta parson says." 
 
 " He'll have a deal ta answer for. I wouldn't 
 be in his shoes." 
 
 " No fear, old 'ooman. You're not much given 
 to fight, are ye, Sally ? " 
 
 As they went into the house, he said to his 
 wife : " Come, missis, I mustn't loiter ; 1 maun 
 get to the market though it's latish. I maun see 
 what's on at the sales." 
 
 In a short time he was on " Dobbin," jog- 
 trotting along the lane, when he met Mr. Askham. 
 " There was no one at the Holt, I suppose, sir ? " 
 
42 HEK DIGNITY AND GRACE. 
 
 " No, they were gone to market." 
 " Can I do a stroke o' business for ye, sir ? " 
 " No, Giles, thank you ; but bring me back 
 any news you may hear about the war." 
 * That I'll be sure to do, sir. Good-day." 
 Mr. Askham got over the stile on his way 
 down the fells towards Woodnaston, and was 
 soon out of sight. After he had gone some 
 little distance he turned, and took another 
 path. 
 
THE FALLING TREE. 43 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 THE FALLING TREE. 
 
 The same morning, after Mr. Askham had 
 parted from farmer Giles, he was standing by 
 his woodmen, who were felling a young oak in 
 the west copse, which had been struck by light- 
 ning the previous autumn, and much shattered ; 
 it had also other dead branches which made 
 it unsightly and not likely to nourish again. 
 
 He stood at a little distance with his back to 
 the tree, and after a few words to the men, 
 seemed in an unusually meditative state of mind. 
 They begged him to move as the tree was about 
 to fall, for although he was not very near they 
 thought it would be prudent for him to move 
 still further away. It was of no avail ; they 
 called to him, but he did not even look up ; 
 there he stood firm and erect, with the thumb 
 of his left hand in a button hole of his waist- 
 coat, and tracing innumerable zigzags in the 
 dust with the small stick he held in his right 
 
44 HER DIGNITY AND GRACE. 
 
 hand. The men noticed he was more pale 
 than usual and seemed tired, though it was 
 early, being not yet noon-day. 
 
 They could not leave their places, but con- 
 tinued to call to him, " Please, sir, move away, 
 she'll be down in a minute ; " and immediately, 
 with a crash and a dull thud upon the ground, 
 the tree fell — and with it, Mr. Askham ! 
 
 " Where's the squire ? " shouted the men. 
 
 " By gor ! he's killed," said one ; and they ran 
 to help him. There he lay on his right side 
 and groaned ; his eyes were shut, his face was 
 ashy pale, and bore an expression of agony that 
 quite altered him, and made him look aged by 
 ten years. They were deeply grieved to see 
 their beloved young master, as they thought, in 
 the agonies of death. One said he would run 
 for the doctor; another ran off to the hall to 
 give the alarm, and to fetch a carriage ; whilst 
 the two others remained to assist him. As 
 gently as they could they tried to move him 
 from under the branches, but he gave a piercing 
 scream when his left arm was touched, and 
 seemed to go off in a faint. After a short time 
 he rallied a little. He moved his head, but his 
 
THE FALLING TREE. 45 
 
 eyes were still closed, and if they touched him 
 he said " no, no," so they stood by and watched 
 him ; every minute seemed an hour, as they 
 anxiously awaited the arrival of the doctor or 
 the carriage, or both. Mr. Askham lay quietly 
 there, groaning occasionally, but giving no other- 
 signs of life. Near an hour passed in this way, 
 for the men had upwards of a mile to run for 
 succour. 
 
 At last one of the villagers came by the foot- 
 path through the fields and coppice, partly the 
 same way Mr. Askham had come to the wood 
 an hour or so before. Coming up, he said, 
 " Hey-day ! what's this ? " The men told him 
 what had happened to the squire in spite of all 
 their warnings. 
 
 Mr. Askham raised himself to an almost 
 sitting posture and listened to the men. The 
 villager after hearing the account of the accident 
 said : " Well, this be the second bad job to-day ; 
 for there's a man found dead in the Fell 
 meadow, and they say it be Will Stokes, but I 
 haven't seed him myself." 
 
 " Dead ! dead ! " cried Mr. Askham, looking 
 wildly and getting up suddenly, yet ready to 
 
46 HER DIGNITY AND GRACE. 
 
 sink again but for the timely aid of the men, 
 and groaning when he was touched. " Dead ! 
 who's dead ? " he said again, looking round 
 more wildly still, as if suddenly awoke from a 
 bad dream. 
 
 " Will Stokes, they say, sir," said the villager. 
 " Howsumdever they've catched the murderer, 
 they say, and have got 'un safe." 
 
 " Will Stokes ! Caught the murderer ! " cried 
 Mr. Askham in broken sentences. " Who is it 
 — what is it — where — when was it " — Then 
 he sank down again almost fainting, and al- 
 though he gave a piercing cry on being touched, 
 they lifted him to a better place. 
 
 " Not much more nor an hour ago, sir," 
 answered the villager. But the woodmen said 
 to him in a low tone, " Don't say any more, it 
 troubles the master, and he don't understand 
 yer ; he's amost dazed, d'ye see, by the fall." 
 
 They had gently laid Mr. Askham down on 
 the grass. His eyes were shut, and except for 
 the nervous twitchings of his body and his low 
 groans, he might be taken for a corpse, so 
 ghastly pale did he look. 
 
 The three men stood aside talking in whispers. 
 
THE FALLING TREE. 47 
 
 " I should na thought the squire ha' beeu so 
 naish," said one. 
 
 " Hey ! but he'd a mighty fall," said another. 
 
 " Should na wonder it kill 'un, or may be he 
 never recover it. He'd a mighty shakin', and 
 p'raps he's bones be broke." 
 
 " Did ye see him fall ? " asked the villager. 
 
 " Noa ; no un see him fall. We was all busy 
 with the tree like, but we shouted to 'un, and he 
 would na move ; he was a thinkin' like, and as 
 ta minister said t'other day, ' lost in thought.' ' 
 
 " Hey ! them was powerful words ta parson 
 said." 
 
 " My lady will take on when she hears un ! 
 They be mighty kind like, as young turtle- 
 doves." 
 
 " What be it about Will Stokes ? How was 
 he killed ? It 'ud take a strong man to kill he." 
 
 " I dinno'. I haven't seed 'un. I heerd say 
 it in the village as I cum away. They say his 
 blood and brains is all aboot the road and he 
 terrible cut aboot ; he's clo'es all torn to rags." 
 
 " Some of he's poacher fellers p'raps, set on 
 'un ; a quarrel like, for Will be mighty hot- 
 tempered. Well, I all'ays told 'un he'd come to 
 
48 HER DIGNITY AND GRACE. 
 
 some harm along a they 'legal fellers. ' Them 
 as goes agin the law, may fall by it ! ' as they say." 
 
 " Aye ; but he fell by a bludgeon more likely." 
 
 " It's bad for poor Mary and the bairns any- 
 how ; she's looked sad enough for long, 'cos of 
 he's leaving her so. I know he went out nights 
 after nights wi' they fellers, and now they've 
 done for 'un." 
 
 " Ah ! here be the carriage, and the doctor on 
 his pony. He won't tell us lies now he's some- 
 thing serious to do ; but lor' how he do tell tales ! 
 no one can possible believe 'un. When I've seen 
 the master away I maun go to Hawtree Dell to 
 the Quarry, and I all' ays think of poor old 
 mother Pendle when I go there, and her being 
 found buried in the snow, sitting on a stone as 
 if asleep, with her bundle of sticks by her side ; 
 puir old bodie ! — I should ha' been there at one 
 o'clock but for them accidents." 
 
 The doctor rode up, gave his pony to one of 
 the men, and proceeded to inquire of Mr. Askham 
 how he felt, and ascertain what injuries he had 
 sustained. As soon as his left arm was touched, 
 or he was moved the least, the patient groaned. 
 The tutored and gentle handling of the doctor, 
 
THE FALLING TREE. 49 
 
 combined with that natural careful touch as 
 much given by nature as required by art, to the 
 surgeon and those who have similar tastes, be 
 they men or women, enabled him to take off Mr. 
 Askham's coat with comparative ease, and the 
 shirt being slit down from collar to wrist an 
 examination of the injured arm was easily effected . 
 No blood was to be seen, but the bruises were 
 severe, and the shoulder, arm, and hand consider- 
 ably swollen. He complained of a stiff neck and 
 pains in the head, also of pain in the right elbow 
 and hip, and he was evidently very much shaken, 
 and in a nervous state. He walked with the 
 assistance of the doctor to the carriage, and they 
 drove together to the hall. His hat had saved his 
 head, and having fallen suddenly he did not try to 
 save himself, or his right arm on which he fell 
 might have been broken. He did not speak during 
 his drive home, which was a long one for the dis- 
 tance, owing to his being obliged, by the roughness 
 of the road in the wood, to go at a foot's pace. 
 
 As they drove into the park, they saw Mrs. 
 Askham driving by another road in her little 
 carriage, and Mr. Askham told them to wait till 
 she came up. 
 
 VOL. I. E 
 
50 HER DIGNITY AND GRACE. 
 
 Great was her surprise and grief to see her 
 husband brought home in this helpless and piti- 
 able state. She had been out all the morning 
 across the common, and knew nothing of what 
 had occurred. 
 
 She got into the carriage, and heard from the 
 doctor all that he knew about the accident, 
 which however was not altogether much, for no 
 one had actually seen Mr. Askham fall ; but it 
 was concluded that a branch of the tree had 
 struck him on the left shoulder and knocked 
 him down, yet even the doctor was surprised 
 that so comparatively small a branch — the 
 dead top of which had been broken when it 
 struck him, and being thrown up in the air had 
 fallen again not far from where Mr. Askham had 
 been standing — should have inflicted such severe 
 injuries to the left shoulder. It was of no use 
 to ask the patient, who had been almost in an 
 unconscious state, and who himself asked how it 
 happened. And so it remained a mystery. 
 
THE STRANGER. 51 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 THE STRANGER. 
 
 About the time that Mr. Askham's accident 
 occurred, there was great consternation and 
 excitement in the village of Woodnaston, whither 
 Jack Downes, a labourer at the Holt Farm, had 
 dragged, rather than led, a pale, emaciated, sad- 
 looking young man to the door of the surgeon, 
 or as he was always styled, " Doctor " Vyal. 
 With a loud tap, and ringing at every bell he 
 could see, he announced his coming, and even to 
 hasten the event he called aloud " Doctor, Doc- 
 tor." The door was soon opened and the maid- 
 servant said her master had not yet come in, 
 though they expected him home half an hour or 
 more ago. A crowd of villagers had assembled 
 inside and outside the gate, with great pressing 
 to see and hear what was going on, and demand- 
 ing at once : " What's the matter ? " " Who's 
 the man?" " What has he done ? " " Where did 
 he come from ? " " What is it, Jack ? " " Take 
 
 UBRARy 
 
52 HER DIGNITY AND GRACE. 
 
 him to the lock-up." " Is he ill ? " " He looks 
 clemmed." "Take him to the inn." "Where 
 will ye put him ? " " Let us see him." " Poor 
 chap, he looks ready to faint." " There's blood 
 on his face." " You've been fighting him, Jack." 
 " Shame on ye, shame on ye ! " " Take him to 
 the parson's." " Aye, he'll give yer a talking to ; 
 for shame, Jack, for shame ! " " Let's hear what 
 he has to say." " To fight a puir cretur like 
 he," said the women ; " for shame, Jack Downes, 
 for shame ! " " And you a strong hale man, it's 
 a downright shame on ye ! " " I'd take he home 
 wi' me sooner than he be so clemmed and beat, 
 puir cretur ! " said an old woman ; " to see that a 
 stranger can't come into the village but he is set 
 upon and beat by the likes of ye, Jack, a great 
 strong feller like ye, it's a shame to us all, it is ! " 
 "Take 'em to Mr. Askham, he's a magister." 
 "Take Jack along, he's worse nor t'other puir 
 chap." 
 
 And thus they went on, all speaking together, 
 so that Jack Downes could neither answer them, 
 nor, as they pressed upon him, could he move 
 away with the man he still collared. The tide 
 of favour ran with the captive stranger : it was 
 
THE STRANGER. 53 
 
 of no use for Jack to vociferate, " 1 tell ye I 
 didn't, — ■ I didn't fight he — I'll take he to 
 the parson's till we can fetch the squire ; 
 he's too weak or too frightened to go far, I 
 take it." 
 
 " Don't 'ee hold him that fashion, ye'll choke 
 he ; see, he's ready to fall." 
 
 And some women pressed forward to try and 
 help the stranger, who looked ghastly and hardly 
 able to stand. 
 
 " Take he to the parson's," was more and 
 more the cry ; and at last a way was made for 
 Jack and his captive to pass out of the little 
 gate, and they all proceeded to the rectory, which 
 was not a hundred yards off. 
 
 Mr. Dale was sitting in his study, which 
 looked on to the carriage-drive to the house. 
 Hearing a tramping noise he raised his eyes and 
 seemed to be dreaming when he beheld the 
 strange procession coming up and filling the 
 road to his door. A scene like the present was 
 quite beyond record in the little quiet village 
 of Woodnaston. The whole population following 
 the grim spectacle in front — the helpless, feeble, 
 blood-stained man, dragged along by the stalwart 
 
54 HER DIGNITY AND GRACE. 
 
 labourer. They assembled round the door, and 
 Mr. Dale went out to meet them ; they proved 
 a picturesque group, some of the women weep- 
 ing with their aprons to their eyes, children 
 standing with half-open mouths, their eyes full 
 of wonder and their hands behind them, or 
 nervously twitching their pinafores, for they 
 were not a ltttle frightened at the novelty of the 
 occurrence. The captive, shaking, trembling, 
 shivering, and gasping, as though it were in the 
 depth of winter instead of a bright summer's 
 day, was a pitiable object ; he could scarcely 
 stand or hold his head up. 
 
 " Hey ! and what's the matter now ?" said the 
 benevolent rector, whose genial face assumed 
 the expression of sympathy and astonishment. 
 "Jack Downes, what have you been about? — 
 and who is this poor fellow you have brought?" 
 
 Jack Downes was one of the many wrestlers 
 so famous in Cumberland formerly, and perhaps 
 they are still to be found there ; and the reason 
 why not only the rector but the villagers settled 
 the matter to his disadvantage was his known 
 strength, his fighting propensities, and his 
 prowess in the art, of which they imagined he 
 
THE STRANGER. 55 
 
 had unfairly taken advantage against a feeble 
 adversary. But which, be it said to his honour, 
 he would never have done; he scorned to wrestle 
 with one inferior to himself, or to injure him in 
 an encounter; so that these implied censures 
 were most galling to him, and he longed for 
 an opportunity to vindicate himself, but which 
 he failed to obtain whilst the clamour was so 
 loud against him. 
 
 All was silent now, however, and he began : 
 " Please, sir " 
 
 " I don't please, sir," said the rector, " to 
 hear any complaints at this moment. I shall 
 see the poor fellow whom you have brought 
 here properly warmed, fed, and tended, before I 
 hear anything about the reason for his coming 
 here." 
 
 " Please, sir, he don't deserve it," said Downes. 
 
 " Deserve it ? Pray who ever gets what they 
 deserve either for good or bad ? " said the rector ; 
 " if he has behaved ill, we will hear about it by- 
 and-by ; but it is evident he is suffering much, 
 bodily, and perhaps in mind also. Come in, my 
 poor fellow," he said to the stranger. " Loose 
 him, Jack, he can't run away." Then turning 
 
56 HER DIGNITY AND GRACE. 
 
 to the crowd of villagers, "Run one of you 
 for the doctor." 
 
 " Please, sir," they screamed in chorus, "we've 
 been there and he's out, so we come here." 
 
 " Robins," he said to his butler, " take this 
 man into the kitchen. And you, Charles," to the 
 footman, " be alert, and help, and don't stand 
 there staring." Then to the villagers, " You can 
 stay there or not as you please. Jack Downes, 
 you had better come in and wait here j when 
 the man is well enough to bear it, we'll hear 
 your story and his." 
 
 When the stranger got into the kitchen, he 
 sank down in the wooden arm-chair to which 
 they conducted him, and sobbed convulsively. 
 The well-trained servants were so accustomed 
 to their master's benevolence ("vagaries" his 
 enemies called it), that restoratives and food 
 were promptly and judiciously administered. 
 After a time he recovered a little, but the rector 
 would not allow his face and hands to be washed 
 until the doctor had seen him and heard the 
 story of his advent. 
 
 When Mr. Dale went back to the porch he was 
 again accosted by Downes in an impatient tone. 
 
THE STRANGER. 57 
 
 " Please, sir, you are harbouring a murderer." 
 
 " A murderer ! " shrieked the crowd. 
 
 " A murderer ! " said the rector ; " what do 
 you mean ? " 
 
 " Yes, sir, I found him a murdering of a man. 
 Will Stokes, sir." 
 
 "Will Stokes murdered!" cried the crowd. 
 - Oh— h— h ! " 
 
 " Impossible ! " cried the rector ; " you might 
 as well tell me my little boy Jeffrey had done it. 
 That poor weak fellow would have been a mere 
 child in the hands of a burly fellow like Will 
 Stokes." 
 
 " It's quite true, sir, and he knows it. He has 
 killed Will Stokes ; and he's shamming now I 
 know." 
 
 " Killed Will Stokes ? I tell you it is impos- 
 sible. Shamming ? What do you mean ? " 
 
58 HER DIGNITY AND GRACE. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 AT THE RECTORY. 
 
 When the stranger had been taken into the 
 Rectory the greater part of the villagers had dis- 
 persed, and at the mention of Will Stokes being 
 murdered others ran off to spread the news j 
 besides, it was about noon, the dinner hour not 
 only of the labouring classes and shop-keepers 
 but of those above them, so that the village had 
 its full complement of inhabitants at that hour, 
 and the report of the murder soon got round. 
 The doctor, however, had not returned when the 
 messenger from Mr. Dale went for him; his 
 unwonted absence at that hour was a matter of 
 much astonishment to his family, for he was 
 punctual in his habits. 
 
 A story never loses, but like a snow r -ball 
 gathers as it runs ; so it was with the vague 
 report from Jack Downes, that Will Stokes was 
 murdered by the sad-looking stranger. To 
 Downes' few words the reporters added that 
 
AT THE RECTORY. 59 
 
 " Will Stokes's blood and brains were scattered 
 all over the road — one might know that by the 
 blood on the murderer's face ; that Jack Downes 
 had seen him batter Will Stokes to death, and 
 break all his bones ; " and so on ; " that it was 
 done in the high road, and any one might see the 
 place." 
 
 Some set off up the road to see and verify the 
 story, but returned, having found nothing except 
 in one place where there were traces in the dust 
 of a scuffle, but no dead body, no blood, no 
 brains ; so, disappointed, they declared that 
 either the stranger had accomplices or Jack 
 Downes had told a lie. 
 
 " You may go and look for yourselves if you 
 believe that story ; there's no Will Stokes dead 
 or alive, and no signs of a murder, only of a 
 scuffle ; besides, how could that poor weak crea- 
 ture kill Will Stokes ? No ; it was a bad joke of 
 Jack's; he knocked the poor fellow down himself, 
 fighting or wrestling. He'd no business to put 
 out his strength against such a weakling — more 
 shame to him." 
 
 In the mean time a labourer came to the village 
 inn, saying with great emotion, " Where's the 
 
60 HER DIGNITY AND GRACE. 
 
 doctor? We must fetch a magistrate. Will 
 Stokes is lying dead in the Fell meadow. I saw 
 him as I passed, and we must know how he got 
 his death." 
 
 " The doctor is out," said the innkeeper, " and 
 the nearest magistrate is Mr. Askham ; Jack 
 Downes has found the murderer and taken him 
 up to the rector." 
 
 So off the man ran without saying anything to 
 other people whom he met, and went up to the 
 Rectory, where still two or three of the most 
 inquisitive remained at the gate waiting for the 
 result of the stranger's being brought there ; 
 they followed the man in ; Mr. Dale was talking 
 to Downes at the door — as we left him in the 
 last chapter. 
 
 " Sir," said he, " Will Stokes lies dead in the 
 Fell meadow, and we don't know who's killed 
 him, or how he came to his death." 
 
 "We've got the murderer here," said the 
 villagers, " and he must be taken to the lock-up 
 house." 
 
 u We should all be murderers," said the 
 rector, " if we put that poor fellow into the lock- 
 up house. He looks already at the verge of the 
 
AT THE RECTORY. 61 
 
 grave, and as to the accusation against him, I can- 
 not believe it. However, we must inquire more 
 about that. The man is safe in my custody 
 until he is wanted elsewhere, and shall be taken 
 care of. You had better go to your homes and 
 your dinners," he said to the villagers. "Jack 
 Downes, you remain here." 
 
 He then gave directions about the body, that 
 it should remain where it lay, untouched, and 
 watched by the men who brought the last news, 
 until a doctor and a magistrate should arrive ; 
 and sent a message that the doctor should come 
 to the Rectory as soon as possible. He gave 
 orders in his house that no questions were to be 
 asked either of Jack Downes or of the stranger, 
 nor were they to be encouraged to talk. This 
 injunction was not, however, needed for the 
 stranger, who had sank into a sort of lethargy, 
 with his eyes partly closed, and his heavy 
 breathing was all that told he was alive. Jack 
 Downes was taken to the servants' hall. 
 
 In answer to the question of the butler as to 
 Jack's position, Mr. Dale said, " Of course he 
 will sit down with you all to dinner. Every 
 man is innocent till he is proved guilty." 
 
62 HER DIGNITY AND GRACE. 
 
 The cook went to her mistress in some alarm, 
 saying she was sure the man in the kitchen was 
 going into a fever, and would it not be best to 
 have him taken up to the loft ? The loft was a 
 good room over the stables where many a poor 
 ailing stranger had been housed, waifs and 
 strays, crippled or sick, and kept with all care till 
 they recovered. 
 
 Mrs. Dale said on no account was he to be 
 moved until the doctor came ; but she went 
 herself to see him, and was quite as much con- 
 vinced as the cook that fever was upon him. 
 
 Long seemed the time when they were waiting 
 for the arrival of the doctor and Mr. Askham, for 
 Mr. Dale, not liking to leave the house at this 
 juncture, had sent the groom on horseback with a 
 note to acquaint Mr. Askham that the two men 
 were at the Rectory, and to beg his attendance. 
 
 The noonday meals were awaiting the occu- 
 pants both of kitchen and parlour, and were 
 partaken of in each place with a silent astonish- 
 ment and dread that considerably marred the 
 appetites of all. So silent a meal in the servants' 
 hall, where Charles the footman was wont to be 
 the wit and talker of the assembly, supported by 
 
AT THE RECTORY. 63 
 
 the banter and laughter of the rest, had never 
 been known before. The cook was uneasy con- 
 cerning the welfare of the poor fellow in the 
 kitchen ; and about the dinner being almost cold 
 waiting so long upon the table ; the gravy of the 
 mutton was covered with white solid-looking 
 islands of fat ; the dough dumplings were still 
 seething in the pot, overdone, altogether spoiled ! 
 These misadventures preyed upon her sensitive 
 mind, making her stern and somewhat sharp in 
 her manner to all but the stranger ; he had her 
 commiseration, and she frequently left the table 
 to look after him. 
 
 " Thee's a good appetite for dinner," she said 
 to Jack Downes. 
 
 " Aye, missus," he replied ; "it don't want no 
 sauce, and it's not often I git a chance like this. 
 It's uncommon good food." 
 
 " It's no a load upon your heart, then, to see 
 yon puir feller look so ghost-like ? " 
 
 " I'se no load on my heart," he replied, 
 " it's " 
 
 " Hush," said the butler; "the master said 
 nought was to be said," and they again relapsed 
 into silence. 
 
64 HER DIGNITY AND GRACE. 
 
 In the mean time the doctor's servant had 
 arrived, with a note from her mistress, saying 
 the doctor had sent for medicines by a servant 
 of Mr. Askham's, that she had sent word that 
 he was wanted in the village as soon as he could 
 come, and she expected him soon. 
 
 Mr. Dale was in a fidget ; he was always im- 
 patient of being kept waiting, and Mrs. Vyal's 
 note increased his uneasiness. What could have 
 happened at the hall to detain Mr. Vyal? He 
 had dined there the day before, when his friends 
 were in perfect health, and he had heard of no 
 accident or illness amongst the children — yet 
 something must have occurred. He walked up 
 and down the room musing, and finally, to the 
 great relief of the children, who feared they 
 knew not what, he left the room. 
 
 Jeffrey and his sisters sat quiet by their 
 mother, the boy inquisitive as to what had 
 happened, for they had all been in the nursery 
 at the back of the house, and had seen nothing 
 of the village procession; the little girls fright- 
 ened at the unusual silence and solemnity of 
 their dinner hour, which was usually so 
 cheerful. 
 
AT THE RECTORY. 65 
 
 " Mamma," said Jeffrey, " who is that man I 
 saw in the kitchen as I passed ? " 
 
 " I do not know, my dear." 
 
 " Are you frightened, mamma ? " 
 
 " No, my dear." 
 
 " Is papa frightened ? What is the matter ? 
 Has that man done anything wrong ? " 
 
 Mrs. Dale replied that she did not know, and 
 tried to divert the boy's mind from the topic. 
 But Jeffrey returned again and again to the 
 charge. He wished to go out on his pony. 
 He could not be content to amuse himself with 
 a book. He wished to go to the kitchen and 
 inquire about the stranger for himself. 
 
 She was relieved, therefore, when, anxiously 
 looking at the clock and finding it past two 
 o'clock, she heard the boy cry out, " Mamma, 
 there is papa at the gate, and he is opening it 
 for some one. Oh ! it is Doctor Vyal ; I know 
 him by his saddle-bags," he added, laughing 
 and jumping about. " Shan't we have some 
 fun when he tells us some of his stories ! " 
 
 Mrs. Dale went to the window and beckoned 
 to her husband. 
 
 " Jeffrey can go out riding now, can he not ? 
 
 VOL. I. F 
 
66 HER DIGNITY AND GRACE. 
 
 and the pony had better be brought round 
 here." 
 
 " Yes," said Mr. Dale, " and John shall go 
 with him. They shall take a note from me to 
 Mr. Royle." 
 
 " That's right, papa ; I shall be sure to take 
 it safely. May I go upstairs ? " 
 
 " Come with me, my dear," said his mother ; 
 and she took him upstairs with her, that he 
 might not go into the kitchen. 
 
 John had special orders to answer none of his 
 questions. All were soon ready and started, 
 taking, to get to Mr. Royle's, quite the opposite 
 direction from the village. 
 
AT THE HALL. 67 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 AT THE HALL. 
 
 When Mr. Askham got to his room, and the 
 doctor had examined him again, it was found 
 that the right hip and elbow were much bruised 
 — the hip severely ; probably from falling on 
 some stones. 
 
 The woodman who brought the news of the 
 accident was questioned in the servants' hall as 
 to how it happened ; but he could give no ac- 
 count, for the tree had fallen in a different 
 direction to what had been expected, and all the 
 men saw was that with the tree Mr. Askham too 
 had fallen ; and at the same time a piece of 
 dead wood had sprung up in the air with a 
 crashing noise. Next they found him lying on 
 the ground, with a branch — " a goodish stiff 
 \in" — close by his shoulder, but not touching 
 him. 
 
 The Doctor said there were evidently two 
 contusions : one on the top of the left shoulder, 
 
 F 2 
 
68 HER DIGNITY AND GRACE. 
 
 near the collar-bone — which he considered would 
 have been broken but for the snapping of the 
 branch ; and another on the point of the 
 shoulder, where something hard and pointed, 
 but not sharp, must have struck him most 
 forcibly. He could not conceive how this last 
 injury had been effected. 
 
 However, he very wisely concluded, " all must 
 remain conjecture where there is no probability 
 of learning the reality." And he said no more 
 about it. 
 
 Mr. Askham was extremely sensitive to pain. 
 Though a man of good nerve and great bodily 
 strength, yet he could not repress a slight shriek 
 when his left arm was touched or raised the 
 least ; so it was considered advisable that he 
 should be kept quiet for a few days. He 
 remained in his room, and his left arm was put 
 in a sling ; but he was altogether so shaken and 
 bruised that he begged, after he had partaken 
 of his luncheon, to be in bed ; and there he lay 
 in a semi-unconscious state for some time. The 
 Doctor proceeded with Mrs. Askham to the 
 dining-room, and partook of a hearty luncheon — 
 which was in fact his dinner. No one appre- 
 
AT THE HALL. 69 
 
 ciated the good things of this world better than 
 he did ; and in the midst of this epicurean 
 enjoyment came the messenger who had been 
 sent to his own house, bringing the medicines 
 sent for ; and also a message from Mrs. Vyal, 
 requiring his immediate presence at the Rectory. 
 Very shortly after, Mr. Dale's groom arrived with 
 a note for Mr. Askham, which his wife took up 
 to him. She had been too much occupied with the 
 state of her husband to heed other reports, and, 
 but for the information given in Mr. Dale's note, 
 she would have known nothing of what had passed 
 in the village. She took the note to him, saying : 
 
 " This is for you, George, and an immediate 
 answer is required. " 
 
 " Read it, my love," he said in a low voice. 
 
 She opened the note and gave a start on 
 reading it ; it ran thus : 
 
 "Dear Askham, 
 
 " Will you come to my house as soon as you can 1 
 Jack Downes and the villagers have brought a man here 
 under accusation of being the murderer of Will Stokes ; 
 to me, a very improbable story. I have both the accused 
 and the accuser here, the former quite prostrate and not in 
 
 a state to be moved. 
 
 " Faithfully yours, 
 
 "Alan Dale." 
 
70 HER DIGNITY AND GRACE. 
 
 Mrs. Askham recovered herself, and fearing 
 the shock to her husband, merely said : 
 
 " It is from Mr. Dale, asking you to go there 
 on magistrate's duty. I will write and say you 
 cannot go/' 
 
 " Yes," in a faint tone was all he answered. 
 
 She therefore sent back a note, telling in a few 
 words of the accident, adding that the Doctor, 
 who was still at the hall, would be at the Rectory 
 as soon as he could. 
 
 Whilst the groom was waiting for the note the 
 servants took care to ask all that he knew about 
 Will Stokes ; a slight account had been already 
 given by the labourer to the woodmen, by them 
 to the coachman whilst the doctor was attending 
 to Mr. Askham in the wood, and this the coach- 
 man had repeated to the servants on his return 
 to the hall. From Mr. Dale's groom, however, 
 they did not learn more than that the villagers 
 brought Jack Downes and the stranger to the 
 Rectory, and that the latter was a tall thin young 
 man. For John was a man of few words and 
 no imagination ; he could tell correctly what he 
 knew, but he could not go beyond what he 
 actually saw and heard. So the servants gave 
 
AT THE HALL. 71 
 
 him up as " no good," and in return only told 
 him that their master had been brought home 
 hurt, from the woods. Their minds were too 
 full of the novelty of a murder to allow of com- 
 ments or exaggerations on meaner topics, and 
 they discussed together the account that the 
 messenger to the Doctor's house brought back, 
 which was charmingly horrible, embodying all 
 the terrible reports current on the subject. 
 Every one was on the alert — frightened and 
 curious — longing for more news of the murder, 
 yet dreading to hear it. 
 
 The housekeeper went to her mistress with a 
 solemn face to ask after Mr. Askham, declaring 
 that she was u in such a tremble at all these 
 dreffie events that she could scarcely stand. 
 Had her mistress heard of the shocking murder ? 
 Thank God, they had got the murderer safe at 
 the Rectory. She only wondered Mr. Dale was 
 not afraid to harbour such a villain. Poor Will 
 Stokes ! What harm had he done to any one that 
 he should be set upon and battered to death ! 
 Scarce a bit of him left, they say. Well, to be 
 sure ! — there are wicked people on the earth ! — 
 (with a sigh) — why poor innocent folks could not 
 
72 HER DIGNITY AND GRACE. 
 
 be walking along the king's highway, without 
 being murdered, it was more than she could 
 think ! People grew wickeder and wickeder ! — 
 (again a sigh) — poor Mary Stokes, and the 
 children too ! — (here a very deep sigh) — what 
 would they do without some one to keep them, 
 poor innocents! — (a sigh) — and for all this to 
 happen on the top of master's being so fearfle 
 hurt ! There was trouble, indeed, for all ! " — (a 
 very deep sigh, and a few tears wiped away with 
 the corner of her apron). 
 
 Mrs. Askham said she hoped there was not 
 so much injury done to her master from the fall 
 and the blow from the tree as at first there 
 appeared to be. He must be kept quiet in the 
 house for a short time and then he would be 
 quite well again ; but he must not be told of the 
 murder, for it would greatly distress him. Had 
 she (Cubberd, the housekeeper) heard where and 
 when it had taken place ? Bid she know any 
 particulars ? 
 
 " I have only heard, ma'am, what the men said, 
 and that is bad enough. They say Jack Downes, 
 who brought the murderer into the village, saw 
 him at it, for the man is a great strapping fellow, 
 
AT THE HALL. 73 
 
 covered with blood, and it would take a good 
 strong man to master Will Stokes, I should say ; 
 it must have happened just now, ma'am, whilst 
 we were at dinner in the kitchen perhaps" 
 
 Mrs. Askham again desired that nothing 
 should be said about it in the hearing of the 
 children, nor should Mr. Askham know it ; and 
 she left Mrs. Cubberd still sighing over the 
 horrors of the situation, and wondering "how 
 missis could take it so quiet. This shocking 
 thing ! that happened while we was all eating 
 our dinners. Well, to be sure ! " was her 
 ejaculation to herself as she went downstairs, 
 " gentlefolks haven't much thought for others ! 
 To see how unconcerned like missis do take 
 poor Will Stokes, as though he was no better 
 nor a dog, and he be their own shepherd too. 
 One would say they'd no feeling for nobody. 
 And yet," she continued, after a pause, " they 
 be as kind and good master and missis as ever 
 came into the world." And with this whole- 
 some conclusion she went to the kitchen, to get 
 rid of her excitement by scolding the still-room 
 maid, who had done nothing to deserve it. 
 
 The news of the day spread fast, and in the 
 
74 HER DIGNITY AND GRACE. 
 
 evening Farmer Giles came up to the hall to 
 inquire after " the Squire," and was very grieved 
 to hear how severely he had been hurt. He was 
 so blithe and gay in the morning, talking to him 
 and his wife • and much shocked too the farmer 
 was to hear of Will Stokes's death. 
 
 " To be sure ! To think that two dreadful 
 things as they was both should happen in one 
 day ; and Will Stokes whiles we was at dinner ! " 
 said the housekeeper, and she had a long story 
 to tell to him of her own fears, and longer com- 
 ments to make on the wickedness of mankind. 
 " And lor', Mr. Giles," she continued, " we'd the 
 finest round of biled beef ye ever saw, for dinner, 
 wi' carrots and suet dumplins fit for a king, and 
 we all a' enjoying it so and eatin' hearty, while 
 that poor fellow, who'd clone no wrong to nobody, 
 was a dying his shameful death ! It's horrid to 
 think on, it is." 
 
 " I'm right glad you enjyed your dinners so, 
 mum, and I wish I'd been of the comp'ny, I'm 
 pertickler fond of biled beef and dumplins ; but 
 begging your pardon, mum," said the farmer, 
 " I don't think they be no wickeder now nor 
 ever they was. Why we hear tell o' murders the 
 
AT THE HALL. 75 
 
 very first thing in the Bible ; the Bibles full on 
 'em ; so like enough there' d be some now-a-days. 
 But lauk, mum," he continued, "don't ye be 
 down-hearted ; it's true Will Stokes be killed, 
 but they've been a filling your head wid a passel 
 o' lies aboon it. I don't b'lieve a word of 'em. 
 There maun be a merest, and I shall go and hear 
 what they say." 
 
 " Ah, that's right. Do, Mr. Giles," said the 
 housekeeper ; " and I . dare say master will let 
 some of us go too. It's right we should know 
 about things as is brought right to our door. 
 And such a poor innocent man as Will Stokes ! 
 — (with a sigh) — after that, we're none of us safe 
 in our beds." 
 
 " Tut, tut, mum," said the farmer, " ye mauna 
 be so timorous like. We're all safe enough, and 
 1 don't myself think Will Stokes was just such a 
 innocent babby as you say," he added, laughing ; 
 " and so I'll wish ye good evening, ' mum, and 
 I'm right glad to hear the master is going on 
 well." 
 
 In a day or two Mr. Askham could put his 
 foot to the ground, though the knee and hip were 
 still very painful, andhe was obliged to use a 
 
76 HER DIGNITY AND GRACE. 
 
 crutch. The Doctor was pleased at his progress, 
 but the left arm and hand remained in the same 
 swollen and painful state. The Doctor informed 
 Mrs. Askham he thought it best to tell her 
 husband what had occurred to Will Stokes, for 
 an inquest must be held, and there would be 
 much talk about it. 
 
 The Doctor undertook to break the news to 
 him. The Squire seemed much interested, asking 
 questions, wanting the most minute details, de- 
 claring the young man accused could not have 
 done it ; then vowing, in an excited way, that he 
 must go to the inquest. But on this the Doctor 
 at once put his veto. Mr. Askham could not 
 walk, and must be kept very quiet, and it would 
 not be well for him to attend ; there was no 
 necessity for it, or for his running so great a 
 risk, when fever might ensue from the worry and 
 excitement. The inquest could be held at once, 
 as the coroner was on his way from Carlisle, 
 and he should hear all that passed if he could 
 bear it. 
 
THE ACCUSED AND THE SLAIN. 77 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 THE ACCUSED AND THE SLAIN. 
 
 After his sumptuous repast at the hall, Mr. 
 Vyal hastened to the Rectory. Mr. Dale met 
 him at the gate, and as they walked to the house 
 the Doctor told Mr. Dale of the accident to Mr. 
 Askham, and received in return a short account 
 of what had passed in the village. They then 
 went into the kitchen to see the stranger, who 
 was much revived. 
 
 After examining the wounds on the head, and 
 the scratch on the wrist, from which there was 
 also blood, the Doctor said : 
 
 " How did you come by these wounds ? " 
 
 "I fell, sir, on a heap of stoanes as I was 
 running." 
 
 " What stones ? " 
 
 " The flinders ta side of the road.' 
 
 "What road?" 
 
 " Ta road to the village, sir." 
 
 " Where were you running to ? " 
 
78 HER DIGNITY AND GRACE. 
 
 " A man pursued me, my foot stumbled, and I 
 fell on the stoanes, for I'm not over strong." 
 
 "How did you get this wound on your 
 wrist?" 
 
 " A nail in the stile catched it and my sleeve 
 too ; it torn a piece of that out, see." 
 
 " You are suffering from fever ; how is 
 that?" 
 
 "I've been sick at the cottage these many 
 days." 
 
 "What cottage?" 
 
 " The cottage on ta peat moor." 
 
 " Get up." 
 
 In a tottering way, holding on to the table, the 
 man got up, but could scarcely stand. 
 
 " Sit down again. Bed is the proper place 
 for you," said the Doctor ; and went out with the 
 Rector. 
 
 " It's a farce, sir," said Mr. Vyal, " a ridiculous 
 farce, to tell me that man murdered any one in 
 his state of health, much less Will Stokes. Why, 
 it would take me to do that. That chap has no 
 more strength in him than a flaun ; and I doubt 
 if even in his strongest health he could have 
 knocked Stokes down. What's to be done? 
 
THE ACCUSED AND THE SLAIN. 79 
 
 The man is in a fever ; probably a relapse from 
 the illness he mentioned." 
 
 " He shall stay here," said the Rector ; " the 
 loft shall be his resting-place till he is Avell." 
 
 " Well done," said the Doctor, shaking hands 
 with him ; " your heart is always in the right 
 place." 
 
 They returned to the kitchen, and the Doctor 
 proceeded to wash the man's face and hands. 
 There was some gravel in the wound on the side 
 of the head, which corroborated his story of falling 
 upon a heap of stones. The wound on the wrist 
 was trivial; that on the head was neither deep 
 nor dangerous. The hair was cut away and a 
 plaister put over. Finally, he was established 
 in the loft, bed evidently being the best place 
 for him. 
 
 " And now," said the Doctor, " I must see the 
 body. Where is it ? " 
 
 He and the Rector walked off together to 
 the Fell meadow ; not above a mile distant. 
 There they found a crowd of people, kept at a 
 distance by ' Ned Flinders ; he it was who 
 reported that the body lay there. Mr. Royle 
 had not arrived. 
 
80 HER DIGNITY AND GRACE. 
 
 So fully had Mr. Dale's instructions been 
 carried out, that the trifling marks in the path 
 were not obliterated. 
 
 There lay Will Stokes ! — a model of muscular 
 strength ; not a particle of his apparel dis- 
 turbed. He was lying on his back, with his 
 arms extended ; his hat at a short distance ; and 
 a formidable club -like stick by him. He might 
 have been asleep, but for the deep shadow of 
 death on his face, and the bitter expression of 
 countenance. There were scarcely any marks of 
 a scuffle on the path. Some of the bystanders 
 said he had died in a fit ; the Doctor pronounced 
 the cause a blow on the temple, delivered 
 on that particular spot which causes instant 
 death. But the angry expression of the face 
 suggested that a blow or blows had been given 
 as well as received by him. He had been dead 
 three or four hours, he said; but a special 
 examination would have to be made before any 
 further report could be given. 
 
 A man was despatched to the village for a 
 stretcher, and the body was taken to the inn to 
 await the inquest. At this time Mr. Royle 
 arrived ; and finally, the villagers made up the 
 
THE ACCUSED AND THE SLAIN. 81 
 
 procession before, behind, and around the corpse 
 as it was carried to the inn. 
 
 As they walked back to the village, Mr. Vyal, 
 in answer to questions from Mr. Dale and Mr. 
 Royle, said he feared a serious accident had 
 befallen Mr. Askhara ; his left shoulder was 
 injured in a most unaccountable manner. A 
 bad bruise and contusion appeared on the top 
 of the shoulder and collar-bone; but there 
 was an injury to the point of the shoulder 
 with extravasion of blood, which was most 
 alarming. The arm and hand were greatly 
 swollen, and he shrieked when they were 
 touched. 
 
 " Ah," said Mr. Dale, " he was always very 
 sensitive to pain." 
 
 " He may well be sensitive now ; if the bone 
 had been broken it would be better for him. It 
 will be as black as your hat by to-morrow ; not 
 that that is anything to be concerned about, but 
 I fear the bone is injured, and he may feel it all 
 his life." 
 
 " How did it happen ? " said Mr. Royle. 
 
 "That's what I want to know," said the 
 Doctor. " No one saw the accident ; and they 
 
 VOL. I. G 
 
82 HER DIGNITY AND GRACE. 
 
 had moved him away from the place where he 
 fell, before I arrived. The woodmen were so 
 occupied with the falling tree, that, except in. 
 shouting to him to move out of the way, they 
 did not notice him. All that they knew was 
 that the tree had fallen, and so had he ; and 
 he seemed insensible when they went up to him. 
 A large piece of dead wood was broken off as 
 the tree fell ; probably when it struck him down 
 the piece flew up in the air. It would take a 
 stronger blow than from dead wood to produce 
 the injury to the point of the shoulder ; which 
 also indicates that a pointed, though blunt, spur 
 or small branch came in contact with it. I did 
 not speak of this to any one in the house, for they 
 were sufficiently alarmed already. The right hip 
 and elbow are much bruised, but that is alto- 
 gether a minor consideration to the left shoulder 
 and arm." 
 
 They were grieved to hear this account, and 
 remarked on the uncommon occurrence of two 
 such startling events on the same day. 
 
 The Doctor said that until the body had been 
 examined in search of other injuries, he could 
 not say for certain ; but his firm conviction was, 
 
THE ACCUSED AND THE SLAIN. 83 
 
 that Will Stokes had quarrelled with some 
 other man, and that a blow from the fist of his 
 antagonist had caused his death. A blow from 
 the cudgel beside him would not leave the same 
 mark as that on the temple ; which must have 
 been given before death. 
 
 The next question was : Did his wife know of 
 it ? Mr. Dale said he should imagine she did 
 not, as her cottage was the other side of the park, 
 and he would ride up there to see her and break 
 the news to her. 
 
 He went home, and without loss of time 
 was on his way to Ashencroft gate, where she 
 lived. He found Mary Stokes busy spinning, 
 her children at play by her side. The sad 
 expression her face had of late borne was there ; 
 but she was very placid, and there was no 
 semblance of deep sorrow, nor that she had 
 recently been agitated by bad news. 
 
 She got up from her wheel when she saw Mr. 
 Dale approach, and curtseyed. 
 
 " Good day, Mary," said he, in a solemn 
 voice. 
 
 " Good day, sir," she answered timidly, rather 
 
 alarmed to see the Rector's usually good- 
 
 g 2 
 
84 HER DIGNITY AND GRACE. 
 
 humoured face so over-cast. " Won't you walk 
 in, sir ? I hope you're well, sir." 
 
 Finding her so much on the alert, almost 
 startled, as it were, expectant of evil, Mr. 
 Dale had, he thought, an easier task before him 
 in breaking the sad news to her than if she had 
 been blithe and gay as of yore. He answered 
 her question, and asked after her own health, 
 her occupations, her children ; all in the same 
 solemn tone. At last she said : 
 
 « Why sure, sir, something has happened to 
 make you so grave." 
 
 " Yes, Mary, something has happened. Tell 
 me ; when did you last see your husband ? " 
 
 " Oh dear, oh dear ! " she cried, " he be 
 taken ! " 
 
 " Taken, Mary ? where should he be taken to?" 
 
 " Oh, sir, them fellers ; I know'd they'd get 
 him into harm." 
 
 " What fellows ? " 
 
 " They poachers, sir ; oh dear, oh dear ! " 
 
 " Who are they ? " 
 
 " I daren't name 'em, sir, it might be worse 
 for him. Oh ! that he should ever have taken 
 up with them ! " 
 
THE ACCUSED AND THE SLAIN. 85 
 
 " What do you expect to hear, Mary ? " 
 
 " That he's been took to pris'n for being with 
 them." 
 
 " When did you see him last?" 
 
 " It was this morning before four o'clock that 
 he went out." 
 
 " When did he say he would be back ? " 
 
 " He said he might be very late, or not till 
 to-morrow." 
 
 " Was he in the habit of going away like this ? " 
 
 She hesitated — " It's no use telling a lie, sir. 
 Mr. Askham knows he has neglected his work 
 this long time, and he'll turn us away, I know 
 he will," she said crying. " Sam Wade often 
 complains of him. It makes me that sad and 
 worried, all my happiness is gone." 
 
 " Where did he say he was going to when he 
 left you this morning ? " 
 
 " He only said he was going to the monthly 
 market, and bade me keep heart. I said to 
 him : ' Oh, Will, leave they bad fellers and go to 
 your work. It's sair time for me waiting here, 
 and you away with them. What will I and 
 the bairns do if you be taken ! ' Have you 
 heard that he be took, sir ? " 
 
86 HER DIGNITY AND GRACE. 
 
 " No — but could you bear to hear that he 
 would not come back again ? " 
 
 " Oh, sir," she cried, " say the word — Is he 
 took?" 
 
 " Mary," he said very solemnly, " God only 
 knows how it happened ; but your husband was 
 found—" 
 
 " Oh where, sir " — 
 
 " In the Fell Meadow." 
 
 " With them ? " 
 
 " Alone, Mary— Dead ! " 
 
 " Ah ! " she said with a loud shriek, and 
 clasped her hands, raising them on high. 
 " Dead ! did you say ? Dead ! Oh ! they 
 bad men," she exclaimed, shuddering. 
 
 She walked about the room as one distracted, 
 gasping for breath, and wringing her hands ; 
 many tears had trickled down her cheeks during 
 the former part of the conversation, but her 
 glaring eyes were tearless now. 
 
 " I maun go to him, sir," she said after a long 
 pause. " Come, bairns, we'll go to father." And 
 she took the youngest in her arms. " We'll go 
 to the Fell meadow ; come, bairns." 
 
 " You will not find him there, Mary ; his 
 
THE ACCUSED AND THE SLAIN. 87 
 
 body had to be taken to the inn to await the 
 inquest." 
 
 " Waes me ! Waes me I " she cried. 
 " Come, bairns, we'll go anyhow." 
 
 She walked hurriedly out of the cottage, 
 heeding nothing, not even the elder child of 
 three years, who could not keep up with her, 
 and began to whimper. Mr. Dale put the 
 lad on his horse, holding him there as he 
 walked by the side. The child's prattle of 
 delight was the only sound heard. Mr. Dale 
 walked silently along a little behind poor Mary, 
 who was wholly absorbed by her grief. She 
 walked on and on, over the heath as in a dream, 
 without speaking ; but when she got to the stile 
 into the Fell meadow, she exclaimed, " Ah ! 
 there's blood. There's a piece of his shirt ! " 
 And taking the shred from the nail on which it 
 hung, she put it into her pocket ; her stern face 
 assuming even a harder expression. 
 
 Mr. Dale had to continue on the road outside 
 the field, the shorter path giving Mary the advan- 
 tage. Her pace getting more and more hurried 
 as she came near the village, she reached the 
 inn several minutes before he did. 
 
88 HER DIGNITY AND GRACE. 
 
 " Waes me ! waes me ! " he heard her crying 
 with loud sobs, as he came into the inn. The 
 landlady was also weeping. " Puir young 
 creetur ! " she said, " her trouble's come." 
 
 Mr. Dale was glad that poor Mary had soft- 
 ened into tears, and left her and the children to 
 the care of the landlady. 
 
 " Oh, sir," said the latter, as he was going 
 away, " what a awful look the face has got. 
 It's enough to scare a body." 
 
 "It is not a pleasant expression, certainly," 
 said Mr. Dale, and rode home. 
 
THE MISSES CAVENDISH. 89 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 THE MISSES CAVENDISH. 
 
 Amongst the most amiable and accomplished 
 ladies in the neighbourhood of Woodnaston, 
 were the Misses Cavendish of Ravenscrag Manor 
 — ladies "of a certain age," who lived together in 
 the house that had been their father's, and in 
 which they had all been born. Everything about 
 the house and grounds was kept up as he left 
 it ; their loyalty would not admit any alteration 
 or further adornments except in the matter of 
 flowers in the garden. The old-fashioned man- 
 sion had its high, narrow, plate-glass windows, 
 four on each side of the wide porticoed glass 
 door, which entered into a capacious hall, hung 
 with trophies of arms and of the chase. The story 
 above had the same large windows, but that over 
 the door was much larger than the rest, and 
 arched at the top. Had the house not been im- 
 bedded, as it were, in ivy it would have had a 
 very formal appearance ; but as it was, it looked 
 
90 HER DIGNITY AND GRACE. 
 
 comfortably suited to all seasons ; the ivy even 
 encircled the massive stacks of chimneys. The 
 respectable appearance of the old coach with fat 
 Flemish horses, and the old-fashioned attendants, 
 were quite in keeping with the house. The 
 cumbersome vehicle came round every day to 
 take the ladies out for "an airing," and Mr. 
 Royle had made a calculation that the greatest 
 speed obtainable "on a pinch" might be six 
 miles in the hour, on level ground ; and he de- 
 clared he had met it drawling along scarcely 
 above a foot's pace, the coachman, footman, and 
 the ladies inside the coach, all asleep ; and that 
 he awoke them with a start by calling out 
 " Halloa, here ! you're on the wrong side of the 
 road ! " He waited till they made room for him, 
 when he drove past, bowing to the ladies, Miss 
 Jane looking still only half awake, but Miss 
 Amelia alert enough to frown at him. But, 
 " Mr. Royle is censorious ; " so everybody said ! 
 The Misses Cavendish had brothers and sisters 
 married, but they all lived at a distance. Their 
 eldest brother lived in the next county, and his 
 second son, Tom, was the special favourite of his 
 aunts at Ravenscrag. It was said by those who 
 
THE MISSES CAVENDISH. 91 
 
 gossip over other people's affairs, that he would 
 inherit their estate ; but the " old ladies," as 
 they were called, never said a word on the 
 subject. 
 
 The Misses Cavendish were four in number — 
 Miss Selina, the eldest, had all special rights of 
 authority vested in her ; the landed property was 
 hers, and at her final disposal, though each of 
 the sisters was to succeed to it for the term of 
 her existence — if unmarried. Jane was the 
 name of the second, Charlotte the third, and 
 Amelia the youngest. They each had their 
 special qualification. Selina, as lady of the manor 
 and housekeeper, was quite equal to her position 
 — wise, friendly, and discreet. She had a stately 
 manner that was apt to overawe the timid ; but 
 her sisters declared it added much to their 
 security, for it kept bad people aloof. They said, 
 " Who can stand against her searching glance, 
 and who is not gratified by her kindly com- 
 mendation ?" She and Jane were the nearest 
 of age, and were like twins in stature as in 
 thought ; though Jane was of a timid disposition, 
 and rested for support on the strength of 
 character of her elder sister, of whom she was 
 
92 HER DIGNITY AND GRACE. 
 
 the devoted admirer. Charlotte was the active 
 and useful body, ready to act at home or abroad, 
 the life and soul of the family and of every 
 assembly ; her cheerful face and musical voice 
 as welcome in the cottage as in the drawing- 
 room. Amelia was much her junior, and was 
 looked upon by them all as one to be petted and 
 spoiled, never to be contradicted, whose wishes 
 were always to be first considered. She was not 
 so sweet-tempered as her sisters, and was apt to 
 have a sharp tongue, and be somewhat dictato- 
 rial without meaning to be unkind. Mr. Royle, 
 who was inclined to pass judgment upon people, 
 used to say of her, when he had seen the sisters 
 give way to her : "As usual, her detestable 
 domineering temper governs them all." But this, 
 like most of his criticisms, was too harsh ; she 
 was not naturally detestable, only spoiled. She 
 could be as charming a person as one would 
 wish to meet ; but she was easily ruffled ; she 
 spoke hastily, and piquing herself upon her 
 honesty and justice, was often both rude and 
 unjust. 
 
 They were all sitting in the drawing-room 
 the day after the village excitement of finding 
 
THE MISSES CAVENDISH. 93 
 
 Will Stokes' body, and had been discussing the 
 news which was brought to them that morning, 
 when Mr. Royle rode up. 
 
 Immediately after the customary greeting, he 
 began, " Well, ladies, have you heard the 
 news f 
 
 " We have heard this morning a very sad 
 tale," said Miss Cavendish. 
 
 "Well, what do you think of this murder, 
 ma am r 
 
 "It appears to me perfectly incomprehensible," 
 she answered. 
 
 "It is ; and if it had not been that Jack 
 Downes himself brought in the supposed culprit, 
 and was known to have been at work up to the 
 time at the Holt farm, one would have said that 
 no one but he was capable of overpowering such 
 a strong fellow as Will Stokes — the bully of the 
 neighbourhood I called him — for he was up and 
 ready for a fight on the smallest provocation." 
 
 " I should not have given him quite so bad a 
 character, Mr. Royle," said Miss Cavendish; " I 
 know he was a surly fellow very often, but hardly 
 so bad as you say." 
 
 " Well, perhaps I did put the case rather 
 
94 HER DIGNITY AND GRACE. 
 
 strongly, but he was as unpleasant a fellow as 
 ever I met. I pity his widow, for she will have 
 a hard matter to keep her house and children/' 
 
 "No doubt Mr. Askham will be as kind a 
 friend to her as he is to others. I am sorry to 
 hear he has met with an accident," said Miss 
 Jane. 
 
 " Yes, indeed, and one that might have been 
 most serious." Then turning to Amelia, he 
 said, " You remember, Miss Amelia, that young 
 oak that was struck by lightning last summer, in 
 the wood ? " 
 
 " Yes, perfectly well ; you mean close by the 
 enclosure gate ; that is, not very far from it ; 
 where the blackberries grow so fine ? " 
 
 " Ah, yes," said he, laughing ; " ladies are 
 sure to remember where the blackberries are 
 to be found. It was that oak that was being 
 felled, and the men couldn't get Mr. Askham 
 away from under it. He seemed deaf, he 
 wouldn't move away ; and before the wood- 
 men expected it, the tree fell, and knocked him 
 down. It's the most foolish thing I ever heard 
 of; a child might have known better." 
 
 " We do not know what might have been 
 
THE MISSES CAVENDISH. 95 
 
 occupying his mind at the moment," said Miss 
 Jane ; " he might have been looking on quite 
 interested in what the men were about, and so 
 did not see the danger." 
 
 " Oh no, he stood with his back to the tree, 
 but evidently his mind was preoccupied." 
 
 " Have you heard if he is much hurt ? " 
 
 ic He was quite stunned at first ; they could 
 not make him understand anything." 
 
 " Dear, dear ! Charlotte, when the carriage 
 comes round, you will please go and inquire after 
 him," said Miss Cavendish. 
 
 " You will not see him," said Mr. Royle ; " he 
 is ordered to keep his bed ; he will not be out 
 again for a long time, I expect." 
 
 " Dear, dear ! poor Mrs. Askham ! " she con- 
 tinued, " what a shock to her. Ah, there is the 
 carriage. Charlotte, do not forget that basket 
 for Mrs. Dale." 
 
 " The Dales have a queer visitor just now," 
 said Mr. Royle ; " they have kept the man whom 
 Jack Downes brought into the village, and he is, 
 they say, ill with a fever." 
 
 " 111 with a fever ! " said Miss Jane ; " then 
 how could he have killed poor Stokes ? " 
 
96 HER DIGNITY AND GRACE. 
 
 " Well, Jack DoAvnes declares lie is shamming; 
 but Vyal, who ought to know, says it's a relapse 
 into a low fever he had lately. To be sure ! — the 
 Rector's vagaries with regard to sick tramps are 
 remarkable always ; but this surpasses them 
 all ! " 
 
 "Do you know who this man is ? " 
 
 "No; no one knows, and Dale will not have 
 him questioned." 
 
 " Did you see him ? " 
 
 " Yes ; but he was, or pretended to be, in a 
 heavy sleep. The Doctor said he would soon be 
 better." 
 
 "Why do you say he pretended, and that he 
 was shamming?" asked Amelia, in an angry 
 tone. 
 
 " I merely repeat what I was told," he 
 answered. • 
 
 " Not by Mr. Dale," said Amelia. 
 
 " No ; certainly not," he replied. 
 
 " Then why be so ready to condemn the man, 
 Mr. Royle? I think at least we ought to wait 
 till we hear his story," she returned, in an indig- 
 nant tone. 
 
 "Amelia, my dear sister," said Miss Cavendish, 
 
THE MISSES CAVENDISH. 97 
 
 " the carriage is waiting, remember." 
 
 " I shall go in to see Mrs. Dale, Selina," was 
 the answer, with an angry look at Mr. Royle, 
 which he did not see. 
 
 " Do as you like, clear sister." 
 
 " Have you heard anything about the meeting 
 at York?" said Miss Cavendish to Mr. Royle, 
 when Amelia and Charlotte were gone. 
 
 " Yes ; I was there, and it went off very well. 
 Our old member was as eloquent as usual, and 
 the Mayor hit off his subject admirably ; but our 
 new member, Mr. Standover, is a sad stick; 
 couldn't say half a dozen words without stam- 
 mering and stuttering, and scarcely seemed to 
 have an idea in his head." 
 
 " That is very strange," said Miss Jane ; " no 
 doubt he was nervous, and perhaps municipal 
 questions are new to him ; he is a very fluent 
 talker." 
 
 " Yes, my dear lady ; but a fluent talker is a 
 very different thing to a good speaker. You 
 have the assistance of the remarks of others when 
 you are conversing with them, but there is a 
 concentration, an arrangement of thought re- 
 quisite in making a set speech in public, which 
 
 VlL. l h 
 
98 HER DIGNITY AND GRACE. 
 
 requires quite a different exercise of the mind. 
 It is, in fact, as much a gift to be a good public 
 speaker, as to be a sculptor or a painter, and 
 there may be a certain amount of nervousness, 
 as you observe, in addition. But under any, 
 the most advantageous circumstances, I do not 
 consider Mr. Standover will ever be a good 
 speaker.'' 
 
 " But he will certainly improve by practice/' 
 
 " May be ; a little. The subject of his speech, 
 however, was not a fertile one ; not much can be 
 made out of drainage and cleansing the Ouse." 
 
 " Was anything said about the better lighting 
 of the city?" said Miss Cavendish; "for last 
 year not half the street lamps were lit." \ 
 
 " The fisheries were not good, if you remember, 
 last year, nor the year before. The Whitby 
 ships did not bring home good cargoes, and the 
 dearness and scarcity of labour, through the 
 armaments for the war, made it doubly hard 
 times ; but no doubt when you go there this 
 next winter you will find it better lighted. 
 There was a question as to a field which the 
 Corporation want to purchase, but they cannot 
 find the owner." 
 
THE MISSES CAVENDISH. 99 
 
 " Can they not find his name ? " 
 
 " It appears the name is known, but the 
 owner, or owners, for it is in two names, are not 
 forthcoming ; much to their disadvantage, for 
 the price of land has greatly risen in the last ten 
 or twenty years ; it might have an increase of a 
 quarter or more over the original cost." 
 
 " Surely lawyers could find out." 
 
 " Well, it appears that the rental of the land 
 has been paid into a bank for many years to the 
 names of the owners, and has not been drawn. 
 I should suppose if the Corporation decide on 
 trying to purchase it, it must be advertised." 
 
 " In that case it will be easily ascertained ; 
 either the persons themselves, or their heirs, will 
 be sure to respond." said Miss Cavendish. 
 
 " Their not having received the rent, or 
 applied for it for so long, would indicate that 
 the persons are dead and there are no heirs." 
 
 " So then," said Miss Cavendish, " it will 
 revert to the king." 
 
 " Exactly ; but I should infer that the owners 
 are not dead, or it would have been known. I 
 take it the owners are of independent means, 
 and not obscure people." 
 
 h2 
 
100 HER DIGNITY AND GRACE. 
 
 " Oh, the bankers must know," said Miss 
 Jane ; " and heirs, if it has reverted to them, are 
 not apt to be so long in claiming property, if 
 ever so small." 
 
 " As far as size is considered," he answered, 
 " the field — it is but one field — is not large. I 
 should suppose ten or twelve acres the extent 
 of it, and it is in shocking order, as bare as a 
 wilderness, they say. But the value is in the 
 situation, which is close to one of the gates, 
 and in that quarter where the city is likely to 
 extend. In the case of its being wanted for 
 building, it probably would fetch a very large 
 sum." 
 
 " It is an interesting case," said Miss Caven- 
 dish ; " I shall watch for it in the York paper." 
 
 " I do not imagine it will be long before you 
 will see some mention of it; first, probably, 
 advertizing for the owners. But in the next 
 * Herald ' you will see all about the last meet- 
 ing, and mention made of the ' Willow Close,' 
 which is the field we have been talking about." 
 Mr. Royle then got up to take his leave. 
 
 "We will read it; good-bye; our compli- 
 ments to Mrs. Boyle." 
 
THE MISSES CAVENDISH. 101 
 
 " Certainly ; good morning, ladies." And he 
 departed. 
 
 When he was gone, Miss Jane said, "Now 
 why cannot he be always as he is to-day ! " 
 
 " His censorious manner is often annoying, 
 but to-day it was scarcely needed, he had only 
 to relate what he knew ; but I fear clear Amelia, 
 who has so great an aversion to him, and shows 
 it, unfortunately, will not escape his censure." 
 
 "Dear Amelia, she cannot endure to hear the 
 absent spoken ill of." 
 
 " Yet, Jane, she does not spare Mr. Royle." 
 
 " She has had an unconquerable aversion to 
 him from the first moment she saw him; she 
 declares he is more than unjust." 
 
 "It is very sad ; I wish she could control her 
 impatience : she will get into trouble some day, 
 which will vex us all." 
 
 " Oh, no, Selina, do not say that." 
 
 " Alas ! I feel it will be so." 
 
102 HER DIGNITY AND GRACE. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 THE WEAVER'S STORY. 
 
 The stranger was much better, and Mr. 
 Dale sent for him into his study. 
 
 " Tell me," said Mr. Dale, " who you are." 
 
 " My name, sir, is Earn Greenwood." 
 
 " What did you say ? " said Mr. Dale. 
 
 " They call me Earn Greenwood ; my chris- 
 tened name is Edmund, and Earn is one short 
 for it." 
 
 " Ah ! well, proceed." 
 
 And in the broadest Yorkshire dialect, 
 which need not be transcribed word for word, 
 Greenwood continued : 
 
 " Yes, sir, Earn Greenwood is the name I'm 
 known by. I'm a weaver by trade, and we're all 
 of us weavers and spinners." 
 
 " Whom do you mean by ' all of us ' ? " 
 
 " I mean, sir, all my family, and the neigh- 
 bours too, except a few." 
 
 " Where do you come from ? " 
 
the weaver's story. 103 
 
 " I come from Todmorden and Hebden Bridge, 
 in Yorkshire." 
 
 " Aye," said Mr. Dale, " a pretty country ; I 
 know it well." 
 
 " Well, sir, if you know it well, you will know 
 how we are mostly weavers and our women 
 spinners, and some of our men spin too — the 
 coarse hemp and wool ; the women spin the fine 
 wool and flax." 
 
 " What brought you to this part of the coun- 
 try, so far away from your home ? " 
 
 " I go with father on his rounds twice a year, 
 with pack-horses with the goods and the yarn." 
 
 " At what time of the year do you go ? " 
 
 " In spring, and just before winter ; in April, 
 and then in October, to be home before the 
 worst weather sets in. But our longest turns 
 are in spring." 
 
 " How many horses have you in a train ? " 
 
 " From nine to eleven, sir. The leader has 
 bells on his neck, and sometimes the last horse 
 also, in a very long train." 
 
 " Eleven horses is a long train, surely." 
 
 " Nay, sir ; I shouldn't call it but a goodish 
 one. But they do run with large dealers to 
 
104 HER DIGNITY AND GRACE. 
 
 twenty or thirty horses. It just depends on the 
 business." 
 
 " You have a good business, have you ? " 
 
 " Our trading is pretty good." 
 
 " How long have you been carrying it on ? " 
 
 « We're known on the road these hundred 
 years, sir ; our trade hasn't altered. We go our 
 rounds, and our customers know what we shall 
 bring them : good flannels, good yarn, and 
 linen." 
 
 " Do you spin cotton also ? " 
 
 "No, sir; we don't spin cotton, it hasn't come 
 to us yet. We've enough of wool and linen." 
 
 "Is it some time since you left home ? " 
 
 " Aye, sir, a goodish bit, more's the pity, for 
 there's no one to come to me, except when faither 
 came, since I was left on the road." 
 
 " How do you mean, ' left on the road ? ' " 
 
 " Well, sir, I mean since I was took bad, and 
 faither couldn't stop, and had to leave me ; they 
 were very good to me at the place I stopped at, 
 but it's not like home." 
 
 " How did this happen ? " 
 
 " It fell out this way, sir : We'd been the 
 greatest part of our rounds, and had pretty 
 
the weaver's story. 105 
 
 empty packs; the sun got hot, and I felt queerish 
 for a day or two, when all of a sudden I fell off 
 the leader, the bell-horse." 
 
 " Did you always ride ? " 
 
 " No, sir; I was riding because somehow my 
 legs ached so, and my head was so dazed, I 
 couldn't walk. Farther had the hackney, and 
 our men were riding by turns ; I took my turn 
 with the men." 
 
 " Did your father always ride ? " 
 
 " I let farther take a turn of walking at times, 
 for he said his legs got stiff and cold, but it's 
 best for him to ride." 
 
 " Is he in bad health ? " 
 
 " No, sir, but he's getting on in years. The 
 spring journeys are getting too much for him I 
 think, so does mother; it's bad for him to get 
 tired, but it's his real pleasure. He has done it 
 all his life, and he likes to see his old acquaint- 
 ances — friends I may call 'em — for he's ' good 
 fellow well met ' wherever he goes." 
 
 " Are the spring journeys the longest ? " 
 
 " Yes, sir, and the most tiring, because it gets 
 hot before we get home. In the fall of the year 
 we don't go so far, and take only flannels. Our 
 
106 HER DIGNITY AND GRACE. 
 
 people have fall work to spin, and work at the 
 hemp and flax by the spring." 
 
 "Go on with your story. How about your 
 illness ? " 
 
 " Well, sir, we had been a great part of our 
 rounds, as I said, and had done a good business, 
 but farther had an order for Whitehaven, so we 
 trended off by a way we did not well know, 
 for we hadn't travelled it before, and it made 
 us late in the month. We were going over 
 a vast moor, like our moors in Yorkshire ; it 
 was oxy in parts, the sun hot, and no shade 
 anywhere about. I felt badish before, but this 
 moor seemed a sort of quagmire-like, everything 
 a shimmering and a shaking and steaming-like, 
 and I was all dazed together. I says to faither : 
 t Faither,' says I, ' how does this place look to 
 you ? ' 'It looks no worse nor another,' says 
 he. ' Faither/ says I, ' this place is no cannie ; 
 it's shimmering and shaking like ; it's steaming 
 and sickening. I'm quite dazed, and my head's 
 doited and heavy till I can't scarce hold up. 
 Will you ride first, for I'm just dinged and not 
 like to lead the way ? ' ' Sure, lad, you're over 
 hungry,' said he ; ' it's food you want ; you're 
 
the weaver's story. 107 
 
 clemmed, lad. Keep up a good heart, we shall 
 soon be out.' * Please God we may/ says I. 
 ' But,' says I, ' we saw the will-o'-the-wisp last 
 night, and there's no luck to some of us when 
 he's seen, and he's taking his turn at me sure 
 enough/ I mind I had a dinging in the ears, 
 and I slipped down, I don't know how; but 
 faither told me after, what I've been telling you, 
 for I'd clean forgot all about it. So, as I said, I 
 felt so queer I couldn't sit up or hold on, and I 
 slipped off all of a sudden ; and I can't say what 
 happened after that, till I found me in a strange 
 place in bed. I called for faither and muther, 
 and Abie, and Turn, and Jooas, but none of 'em 
 come. A candle was burning low; the whole 
 place looked dark and lonesome-like. I set to 
 calling again. I couldn't move, and a strange 
 woman came in softly, and says she was glad to 
 hear me speak. ' Will ye have some parritch, 
 lad ? ' says she. ' Nay, but I'd like some pobs,' 
 says I. * Pobs ? ' says she. ' Aye, pobs,' says 
 I, and she set a laughing ; ' there's naithin' 
 foiner nor mee-al pobs,' says I. ' Faix,' says 
 she, 'mebbee it's parritch ye be a speaking 
 aboot. It's the finest thing on airth for a sick 
 
108 HER DIGNITY AND GRACE. 
 
 bodie/ ' Then/ says I, ' if ye be a christened 
 woman gi'e me some/ says I. So off she goes, 
 and the room sets to swimming-like, round and 
 round like a bowl in a tub o' water. The next 
 thing I mind was the room all dark, and I 
 screaming for Abie. ' Well, lad/ says the 
 strange woman, coming in with a light, ' dinna 
 skreek so ; here's the parritch getting cold 
 waiting for ye. Ye ha* been sleeping well, sure 
 enough/ And she raised me up wi' one arm 
 and gi' me a spoonful wi' t'other hand. And I 
 clutched the spoon and took some more helps, 
 she crying, ' stop, stop/ but I didn't stop, and 
 they be the best pobs I ever ate. I never ate 
 any more like that, afore or since. It was rare, 
 raal good pobs." 
 
 " Did you get better soon ? " said Mr. Dale. 
 
 " Yes, sir ; but I was fairly worked out after 
 that. She put me straight in bed, and when I 
 woke it was broad daylight and the sun shining 
 into the open window, so warm and pleasant, 
 with a sweet smell of flowers, and birds singing 
 and chirruping, and bees humming, and flies 
 dancing in the sunbeams. Lors ! that was 
 pleasant. 'Abie!' I cried, 'Abie! Abie!' A 
 
the weaver's story. 109 
 
 woman came, saying, ' I'm no Abie, I'm called 
 Meeary. How's ye feeling, lad? Will ye 
 have some mair pobs, as ye call it ? ' and she 
 laughed well and loud. ' Aye,' says I ; ' Aye, 
 Meeary, gi' me some like the strange woman gi' 
 me times ago.' ' Puir laddie ! ' says she ; and 
 went out with a sad face and a sigh." 
 
 He stopped. Then after a pause he said : 
 " You'll excuse me, sir, if I ask for a drink of 
 water. I'm a most tiring you, though, wi' my 
 long story ; but I love to think of Meeary Bowes 
 — that's her name, sir — and her kith and kin ; 
 for they wur raal kind to me, sir." 
 
 Mr. Dale said, "Go into the kitchen and get 
 some refreshment, and return when you are 
 rested." 
 
 Mr. Dale was a Yorkshireman ; he could follow 
 the broad dialect of Greenwood's story, and was 
 amused with it and his quaint manner of suiting 
 the action to the word. There was a simplicity 
 of narration which fully persuaded him, even if 
 the conviction had not already presented itself, 
 that there was nothing in the man's composition 
 approaching to a spirit of fighting, robbery, or 
 murder, even had he been in robust health, instead 
 
210 HER DIGNITY AND GRACE. 
 
 of the emaciated, fever-stricken creature he was ; 
 and that he was utterly incapable of causing the 
 death of an athletic fellow like Will Stokes. 
 The idea was quite preposterous ; Mr. Dale 
 laughed at it to himself as he walked about 
 the room. He agreed with the doctor — it was a 
 perfect farce to imagine such a thing. It would 
 be as likely for a chicken to kill a hawk. 
 " Faugh ! " he said, half - aloud ; " the thing is 
 too puerile to think of." His boy Jeffrey (aged 
 seven years) would have been as capable of 
 doing it. Tut! it was too ridiculous. Then 
 his mind reverted to his boy— he was strong 
 and active for his age, and fond of manly sports. 
 Had he not trained the child himself? and 
 taught him to box in order to strengthen nerves 
 which he feared were naturally weak? He 
 passed in fond review the superior growth and 
 better health of his boy, consequent upon his 
 skilful management and training. The whole 
 picture grew up in his mind — how he had set 
 the child, as early as five years old, before him, 
 standing between his knees, and taught him to 
 box ; desiring the child to hit him as hard as he 
 could, giving only slight pushes in opposition; 
 
THE WEAVER'S STORY. Ill 
 
 which he insisted on being returned upon him- 
 self with the boy's utmost strength. The lad's 
 bodily strength had outgrown the natural over- 
 sensitiveness of his mind, and he knew that 
 when he sent him to school he could hold his 
 own with any boy of his age and size. The 
 thought was pleasant to him. He paced up 
 and down the room, waiting for the return of 
 the weaver. Then he considered that beyond 
 hearing the account of his illness, he had better 
 not hear more of his story ; that the rest should 
 be reserved for the inquiries at the inquest, 
 which was to take place the next day. So when 
 Greenwood came back, he was permitted to 
 tell his story so far as was sufficient for the 
 present. Mr. Dale asked him how he would 
 like to amuse himself. He said he could help 
 the girls with their spinning, or work in the 
 garden. 
 
 " Would you like a book to read ? " asked 
 Mr. Dale. 
 
 " Nay, sir, I be no good at reading. Abie 
 does the like o' that for us all." 
 
112 HER DIGNITY AND GRACE. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 THE INQUEST. 
 
 The inquest took place in the large room at 
 the " King's Head " inn, where the magistrates 
 held their sittings, where the Courts Leet were 
 held, and other public assemblies met. 
 
 The room was greatly crowded. 
 
 Mary Stokes, the wife of the murdered man, 
 was first called. She identified the body as that 
 of her husband, William Stokes. She had last 
 seen him on the morning of Monday the 7th 
 of June. He left home that morning about four 
 o' clock, in good health, saying he was going to 
 the monthly market at Ulsford. He did not say 
 with whom he was going. No one was with 
 him when he left home. He was not given to 
 drink. Did not think he was very quarrelsome. 
 Did not know any one he was likely to quarrel 
 with. Did not know any man w T ho owed him a 
 grudge. Could not at all tell how he met with 
 his death. Thought by the look of his face he 
 
THE INQUEST. 113 
 
 was in anger when he died ; had never seen him 
 with such a face on as that ; he looked so fierce 
 as he lay dead. Perhaps that might be the 
 effect of his death ; she did not know any other 
 cause. Did not know anything about sudden 
 death. Thought the blow on the temple must 
 have been a very hard one. She loved him 
 dearly. Why should she not ? He was a good 
 husband to her, and a good father to their 
 children. Could not say but he had known 
 some men who were called poachers. They 
 came to the cottage sometimes, and he went out 
 with them ; they were always good friends when 
 she saw them together. Never heard of quarrel- 
 ling amongst them. The same money was in 
 his pocket that she had given him before he 
 went out. Knew that he had copper wire and 
 snares, the same as found in 'his pocket. Had 
 never seen that stick (here the cudgel found by 
 his side was held up) before. He may have cut 
 it in the wood. She did not know. The piece 
 fitting it might have been given him. Could 
 not tell how it came there, nor where it came 
 from. Had got in her possession everything he 
 had about him when he was found, and intended 
 
 VOL. I. I 
 
114 HER DIGNITY AND GRACE. 
 
 to keep them. The piece of linen she took from 
 the nail on the stile did not belong to her 
 husband. 
 
 Coroner — " Produce it." 
 
 She took it from her pocket. " It did not 
 belong to him/' she said ; " his sleeve was not 
 torn. He had no blood upon him except the 
 small spot on the front of his shirt. I do not 
 know how he got that blood. It was not on his 
 shirt when he left in the morning." 
 
 In the midst of sobs and tears, which she had 
 shed from the commencement of her examination, 
 she sat down. 
 
 Mr. Vyal, surgeon and apothecary at Wood- 
 naston, stated that he had been called to view 
 the body in the Pell meadow, where it had been 
 discovered an hour or more before his arrival. 
 He identified the body as that of William Stokes. 
 There was but little appearance of any scuffle 
 having taken place where the body lay. He 
 had made an examination, and no injury was 
 found on the body, save and except the mark of 
 a blow on the temple inflicted undoubtedly by a 
 fist. A blow on that particular spot would alone 
 
THE INQUEST. 115 
 
 have caused death, which must have been in- 
 stantaneous. The body was that of a healthy 
 man of great muscular power, and the blow he 
 had received must have been a very severe one. 
 The small spot of blood on the shirt was that of 
 a hare or rabbit, not human blood. There was 
 no blood upon any part of the body, nor was 
 the dress at all disturbed. The blow on the 
 temple was not inflicted by the stick at the man's 
 side ; it would have left a different mark. The 
 blow was given before death. The man had 
 been dead three or four hours before he saw the 
 corpse. The expression of the face was peculiarly 
 tierce and savage. 
 
 Mary Stokes, re-examined — Said, she did 
 not know the stranger ; had never seen him be- 
 fore he was brought into that room. (Much 
 amusement was created by the indignant manner 
 in which she declared)— Her husband "was not 
 so naish that such a puir fackless sneul " as the 
 stranger could have killed him; "it maun be 
 one like to Jack Downes himself, or the Squire, 
 to knock he down ; he'd scarce his match in the 
 country for power," she added with much pride. 
 
 i 2 
 
116 HER DIGNITY AND GRACE. 
 
 The Rev. Alan Dale, Rector of Wood- 
 naston, said, that Greenwood was brought to his 
 house on Monday the 7th of June, about noon, 
 by Jack Downes, a labourer, accompanied by a 
 crowd of villagers, and was accused of having 
 been found by Jack Downes with the body of 
 the murdered man in the Fell meadow. The 
 stranger had blood flowing from a wound in the 
 head and one on the wrist. He appeared miser- 
 ably ill, and he (witness) did not consider it 
 likely that, in that state of health, he could have 
 dealt a death-blow to the deceased, who was 
 known to be one of the most powerful men in 
 the neighbourhood. He further stated that he 
 had kept Greenwood at the Rectory ever since 
 he was first brought there, because he was suffer- 
 ing from a relapse of low fever from which he 
 had already been ill, and was not thoroughly 
 strong yet. 
 
 Jack Downes, labourer at the Holt Farm, 
 stated, that he was coming over the Fell meadow 
 on Monday the 7th of June shortly before noon. 
 He was going into the village on an errand. As 
 he came across the Fell meadow, from the bend 
 of the hill, he saw two men at the bottom of the 
 
THE INQUEST. 117 
 
 slope on the footpath near the palings of Squire 
 Askham's Park. 
 
 "Whereabouts?" — "Not many yards from 
 the step-stile over the palings." 
 
 " What were they doing ? "— " One was lying 
 down with his arms stretched out, without his 
 hat ; the other was leaning over him. Witness 
 stood still to watch what they did. He saw the 
 stranger walk round the man who was lying down, 
 and look at his face. He seemed to be examining 
 him. Saw him take up the stick that was lying 
 by the side of the man who was lying in the 
 footpath. Thought the man who was lying down 
 was asleep or in a fit. Saw the stranger put the 
 stick down again in the place where it was lying 
 before ; then saw him stoop down again and look 
 at the man's face. Then he looked up, and as 
 soon as he caught sight of the witness he set 
 to and ran away as fast as his legs could carry 
 him." 
 
 By a Juryman. — " How was he leaning over 
 the man ? " — " He was stooping down with his 
 hands resting on his thighs." 
 
 " What did you do when he looked up ? " — " I 
 called out, ' Halloa, there ! What's to do ? ' but 
 he didn't stop, but ran off as fast as his legs 
 
118 HER DIGNITY AND GRACE. 
 
 could carry him, which wasn't very fast, to the 
 stile into the high road." 
 
 " What did you do then ? " — " I ran down to 
 look at the man who was asleep, as I thought, 
 but I found that he was certainly dead, and I 
 saw that it was Will Stokes." 
 
 " What did you do when you found the man 
 was dead ? " — " I ran after the man, Greenwood ; 
 he was not very active in getting over the stile. 
 When I got to the stile he was still running 
 along the high road. He looked behind him, still 
 running. He stumbled, and fell on a heap of 
 stones by the road-side. So I overtook him 
 before he had time to get up from his fall, and 
 he looked so pale when I got up to him I 
 thought he was near dead too. His face on one 
 side was covered with blood, which came from a 
 place on his head and amongst the hair, and he 
 was so limp -like when I got him up he could 
 scarce stand or walk. I thought he was sham- 
 ming, and I thought so all along till I got him 
 to the Rectory. I called at the doctor's, Dr. 
 Vyal, in the village, but he was not at home, 
 and I took him to the Rectory, when Mr. Dale 
 took him in charge." 
 
THE INQUEST. 119 
 
 " Why did you not take him before a magis- 
 trate, or give hirn in charge of a constable ? " — 
 " It did not come into my head to do so, I only 
 thought of the Rector. We all look to the Rector 
 when there's anything wrong." 
 
 " How did he fall ? " — " He tripped up as he 
 looked behind him, and fell with his head on the 
 heap of stones." 
 
 " Where were the stones? " — "At the side of the 
 highway. He came down with a great crash." 
 
 " Did you touch him ? " — " Yes, when I got up 
 to him. He was lying all of a heap, with his head 
 on the stones and his hat off." 
 
 " What did you do ? " — " I turned him over 
 and saw that his head was cut, and his face too, 
 on that side." 
 
 " Which side ? "— " The right side." 
 
 "Was that the side on which he fell?" — 
 " Yes." 
 
 " What did you see on his face ? " — " Blood 
 was running down his face ; fresh blood from 
 the wound." 
 
 "Could you see the wound?" — "No; it 
 seemed amongst the hair, and a scratch on his 
 face." 
 
120 HER DIGNITY AND GRACE. 
 
 " Was there any other blood ? " — " A. sprinkle 
 on the stones where he fell; and I afterwards 
 saw some on his left wrist." . 
 
 " How did that come ? " — " I do not know ; it 
 w T as dry ; and his shirt sleeve was torn." 
 
 " Did you see the stranger touch the body of 
 the man who was lying in the Pell meadow ? " 
 — "No; he walked round him and looked at 
 him." 
 
 " When he took up the stick, what did he do 
 with it ? " — " He looked at it and turned it 
 about." 
 
 " Did he touch the body with it ? "— 
 " No." 
 
 " What did he do after examining the stick ? " 
 — " He put it down again." 
 
 "Where did he put it?" — "As near as 
 possible in the same place it was before." 
 
 " Before when ? " — " Before he took it up." 
 
 " How long were you watching him ?" — " Not 
 more than five minutes." 
 
 " Why did you stand watching him ? " — " It 
 was main strange to see them two men there in 
 that way." 
 
 " Did you recognize the body when you went 
 
THE INQUEST. 121 
 
 to look at it?" — "Yes; I couldn't but see it 
 was Will Stokes." 
 
 " Was he dead then ? " — " Knew he was dead. 
 Could not say how long he had been dead. The 
 face looked uncommon savage. There was a 
 mark on the forehead, on the temple. Knew it 
 was a dangerous place for a. hit. Could not say 
 whether the blow was given by the stick or not. 
 Could not say how long ago the blow had been 
 given. Had no way of knowing how long he 
 had been dead." 
 
 " What did the stranger say when you got up 
 to him in the road?" — "He said nought; he 
 seemed half-dead himself, or frightened as well 
 as hurt. Thought he might be shamming." 
 
 " What did you do with him after you raised 
 him up ? " — " I made him walk as well as I 
 could." 
 
 "Where did you take him?" — "To the 
 Doctor's." 
 
 "Why did you take him there?" — " I went 
 to tell the Doctor to go and look after the body 
 in the Pell meadow." 
 
 "What did you do then?" — "The Doctor 
 wasn't come in, so I didn't know what to do, 
 
122 HER DIGNITY AND GRACE. 
 
 the villagers crowded and thronged me so ; and 
 I at last took him to the Rector." 
 
 "What did the villagers do?"— " They fol- 
 lowed in a crowd, and accused me of having 
 been righting Greenwood." 
 
 " What did you do at the Rectory ? "— " I left 
 the man with Mr. Dale." 
 
 " Did you see him again ?j" — " No ; not till I 
 saw him in this room." 
 
 By the Coroner — "Are you sure that 
 Greenwood is the man you saw in the Fell 
 meadow with the dead body ? " — " Yes, quite 
 sure." 
 
 " Will you swear it ? " — " Yes." 
 
 " Did you ever see him before that day ? " — 
 " No." 
 
 " Did you know r who he was ? " — " No." 
 
 " Had you ever seen him with Will Stokes ? " 
 —"No." 
 
 " Did you know that Will Stokes had had a 
 quarrel?"— "No." 
 
 " Was he a quarrelsome man ? " — " Rather, 
 not so very." 
 
 " Had you heard that any one had quarrelled 
 with him?"— "Not in partickler." 
 
THE INQUEST. 123 
 
 " Had you seen him in company with any 
 one ? "— " Not very lately." 
 
 " Did you often see him ? " — " No ; not of 
 late ; he went t'other way." 
 
 " What other way ? n — " Ulsford way." 
 
 " What made him go t'other way ? "— " Didn't 
 know." 
 
 " How did you know he went Ulsford way ? " 
 — " Heard say he did." 
 
 " Who by ? "— " Them as had seen him." 
 
 " Who had seen him ? "— " Turn Cattel." 
 
 " How was it Turn Cattel saw him going on 
 the Ulsford road? "— " He lives by that road." 
 
 By a Juryman — "Had the stranger a stick ? " 
 — " No, not that I saw ; there was only the stick 
 — club I might call it — that was lying near the 
 body." 
 
 (A stick was produced.) "Is that the stick?" 
 — " Yes ; that is the stick that was lying by his 
 side." 
 
 " Are you sure ? " — " Yes." 
 
 " Do you know to whom it belonged ? " — 
 " No; didn't know whose stick it was ; never saw 
 it before. It looked as if it had been just cut 
 from a holly tree ; it was a curious shape. Never 
 
124 HER DIGNITY AND GRACE. 
 
 remembered to have seen one like it before. 
 Was sure it would be death to any one ; a blow 
 from it would soon settle a man. It might be 
 the best part of a young holly tree. Didn't 
 know what a blow looked like after death. 
 Never saw Will Stokes look so fierce when he 
 was alive. Didn't know who'd been with him. 
 Had not seen any one with him." 
 
 '•'Do you know anything about the bit of 
 stick found in the pocket ? " — " Had never seen 
 it till he saw it in this room. It fitted in a 
 remarkable way to the club, even to a notch in 
 the bark. Was sure the small piece was cut from 
 the club." 
 
 Tom Cattel — Said he lived in the lane just 
 off the Ulsford road. Knew Will Stokes. Had 
 met him on the morning of the seventh of June, 
 about six o'clock, walking along the Ulsford 
 road. He was alone. Did not see any stick in 
 his hand. They did not speak ; he was walking 
 pretty fast. Had not seen him since. 
 
 Coroner — " What took you on that road ? " — 
 " I was going to take some milk to my little girl, 
 who is ill. I live near the Ulsford road." Did 
 
THE INQUEST. 125 
 
 not think much about meeting Will Stokes there 
 or at that hour. He was often that road, and at 
 all hours ; had met him early and late. He was 
 mostly alone. Had seen other chaps with him 
 times about, but not of late, as far as he could 
 remember. Knew that Will Stokes did a stroke 
 o' poaching now and again. There's a many 
 poachers about. Some were poachers as didn't 
 ought to be. Will Stokes was partial to shoot- 
 ing and trapping. Did not know, never heard, 
 that he had a quarrel with poachers or any one 
 else. Did not think he was a very quarrelsome 
 fellow. Was always good friends with Will 
 Stokes, but thought he had better mind his 
 business and the Squire's sheep. Will Stokes 
 was that partial to going after game and varmint, 
 he'd spend his whole j^time at it if he could. 
 Knew Mary Stokes. Seldom saw her ; she lived 
 a long stretch from him. Didn't know who 
 went to their cottage. Knew nothing about 
 the bit of holly found in Will Stokes's pocket. 
 Didn't know it fitted the stick. Had never 
 seen the stick (now held up) before ; thought it 
 was mighty strong, and fit to kill a body. 
 
 " Did Will Stokes stop and talk to you on the 
 
126 HER DIGNITY AND GRACE. 
 
 road ? " — " No ; he was walking very fast. 
 Didn't notice anything partickler about him." 
 
 Job Tapster of the "Wheatsheaf" public- 
 house, on the Ulsford road, said, he knew Will 
 Stokes well ; he often came to his house. Came 
 to his house on Monday morning, the seventh 
 of June. It was just upon the strike of seven 
 o'clock. There was no one in the tap-room 
 when he was there. He had some ale and some 
 bread and cheese, and paid for it. He was not 
 there more than ten minutes. (Mary Stokes in 
 great agitation here rose, and seemed eager to 
 speak.) When Will Stokes went out he called 
 to another man who was going along the road, 
 and they walked away pretty fast together on 
 towards Ulsford. Did not know the man who 
 went with him. 
 
 Mary Stokes, with a broken voice, interrupted 
 by sobs, addressed the coroner. 
 
 " Please, sir, your worship, Mr. Coroner, that 
 man, Job Tapster, doesn't say true." 
 
 " How do you know he does not say true ? " 
 asked the coroner. 
 
 "Please, your worship, my husband couldn't 
 
THE INQUEST. 127 
 
 have gone to his house and paid for his 
 victuals." 
 
 " How do you know ? " 
 
 " Please, } r our worship, my husband had all 
 the money I gave him when he went out that 
 morning in his pocket when he was brought 
 here dead." 
 
 The coroner asked Job Tapster how Will 
 Stokes had paid him for his ale and bread 
 and cheese. " Was it in the current coin 
 of the realm ? " — " He paid me in the way I 
 chose." 
 
 " How was that ? " — " By barter, to the value 
 of one shilling." 
 
 " What barter did he offer? "— " Well, barter 
 is, ' If I give you so and so, you'll give me so 
 and so.' " 
 
 " What was the ' so and so ' he bartered with 
 you for the ale and bread and cheese ? " 
 
 Job Tapster turned to Mary Stokes, and said 
 in an undertone, " Ah, you silly woman, you've 
 brought it all on yourself when I say it." 
 
 Mary Stokes answered out loud, " You may 
 say what is true." 
 
 " Sure it is," answered Job Tapster ; then 
 
128 HER DIGNITY AND GRACE. 
 
 turning to the coroner, " He gave me leverets for 
 his meat." 
 
 Mary Stokes hung down her head. 
 
 A Juryman — " Was the deceased known as a 
 poacher?" — " No ; he was a shepherd at Squire 
 Askham's. But if he saw hares or rabbits about 
 a field he couldn't help going after them." 
 
 "Did you know of his associating with 
 poachers? " — " Can't say that I did." 
 
 "Have you heard that he had anv quarrel 
 with poachers ? " — " No." 
 
 " Did any one come to your house und speak 
 of having seen him, or been with him, on 
 Monday, after he had been with you ? " — " No ; 
 it was the monthly market, so few came to my 
 house till evening, and then they talked about 
 the market." 
 
 " Did no one mention his name ? " — " No 
 one." 
 
 " When did you first hear of his death ? " — 
 " Jack Downes came to me upon Tuesday, and 
 asked me if I had heard anything about Will 
 Stokes. I said, ' No ; what's up about him ? ' 
 
 " Why did you say, ' What's up about him ? ' : 
 — " Because I always expected to hear the Squire 
 
THE INQUEST. 129 
 
 had found out his poaching ways, and turned 
 him off." 
 
 "What did Jack Downes then say ? "— " He 
 told me he had been found murdered in the fell 
 meadow." 
 
 " What did you say then ? " — " I couldn't say 
 nothing, but I was sorry to hear it ; for I was 
 that struck down with astonishment." 
 
 M Did he say any more about it ? " — " He said 
 they wanted to find out something about it." 
 
 " Did he say any more ? " — " Yes ; he said he 
 had taken up a man on suspicion that he found 
 walking round the body and looking at it in a 
 very uncommon, odd way." 
 
 " Did he say he knew the man ? " — " No ; he 
 said he was a stranger, but thought he was the 
 biggest shammer he'd ever seen — that the Rector 
 was quite taken in with his sham illness. He 
 said the stranger was a tall, strapping fellow, 
 and could knock down any one ; but he put 
 on such a meek way before the Rector you'd 
 think he couldn't kill a cat, let alone a fellow 
 like Will Stokes. We wondered what poor 
 Mary would say when she heard it." 
 
 " Did you hear any more about it ? " — " Yes ; 
 
 VOL. I. K 
 
130 HER DIGNITY AND GRACE. 
 
 it seemed everybody had some story to tell • 
 mostly the same, on the whole, but mixed up 
 with what I didn't know whether to believe or 
 not." 
 
 " What do you believe now ? " — " I believe 
 that if the stranger knocked down Will Stokes 
 he's a much different man from what he looks. 
 Why lors, sir, it would have taken two of me 
 to have touched Will Stokes, he was a most 
 uncommon powerful man. 
 
 Eam Greenwood then offered himself as a 
 witness, and being duly cautioned, said, " My 
 name is Edmund Greenwood. I am a weaver 
 from Todmorden way." 
 
 " Where in Todmorden ; in the town ? " — 
 " Todmorden in Yarksheer, your worship. We 
 don't live in the toon, but a-top of the height 
 above the valley out Hebden Bridge way." 
 
 " What brought you here ? " — " Faither travels 
 with our packs, and I go with him." 
 
 "Where is your father?" — "Dinno, your 
 honour." 
 
 " You said you travel with your father ; how 
 is it you are not with him ? " — " I was left sick 
 
THE INQUEST. 131 
 
 on the moor, and he had to go on to Whitehaven, 
 and had to leave me at a cottage." 
 
 " How long is that ago ? " — " Oh, your wor- 
 ship, it's main bit ago — above a month. " 
 
 " What were you doing here ? " — " I am 
 going whoam." 
 
 " Is this your road home ? " — " Mebbee ; I'm 
 not so sure." 
 
 " When did you first see the murdered man?" 
 — " I never seed he afore." 
 
 " Before when ? " — " I seed he dead like in 
 the field." 
 
 " Did you know his name ? " — " Noa." 
 
 " Is there any one here whom you know ? " — 
 " Yes ; there's ta Doctor and ta Parson." 
 
 " Do you know Jack Downes ? " — " Noa, can't 
 say I do much." 
 
 " What do you know of him ? "— " That's the 
 name they called he as well-nigh throttled me, 
 as said I'd murdered the dead man in the 
 field." 
 
 " Why did he say you had murdered the 
 
 man?"— "Don't know." 
 
 " Was the man alive when you went up to 
 
 him ? " — " Can't say ; he looked dead enough." 
 
 k 2 
 
132 HER DIGNITY AND GRACE. 
 
 " Which way did vou come into the field? " — 
 " Over a stile from t'other side." 
 
 u Where were you coming from ? " — " From 
 Meeary's." 
 
 "Who is Mary?"— " Ta woman I lodged 
 wie." 
 
 " Where does she live ? " — " At the moor 
 where I was sick." 
 
 " Is she a married woman ? " — "I s'pose 
 so." 
 
 " What's her husband's name ? " — " She ca's 
 him Jim." 
 
 (The witness's manner was so droll that 
 laughter could not be suppressed during his 
 examination.) 
 
 " Does any one here know this man and his 
 wife ? " 
 
 Mr. Dale — " Yes, I know them and where 
 they live. I believe them to be very worthy 
 people " 
 
 " Aye, they be right good," interrupted Green- 
 wood. 
 
 " They live," continued Mr. Dale, " about ten 
 miles from here. Their name is Bowes." 
 
 "Aye," again interposed Greenwood; " Meeary 
 
THE INQUEST. 133 
 
 Bowes, that's it. And Susie, her sister, is a 
 bonnie lass." 
 
 Coroner to Greenwood — " How did you get 
 here from the moor ? " — " I walked some, and I 
 got a lift in a cart for a good bit, but it shook 
 me terrible." 
 
 "What made you come this way?" — '"I 
 heard of some races to be on a hill, and I 
 wanted to see races ; I've never seen 'em. And 
 some wrestling was to be that I wanted to see." 
 
 " When were the races to take place ? "— " On 
 the 10th of June, your worship." 
 
 "But it was the 7th when you came here. 
 What did you intend to do in the mean time ? " — 
 '" Please your worship, I'm no so strong to walk 
 since I was sick, and I'd take a main time to 
 walk ; for mebbee I couldn't get a lift, and I'm 
 no so mighty thronged just now to be tiring 
 me." 
 
 M When you got to the stile in the field, what 
 did you do ? " — " I got over it, and, tarn the 
 thing ! it tore my wrist, and my sark a bit out." 
 
 (A torn scrap of linen was shown to him.) 
 " Is that the bit ? " — " Aye, mebbee j where did 
 ye find 'un ? Give 'un to me. Aye, weft and 
 
134 HER DIGNITY AND GRACE. 
 
 warp the same " (turning the scrap about and 
 examining it) ; "it's like our make." (The rag 
 was taken from him.) " Ye maun gie me ta 
 dud. Abie will be skreekin' after 'un. Her'll 
 fettle it up again when I get whoam." (Much 
 laughter.) 
 
 4" Who is Abie ? " — " My sister ; a right good 
 lass that looks well after ta main chance, I 
 tell 'ee " (with a laugh, and a wink, and a side 
 shake of the head). 
 
 At this point the witness was called to order 
 by the Coroner, and the examination continued. 
 
 "Why did you run away when you saw 
 another man watching you ? " — " Why lors, your 
 honour, it's a main queer thing to be seen near 
 a dead man, so I rin off. T'other man rin 
 after me, and, worse luck, I tiled up ta scoils 
 and shards, and what with the fall and ta 
 wakeness in my legs, I got the fever like back 
 agen. If it hadn't been for ta Parson, God 
 bless him, I'd been murdered too." 
 
 "Who was going .to murder you?" — "They 
 villagers, your honour, thronged me that close, 
 and the man grippet me that tight, I was well- 
 nigh squoze. I was all in a shiver, and knurled 
 
THE INQUEST. 135 
 
 up ; and lors, how my head did ache ! " 
 (Laughter.) 
 
 By a Juryman — " What did you do when you 
 got up to the body ; did you touch it ? " — " Lors 
 help me ! what, touch a dead body ? Noa ; I 
 looked at he ; he was as dead as a dog, I could 
 see, the first minute I looked on he. I couldn't 
 help looking on he, for I never seed such a face 
 on any one ; he looked more like a devil nor a 
 man. He must ha' been cursing and swearing 
 foine when he died, surely. " 
 
 " Why did you walk round the body ? " — " I 
 walked round for to take him in, for he looked 
 so strange. And such a cloob as he had beside 
 him I never seed the like." 
 
 (A stick was held up.) " Is that it ? " — 
 " Aye " (jerking his head on one side), " that's 
 he. We maun keep at a distance from he." 
 (Laughter.) 
 
 " Do you know whose stick it is ? " — " Noa ; 
 'twas with the dead man." 
 
 " Did you touch the stick ? "— " Aye, I took it 
 up to look at he ; but I put it back again pretty 
 sharp." 
 
 Coroner — " That is enough. " 
 
136 HER DIGNITY AND GRACE. 
 
 Then, addressing the jury, he said, " It is for 
 you to decide from the evidence whether the 
 deceased met his death by manslaughter or 
 murder, and if there is any evidence to fix the 
 guilt upon any individual or individuals ; but I 
 think no one can have a doubt in the case." 
 
 The jury consulted together for a minute, 
 then the foreman said with one accord they 
 pronounced a verdict of " Manslaughter against 
 some person or persons unknown." 
 
 The coroner agreed with their decision, say- 
 ing that under the circumstances probably the 
 blow which caused death was given in self- 
 defence. 
 
 Notwithstanding the gravity of the occasion, 
 the suspected person, as we shall call him for the 
 last time, had occasioned much amusement to 
 those assembled by the naivete and perfect sim- 
 plicity of his manner, and his humorous way of 
 suiting the action to the word, as in his interview 
 with Mr. Dale. Laughter, often loud, was heard, 
 and the often-repeated order of " Silence " had 
 no effect. Greenwood himself and poor Mary 
 Stokes were the only grave persons. His gravity 
 and unconcern, and unconsciousness of being 
 
THE INQUEST. 137 
 
 " suspected, " or of being the subject of reproach 
 in any way, highly diverted the villagers. It 
 was " as good as a play," they said, and he left 
 the court with all hearts turned to him. 
 
138 HER DIGNITY AND GRACE. 
 
 CHAPTER XIY. 
 
 MOTHER PENDLE. 
 
 Mr. Askham was sitting in the library, being, 
 as he pronounced himself, " quite well," though 
 he could not yet use his left arm, nor rise from 
 his chair freely through the stiffness of his right 
 knee. His illness had put back his usual occu- 
 pations, whilst the inquest on the body of Will 
 Stokes seemed to take up his whole thoughts. 
 He was impatient for news, wanted to know 
 everything that passed to the most minute 
 details, was much distressed he could not attend 
 the inquest. " Poor Mary, poor Mary," he 
 continually said. With his usual generosity, he 
 sent money to her, that she might not want the 
 necessaries of life, and desired to pay for the 
 funeral. 
 
 He was sitting in his library, looking over the 
 papers and letters which had accumulated during 
 his illness. The letter of the most recent date 
 
MOTHER PENDLE. 139 
 
 was from a gentleman in the neighbourhood 
 asking for the cottage formerly occupied by 
 " Mother Pendle," as a residence for one of his 
 men. Mr. Askham had quite forgotten all about 
 this cottage, and that it had remained locked up 
 ever since the old woman was found dead in the 
 snow. His steward had brought him the key, 
 and it had been put away in a drawer in his 
 secretary. He now remembered having desired 
 the man to allow nothing to be touched in 
 the cottage, to lock it up, and bring him the 
 key. The steward told him it would be safe, 
 for there was such a dread of the late inmate 
 as a " witch," that no one would go near it ; the 
 villagers in passing that way preferred to go 
 some little distance round. 
 
 Whilst thus reflecting he found the door-key 
 labelled " key of the (Pendle) cottage on the com- 
 mon," and almost immediately heard a knock 
 at the door, and before he could turn round or 
 speak it was opened wide, and Mary Stokes 
 appeared. She curtsied and said, " I beg pardon, 
 sir, for taking the liberty of coming in this way ; 
 but Mr. Thwaites (the butler) and John told 
 me you couldn't see nobody ; and I knew you 
 
140 HER DIGNITY AND GRACE. 
 
 would see me, for I am so unhappy," she added, 
 sobbing and crying. 
 
 " Come in, Mary, and tell me what is the 
 matter." 
 
 "You know, sir, as poor Will is dead," she 
 said, weeping, with the corner of her apron to 
 her eyes, " though, sir, you were ill yourself and 
 didn't know much about it. And, sir, I'm come 
 to thank you for your kindness to me and to 
 him as is gone, and to ask if you would please 
 let me stay on a little longer at the cottage, till 
 so be as I can find summat to do, or me and my 
 bairns will all starve." (Sobs.) 
 
 " Yes, Mary, you may stay at the cottage as 
 long as you like, if it is not too lonely for you." 
 
 "Nay, sir, it's no lonesome, for I've lived 
 there all my married life, and everything minds 
 me of poor Will. Please, sir, how long may I 
 stay ; and could you tell me at a' what I could 
 do to get a living ? " 
 
 " As I said, Mary, you can stay there as long 
 as you like." 
 
 " Aye, sir, but, saving your presence, it's nae 
 good for me to hang on that saying, for if so be 
 I can't get a living, I canna pay my rent." 
 
MOTHER PENDLE. 141 
 
 "You shall have it rent free, if you like to 
 remain there." 
 
 " Oh, sir," she said, making a curtsy, " you're 
 very good, as all the country says. It's helping 
 the widow and fatherless. But, sir, can't I do 
 summat for you, sir. I can tend the poultry, I 
 be used to that. And I can spin." 
 
 " Well, Mary, suppose I have a place made for 
 you to keep poultry; and do you think you 
 could rear a few partridges and pheasants for 
 me?" 
 
 " I've no been used to that work, but I can 
 learn, and it's the blessing of God, sir, you'll 
 have for your goodness to me and the childer." 
 
 " Then I shall come up to your cottage to- 
 morrow if possible, and see what can be done, 
 and " 
 
 The door opened and Thwaites entered, saying, 
 " Please, sir, Farmer Giles wants to see you." 
 
 " Tell him to come in ; " then, turning to Mary 
 Stokes, he said, " Now go home, behave as well 
 as you have always done, and be sure you shall 
 not want when I can help you." 
 
 " Oh, thank you, sir," she said, sobbing and 
 curtsying, and left the room. 
 
142 HER DIGNITY AND GRACE. 
 
 " Well, Farmer Giles, and how are you ? " 
 
 " Sprightly, thank you, sir, and I'm real glad 
 to see you about again. Many's the time I've 
 come up to see after you whiles you be laid up, 
 and you've had a tarn sure enough, but I hope 
 you be smart agen." 
 
 " Yes, thank you, Giles, I am quite recovered." 
 But when turning to reach a chair, the Squire 
 exclaimed, " Oh ! " 
 
 " I'm sorry to hear that, sir ; I'm afraid you're 
 not quite strong yet." 
 
 " It is my left shoulder that still pains me a 
 little, but I shall soon get over that." 
 
 " I hope so too, sir. Please, sir, I made bold 
 to come and ask you about ' Mother Pendle's 
 cottage,' as they call it." 
 
 "Ah, I have had a letter asking me about 
 that cottage." 
 
 " I thought, maybe, you'd have one from Mr. 
 Sturt, as wants it for one of his men. And the 
 reason I come to you, sir, it is, begging your 
 pardon, sir, that I take it," here he lowered his 
 voice, " there must be summat more there than 
 we knows of ; she was such a cranky old soul. 
 And I thought, sir, mebbee you don't know 
 
MOTHER PENDLE. 143 
 
 about her so well as I do, and I wud just come 
 and say to you " (his voice sinking to a con- 
 fidential whisper) " as I wouldn't let no one but 
 yourself go in there, and rout and rummage 
 about, if I was you, sir." 
 
 " What do you suppose there may be in the 
 cottage? " 
 
 " Well, sir, you see," he answered, still in an 
 undertone, " she was curous like. My wife and 
 I used to call her a mazed woman sometimes. 
 But whatever she was, she wur quite safe," he 
 said, laughing ; " she had a fay's life with her. 
 No one would go near her, or touch any of her 
 duds or goods without her knowing, for fear of 
 the devil," he said, with a good laugh. " Devil 
 or no devil, she was a good old soul ; but, sir, 
 her ways wur pertickler. She never wanted for 
 money," he said, once more in a low tone of 
 voice, " and she often had goolden guineas and 
 half-guineas when other people hadn't ha'pence. 
 And they said she got 'un from the devil 
 Now, sir, where did they goolden guineas 
 come from ? It's my notion there's a many 
 o' they hidden about in old crocks or 
 stockings aboon the house, and, sir, I should 
 
144 HER DIGNITY AND GRACE. 
 
 like you to go yourself and look after 
 W 
 
 " That I certainly will do, Giles ; and why not 
 come with me ? '• 
 
 u Surely, at your bidding, sir. I take it we'll 
 find some curous things there, in old stockings 
 and the like ; and whensoever you please to go, 
 sir, you please let me know and I'll be ready." 
 
 " There's no time like the present, so if you 
 will go and get some dinner in the hall, we will 
 start in an hour's time." 
 
 " Thank you kindly, sir," said Giles, and was 
 leaving the room when Mr. Askham said — 
 
 " Oh, stop. How did you come here ? " 
 
 " I come in my shay-cart, sir ; would you 
 please to take a seat in it ? " 
 
 " Well, yes, I should prefer it, as my arm is 
 not fit yet for driving, and we can have some 
 conversation on the road." 
 
 " Very well, sir, then I'll be ready," and he 
 left the room. 
 
 The interview with Mary Stokes had rather 
 upset Mr. Askham, and when he went into his 
 wife's sitting-room (the word "boudoir" had 
 not yet been introduced from France) she re- 
 
MOTHER PENDLE. 145 
 
 marked that he looked tired and pale, and must 
 have some rest. He told her of his proposed 
 expedition with Farmer Giles, and she said she 
 should like to accompany them. He begged her 
 to follow them if she liked, but that he and the 
 farmer must go first. 
 
 Accordingly, when in due time Giles drove 
 up to the front door in his " shay-cart," Mr. 
 Askham got in and they drove off. 
 
 " Now, Giles," said Mr. Askham, " I want you 
 to tell me about poor old ' Mother Pendle.' 
 What do you know of her history ? " 
 
 " I can't say, sir, I know much of her history, 
 but I have heard some of her ways, and seen 
 some ; and I think she would 'a trusted me 
 more nor some others, me and my wife; we used 
 to speak kindly wi' her, and she wi' we, but I 
 never axed her any questions about herself" 
 
 " How did she get her living ? " 
 
 " I can't pretend to say, sir. My wife and me, 
 we used to be sore troubled to think how she 
 lived. You see, sir, she wasn't like a most poor 
 folks ; she didn't speak like we ; she must ha' 
 come from London way or far, for she spoke 
 gentlefolks' talk, and could read and write fine ; 
 
 VOL. I. l 
 
146 HER DIGNITY AND GRACE. 
 
 and lors, sir, she wur as good as a book if you 
 wanted to know anything." 
 
 " But yet she was said to swear at the boys ; 
 that is not gentlefolks' talk. Eh, Giles ? " 
 
 " Lor, sir, so they said ; but I never heard of 
 her saying any more than ' Oh, you're bad boys, 
 you neither fear God nor devil ; ' and I don't 
 know if she even said that much." 
 
 " She spoke with some truth of some of them, 
 I believe ; but it cannot be called swearing." 
 
 " No, sir, I don't believe as how she ever did. 
 
 She used to turn round and shake her stick at 
 
 'em, and scream out loud to them c You bad 
 
 boys,' and if they were pertickler wicked she'd 
 
 take up a stick or stone to throw at them, so 
 
 they said, but I never seed her do it ; then they 
 
 all ran away as fast as they could, for they said 
 
 ' Old Nick' was in her, and called her 'a witch.' 
 
 Then you see, sir, her dress puzzled 'em, for she 
 
 wore the clo'es of half the last century back ; 
 
 she wur rale old-f errand and never very shabby 
 
 neither. I dare say, sir, you mind her dress — the 
 
 large black satin bonnet, all twiddled and turned 
 
 wi' ribbin and stuff, and lace hanging down in 
 
 front — my wife says rale good rare lace ; and her 
 
MOTHER PENDLE. 147 
 
 scarlet cloth cloak with a great hood ; and in 
 bad weather she put it over her bonnet, and " 
 (laughing) "all so much too big for the little 
 old woman ; she did look old-ferrand ! and you'd 
 expect to see her lifted up by the wind by her 
 bonnet and carried off. Then her other duds wur 
 never like nobody else's — so curous with what 
 my wife calls ' quilten,' and ' plackets,' and 
 'kirtles,' and the Lord knows what; and great 
 flowers all over 'em with the kirtles looped up 
 like. Lor, she wur a sight ! and all so clean 
 and tidy-like. She'd walk so clean in the dirtiest 
 weather, you'd scarce see a bit of mud on her 
 clogs ; and that's another reason why they boys 
 said she wur a witch. They used to cry out as 
 they saw her pass, ' Ah, the devil takes care of 
 his own,' and declare she rode on her stick to get 
 out o' the mud. But lor, sir, any tidy woman can 
 keep from the mud if she's a mind to it ; so 
 does my wife, and I'm sure she's no witch," he 
 said, laughing. 
 
 " Yes, I had remarked how clean she always 
 looked, and how daintily she walked along." 
 
 " Dainty ! Aye, sir, that's the word for her. 
 My wife's seen her hard at it, washen, and 
 
 T 9 
 
148 HER DIGNITY AND GRACE. 
 
 scrubben, and sweepen, and flat-ironen, as busy 
 as any one, and her place as clean ! not a speck 
 of dirt ; you might eat off the floor." 
 
 " What age do you suppose she was ? " 
 
 " Not far from seventy I should say, sir, meb- 
 bee more ; her face was very puckered when you 
 see her near ; she'd no teeth reg'lar, just a few 
 here and there, as far as one could see ; and her 
 hands so small and thin, a most like birds' claws; 
 but she'd her sight right good, and no fault in 
 her hearing ; she wur better off than a many half 
 her age for that." 
 
 " Did you see much of her ? " 
 
 " No, sir, nobody seed much of her ; she kep 
 to herself, and never went flaunting after no- 
 body ; but to childer of any age she'd be right 
 good and kind. She wur very fond of baking 
 what she called " Parkins," a sort of coarse 
 gingerbread, and the childer often came back 
 from her cottage with a big flat cake of it, or a 
 bit of one, she'd give 'em." 
 
 " Did she deal with the people in the 
 village?" 
 
 "Yes, sir, for some things ; but she often went 
 over to Ulsford with the carrier for things she 
 
MOTHER PENDLE. 149 
 
 wanted. But she'd some, as I know, she couldn't 
 get there." 
 
 " What things were they ? n 
 " Why lor, sir, them bonnets and things ! " 
 " Do you know anything about her money ? " 
 " No, sir, I never heard about her money ; she 
 seemed to have a plenty of it, and goolden 
 guineas wur never wanting with her. Some- 
 times she'd have one pound notes for a time, 
 and then she'd take to her guineas again, so I 
 heard people say." 
 
 " Her rent she always paid me most punctu- 
 ally," said Mr. Askham, " but it never amounted 
 to gold; and I have often noticed the graceful 
 curtsey she made when she entered the audit- 
 room, and her somewhat stately walk, notwith- 
 standing her common wooden clogs." 
 
 " Aye, sir, stately she wur, though she be but 
 a wee bit burdie ; and my wife says she's more 
 of a lady than many as holds their heads high, 
 poor as she be. Some is born ladies even in 
 a cottage, and their forbears ain't much. But 
 about her money I knows nuthen. She went 
 away sometimes for a day or so, and I've seen 
 her riding on the carrier's cart on the Ulsford 
 
150 HER DIGNITY AND GRACE. 
 
 road, as I said just now ; and I know she went to 
 the town sometimes, for I've seen her there, but 
 always alone and trudging along, picking her 
 way in dirty weather in her wooden clogs, with 
 that pertickler large bonnet on. Well, sir, here 
 we are," he said, as they drove up to the cottage. 
 " I can tie up my horse to the door at the back. 
 Have you got the key, sir ? " 
 
 " Yes. Help me down, Giles, for I am rather 
 stiff. Ah ! — that's right. Don't touch my left 
 arm — I shall be able to walk in a minute." 
 
 "Why sure, sir, you are stiffish. It's my 
 shay as is narrow and high for you. I wish it 
 were better, sir ; I don't like to see you like that. 
 Please to lean on me, sir. We shall find a chair 
 in the house of some sort. Shall I take the key, 
 sir?" 
 
 " Yes, Giles, and let me lean on you ; I 
 thought all stiffness was gone. It will go off in 
 a minute. Let us go in ; I should not like Mrs. 
 Askham to see me limping in this way." 
 
 "Woh, oss," said Giles; "old Dobbin will 
 stay quiet till I come back. — Now, sir, you hold 
 on till I unlock the door. — It's uncommon hard 
 rusted like in the lock. — I'll try again. — Well, it 
 
MOTHER PENDLE. 151 
 
 be hard surely ; I'm a most afeered I shall break 
 the key. — Ah, there it is. — Now, sir, let me give 
 'un a push — there. — Now, sir, hold on a bit till I 
 
 get a chair for ye Why lors a mercy ! there's 
 
 the kittle on the hook, as if the puir ole soul was 
 coming back to supper. — Now look, sir, see how 
 neat and clean it is, though it's so many months 
 since she left this." 
 
 " The door-key was the only one found in her 
 pocket ; we must look about for some others, 
 Giles ; but do not be too hasty, or touch any- 
 thing in a drawer or a cupboard till I have seen 
 it." 
 
 When Mr. Askham was somewhat recovered 
 they searched about. Implements for needle- 
 work and knitting were found in a table-drawer, 
 but no keys ; a chest of apparel was to be left 
 for Mrs. Askham to look over. The cupboard 
 held crockery and mouldy eatables. A small tub 
 of what was once meal, a small crock of what 
 was supposed to have been butter — all in a 
 state of decomposition — were quickly put on one 
 side. They examined the rooms front and back 
 for more cupboards, but found none. At last 
 Giles said, "We hav'n't looked in the bed." 
 
152 HER DIGNITY AND GRACE. 
 
 It was a cupboard bedstead, and as the farmer 
 opened it he let the foot which was turned up 
 fall suddenly. A chink was heard, as a small 
 bunch of keys fell on the floor, three or four tied 
 together with a piece of string. 
 
 " We've got 'em," said the farmer ; " but 
 where do they 'long to ? I don't see no boxes ; 
 do you, sir ? " 
 
 " We shall find them somewhere. But here 
 comes Mrs. Askham ; she will help us." 
 
AT THE COTTAGE. 153 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 AT THE COTTAGE. 
 
 Mrs. Askham had driven up in her pony- 
 carriage, across the common, and was rather 
 later than she intended to be, having been 
 stopped by one of the villagers. When she got 
 to the cottage her first question was — 
 
 "Have you found anything, George ? " 
 
 " Yes ; but I want you to come and help 
 amongst these women's concerns." 
 
 She set to work immediately unpacking the 
 chest of apparel. The modest wardrobe had 
 nothing to recommend it to notice, except its 
 cleanliness and good condition. 
 
 " There must be more than this," she said, 
 after replacing the things in the box. " Are you 
 sure you looked over the bed sufficiently ? " 
 
 " You had better come and look yourself, my 
 dear. You may understand it better than we 
 do ; and whilst you are doing that, Farmer Giles 
 and I will search in the back kitchen." 
 
154 HER DIGNITY AND GRACE. 
 
 Mrs. Askham liked the little excitement of 
 hunting for hidden treasures in this eccentric 
 old woman's house. She undertook the task with 
 a good will ; and after some little time, and the 
 thorough examination of the bed, she cried out, 
 " George, George, come quickly. Farmer Giles, 
 come." 
 
 Farmer Giles was the first to arrive and assist 
 her in holding up the mattress. 
 
 " Will you hold that up whilst I put my hand 
 into this hole ? " And out of a hole in the straw 
 she pulled several small bags, and one of larger 
 size, heavy, and evidently containing treasure of 
 some sort. 
 
 " Wait," she said ; " don't be in a hurry. 
 Don't open them till I have found all. See here. 
 What a nice little box ! I believe it is clamped 
 with silver ; and something is engraved on the 
 top plate. Why, certainly — yes — it must be — 
 a coronet ! — but is so dusty and dirty from being 
 in here I can scarcely tell what it is. Do look 
 at it, George." 
 
 Mr. Askham rubbed it with his glove, and 
 saw that it was a coronet. 
 
 " I'm not surprised," said Farmer Giles. 
 
AT THE COTTAGE. 155 
 
 " We were saying, sir, what a lady she 
 looked." 
 
 " We shall find more yet, Louisa/' said Mr. 
 Askham to his wife ; " search on." 
 
 " I cannot find anything more in the mattress. 
 Pull it away ; there is a sort of well under it." 
 
 Farmer Giles pulled away the mattress, and 
 in doing so out rolled various little jingling 
 parcels. 
 
 " Holloa ! what's these, my lady ? " said the 
 farmer. 
 
 " Oh, never mind them. Put them aside till 
 we have looked here. George, come and help 
 me." 
 
 " I cannot, my love ; Parmer Giles will help 
 you. What do you want ? " 
 
 " Oh, I want," said Mrs. Askham, buried in 
 the recess, — " I want some one to help me move 
 these heavy things, — boxes, books, all sorts of 
 things." 
 
 " Please, my lady, to let me come in a bit," 
 said the farmer. 
 
 " Now take care," she said ; " we don't know 
 what there may be in that box. I expect all 
 sorts of treasures after that coronet, George. 
 
156 HER DIGNITY AND GRACE. 
 
 Oh, wait till I have done. Please not to open 
 those packets till I have finished here ; I am so 
 anxious to see all they contain." 
 
 " I think I can help with that box," said Mr. 
 Askhani. 
 
 " It's mighty shaky, sir, but not so heavy. 
 Take a hold here, sir." 
 
 Mr. Askham took hold of the corner presented 
 to him. " Ah-h," screamed Mrs. Askham, as 
 the box came to pieces, and out flew a little 
 Chinese figure of a man, making hideous gri- 
 maces, and working his arms about, whilst after 
 him came another, with a whirring noise. They 
 both ran on wheels, the former in nearly a 
 straight line, and still went on whirring when 
 stopped by the wall. The last one ran two or 
 three times in a largish circle, and then stopped, 
 still opening and shutting its mouth like the 
 other one, and whirling a tiny sword round its 
 head. 
 
 " Well," said Farmer Giles, with a good laugh, 
 when his astonishment was a little over, " well, 
 these be curous chaps ! The boys might well 
 speak of the devil if they'd seen they ! Did you 
 ever see the like, my lady ? " 
 
AT THE COTTAGE. 157 
 
 " Oh yes, we have some ; they are Chinese 
 toys. But they did make me start, jumping out 
 in that unexpected way." 
 
 "Ha, ha, ha," laughed the farmer, and he 
 stood over the little figures, saying, " Ye be 
 outrageous chaps, wherever ye come from. Ha, 
 ha, ha ! I never seed the like o' ye before. I 
 daren't touch ye though, or ye'll be off agen I 
 expecks. Ha, ha, ha ; " he was so diverted he 
 could not stop laughing. 
 
 " We must find the keys for them." 
 
 " The keys, my lady ? " 
 
 "Yes; they are wound up like clock-work. How 
 pleased the children would be with them, George." 
 
 "We shall find some written history of them, 
 most likely," said Mr. Askham. " A person of 
 her habits of order could not omit making some 
 memorandums of her curiosities." 
 
 Mrs. Askham took her place again at the 
 well. " Here's another box like the last one, 
 but it is heavier. Now take care, Giles, or it 
 will fall to pieces perhaps." 
 
 " Nay, my lady, this be a stronger box. But 
 it has a smell of summat in a doctor's shop. 
 Pah ! — I don't care for that smell." 
 
158 HER DIGNITY AND GRACE. 
 
 " It is camphor," said Mrs. Askham. 
 
 " Camphor, my lady ? " 
 
 " Yes ; it is made of camphor wood." 
 
 They drew up the lid, which was at the side 
 of the box (the former box opened in the same 
 way), and amongst many papers was drawn forth 
 a square box containing another Chinese toy, a 
 mandarin on horseback. Three clumsy watch- 
 like keys were also in this box ; they were with- 
 out wards, very short in the shafts, terminating 
 in square heads of an open pattern, and were 
 apparently made of brass. 
 
 "This chap be content to stay at whoam," 
 said the farmer ; " but mebbe ye can rin as fast 
 as t'others if it pleases ye. Ye furrin Moun- 
 seer," he said, stooping over and addressing the 
 toy, "ye're a trifle ainshunt I take it, flaunted 
 up that fashion, and ye're horse too, ha, ha, ha." 
 
 " George, take this," said Mrs. Askham, hand- 
 ing her husband a square box covered with green 
 and gold silk. 
 
 He opened it. "What a beautiful vase," he 
 said, taking it out. It was a gilt filigree vase 
 lined with silver, a red and green dragon 
 enamelled on the top, and enamelled flowers and 
 
AT THE COTTAGE. 159 
 
 leaves on the sides. The vase when opened was 
 found to be intended for an inkstand, and stood 
 about six inches high. 
 
 " Indeed this is a rare piece of art," said Mr. 
 Askham. 
 
 " Oh, how exquisite ! " said his wife. " So 
 this is its case, " taking up the case fitting 
 exactly to it, also in Chinese work. "See, it is 
 lined with silk ; and oh, George ! here is some 
 writing." She took out from the bottom a small 
 faded paper, the ink scarcely legible ; but yet 
 they could read the firm writing, which was, 
 "To Ann, from her uncle and godfather." 
 
 " There must be some history attached to all 
 these valuable curiosities," said Mr. Askham. 
 
 " More things, George ; open them carefully," 
 and she handed him some roundish lumps of 
 paper. 
 
 " Too-ads ! " shouted the farmer, when they 
 were unfolded. " Too-ads ! by goll ! saving 
 your presence, sir, and my lady," with a bow ; 
 " but I am right doited by all they. Too-ads ! 
 too-ads ! ! to think of her having such ugly 
 beasts ! wi' graat wide open mouths ! and I 
 never seed such big 'uns ! " 
 
160 HER DIGNITY AND GRACE. 
 
 "They are not very pretty, but they are 
 curious and valuable, Louisa," said Mr. Ask- 
 ham, turning to his wife. " They are the finest 
 old china.' ' 
 
 " Well, who'd think of making such things ! 
 They Mounseers be curous chaps" ("Moun- 
 seers" being with Farmer Giles, and in fact 
 with most of the common people in the time of 
 the French wars, the general name for all who 
 were not English). 
 
 There were other valuables in the camphor 
 box ; such as nests of pierced and carved ivory 
 balls, with long tassels of crimson silk, enamelled 
 cups and saucers, teapots, basins, covered cups, 
 and small bronze vases, all so carefully enve- 
 loped in soft Chinese silk paper, they might 
 have travelled " to the end of the world " without 
 being injured. Lastly there was a long narrow 
 box opening at its side. Mrs. Askham care- 
 fully drew out from it an ivory pagoda, most 
 elaborately carved in relief with innumerable 
 figures , in every part quite perfect, not even a 
 little corner bell missing or out of place; the 
 case lined with silk exactly fitted it. 
 
 " Oh, George, look here ! How exquisitely 
 
AT THE COTTAGE. 161 
 
 beautiful ! It is even better than ours, which is 
 so much admired. Where could she have got 
 all these things ? " 
 
 "P'r'aps she was a lady's maid, my lady," 
 said the farmer. " They do get handsome 
 things from their mississes." 
 
 " Well, Giles," said Mr. Askham, " this sug- 
 gestion is indeed a falling off from your former 
 idea of ' a duchess.' " 
 
 " A duchess ? " said Mrs. Askham, laughing. 
 
 " Yes, my lady, so I said ; for she had the 
 ways of gentlefolks about her uncommon." 
 
 " Now, George," said Mrs. Askham, " I have 
 emptied this part of the coffer." 
 
 " Coffer, my dear ! " 
 
 " I don't know what else to call it. On the 
 other side of the division there seem to be 
 books ; and really there is such a strong smell 
 of mice it makes me feel quite sick. I do not 
 think I can stay here any longer. Farmer Giles, 
 will you lift out these heavy parcels for me ? " 
 
 " I'm at your bidding, my lady." 
 
 "Then please take my place for a little 
 while." 
 
 He soon handed out large parcels of books, 
 
 VOL. I. M 
 
162 HER DIGNITY AND GRACE. 
 
 and at the further end came upon a very heavy 
 box clamped with iron. 
 
 " I don't know as I can lift this 'ere box all 
 by myself/' said he ; " and how that little frail 
 woman got these heavy things in here I can't 
 have a notion. To be sure she wur younger ten 
 years or more agone." 
 
 " She put the boxes in, and then filled them, 
 probably," said Mr. Askham. 
 
 " Lor, sir, but that could na' be, for the lock 
 of this heaviest one is to the side of the chest, 
 and there's no room to turn it round." 
 
 " Let me help you," said Mrs. Askham. 
 
 " It would break your arms, my lady." 
 
 "I am strong enough you will see. Let us 
 both take hold of that handle at the top, and if 
 the box comes to pieces it will not signify." 
 
 In this manner, with great trouble, the box 
 was extricated from its narrow resting-place. It 
 was very old-fashioned, and looked like a plate- 
 chest, and was fastened with a padlock to a bar 
 which reached across it. 
 
 " We may find the key in the bunch that fell 
 out of the mattress, George." 
 
 " There is no padlock key here," said Mr. 
 
AT THE COTTAGE. 163 
 
 Askham, looking them over. " But here is a 
 most peculiar bunch of keys, perhaps one may 
 lit in some place." 
 
 The bar and lock were much ornamented, 
 pierced here and there with holes. Mr. Askham 
 examined them minutely, and at last put a key 
 which had no wards into a hole that looked 
 deeper than the rest ; it would not turn, but on 
 pushing it back with some force to get the 
 chest more to the light, up flew the bar ; a lock 
 was perceived under the hinge of the bar. He 
 took out the key, but it would not fit the other 
 lock. 
 
 " Can you not open it, George ? " 
 
 "I will try one of the other keys. I may 
 find one for this lock too." 
 
 The right key was quickly found, and the bar 
 was released on that side. The padlock proved 
 to be merely a deception, the ring fastening with 
 a bolt to the box ; this unbolted, the bar opened 
 to another hinge at the further end, where 
 another key, different again from the former, was 
 found to unlock the bar, which could then be 
 taken off; beneath the ornamental part lower 
 down a fourth key -hole was disclosed. 
 
164 HER DIGNITY AND GRACE. 
 
 "These mysteries are endless," said Mrs. Ask- 
 ham. " Try the fourth key, George." 
 
 The locks were good, and the key turned 
 well, but did not seem to open any part of the 
 box. 
 
 " No doubt it is for some purpose, though we 
 cannot find it yet. Do unpack it, George. I 
 want so much to see what is carefully locked up 
 in this casket." 
 
 Mr. Askham opened the box, and underneath 
 various papers he came upon some beautifully 
 chased silver plate. A tea and coffee service of 
 ancient form, small in size, as they were made in 
 olden time. He lifted up the tray in which they 
 fitted, and underneath were two chased gold or 
 gilt goblets, and two repousse bowls, also gold 
 or gilt, one fitting in the other, so that they would 
 make a covered cup if necessary, the larger one 
 having two handles. A large brass button was 
 seen on this tray near the front of the chest ; 
 Mr. Askham took hold of it and pulled it up, 
 and so left it. He tipped up the box from the 
 back to alter its position, and he saw the under- 
 paid of the front separating ; he took hold of an 
 ornamental knob on the separating part and 
 
AT THE COTTAGE. 165 
 
 pulled out a drawer full of spoons and forks of 
 silver, and some beautifully chased gilt tea- 
 spoons. On the top of these lay, neatly folded, 
 a time-soiled paper. 
 
 " Look at that paper, George," said Mrs.. Ask- 
 ham; " perhaps it may tell something." 
 
 He unfolded it, and on a small piece of parch- 
 ment was written — " For my dearest Ann, from 
 her uncle and godfather." 
 
 " Oh, what a nice ' uncle and godfather ' to 
 have," said Mrs. Askham. " I wonder who they 
 all were. Oh, if she were but here to tell 
 us ! " 
 
 " As long as she was here, my love, we should 
 have known nothing at all about these things." 
 
 " George, they must not stay here. Had you 
 not better take them home with you and keep 
 them ? What shall we do ? I am so glad, Farmer 
 Giles, you are here with us. I should not like 
 to have found all these valuables without a 
 witness." 
 
 " You're very good, my lady," was all the 
 farmer could say, for he was completely over- 
 powered with the sight of such riches. 
 
 It was then arranged that Thomas the groom, 
 
1(36 HER DIGNITY AND GRACE. 
 
 who was outside, should be despatched to bring 
 a cart with some boxes and packing-cases, and 
 in particular a large thick wrapper that was in 
 the hall. 
 
 " It is to cover the packages I shall take back 
 with me," Mrs. Askham explained; " I cannot 
 pack all the parcels as closely as the good old 
 woman packed them. And I think the most 
 choice should go with us. Some can be put 
 into Farmer Giles's cart, can they not ? " 
 
 " Yes ; you .are right about taking the most 
 valuable with us. What shall we do with them 
 when we get them home ? " 
 
 " Cannot the best things be placed in the 
 light closet out of the library? They will be 
 under your own eye, George, and within reach. 
 But I suppose they must be advertised." 
 
 " We shall probably find letters or memor- 
 andums somewhere : though no written docu- 
 ment was to be found when I searched at the 
 time of her death. But then of course we had 
 not pulled the place to pieces, as we have done 
 now." 
 
 Farmer Giles would not be left alone in the 
 
AT THE COTTAGE. 167 
 
 cottage when the others had left the kitchen. 
 He said he would go and look after " Dobbin," 
 for he " wouldn't be left alone with they things 
 for no money; they were too grand a'most for 
 the king." 
 
 " But," said Mr. Askham, " you will not 
 object to taking some of them with us, as you 
 take me home." 
 
 " Oh no, sir ; you'll be there too." 
 " I do not think it is safe to have such 
 treasures any longer here, and I shall take them 
 home, and keep them locked up till I can find 
 who is their proper owner." 
 
 "Who will ye 'wertiss for, sir? " 
 "That I must find out. But come and 
 help Mrs. Askham and me to pack up these 
 things again." 
 
 " Lor, sir, I should be right down afeared 
 to touch one on 'em; and as to they rampagious 
 chaps, a running about, I wouldn't touch 'em 
 with a pair of tongs," he said, laughing. 
 " Never mind them ; come and help us." 
 They found Mrs. Askham on her knees rolling 
 up the " too-ads " in their papers. 
 
168 HER DIGNITY AND GRACE. 
 
 " Oh, George," she exclaimed, " I have 
 found some more keys; but where are the 
 boxes ? " , 
 
 "We shall find them in good time. I 
 want to look more about the place before I 
 leave ; we must sound the walls." 
 
 The fireplace in the front kitchen took up 
 nearly the whole of one side ; the hearth was a 
 large flat stone, raised about six inches above 
 the red brick floor. Turf was burnt, and was 
 piled up on the stone ; the favourite " ingle " 
 was on each side with a stone seat. The cooking 
 was managed by hanging pots or kettles on a 
 large hook hanging over the fire, and baking was 
 effected on a griddle, also suspended; or by clear- 
 ing a place on the hearth and placing over the 
 baking a beehive-shaped earthen cover. Behind 
 the " ingle " on each side were wooden panels. 
 Mr. Askham tapped these, and found both to 
 sound hollow. One was easily opened, and 
 showed that it was often used. In it he found 
 various implements for household use, and a large 
 Bible, very much dilapidated, the title-page and 
 many leaves torn out, but no writing whatever 
 upon it. The panel on the other side was not 
 
AT THE COTTAGE. 169 
 
 so easily opened. It was not until he had 
 expended both time and patience, and had 
 broken his penknife, that he managed it. There 
 was a button to keep it shut, and a small piece 
 of string hung from the door, but it was so rotted 
 by damp that it broke off in his hand, and the 
 hot season was not far enough advanced to loosen 
 the door, which was swollen with damp. How- 
 ever, he succeeded at last, and found in it a variety 
 of boxes, chiefly small ones, the largest being 
 of mahogany edged with brass ; an old red 
 morocco workbox clamped with a yellow-looking 
 metal, lock, and claws for feet ; an equally old 
 red morocco writing-case ; some paper parcels, a 
 few books, and a small clock-case without the 
 clock. All were sadly mildewed; the books 
 were in a very bad state, and there was a most 
 unpleasant smell, which, on examining the bottom 
 of the cupboard, came from the dead body of 
 a cat, now almost shapeless. No doubt it 
 had been shut up before the old woman went 
 for her last walk, and so had been starved to 
 death. 
 
 " Oh dear, how tired I am," exclaimed Mrs. 
 Askham. " I wish the carriage would come." 
 
170 HER DIGNITY AND GRACE. 
 
 " I do not wonder at it, my love," replied her 
 husband, looking at his watch. " I declare we 
 have been here four hours ! Fortunately I hear 
 the pony carriage returning." 
 
 Almost as he spoke, the vehicle drew up at 
 the cottage door. Thomas jumped out immedi- 
 ately, and brought from under the seat a basket 
 packed with a clean cloth over it. 
 
 u Please, sir," he said to his master, " Mrs. 
 Cubberd kept me back till she had got this 
 basket ready. She thinks you and my missis 
 will be clemmed being here so long. Shall I 
 unpack it, sir ? " 
 
 " Yes, by all means ; and I am very glad 
 she thought of it. There, stay where you are — 
 now bring a table and chair out here in the 
 shade, and make haste to set the table out." 
 Then, calling to Mrs. Askham, " Louisa, come 
 out, here is some refreshment for you. Farmer 
 Giles and I will also have some." 
 
 " Thank you kindly, sir," said the farmer ; " I 
 shall be right glad of summat." 
 
 Mrs. Askham soon revived after the rest and 
 collation in the cool evening air. Then they 
 began to pack the vehicles, which took some 
 
AT THE COTTAGE. 171 
 
 time, it being past seven o'clock before they were 
 ready to go home. 
 
 As Mrs. Askham was driving away, she 
 stopped and said, " George, do get me some of 
 those beautiful white roses. How pretty they 
 are." 
 
 Farmer Giles ran with his knife to Mr. 
 Askham. " Take my knife, sir ; they'll scratch 
 your hands. Ah, them were her favourites. 
 When my wife offered her some red ones, times 
 agone, she said, 'Ah, no, give me some white 
 ones. White roses for me,' she said." 
 
 " Did your wife know her well ? " 
 
 " The old lady came up to our house some- 
 times for eggs, or butter, or sometimes milk ; 
 and if we'd any honey she liked it." 
 
 Mr. Askham carried the roses to his wife and 
 she drove off. He then said to the carter, " You 
 will have to be here to-morrow morning by ten 
 o'clock for the rest of the things ; and as you 
 go through the village call at Ladds', the brick- 
 layer, and tell him to come up here to meet me 
 at eleven o'clock. Take all you have got in the 
 cart to the Hall." 
 
 Mr. Askham locked up the cottage and got 
 
172 HER DIGNITY AND GRACE. 
 
 into Farmer Giles's "shay," which was also 
 packed, for there was room for very few things 
 in the pony carriage. 
 
 As they drove over the common, Giles said to 
 him, " Do you see that, sir ? " 
 
 " What ? " 
 
 "That glint on the cottage windows." 
 
 " Yes ; that is merely the reflection of the 
 setting sun on the glass." 
 
 " Well, sir, when you were at York last year, 
 such a 'flection as that made a great rackle in the 
 village. They boys saw it after the rain had 
 washed the windows clean, and they swore the 
 poor old lady was back again, and had got a 
 great fire and candles burning, and it was not 
 her at all that was buried. So they left their 
 games and set off to the churchyard to tear up 
 her grave, hooting all the way, and kicking up 
 such a stour. They thought they'd be obliged 
 to have the constables out after 'em. But Mr. 
 Dale heard the riot, and threatened they should 
 all have a good hiding if they didn't go home 
 and keep the peace. So we heard no more 
 about it, kicking up such a rackle ! it was 
 shameful ! " 
 
AT THE COTTAGE. 173 
 
 " The young blackguards ! " said Mr. Askham. 
 
 " Varmints, I call 'em, sir. And to think how 
 that puir old soul must ha' been set upon by 
 'em." Then, after a pause, he added, " To be sure, 
 sir, them grand things of hern has quite dazed me. 
 I think, sir, we'd better not say noth'en about 
 'em. Some of they daring chaps might be 
 grubbing up round the house for treasure. We 
 have heard of such things." 
 
 " You are right, Giles. If your wife can keep 
 a secret " 
 
 "Ah, that she can, sir," said he, interrupting. 
 
 " If she can keep a secret, you might tell her, 
 as she has taken such an j interest in the old 
 lady ; but do not talk about it to other people. 
 It will be known soon enough when I have ad- 
 vertised for the lawful possessors or inheritors." 
 
 " They be gentlefolks, or I'll be throttled." 
 
 " No doubt about it ; but who they are I 
 cannot imagine. It is a perfect mystery." 
 
 "Aye, and a masterpiece too, sir," said the 
 farmer, looking grave and conscious, as though 
 he had found the crowning epithet for what was 
 so incomprehensible to him. 
 
 " I told you, sir," he continued, after a pause, 
 
174 HER DIGNITY AND GRACE. 
 
 " how my wife used to dust the chair for the old 
 lady to sit upon when she came to our house, 
 the same as she did for my lady, or any other of 
 the gentlefolk. Well, sir, my wife used to say 
 she never could take the liberty to sit down 
 when the old lady was there, so she stood and 
 fettled about the things all the time, not to make 
 the old lady feel uneasy. And see, sir, though 
 she didn't know it, she was right. I'm sarten 
 she was right, after all them gewgaws and things. 
 The women has a mighty power of sight of 
 things ; they beats us men. Women can see in 
 a minute who's who. To think of her rubbing 
 up those chairs for the old lady to sit upon ! 
 It's curous, isn't it, sir? Lors, how my wife 
 will stare when I tell her all this. She'll be 
 quite doited like aboot it." 
 
 Mr. Askham was amused at the farmer's 
 speech. He never required or waited for an 
 answer to his queries, but talked over the 
 former stories about " Mother Pendle," whom 
 after this visit to the cottage he never called by 
 any other name than " the old lady," or " the old 
 madam." He seemed as though he could not 
 give sufficient expression to his astonishment, and 
 
AT THE COTTAGE. 175 
 
 was quite prepared to find that she was of any 
 rank short of the Royal family ; even perhaps the 
 " Princess in disguise," which Mr. Askham had 
 laughingly suggested some time before, as a 
 solution of the secret of her grace and accom- 
 plish ments, which the farmer extolled so enthu- 
 siastically. 
 
 " What say you now, Giles ? Is it to be the 
 'Princess in disguise,' or the 'lady's maid,' 
 eh?" 
 
 " Oh, sir, begging her pardon for saying that, 
 it's more like to be the Princess." 
 
176 HER DIGNITY AND GRACE. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 AGAIN AT THE COTTAGE. 
 
 The next day, punctually to the time ap- 
 pointed, Mr. Askham and Farmer Giles, who said 
 he could spare a couple of hours, or till noon if 
 necessary, arrived at the cottage. The back 
 kitchen was to be thoroughly searched. It did 
 not look very inviting ; the damp and the dust, 
 which naturally collect in such circumstances, 
 gave a dingy, mouldy look to the few cloths, pots, 
 pans, and wooden utensils. These were taken out 
 into the small yard by the farmer, to be packed 
 in the cart as soon as it arrived. A cupboard 
 was found ; it contained a strongly-bound chest, 
 which was put into the cart; it was heavy. 
 Another smaller chest was even heavier. The 
 few chairs, the table, and the shut-up bedstead 
 were also put into the cart, and the cottage 
 stood empty. All the keys that did not belong 
 to the house Mr. Askham put in his pocket. 
 The cart was sent off, and Mr. Askham and 
 
AGAIN AT THE COTTAGE. 177 
 
 the farmer were waiting for the bricklayer, 
 when who should ride up but Mr. Royle. The 
 farmer was standing by himself at the door when 
 he appeared. 
 
 " Oh, how d'ye do, Farmer Giles," he said. 
 " What are you about here ? dismantling the 
 cottage, eh ? " 
 
 " There are some repairs wanting, sir, I 
 believe." 
 
 " You were here yesterday Woh, horse, 
 
 be quiet." 
 
 But the horse had a queer temper, like his 
 master, and would not be quiet, but kept back- 
 ing and trying to turn round, till it stepped 
 on the white rose tree and broke it down. 
 
 "Holloa! what the deuce is that?" said 
 Mr. Royle, on hearing the crackling noise 
 of the breaking bush. " No harm done I 
 hope." 
 
 " You've broken the poor old lady's rose tree. 
 Dear ! dear ! My lady is fond of that rose." 
 
 " Woh ! then. Can't you be quiet ? " Mr. 
 Royle said to his horse, which was still tramp- 
 ling about the rose bush, not liking the thorns 
 which scratched its legs. 
 
 VOL. I. N 
 
178 HER DIGNITY AND GRACE. 
 
 But at last the horse moved off with a bound, 
 almost upsetting Mr. Royle, but he recovered 
 himself, and the horse stood fretting and 
 champing the bit either in fright or rage. 
 
 "What is the matter? " said Mr. Askham, as 
 he came round the cottage. 
 
 Mr. Royle explained the accident. 
 
 " I am sorry it is so destroyed ; my wife will 
 be very vexed. We must see what can be done 
 with what is left." 
 
 " The root is not hurt I hope. I am glad 
 to see you look so well, Askham, after your 
 accident, which I am afraid was a bad one." 
 
 " Not so bad as was at first thought, I believe, 
 but I am quite recovered." 
 
 "I hope you and Mrs. Royle are coming to 
 our school examination," continued Mr. Askham. 
 " Rule has got some of the boys on exceedingly 
 well. Afterwards perhaps you will come up to 
 the Hall to luncheon. It is rather an early 
 meeting, but that cannot be avoided." 
 
 " Thank you, we shall attend with pleasure," 
 said Mr. Royle, in an uncertain tone of voice ; 
 "but do you ask me to come alone to the 
 Hall?" 
 
AGAIN AT THE COTTAGE. 179 
 
 " No ; I meant both you and Mrs. Royle," said 
 Mr. Askham, smiling. 
 
 " Your terms are so ambiguous there's no 
 knowing what you mean. I dare say she will be 
 pleased to come too." 
 
 " I did not intend to be ambiguous, believe me." 
 
 "Are you going to pull this cottage down, or 
 what are you going to do ? " 
 
 " Some repairs are necessarily wanted, and I 
 have removed all poor old Mother Pendle's 
 furniture to the Hall till I can find a lawful 
 inheritor." 
 
 " I should think her lawful inheritors or her 
 lawful relatives would be hard to find, except 
 among the gypsies or tramps." 
 
 " Whoever they are, they must be found, or 
 advertised for, for I do not know what else to do 
 with her chattels." 
 
 " Make a bonfire of the old rubbish, and save 
 the chance of fever from those who might lay 
 claim to them." 
 
 " I have no right to destroy what does not 
 belong to me ; and as to fever, that would be 
 impossible, I should say, to any one so scrupul- 
 ously clean as she was." 
 
 N 2 
 
180 HER DIGNITY AND GRACE. 
 
 "Well, she never looked dirty, I must say. 
 But really, Askham, what can be the use of 
 hoarding such old rubbish ? " 
 
 " I have seen worse things than she possessed 
 taken great care of by those to whom they 
 belonged, and as long as I have a corner to house 
 them in, there they shall remain until they are 
 claimed. So if you chance to hear of a relative, 
 pray let me know." 
 
 " That I certainly will to please you, but I do 
 not see the least chance of any heirs being 
 found. Did she not leave a will, if her furniture 
 is so choice?" he said, laughing in his peculiar 
 w r ay — laughing with his mouth and looking fierce 
 with his eyes. 
 
 " I have found no written document of any 
 kind," said Mr. Askham. 
 
 " No, of course not ; most probably she could 
 not write, and perhaps not read either." 
 
 " I never saw her write, nor heard her read, 
 but her old Bible was well thumbed and worn, so 
 most likely she had the latter accomplishment." 
 
 " Well, what are you going to do with this 
 cottage," said Mr. Boyle ; " are you going to take 
 up the floor to search for hidden treasure ? " 
 
AGAIN AT THE COTTAGE. 181 
 
 " Certainly not," said Mr. Askham ; " it shall 
 be repaired, and that is all." 
 
 " But you may be sure there must be some 
 hidden treasure ; for that the old woman was 
 never without her guineas and pound notes is 
 well known in the neighbourhood." 
 
 " We shall see about that. But I must beg 
 you to excuse my staying any longer, for I see 
 Ladds is come to speak to me, and I have much 
 to attend to to-day." And the two parted. 
 
 Mr. Askham then turned to meet the brick- 
 layer, and gave the following instructions : — 
 
 "I want this cottage entirely cleaned out, 
 whitewashed, repaired, and put in order. And 
 should you find anything, or any piece of paper, 
 or letter, or book, or anything written on, or in 
 fact, anything whatsoever, a key or any trivial 
 thing, I think I can rely on you, Ladds, to take 
 care of it yourself, and bring it to me." 
 
 " I'll be sartin to do so, sir, at your bidding ; 
 and even for her own sake I would, for she was 
 real kind to my little boy, and my girl too, for 
 the matter of that, and many's the farthel of 
 cake she's given 'em." 
 
 Mr. Askham went to examine the rose bush, 
 
182 HER DIGNITY AND GRACE. 
 
 and found that, although there was much broken 
 and split, the root seemed unhurt. Ladds came 
 to him with a small black key. 
 
 " See here, sir, this little key I found where 
 the bed was ; it's old-fashioned enough." 
 
 " I had better take it with me," said Mr. 
 Askham ; " perhaps you will find something else 
 in the same place." 
 
 "I'll see, sir." Presently he came back again, 
 saying, " Did you see that cupboard, sir ? " 
 
 "Which?" 
 
 " The one under the window-seat, sir." 
 
 " No ; " and he went into the cottage, and 
 saw the cupboard which the man had opened. 
 It was to all appearance full of parcels. Mr. 
 Askham told him to take them out carefully ; 
 which done, he sat down on the window-seat, 
 and between them they unpacked the parcels. 
 They all contained books, account-books, and 
 written papers, many of them very faded and 
 ancient. 
 
 " This may be what we wanted, Ladds ; but 
 how shall I convey them home now the cart is 
 gone ? " 
 
 " If you can spare me the time to run home, 
 
AGAIN AT TIIE COTTAGE. 183 
 
 I will soon be back with my cart, and will take 
 them with pleasure, sir." 
 
 " Yes, that will do very well/' 
 
 Ladds ran off to the village, and Mr. Askham 
 continued the search by himself. In the back 
 kitchen he saw a trap-door in the ceiling, and in 
 the corner behind the door a most primitive 
 ladder, evidently intended to give access to it. 
 He placed it against the wall and got up the 
 ladder, unbolted the trap-door, and pushed it 
 back. He scared a couple of rats ; but no box 
 or basket, or anything except a few dirty rags, 
 was to be seen, the place looking desolate 
 and dirty beyond description by the faint light 
 admitted by holes in the roof. 
 
 When Ladds came back with his cart he 
 searched the loft, but nothing was found but 
 scraps of rags and paper which the four-footed 
 inhabitants had carried there to make their nests. 
 It was arranged that not only was the cottage to 
 be repaired, but a railing put up to enclose a 
 portion of the common round the house to make 
 a garden. 
 
 " It shall be thoroughly trenched and dug up, 
 and so," said Mr. Askham "we shall prevent 
 
184 HER DIGNITY AND GRACE. 
 
 people from digging for treasure, as I hear they 
 have a wish to do." 
 
 The cart was packed with the last found 
 parcels, and Mr. Askham gave the key of the 
 cottage to Ladds, who drove off to the Hall. 
 Mr. Askham set off to walk, but when he 
 reached the common met his wife in her pony 
 carriage. He told her of the breaking of the 
 rose tree. 
 
 "What a tiresome man Mr. Royle is. I wish 
 he had kept to his own ' potteries/ and not come 
 here to annoy us. Do you think the rose tree is 
 hopelessly broken. Let us go and look at it." 
 
 On the way he told her of the invitation he 
 had given Mr. Royle. 
 
 "I am so glad you did that, and now they 
 will know that no slight was intended, for I wrote 
 notes and sent Thomas with them more than an 
 hour ago. And his wife would probably have 
 received hers before his return home. Why 
 should people be so cross-grained and take 
 everything for an injury where none is meant ! " 
 
 " Never mind them, little woman ; do not let 
 them trouble you, they will find their own level." 
 
 " Yes, George ; but in the mean time so many 
 
AGAIN AT THE COTTAGE. 185 
 
 explanations are required, one has to be on one's 
 Ps and Qs with people one does not care for." 
 
 " Forget them, my love. Drive round the other 
 side to see the rose tree." 
 
 " Well really, George, this is shameful. The 
 whole bush is broken to bits. How very pro- 
 voking ! I wanted so much to transplant that 
 pretty rose, to keep for her sake, poor old 
 woman." 
 
 " I do not think it is killed, but we will send 
 Crabtree up to see about it, and bring away all 
 that is left of it." 
 
 " This is not the way for me to forget Mr. 
 Royle." 
 
 " My dear love," said Mr. Askham, " at most 
 this was but an accident." 
 
 " Perhaps you are right, dear, and I must own 
 I am vexed." And she showed it by the way she 
 whipped up the ponies as they left the cottage 
 and returned to the Hall. 
 
 As they drove along the common they met 
 the Rector. 
 
 " Do come up and dine with us," said Mr. 
 Askham ; " I want to consult you on various 
 subjects." 
 
186 HER DIGNITY AND GRACE. 
 
 " And ask Mrs. Dale to come too, if she 
 will excuse this sudden thought," said Mrs. 
 Askham. 
 
 " My wife can't come to-day I know, but I 
 will with pleasure. How well you look, 
 Askham. " 
 
 H Yes, does he not," said Mrs. Askham. " I 
 tell him the long rest has quite set him up." 
 
 " Ah-h," said the squire, with a sad face. 
 
 He told his wife of the intended railed -in 
 garden at the cottage. 
 
 " That will be nice, George ; and we will try 
 to have a piece of her white rose tree always 
 there. I am longing to know what the chests 
 and parcels found to-day contain. What sort of 
 a key did you find ? " 
 
 "Here it is. It is a pretty little key, and 
 finely worked in the ring. It is made of such 
 smooth, close metal, I should not be surprised to 
 find, if it is not bronze, that it is silver." 
 
 " Then it will fit the ebony box perhaps. 
 How black the key is." 
 
 " I found — that is, Ladds found — two other 
 keys, but they are clumsy enough." 
 
MR. DALE DINES AT THE HALL. 187 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 MR. DALE DINES AT THE HALL. 
 
 Mr. Dale came up to dinner according to his 
 promise, and the whole subject of " Mother 
 Pen die " was discussed as soon as the servants 
 had left the room. 
 
 " That she was more than she appeared to be 
 has long been my conviction/' said Mr. Dale ; 
 " but her excessive reticence as to herself and her 
 history could never be got over. And there 
 was a sort of dignity about her which precluded 
 intrusion of any kind. I had thought that 
 probably she might, at her age, be taken ill 
 some day, and then she would give some clue as 
 to those she wished to see. But she was a very, 
 I may say a remarkably, healthy woman, and 
 during the time I have known her, now above 
 ten years, she was sick but once, and then very 
 slightly. My wife had a great wish to be kind 
 to one so lonely ; but although the old lady grate- 
 fully acknowledged her intentions, she always 
 
188 HER DIGNITY AND GRACE. 
 
 declared she was not lonely, and wanted for 
 nothing. I told my wife she should not attempt 
 to patronize a person with evidently such a 
 proud spirit. She answered she fully under- 
 stood that, and had carefully avoided it, and it 
 was easily to be seen the old lady herself did not 
 consider she had done so. One very bad winter's 
 afternoon, when the rain and sleet had come 
 suddenly down/' he continued, in an impressive 
 tone of voice, " my wife was out and caught in 
 the storm. The wind blew, the snow and sleet 
 were quite blinding, and it was very slippery 
 walking. She turned a corner and came upon 
 old 'Mother Pendle,' who was labouring on 
 against the wind and storm, which seemed to 
 catch her large hood and bonnet, thereby increas- 
 ing the difficulty of standing against it. My 
 wife went up to her and said, ' Do let me go 
 over the common with you this wild evening; 
 it is so slippery, and the wind will be stronger 
 up there without shelter. I am strong and 
 young, and can so easily help you. Will you 
 take my arm ? Please do/ and held out her arm 
 to her. The old woman put her thin, delicate 
 hand upon my wife's arm, and with tears run- 
 
MR. DALE DINES AT THE HALL. 189 
 
 ning down her face, though her voice never 
 faltered, said, 'My love, I appreciate your kindness 
 and good-will to me now, and at all times when 
 we meet. I am quite able to walk over the 
 common even in the storm, and if not, I could 
 not take you so far away. My stick is a good 
 support. Go home to your husband, cherish 
 and love him as a good man deserves, and if 
 you wish to insure your own happiness and his. 
 Believe me, there is a Providence watching over 
 me as well as the rest of mankind. Good-bye.' 
 And with a slight pressure of her hand she 
 turned, and walked away without looking 
 behind. My wife stood and watched her for 
 some time, weeping like a child ; she said there 
 was something so sad and solemn in the old 
 woman's voice and manner ; and she could not 
 recover herself the whole evening. It was the 
 longest sentence she had ever heard the old lady 
 give utterance to, and was spoken in a low, 
 tuneful, but firm tone of voice, with neither 
 whining nor sobs ; but with intense feeling, and, 
 as I have said, with tears. Her language too was 
 that of an educated person. Often have we 
 talked over this singular interview." 
 
190 HER DIGNITY AND GRACE. 
 
 " Oh, poor dear creature ! " said Mrs. Askham, 
 whose eyes were dim with tears, " I wish she 
 were alive now, that we might go to her and 
 give her some comfort." 
 
 " That, Louisa," said her husband, " would be 
 as impossible now as it ever has been, I take it. 
 No one could prevail over such excessive secresy 
 at any time." 
 
 " Probably," said Mr. Dale, " this superiority 
 which she could not conceal was the main cause 
 of the ridiculous idea current among the lower 
 classes that she was a witch." 
 
 "That is very likely," said Mr. Afkham. 
 " Giles, in talking to me, said hers was gentle- 
 folks' talk, and not their talk, and accounted for 
 it by supposing she came from London, or far 
 away. And he said her manners had such an 
 effect upon Sally Giles that she could not sit 
 down in her presence." 
 
 " All these effects are very curious, and make 
 one wish to know the truth," said Mr. Dale. 
 
 " I have told you of some of the curiosities we 
 found in her boxes, but I think we have come 
 upon some papers to-day that may probably throw 
 a little light upon her antecedents. I should wish 
 
MR. DALE DINES AT THE HALL. 191 
 
 you to be present to examine them with me, 
 for I feel a little anxious in undertaking a task 
 so delicate alone." 
 
 " That I will with pleasure ; but I have not 
 time so completely at my disposal as you have, 
 and am afraid I can only take it by fits and 
 starts, as it were." 
 
 " You see, the fact is," replied Mr. Askham, 
 sadly, " I feel a sort of responsibility. She may 
 have relates and heirs, who may take it ill 
 that I have looked into her papers. And who 
 knows what unpleasantness might arise if, in that 
 case, events or her wishes are not as they hope 
 or desne ! Should I examine them alone, accusa- 
 tions might be brought which, though unde- 
 served, I should have no power to combat, 
 having no witness." 
 
 " I quite understand your feeling, but I think 
 you strain a point." 
 
 " Oh, no ! " said Mr. Askham, mournfully, 
 " who can tell the horrors that may come from 
 what is unseen ! " 
 
 " I should call that a morbid idea. But, how- 
 ever, if you feel it so strongly I certainly will 
 be your witness. As to right doing, it can be 
 
192 HER DIGNITY AND GRACE. 
 
 nothing else, and I do not think that is likely 
 to be questioned. As I said, I will be with 
 you when you like. Mrs. Askham," he con- 
 tinued, smiling, " cannot be taken into account, 
 as a wife's evidence for or against her husband 
 is of no value." 
 
 " So I am told/ 5 said Mrs. Askham ; " but 
 I am sure George is always to be believed, and 
 can only act honourably." 
 
 " My dear love," returned Mr. Askham, 
 smiling, " vou do not know what heirs and rela- 
 tives are in cases of inheritance. They want all 
 they can get, and as much more as possible." 
 
 " Ha, ha, ha," laughed the Rector. " Do you 
 speak from experience, Askham? Was that 
 your case ? Did you expect to get two Wood- 
 nastons instead of one ? or two marriage portions 
 instead of one when you married Mrs. Askham ? " 
 The Rector laughed heartily and tried to turn 
 the subject, to avoid the sadness that since his 
 accident had crept over Mr. Askham occasionally. 
 
 " Ha, ha," laughed Mrs. Askham too. " He 
 was deceived there then, for he only got half a 
 portion when he married me." 
 
 " I have had it doubled and trebled since, my 
 
MR. DALE DINES AT THE HALL. 193 
 
 love, by your excellence," said Mr. Askham, in a 
 cheerful voice. 
 
 " I am glad," remarked Mr. Dale, as they all 
 laughed, "that pretty compliments are become 
 the order of the hour, for we were getting rather 
 drowsy in our talk." 
 
 " Well, now, suppose we go into the drawing- 
 room," interposed Mrs. Askham. 
 
 "And, George," she said, when they were 
 there, " I should like to show Mr. Dale some of 
 the beautiful Chinese ornaments." 
 
 " Not to-night, Mrs. Askham, if you please. 
 We have been prosing so long in the dining- 
 room that it is quite late, and in a few minutes 
 I must go home. It is a beautiful moonlight 
 night, and I shall go across the park through the 
 church gate." 
 
 " Not just yet, Mr. Dale ; and when you go 
 George and I will go part of the way with 
 you." 
 
 " About this examination, Dale ; you will not 
 expect me to do much in the matter ? " 
 
 " As chairman of the committee of inquiry we 
 have formed, and as the proprietor of the school, 
 you ought to say something." 
 
 VOL. I. o 
 
194 HER DIGNITY AND GRACE. 
 
 <f Let it be as little as possible. I do not feel 
 equal to it in any way." 
 
 "That must be guided by yourself. We 
 cannot make you speak if you won't. Can we, 
 Mrs. Askham ? " he asked, laughing. 
 
 " When the time comes George will be quite 
 able to say what is right. He has a good power 
 of talking when he likes. You should hear him 
 talk to me, Mr. Dale ! " she answered. 
 
 " Ah, my dear, that is quite a different thing. 
 Any nonsense will do for you." 
 
 " Oh, George ! Mr. Dale, don't believe it." 
 
 " According to your own showing, not half an 
 hour ago, I should be bound to believe what 
 your husband said. But I must go. 
 
 " I can come to you to-morrow morning, 
 Askham, if that will suit you," said Mr. Dale, as 
 they went through the ante-room window which 
 opened on to the verandah. 
 
 " You will lunch with us," said Mrs. Askham. 
 
 " I will with pleasure, but I must be home 
 soon after two o'clock." 
 
 "A couple of hours' work looking over 
 papers," said Mr. Askham, " is hardly worth the 
 trouble of laying them out; so I will put off 
 
MR. DALE DINES AT THE HALL. 195 
 
 the work-people at Ashencroft till the afternoon, 
 and as soon as you can come up in the morning 
 we will set to work in the library." 
 
 " Then I will be with yon at half-past nine. 
 You had better not come through the wet grass, 
 Mrs. Askham." 
 
 "Well, I think not," she said, opening the 
 shrubbery gate, through which he passed. 
 " Good night." 
 
 " You are limping very much, George," she 
 said, as they walked back. 
 
 "I am tired," replied the husband. "My 
 ankle gets stiff. I feel it more than the hip." 
 
 o li 
 
196 HER DIGNITY AND GRACE. 
 
 CHAPTER XYIII. 
 
 THE SEARCH FOR RECORDS. 
 
 Mr. Askham considered that the bundles of 
 papers last found would be likely to throw some 
 light on the "Pendle" affairs, and he placed 
 them on the table when he and the Rector sat 
 down for their investigation. The outside 
 coverings were excessively dirty, and must have 
 remained for many years untouched. 
 
 The first parcel they opened was entirely 
 composed of account-books ; some had " John 
 Lystone, York," written on the cover. One was 
 entirely devoted to stationery and books ; some 
 to ordinary household affairs, rent and taxes ; and 
 one a debtor and creditor account, in which the 
 debtor was more prominent than the creditor ; 
 others with " Ann Lystone " written inside the 
 cover, very neatly kept, in a good woman's 
 hand, all relative to personal affairs. 
 
 " Who were ' John and Ann Lystone ' of 
 York? Did you know that name, Dale? " 
 
THE SEARCH FOR RECORDS. 197 
 
 " I have heard it in the West Riding, and 
 although those who bore it were not landowners, 
 they were gentry — petty gentry I should call 
 them. But this ' John Ly stone,' from his 
 account-book, probably kept a small stationer's 
 shop." 
 
 " We will put them back again in their 
 parcel ; and I think, Dale, we had better take 
 this large bundle next. Will you open it? " 
 
 " These are letters tied up in packets." 
 
 One packet contained numerous franks from 
 Peers and prominent members of parliament 
 during a long period, addressed to various 
 persons ; some to " Mistress Ann Lystone, Monk 
 Street, York ; " to the same at Bridlington, and 
 other places. These were most often franked 
 by " Becklea," as were several letters addressed 
 to "The Honourable and Reverend Edward O. 
 Thurlestane, Eddishowe, York." 
 
 " Ah," said Mr. Dale, " he was the son of Lord 
 Becklea ; they were all more or less friends and 
 acquaintances of my father's ; and your father 
 must have known them too." 
 
 " Very likely ; but my father died young, as 
 you know, when I was but twenty-four years of 
 
198 HER DIGNITY AND GRACE. 
 
 age ; and through being away either at Eton or 
 college, or in the army, I did not know much 
 about his friends and acquaintances. My mother 
 died when we were children, and our house was 
 not a gay one." 
 
 "Dear me, what a parcel of old rubbish to 
 keep so carefully." 
 
 " Farmer Giles suggested the old woman 
 might have been a lady's maid ; if so, she pro- 
 bably collected these franks, with their great red 
 seals, to dispose of them to collectors, and so 
 make money by them. If you observe, there is 
 seldom any writing at the back." 
 
 "Here is one dated 1749. On the inside is 
 written — ' Tell Earnshaw to get some new sewel- 
 ling made. We will have some doe-hunting in 
 November, when our little grand-daughter attains 
 her first year/ It is addressed to ' The Countess 
 of Becklea, Becklea Park, York.' Not a vestige 
 of that fine property is to be seen now." 
 
 " I believe the Becklea family have died out." 
 
 " Yes ; and the last Earl was such a scamp, he 
 ran through all the property, and there was not 
 sufficient after the sale to pay his debts. 
 
 " Who bought the property' ? " 
 
THE SEARCH FOR RECORDS. 199 
 
 " It was sold piecemeal, the house pulled 
 down, and the name is not even known now ; 
 but I remember it when I was a little boy." 
 
 " We had better put the papers up as we 
 found them, eh, Dale ? " 
 
 " Certainly." 
 
 The next packet was labelled " From my dear 
 uncle and godfather." 
 
 " Oh, here we may have something nearer the 
 point," said Mr. Askham. " The chest of plate 
 and the Chinese ornaments were from the ' uncle 
 and godfather.' " 
 
 The letters were on one sheet of paper folded 
 in the old-fashioned wav, and addressed on the 
 outside, so that sender and receiver were at 
 once identified.* 
 
 The letters began always "My dear Ann," 
 and ended " Your loving uncle and godfather, 
 Edgar Thurlestane." The address was, " To the 
 Lady Ann Thurlestane, Eddishowe, York ; " or 
 to the same at " Becklea Park, York." Of a 
 later date were a few addressed, " To Mistress 
 Ann Lystone." Some were only "Eor my dear 
 
 * An excellent custom lost in these days of separate 
 envelopes. 
 
200 HER DIGNITY AND GRACE 
 
 grandniece Ann ; " these had evidently been 
 enclosures. 
 
 " How the deuce did the old woman get hold 
 of these ? " said Mr. Dale. 
 
 " Perhaps she was some relation of Lystone's." 
 
 " Who ? < The Lady Ann ? ' , That is scarcely 
 probable." 
 
 " Mother Pendle may have been." 
 
 " I don't know what to think of her ; she's a 
 riddle." 
 
 They read and looked over the letters, which 
 mostly gave descriptions of places visited, " which 
 you, my dear niece, so much delight in ; " the 
 customs, habits, and costumes of the people, 
 with various little travellers' anecdotes, but no 
 word as to family history. There were letters 
 also in other packets, but no clue to the personal 
 history of " The Lady Ann," or of " Mistress 
 Ann Lystone," could be gathered from them; so 
 they were repacked in their papers, and put aside. 
 
 " We are no further on than we were yester- 
 day," said Mr. Dale. " Have you any more 
 letters and papers ? " 
 
 " There are boxes still unopened. How much 
 longer time can you spare ? " 
 
THE SEARCH FOR RECORDS. 201 
 
 "I can remain to luncheon." 
 
 " I am glad of that. I will call Louisa, as 
 she wishes to see what is in the boxes.' ' 
 
 He left the room, and soon came back bring- 
 ing Mrs. Askham, who said — 
 
 " And what have you found? " 
 
 " Not much to identify ' Mother Pendle ; ' 
 there is nothing as yet to disprove Giles's 
 apparent foresight in pronouncing her a ' lady's 
 maid.' " 
 
 " Oh, how provoking," said Mrs. Askham, 
 " I would rather have her the ' Princess in 
 disguise.' " 
 
 " Baby romance, Louisa, baby romance." 
 
 " It is very amusing, George, and it does 
 no one any harm. However, for the matter 
 of that, it is really your romance, and not 
 mine." 
 
 " You are unalterably one and the same," said 
 Mr. Dale. 
 
 " Don't laugh at us, Mr. Dale," she answered, 
 herself laughing. 
 
 " Certainly not ; I laugh with you. Did any 
 one answer your advertisement, Askham, after 
 the old woman's death ? " he continued. 
 
202 HER DIGNITY AND GRACE. 
 
 " No ; although I put it in York and London 
 papers several times." 
 
 " These bags contain money, George ; why not 
 count it? Mr. Dale, will you take those two, 
 and George and I will have these." 
 
 One of Mr. Dale's bags contained guineas, 
 half-guineas, gold seven-shilling pieces, to the 
 amount of nearly £80. The other bag was 
 larger and heavier. It contained silver tokens ; 
 Charles IV. Spanish dollars, having the miniature 
 head of George III. impressed on the neck of the 
 image ; crowns, half-crowns, shillings, sixpences, 
 to the amount of £12. 
 
 " So the old lady was not without current 
 coin of the realm, though some of it is of 
 ancient date," said Mr. Dale. 
 
 "Some of these are pretty, and some are 
 curious," said Mrs. Askham, looking them over ; 
 " but George's bags are ponderous, and the con- 
 tents ugly, though they may be curious. Great 
 double pennies and ordinary pence, and various 
 copper tokens, mostly quite new ; and some of 
 the coins look like iron or lead." 
 
 " There is above £3 worth of copper coin. She 
 must have been a miser," said Mr. Askham. 
 
THE SEARCH FOR RECORDS. 203 
 
 " And in this bag are rolls of bank notes of date 
 179S— 9 ; the latest are 1S02, almost all of £1. 
 
 " How many, George ? " 
 
 " Wait a minute, till I have counted them." 
 
 " I could never have imagined her to be such 
 a miser," said Mr. Dale ; " for s he was open- 
 handed in a small way, poor old soul." 
 
 " People said she was very charitable in 
 giving away food," said Mrs. Askham. 
 
 " In that may have been her security and 
 wisdom," said Mr. Dale; " for if she had been 
 liberal in giving away money, some evil-disposed 
 persons might have set upon her and robbed her, 
 and there was no help at hand in that lonely 
 cottage." 
 
 " And you might add," responded Mr. Ask- 
 ham, "her distinction as a 'witch ' was effectu- 
 ally her safeguard. She most probably knew this, 
 and therefore never resented it. Here are £53 
 in pound notes, and £24 in two pound notes, 
 Louisa." 
 
 " What hoards ! " said Mrs. Askham. "Where 
 did she get all this money ? " 
 
 " Her accumulated wages, if a lady's maid," 
 said Mr. Dale. " Or perhaps she had kept a 
 
20 i HER DIGNITY AND GRACE. 
 
 school, for by her education she was not a 
 common person." 
 
 " That is the most likely supposition yet 
 uttered," said Mr. Askham. " It might also 
 account for her dignity of manner, her exquisite 
 curtsey, her light and graceful step, all of which 
 she may have acquired as the head of a young 
 ladies' seminary." 
 
 " Or a housekeeper," said Mrs. Askham. "Or, 
 George, she might have kept an inn. Remem- 
 ber how often we have admired the curtseys and 
 manners of Keys, my uncle's housekeeper ; and 
 of Mrs. Fowler of the ' King's Head ' at York. 
 Their dignity and courtesy are perfect ; I hope 
 our little girls may be as courteous and digni- 
 fied." 
 
 " It remains with yourself, my dear, to make 
 them so. But I should not like to see Georgie, 
 for example, take up the corner of her apron as 
 Mrs. Keys does when she is speaking, nor show 
 the backs of her hands straight down her sides, 
 like Mrs. Fowler." 
 
 " What nonsense you talk ! " said Mrs. Ask- 
 ham, laughing. " The idea of Georgie wearing 
 an apron ! " 
 
THE SEARCH FOR RECORDS. 205 
 
 " What can you remember about the Becklea 
 family, Dale ? " asked Mr. Askham. 
 
 " Not much I am afraid. They died out 
 long ago, and there was no one to succeed to 
 the title when the last Lord died." 
 
 " Who was the ' Lady Ann ' ? " 
 
 " I do not know. It was the custom in the 
 last century to call the ladies of a noble family 
 ' my lady ' and ' the lady/ even if they did not 
 de facto hold that title." 
 
 " Could we not find out who the ' Lady Ann ' 
 Avas, who was grandniece and godchild to the 
 Honourable Edgar Thurlestane ? " 
 
 " We might find some old genealogical tree 
 or list of nobility that would show us. I fancy 
 she must have been one of the Honourable and 
 Reverend Edward Thurlestane's daughters, who 
 have all passed away. I do not suppose there 
 is one of the race now in existence. My father 
 said when the last Lord died, that he was the 
 last of the race, male or female." 
 
 " How can we find out who ' Mistress Ann 
 Lystone ' was. She must have had some con- 
 nection with the family, directly or indirectly ; 
 for there are franks addressed to her, as we have 
 
206 HER DIGNITY AND GRACE. 
 
 seen, and in the same collection with those of 
 the Becklea family." 
 
 " These franks may have been got together 
 by some collector of autographs, perhaps a 
 retainer, or friend of the family. Who knows 
 but that 6 Mother Pendle ' may have been that 
 retainer. The franks do not so much surprise 
 me as the possession of the chest of plate and 
 other valuables you have told me of." 
 
 " It seems to me an inextricable maze ; but 
 it must be unravelled. We have still half an 
 hour's time ; shall we open one of the boxes ? " 
 
 " Certainly ; reading over the letters has taken 
 up so much time, apparently to no purpose, 
 that I would fain hope the next packets will 
 contain something else." 
 
 They placed the bundles of papers in their 
 original soiled wrappers, and put them into the 
 closet, bringing out a box that was nailed 
 up. 
 
 Mrs. Askham had brought some tools, and 
 after a little trouble the rusty nails were with- 
 drawn. On lifting up the top papers, a child's 
 suit of clothes was revealed, and Mrs. Askham 
 drew forth the wardrobe of a boy, of perhaps 
 
THE SEARCH FOR RECORDS. 207 
 
 eight or ten years old, of the fashion of many 
 yeai*s before. All were of good but not rich 
 material, most carefully and closely packed. 
 
 " These are not the clothes of a common 
 child," said Mrs. Askham. c ' Poor woman ! I 
 wonder if these belonged to her own child, that 
 she has hoarded them up so carefully. She 
 wore a wedding ring, I remember. By the bye> 
 George, what became of that ring ; she surely 
 had it on when she was found buried in the 
 snow? " 
 
 " I never thought about it. Do you know, 
 Dale?" 
 
 " Now you mention it, I think Mrs. Wright 
 of the ' King's Head ' wished to have it as a 
 remembrance ; and she also had her stick, which 
 was found near the place where the poor old 
 woman lay — or, I should say, sat." 
 
 " What was done with her clothes ? " said 
 Mrs. Askham. " I should like to have had her 
 bonnet." 
 
 "They were so completely destroyed and 
 sodden with the wet that they were burnt. It 
 was supposed she had remained buried in the 
 snow for five or six weeks," said Mr. Dale. 
 
208 HER DIGNITY AND GRACE. 
 
 " Five or six weeks ! " exclaimed Mrs. 
 Askham. 
 
 " Yes, from the time she was last seen. The 
 snow-drift in the gravel-pit in which she was 
 found was at one time twenty feet high." 
 
 " Poor creature, how she must have suffered! " 
 
 " Not at all, Louisa," said Mr/Askham. "She 
 probably was completely benumbed, perhaps 
 already partially frozen when she fell ; or perhaps 
 sat down to rest, in which case death comes 
 like uncontrollable sleep, and there is no 
 pain." 
 
 " I am glad of that, poor soul. Everything I 
 hear makes me the more lament how impossible 
 l t was for us to have known her better, or be 
 able to help her." 
 
 "We leave you, Louisa, to pack up these 
 things again. It will be well to show Mr. 
 Dale the plate in the four-locked chest." 
 
 " Oh, delightful ! I shall have packed this box 
 by the time you have got it out of the closet." 
 
 Mr. Dale assisted Mr. Askham to bring out 
 the chest, and was exceedingly interested in 
 the ingenuity of the locks. 
 
 " The plan of these locks would be no disgrace 
 
THE SEARCH FOR RECORDS. 209 
 
 to one of the famous old iron- workers, artists 
 they may be called, of Holland," said Mr. Dale. 
 
 When the chest was opened he examined the 
 various articles of silver most minutely. Mr. 
 and Mrs. Askham did the same, for on the 
 former occasion their time was too short to admit 
 of more than a glance at them. They were 
 all struck with admiration at their beauty. 
 
 " They look prettier to-day than they did 
 when we first saw them," Mrs. Askham said. 
 " What a charming 'uncle and godfather' to make 
 such handsome presents ! I hope we shall find 
 out the history of them. Now, George, shall I 
 fetch the Chinese inkstand ? You can put that 
 away after Mr. Dale is gone." 
 
 " No, my love ; I must ask him to help me ; it 
 is very heavy, and I do not intend the servants 
 to see these things or where they are kept — yet, 
 at least." 
 
 However, the words were scarcely said before 
 the door opened, and the footman entered to 
 announce luncheon whilst all the gold and 
 silver plate was spread out on the table. 
 
 " Dear me, how very provoking," said Mr. 
 Askham, when the servant was gone. 
 
 VOL. I. P 
 
210 HER DIGNITY AND GRACE. 
 
 " I do not think it will much signify," said 
 his wife ; " Farmer Giles knows all about it as 
 well as we do." 
 
 "I am very glad he does," said Mr. Askham ; 
 " but that is a different case to the servants 
 knowing it, until everything is made clear. 
 They will talk." 
 
A LETTER FOUND. 211 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 A LETTER FOUND . 
 
 Ladds the bricklayer came up to Mr. Askliam 
 one morning and brought with him a writing- 
 desk, which he said he had found at the side of 
 the cupboard near the fireplace in the cottage, 
 and which had escaped notice when they searched 
 before ; there was no key found with it. Mr. 
 Askham sent a note to Mr. Dale by Ladds, 
 begging him to come up to the Hall ; and in the 
 course of an hour he arrived. The lock of the 
 old desk was so poor that by a twist of the 
 hands Mr. Dale opened it. It contained some 
 money, writing materials, &c, and at the bottom 
 was a letter addressed to Mr. Askham. 
 
 They were not a little astonished to find this, 
 and at once Mr. Askham opened it and read as 
 follows (there was no date) : 
 
 "My dear Sir, 
 
 " You will, I am sure, forgive my 
 
 writing to you on matters of business. The 
 
 p 2 
 
212 HER DIGNITY AND GRACE. 
 
 courtesy I have always experienced from you 
 leads me to think you will grant my requests as 
 willingly as your most excellent and courteous 
 father would have done, had he survived to the 
 day when you will receive this letter, which will 
 not be till after my decease. My clays are 
 getting to an end ; I feel the infirmities of age 
 creeping upon me, although I have not reached 
 the threescore and ten years allotted to man- 
 kind; but a great part of my life has been 
 passed in troubles and anxiety, which hasten 
 old age. How far this may have been brought 
 about by my own act is difficult to say ; for I 
 believe that in a great measure our destinies are 
 fixed without our choice, and we have to do our 
 best, whether for better or worse, often in a far 
 different sphere to that in which we are born. 
 However that may be, although part of my 
 life has been chequered with bitterness, heart- 
 burnings, sorrows, oh, how great ! — the sorrows 
 overruling all other trials by manifold pangs and 
 tortures incomprehensible to those who have 
 not passed through them ; yet there has often 
 come a season of joy — not mirth, pray under- 
 stand, but that peacefulness of joy which is the 
 
A LETTER FOUND. 213 
 
 birthright of sorrow ; that serenity of mind 
 which shows us the wisdom of God even in our 
 misery, and the many tender mercies which are 
 daily, I may say hourly, vouchsafed to us, if we 
 will only view them as such. And while some 
 human beings embitter our lives, and are cruel, 
 strange, and distant, others are led to alleviate 
 our sorrows by their kindness and obliging 
 manners. I have experienced both the evil 
 and the good. The hearts of the young are 
 mostly turned to those who seem to require 
 attention. And God's dear dumb creatures are 
 ever good; they reward tenfold any love they 
 receive ; so to them and to the young, He lends 
 the power of giving pleasure and joy to those 
 who will accept it. My mind is weary; I 
 cannot express all that I intend to convey. I 
 must again ask your forgiveness, my dear sir, 
 for troubling you with these reflections, which 
 must appear quite beyond the point, and alto- 
 gether out of place. Yet perhaps, if you have 
 the patience to read all I would have you, you 
 may find that they are only a sequence to former 
 words. 
 
 "I am not going to be mysterious, I am 
 
214 HER DIGNITY AND GRACE. 
 
 going at once to ask you to act for me after my 
 death ; and I venture to think that you will do 
 so, and will carry out my wishes much better 
 than I could myself. I beg you to accept from 
 me, as the greatest favour you can do me, all I 
 possess, subject to certain conditions which you 
 will find elsewhere declared. I beg you to 
 believe that I have no relations nor any con- 
 nections, male or female, who could claim from 
 you what I bequeath to you. 
 
 "In this letter, which is also my will, and 
 must be used as such, though it will not have 
 the usual form of two witnesses, I appoint you 
 my heir and residuary legatee, to carry out my 
 wishes, elsewhere set down, according as you 
 shall see right to be done. 
 
 " My duty is now done. Accept my blessing. 
 May you and yours be ever prosperous and 
 happy, as seems your lot in life ; and may the 
 blessing of God and good health attend you 
 always. 
 
 " I will ask you to be good enough to express 
 to Mr. and Mrs. Dale my thankfulness for their 
 constant solicitude on my behalf. I know that 
 they would have been kind and benevolent to 
 
A LETTER FOUND. 215 
 
 me had I been able to accept it. The Misses 
 Cavendish also have my gratitude for their kind 
 words and intentions ; and all the tradespeople 
 without an exception have my thanks for their 
 very kind attentions. To Farmer Giles and his 
 wife I am much indebted for courtesy and 
 sympathy of which they little guessed the value 
 and appropriateness. 
 
 "And now I will take my leave, with com- 
 pliments to yourself and Mrs. Askham, who has 
 often cheered me with her graceful acknowledg- 
 ments as she passed. May her bright face 
 never be clouded with harrowing care, ' carking 
 care/ as we say in Yorkshire. 
 
 " I beg to remain, my dear Sir, 
 " Your obedient Servant and Friend, 
 "Ann Caroline Editha Lystone, 
 
 " Known as, and commonly called in Wood- 
 naston, ' Mother Pendle,' or * Ann Pendle/ " 
 
 The letter was written on one sheet of fools- 
 cap paper, and addressed — 
 
 " To George Askham, Esq., J. P., 
 " Woodnaston Park." 
 When Mr. Askham had read the letter he 
 
216 HER DIGNITY AND GRACE. 
 
 handed it to Mr. Dale, and begged him to read 
 it aloud, being too much taken by surprise and 
 overcome to do so himself. 
 
 After reading it Mr. Dale said, "This is 
 the letter of a well-educated person, but at 
 the beginning she evidently could not collect 
 her ideas." Then, after a pause, he added, 
 " The plot thickens. What shall we come to 
 next?" 
 
 " The other papers mentioned," said Mrs. 
 Askham. " How kind of her, and how strange, 
 George, that she should make you her heir! 
 Poor woman, I wish we had known her ! So 
 all these beautiful and curious things belong to 
 you!" 
 
 " Not yet, my love ; you heard that she said 
 
 4 SUBJECT TO CERTAIN CONDITIONS.' We must 
 
 find out what these ' conditions ' are before I 
 can appropriate a single thing. They must all 
 remain precisely as they are till we get the clue 
 to the poor old lady's intentions. I cannot at 
 all think bow it is she has chosen me as her 
 heir." 
 
 " The name by which she signs herself," 
 said Mr. Dale, — " the name is peculiar : ' Ann 
 
A LETTER FOUND. 217 
 
 Caroline Editha Lystone.' Can that have any- 
 thing to do with the ' Ann Lystone ' in the 
 account-book, think you ? " 
 
 " Perhaps she was the daughter or sister of 
 those Ly stones." 
 
 " Then she married somebody named ' Pendle ' 
 to become ' Mother Pendle ' and * Ann Pendle,' 
 the names she says she is known by here. How 
 can we find out about her, George ? " inquired 
 Mrs. Askham. 
 
 " I think I shall have to go to York to see 
 what I can ferret out in Monk Street ; perhaps 
 they may be still remembered there, notwith- 
 standing the old date of the books." 
 
 " Why did she not put her name and gene- 
 alogy in her Bible, or tear it out and enclose it 
 in her letter, if it had been there. It is very 
 perplexing, George." 
 
 " There are still many things to be searched," 
 said Mr. Dale. 
 
 " Oh yes, and the ebony box," said Mrs. 
 Askham. " Shall I fetch it? I fancy that 
 pretty little black key will open it." 
 
 She fetched the box, and Mr. Askham tried 
 the key, but it was too small. 
 
218 HER DIGNITY AND GRACE. 
 
 " How provoking ! Where are the other 
 keys, George ? " 
 
 " It will be a silver key for this," said Mr. 
 Dale, taking up the box and examining it. 
 "And there are loose articles inside it. We 
 must be careful, or we may break something." 
 
 No silver or any other key was to be found 
 that would fit the box. 
 
 "I have a great admiration for that little 
 black key, and I am sure we shall find some- 
 thing worth having under its lock. What 
 should you say it belonged to, Mr. Dale? " 
 
 " I have not seen many of your new acquisi- 
 tions, so I cannot judge ; but it would probably 
 belong to some fancy article, made more for 
 show than for good service." 
 
 "I agree with you, Dale, and probably we 
 shall find it fits one of those red leather boxes. 
 Louisa, where are they ? " 
 
 " Here they are, all mildewed and spoilt. 
 What a pity ! The leather would come off in 
 one's hands with very little trouble." 
 
 " They have seen good service in their day," 
 said Mr. Dale, and he took up the little desk 
 and rubbed the blackened shield on the top 
 
A LETTER FOUND. 219 
 
 with his glove. " Here is a coronet, and the 
 letters G. B." 
 
 " We found a coronet somewhere else j where 
 was it, George ? " 
 
 " I do not recollect." 
 
 " Now, Mr. Dale, do try the key." 
 
 The key unlocked the desk with very little 
 trouble, and in the circumscribed space under 
 the top part, when it was opened out, a variety of 
 keys were found, and some coins. The desk was 
 prettily mounted in silver inside, and lined with 
 red silk velvet, very much the worse for wear. 
 
 " ' G. B.' has made this her habitual writing- 
 desk evidently," said Mrs. Askharn ; " and 
 ' Mother Pendle,' or ' Ann Pendle,' may have 
 been Farmer Giles's 'lady's maid,' and so had 
 it given to her by the * Countess G. B.' Don't 
 you think that is coming near the truth, 
 George?" 
 
 " Really I cannot say, and I do not intend to 
 speculate on the subject ; it is now pretty certain 
 we shall come to the thread of the labyrinth 
 sooner or later." 
 
 " Oh, sooner, please, George ; I am so im- 
 patient " 
 
220 HER DIGNITY AND GRACE. 
 
 " So I see, my dear/' remarked Mr. Askham, 
 with a smile. 
 
 " Oh, don't laugh," she answered, herself 
 laughing. " I mean I am so impatient to find it 
 all out. We never had such a mystery as this." 
 
 " This key will, I think, Mrs. Askham, unlock 
 the box." 
 
 " I am so glad. Here it is ; open it, please." 
 
 "Gently," said Mr. Dale, laughing; "this 
 requires nice handling." 
 
 It proved to be the right key, but the lock 
 was spoilt, or not a good one, and it was opened 
 with difficulty. 
 
 " Red cases ! " exclaimed Mrs. Askham ; 
 "miniatures, no doubt ! George, come here ; it 
 is your property, you know." 
 
 " Indeed 1 know no such thing. But we will 
 open them, as we must everything else. Dale, 
 do you help us." 
 
 There were about a dozen miniatures, portraits 
 of gentlemen in court dress or uniform, and 
 ladies in full dress, and, with few exceptions, 
 with powdered heads. One lady, who was 
 without powder, was dressed in black velvet, 
 with a transparent black veil over her head and 
 
A LETTER FOUND. 221 
 
 shoulders ; the ancient dress of a widow. One, 
 a very young man dressed in pale blue, with 
 powdered hair, particularly struck Mr. Dale ; he 
 held it in its open case and seemed quite absorbed 
 in meditation over it. 
 
 " What have you there, Mr. Dale, that you 
 admire so much ? " 
 
 " I do not know that I admire it excessively ; 
 it is a good face, and well painted ; but what I 
 am much struck by is the great look, I cannot 
 call it a positive likeness, that it has to poor old 
 'Mother Pendle.'" 
 
 "Oh, Mr. Dale," said Mrs. Askham, "how 
 can you make fun of her ? " 
 
 " Indeed I am not ridiculing her ; but look 
 yourself. Is there not a wonderful look about 
 the eyes and the straight, small nose ? Askham, 
 do look at it. Of course there is all the difference 
 between a very young man and an old woman, 
 but still I see a strong likeness." 
 
 " Yes, I do see it, now you have pointed it 
 out," said Mrs. Askham. "Look, George; you 
 saw her more often than I did, and have spoken 
 to her. Yet even with that similarity of expres- 
 sion it is ridiculous to think that young courtier 
 
222 HER DIGNITY AND GRACE. 
 
 can have had any connection with her. The fact is, 
 she is so much in our thoughts that we imagine 
 we see likenesses where none can exist. " 
 
 After a pause, Mrs. Askham, who had been 
 minutely examining the case of this miniature, 
 exclaimed, " See, they are not fastened in, at 
 least this one comes out of its case by this little 
 loop. Ah ! here is a piece of paper." And un- 
 folding it, she read, " The Honourable Edward 
 Oswy Thurlestane, aged twenty, subsequently 
 in holy orders." 
 
 " Dear me," said Mr. Dale, " that may be the 
 Rector of Eddishowe, whom we all knew so 
 well." He said this in a low voice, as speaking 
 to himself. 
 
 " In this way," continued Mrs. Askham, " we 
 shall know who they all are. There is ' E. O. T.' 
 in gold letters on the brown hair at the back. 
 You have a pretty one, George ; who is it ? " 
 
 " One moment, Mistress Impetuous. This 
 is beautiful altogether. Oh, this has the coronet 
 and ' C. A. B.' over the golden hair. On the 
 paper is written, ' Caroline Ann, Countess of 
 Becklea, wife of Oswy, fourth earl.' " 
 
 " Oswy ! " said Mr. Dale ; " he must have been 
 
A LETTER FOUND. 223 
 
 the father of the last two Earls. I have often 
 heard my father speak of him and his Conntess ; 
 they were near neighbours of ours, and intimate 
 friends, in my father and mother's young days ; 
 but all came to an end with the last Earl — he 
 was a sad scamp." 
 
 " How could she come by these things ? Ah ! 
 ' my lady's tire- woman.' Earmer Giles is right." 
 
 " Do not jump to conclusions, Louisa. Come 
 and look at this ; it is most exquisite. What 
 magnificent pearls round the dark blue enamel. 
 We must open them and shut them up again 
 without much examination for the present, for I 
 see Dale looking at his watch, and it is getting 
 on for one o'clock. You can come again, can you 
 not, Dale ; for I am more determined than ever 
 to have you with me in these researches, par- 
 ticularly as there are ' certain conditions ' attached 
 to my legacy." 
 
 " Oh yes, when you like, but I cannot have a 
 fixed time to be absent from the Rectory. It may 
 take us longer than we expect, if there are 
 papers to look over. I cannot come to-morrow ; 
 the next day I think I can come in the morning 
 if that will suit you." 
 
224 HER DIGNITY AND GRACE. 
 
 " Very well. Whilst we have boxes to un- 
 pack it will be best to do it by daylight ; but 
 when we have only papers to look over, perhaps 
 you can come and dine with us, and we will do 
 it in the evening, so that we shall both have our 
 days unfettered." 
 
 " I shall be very glad to do so." 
 
 Mrs. Askham had continued to take out the 
 miniatures, and at the bottom of the box she 
 found a larger square case covered with a coarse 
 sort of varnished black linen. It was so firmly 
 closed she could not open it. 
 
 " Try and open this for me, George ; I think it 
 must be glued together. It is an ugly-looking 
 box to be with these nice red morocco and 
 shagreen cases." 
 
 " The varnish has even fixed the hooks. I 
 fear I shall break it ; my left hand is still weak. 
 Dale, will you try? " 
 
 Mr. Dale soon forced it open with a knife, and 
 inside they found two coarse and ill -painted 
 likenesses in oils ; both were young men in uni- 
 form. On a slip of paper appended to one was 
 written, "Portrait of the Honourable Edgar 
 Thurlestane, aged twenty-eight, painted in the 
 
A LETTER FOUXD, 225 
 
 Low Countries by J. van Ness." The other, a 
 younger man, also had his label, thus : " The 
 Honourable Athelstan Thurlestane. They both 
 fell in the battle of Enghien, 1692." 
 
 . " I cannot say very much for the painting ; 
 and more sorry-looking fellows I never saw," 
 remarked Mr. Askham. 
 
 " Their parents considered the portraits pre- 
 cious, no doubt, poor fellows," said Mrs. Ask- 
 ham. " Here is another who met with an 
 untimely end : this pretty little child, ' The 
 Honourable John Thurlestane, aged five years. 
 He fell in the battle of Prestonpans, 1745, 
 acred twentv-two.' " 
 
 " Yes," said Mr. Dale, " they were all Royal- 
 ists and warriors ; the latter may account lor 
 their having died out so soon." 
 
 They had now finished their researches for the 
 day, and as they proceeded to the dining-room 
 Mr. Askham said to Mr. Dale — ■ 
 
 " It appears to me that there must have been 
 some connection, if not relationship, between the 
 old lady and the portraits. Can you tax your 
 memory, Dale, to recall what you may have 
 
 VOL. I. Q 
 
226 HER DIGNITY AND GRACE. 
 
 heard of the Thurlestane family from your father 
 and mother? "' 
 
 "I will try, but F do not expect to bring 
 much grist to the mill, for I was seldom at 
 home after I left for Eton ; the distance was 
 great, and travelling difficult in those days, so 
 that I only went back for the summer holi- 
 days. In the winter I went to my uncle in 
 London. Afterwards I went to a private tutor, 
 an old friend and school-fellow of my father's, near 
 Melton, where I had more hunting than studies, 
 and I should have been better at home, for all 
 the learning I got. Then I went to another 
 tutor at Woolstone, in the West Riding, for a 
 short time ; and afterwards to Oxford, where the 
 same impediment to travelling existed, except 
 in the summer. Thus literally I passed very 
 little of my life at home. I have two sisters 
 older than myself : the eldest, Mrs. Page, 
 c sweet Ann Page/ as we boys called her, 
 though her name is Charlotte, is six years older 
 than I am, and has a good memory ; I will write 
 to her for all the particulars she can give me of 
 the Becklea family.'' 
 
JOHN FERNER 227 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 JOHN FERNER. 
 
 Poor Mary Stokes passed much of her time in 
 tears for the first few months after she had lost 
 her husband. All the worry and anxiety she 
 had had on his account vanished in the remem- 
 brance of his goodness to her before. How 
 happy she had been ! Could there be a more 
 kind and loving husband ! The poor children 
 would never know what they had lost in losing 
 so good a father. How could she exist alone 
 in the cottage ? Who was to pay the rent that 
 now would be required of her if she stayed there ? 
 Whither should she go if required to leave ? 
 
 She wo ild go and ask Mr. Askham, that she 
 would ; he could give her advice. 
 
 It was in this unhappy state of mind that she 
 went to him, as we have seen in a former part of 
 the story. 
 
 Greatly was she relieved when she got home 
 after that interview with " her master," as he 
 
 q 2 
 
228 HER DIGNITY AND GRACE. 
 
 had now become. Life seemed more palatable 
 to her now that she had some occupation in 
 view, and value to receive for her work. She 
 understood the management of poultry very well, 
 and it was a pleasure to her to rear it for her 
 master, who was so kind and compassionate. 
 
 John Ferner (the quarryman who had 
 brought the news of the finding of Will Stokes's 
 body to the woodmen at the time of the 
 Squire's accident in the wood) often came by 
 her cottage on his way to the quarry where 
 he worked. It was he also who had found 
 the body of " Mother Pendle " in the same 
 quarry. He called to see Mary, and helped 
 her in getting peat and wood, as he had done 
 even before her widowhood ; for her husband 
 had, the truth to tell, been very neglectful of his 
 home and her wants for some time before his 
 death. She had had to go herself and fetch a 
 few peats, scarcely enough for the day's con- 
 sumption, but as much as she could carry the 
 long distance she had to walk to get it. 
 
 John was pleased to see her resume her active 
 habits with a cheerful countenance. His visits 
 became more frequent ; she seemed to look for 
 
JOHN FERNER. 229 
 
 his coming, and had always something pleasant 
 to say when he did come. He took courage, and 
 in his kind but blunt way suggested it must be 
 " woful dull " living there all by herself ; he felt 
 it dull enough in his little cabin all bv himself. 
 Why should they not join housekeeping, and go 
 and see Mr. Dale about it ? 
 
 Mary immediately began to cry and talk of 
 " puir Will and the childer. I couldn't let 'em 
 forget their puir faither." 
 
 " No, they shan't forget he," he would say. 
 
 " But they will." 
 
 "No, they shan't, and I'll be a farther to 'em. 
 Cum, Mearie, we've known ourselves long enough j 
 and of all the lassies, I always looked to you as 
 the best to my mind." 
 
 " Oh, I couldn't forget puir Will." 
 
 " There's no call for your forgetting of him." 
 
 " I couldn't hev tw r o at once." 
 
 " You've lost one, more's the pity. So now 
 you'll take to another." 
 
 " No, I can't forget puir Will," w r as her con- 
 stant reply. 
 
 Often and often did much the same words 
 pass between them, till at last Mary got a fright. 
 
230 HER DIGNITY AND GRACE. 
 
 A strange man was seen about the common ; one 
 of her fowls was missed ; a high wind had blown 
 some of her child's clothes behind the hedge, and 
 she immediately accused the strange man of 
 having stolen them. Another fowl was lost. 
 What should she do ! They were Mr. Askham's 
 fowls. 
 
 She never saw the man again, but she still 
 imagined him to be near at hand. In process of 
 time the hens each came back with a brood of 
 chickens, to her great delight ; the child's pina- 
 fores lay where they had been blown by the 
 wind — but she steadily declared they had been 
 brought back again by the man who took them. 
 She forgot that in her terror of the man, she 
 had never looked behind the hedge for them. 
 However, all these terrors, though merely fancies, 
 decided her that it would be better for her to 
 take John Ferner's proposition into consider- 
 ation. She would not forget poor Will, no, that 
 she wouldn't, nor allow the children to forget 
 their father ; but 
 
 " If Mr. Ferner " and she paused. " If 
 
 John Ferner u She could get no further. 
 
 " Well, if John Ferner — should — but what's the 
 
JOHN FERNER. 231 
 
 use of thinking about it — she had refused him so 
 often " and here she began to cry. 
 
 " What, Mearie, in tears again? " said a well- 
 known voice. " Cum, lass, hold up. What's the 
 matter now ? " 
 
 " Oh, John ! " with a sigh and a sob. 
 
 " What is't, lass ? I clinna loike to hear thee 
 greet. Lookup, lass. What is't ? Speak, lass. 
 Has any one been offendin' of thee? Let me see 
 the ruffian that would offend thee; I'd soon do for 
 he," he said, as he went close up to her. 
 
 " Oh, John ! " was all she could say. She 
 kept her apron to her face, and sobbed louder 
 and louder. 
 
 John put his arm round her waist. " Cum, 
 Mearie, love," he said, in a soothing voice, " I 
 canna bear to hear thee greet. And thee's a 
 slobberin' all down thee apron, love. Look up, 
 lassie." 
 
 " Oh, John ! " 
 
 He put his face by the side of hers. " What 
 is't, love?" 
 
 " Oh, John ! I canna say." 
 
 " Shall I tell thee what to say, love ? " 
 
 " Oh, John ! I canna — I'se afeared." 
 
232 HER DIGNITY AND GRACE. 
 
 " Well, try. Shall I tell thee what to say ? 
 Say they three words — ' I love you ; ' they'll do 
 for me." 
 
 " Oh, John, how wicked of you ! I canna 
 forget puir Will," and she cried loudly 
 again. 
 
 Hearing all this sobbing and crying, the 
 children came out of the cottage screaming too, 
 and clung to their mother. 
 
 " Well, to be sure ! Sure summat's happened." 
 And he left Mary and took the boy, saying, 
 " Cum here, Will. What's to do with all this 
 screekin'?" 
 
 " Muther ! " 
 
 " What are ye screekin' for ? " he said again. 
 
 " Cos muther screeks," shrieked the boy. 
 
 "Is that a'? Well, I can't stand this no 
 longer. Cum, Mearie," he said, going back to 
 her. 
 
 When he left her so suddenly and went to the 
 child her tears ceased ; perhaps a slight degree 
 of disappointment was caused by his last words. 
 With red and swollen eyes and nose — the reverse 
 of picturesque even in the face otherwise most 
 beautiful, whatever poets and fanciful people may 
 
JOHN FERNER. 233 
 
 say — she looked up in his face and said, 
 " Well, John ! " 
 
 " Aye, lass, it is well thee has cum to that at 
 last. If ye will not tell me what ye greet for, 
 at any cost say Yes or No. Will ye leave this 
 lonely life and take up wi' a fellow as loves ye 
 dearly?" 
 
 " I canna forget puir Will." 
 
 " Drat ' puir Will,' " he said, impatiently. 
 " What would ye have ? You canna go all your 
 life callin' for puir Will, as is 'gone the way of 
 all flesh/ as ta' parson says ; what way soever 
 that be I don't know, but it's not looking after 
 and taking care of thee." 
 
 " Oh, John, dinna talk so wicked." 
 
 " I ain't wicked, Mearie; but it 'ud be wickeder 
 of me to see thee in want and lonely when I 
 could help thee ; so say the word, Mearie. Can't 
 thee take a fellow and be his own wife as loves 
 thee true ? It never was meant for folks to live 
 alone in places, afeard of tramps and thieves. 
 No, Mearie, we all should have our mates. 
 So, Mearie, thee'll be my gude wife, and I loves 
 thee true." 
 
 She had allowed herself to be taken in his 
 
234 HER DIGNITY AND GRACE. 
 
 arms, and was looking up into his honest 
 face. 
 
 " Aye, John," she said, " I believe you. 
 Ye's a true and lovin' soul, and I do love ve 
 true, I do believe, too." 
 
 "That's right, Mearie. So we'll go to Mr. 
 Dale and ask he to put us up in the church, 
 and we'll be married as soon as the askin' is 
 over." 
 
 " Not that very day, John ? " 
 
 "Well, next day as is." 
 
 Mary's tears were now dried up, and they were 
 both happy. 
 
 " But, John," she said one day, " the childer ! " 
 
 " Never fear the childer ; they be thy childer, 
 and they shall be mine." 
 
 " Gude ye are, John," said Mary. 
 
 " Thee needn't 'a been so coy, lass. I kenned 
 thee loved me long agone," he said to her some 
 days after. 
 
 " Oh, John ! " 
 
 " Aye, thee did, lass. Thee eyes told me that, 
 and the smile of the cheek, tho' thee wudn't say 
 it — no, that ye wouldn't. But for all that ye 
 did, lass, I can tell ye. But it's all over now, 
 
JOHN FERNER. 235 
 
 lass; there's "only to-morrow's asking 'twixt us 
 now. And I told Mr. Dale we'd be down at the 
 church soon after his brekfus ; so mind you're 
 ready, lass. And ye'll put on that kirtle, Mearie, 
 and the ribbins I brought ye frae Ulsford fair, 
 eh?" 
 
 "Aye, John." And with a sigh, "I'll be 
 foiner nor when I wed puir Will ! " 
 
 " Put he aside a bit now, lassie, till we're 
 married a bit. And what are ye going to do 
 wi' this ? " he said, touching her wedding ring. 
 
 " Ye'll take that off to-morrow, John, and I'll 
 put it in my box." Then, after a pause, "No, 
 John, ye shall keep it for me." 
 
 "Aye, lassie, and that I will joyfully. And 
 it's all put straight that Farmer Giles will lend 
 we his shay-cart and horse Robin ; he goes 
 capital, though he be a bit blind. And we'll go 
 to Ulsford, lassie, after the church ; and there's 
 a galantee show, and a fat woman as is cum to 
 Ulsford for a show, and we'll go to see 'em, and 
 we'll have rump steak and onions for dinner at 
 the ' Travelers' Rest,' and we'll be right joyful, 
 Mearie. And we'll cum back afore dark and 
 take up the childer frae Mistress Gileses, who's 
 
236 HER DIGNITY AND GRACE. 
 
 had 'em all clay, and we'll be home afore dark 
 after we've supped at her house ; so she says 
 we're bound to do, and right merry too." 
 
 " Hey, John ! but it's a grander weddin' nor 
 I had wi' puir Will." 
 
 " Let he bide a bit, Mearie." 
 
 " Aye, John ; and ye're right good to me, ye 
 are," she said, kissing him. 
 
MARY BOWES 237 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 MARY BOWES. 
 
 Mr. Dale took his beagles out for exercise 
 one morning as far as the Sleamoor, and went 
 to the house of Mary Bowes. He called to her 
 several times before any one came. At last she 
 appeared running round the corner of her cottage 
 with soapsuds up to her elbows, her face all 
 aglow with fresh colour, and her coarse apron 
 and gown wet. 
 
 "Well, sir, to be sure!" she said. "The 
 sight o' you be as pleasant as flow'rs in May. I 
 hope, sir, ya'r well in health, tho' I'm sure I 
 needn't ax that. Why lors, sir, it's months sin 
 you've been here." 
 
 " Yes, Mary, it is some time since I came this 
 way. And how are you all ? What have you 
 been doing this long while ? " 
 
 " Doing, sir ! Well, we're doing foine, and 
 much as usual, but we had a month's trouble in 
 the early summer last year." 
 
238 HER DIGNITY AND GRACE. 
 
 " How was that ? " 
 
 " Why, sir, we'd a young man here; puir chap, 
 we thought he'd a died outright with the fever, 
 but he got sprat at last." 
 
 " Where is he ? " 
 
 "He's gone whoam I s'pose, sir, leastways 
 we've not seen 'un since he left." 
 
 "Who was he?" 
 
 " A traveller wi' pack-horses, a sight on 'em, 
 all of a row ; I never see the loike come this way 
 afore, tho' I've seen a passel of five or six go 
 by our place up to Carlisle way, afore I was 
 married." 
 
 " What was his name ? " 
 
 " Lor, sir," she said, laughing, "he'd the 
 curiosest name I ever hear. He called hisself 
 E-um. Did ye ever hear that name afore, 
 sir?" 
 
 " Oh yes ; it is the short for Edmund." 
 
 " Well, to be sure ! His old father said his 
 name was Greenwood ; they'd come a long ways 
 off. I can't mind the name, but it's somewhere 
 in Yarksheer." 
 
 " What sort of a fellow was Earn? " 
 
 "He wur the innicentest fere I ever cum 
 
MARY BOWES. 239 
 
 across ; there wur no guile in he j he wor as 
 harmless as a bairn, and right cannie too, when 
 he cum to." 
 
 " Why did he come here ? " 
 
 "Puir laddie, he was jus' taken bad comin , 
 across the moor, and was brought in here dead- 
 like, but he breathed so hard. The old man 
 axed could we take 'un in and do for 'un whiles 
 he had to go on wi' the packs. So we took he 
 and put he in a bed that was made for Nancy, 
 my sister, but she hadn't come. We give him 
 a drink of feverfew ; that's rale good for a fever, 
 ye know, sir. He'd fever well on him ; he was 
 burnin' hot and rampagious like, callin' for 
 ' muther ' and ' Abie,' nothin' else, all the 
 time. Me and my mon we'd to sit up wi' him 
 o' nights, or he'd wriggle out o' bed and be his 
 death p'r'aps. Ah ! I knowed he was comin' 
 the day afore." 
 
 " How did you know that ? " 
 
 " The candle, sir. There was such a bunch in 
 the candle. The flame was near put out wi' it. 
 So says I to my mon, Jim, says I, ' There's a rare 
 lot o' strangers comin'.' 
 
 " ' Lors, Moll,' says Jim, ' how ye do talk.' 
 
240 HER DIGNITY AND GRACE. 
 
 " ' Ah, but, Jim,' says I, ' lookee here ; here's 
 a bunch on 'em, and one's going to stay.' 
 
 " ' It's Nancy,' says Jim, ' and she be no 
 stranger soever.' 
 
 "'It's no Nancy, Jim,' says I, 'it's a rale 
 stranger/ 
 
 " ' He'd be a sorner then,' says Jim, ' and we 
 don't want no sorners, a eating us up without 
 payinV 
 
 " So I wor right, and so was the candle, for 
 the like did come to be ; and Jim wasn't right, 
 for he's been no sorner, but a rale good lad, and 
 his faither pays right well, and . won't let him 
 want for nothen, he says. Lors, how the puir 
 old man did fret about leaving him ! he greet 
 sore about it. But he said I looked as if I'd be 
 kind to 'un ; and sure I would, even if he'd not 
 been the good lad he be. It was a pleasure to 
 have 'un here after the fear of his life was gone. 
 As to Jim, he'd like to keep 'un for aye, he be 
 so useful and ready." 
 
 " He was not likely to have done any one a 
 bad turn then, or be malicious ? " 
 
 " Lors bless you, sir ! do a bad turn ? why he 
 hadn't it in him ; he was al'ays blithe and merry 
 
MARY BOWES. 241 
 
 as a lark when he got well ; never idle. He'd go 
 out wi' Jim on the moor ; he'd handle the spade 
 and stack the peat as well as Jim could ; but it 
 was too hard for he, he was that weak still. And 
 he'd spin for me, but he couldn't spin foine 
 tho', he said that was lassies' work ; and he'd 
 laugh and sing and chatter his jeers and fun all 
 day long. And such a song he'd sing ! " She 
 laughed loud at the recollection of it. " It 
 made her laugh and we too. Nancy come after 
 to help, and she greet hard to lose him when 
 he went away." 
 
 " What was his song ? " 
 
 " I canna tell ye, sir, it was that long. He 
 was sure there be none in Yarksheer didn't know 
 that song, and we should too ; but ' Saddle-to- 
 rags ' was what he ca'd it, and he said it was 
 rale Yarksheer." 
 
 Mr. Dale laughed. 
 
 " Ah, ' Saddle-to-rags ! ' he was right ; it is 
 known everywhere in Yorkshire. Did the old 
 man come back?" 
 
 " Yes, sir ; he come back, and was glad to see 
 the lad better. They talked and laughed together 
 a long time, but the lad was no well yet, dazed 
 
 VOL. I. R 
 
242 HER DIGNITY AND GRACE. 
 
 and dinged-like a seeing of his faither, and had 
 to be left quiet after. So the old man said he 
 would come or send to fetch 'un. But the lad 
 got better. He heard Jim talking about them 
 races on the 10th o' June, and nothen would do 
 but he must go to see it, and some wrestlers as 
 were to be. So off he set." 
 
 " When was that ? " 
 
 "Well " considering a "minute or two. 
 
 " It was Monday, the 7th o' June last year. He'd 
 more nor twenty mile to get to the races, and he 
 said he'd go slowly. Right sorry was we to see 
 he go ; we quite loved 'un." 
 
 " Did you see him or hear of him again ? " 
 
 " We've never seed he since. But he'll come 
 back one day, he says," and she laughed, " and 
 I believe he will. He and Nancy were on to- 
 gether," she said, with a knowing look. 
 
 " But did you never hear anything of him 
 since he left ? " 
 
 " Yes, sir ; we heard a pack o' lies as nobody 
 could b'lieve. I was that angry, I'd like to have 
 clapped the fellow's ears that said 'em. And Jim 
 he laughed outright, and said nobody need prate 
 a pack o' lies like that to he, he'd never b'lieve 
 
MARY BOWES. 243 
 
 'mi if they swore it on their bended knees ; he 
 said it was impossible, let alone the lad being a 
 good lad." 
 
 " But what were the lies ? " 
 
 " Lies, sir ! ye may ca' 'em that," said Mary 
 Bowes, reddening with anger and excitement. 
 " Why, sir, they said he'd gone and murdered a 
 man outright, and was well-nigh being hanged 
 for it heself, only they could not prove it. ' Prove 
 it,' says I ; * no, nor you nor nobody. Why the 
 puir lad's only just out of a fever, and could na' 
 kill a cat, let alone a man. And by natur he 
 wouldn't hurt a fly.' " 
 
 " Did they mention his name ? " 
 
 " Aye, sir, they'd that pat enough, and that 
 he'd been lodging here. Jim got into a rage, 
 too, like me, and said out to the man, ' Why lors, 
 what lies ye do talk, to be sure ! And what have 
 ye done wi' he ? ' ' Oh, he's sneaked off,' says the 
 man. ' Sneaked off ! ' cried Jim. ' He'll no sneak 
 nowheres. And you'd better "sneak off" too, 
 says Jim, ' if ye want to keep a whole skin. Ye' 11 
 find no good a talking aboon that puir lad here ; 
 we knows 'un better nor they at Woodnaston.' ' 
 
 " Is that all you heard? " 
 
 R 2 
 
244 HER DIGNITY AND GRACE. 
 
 " We didn't want no more, sir, that was 
 enough o' lies for one day. But I should like to 
 hear from Earn how it came about." 
 
 Mr. Dale told her what had happened. 
 
 " I thank ye kindly, sir," she said, " for 
 taking care of him ; he's a gude lad, and will 
 take it kind of you too ; and as to his old faither 
 and people at whoam, they will thank you on 
 their bended knees." 
 
 During Mr. Dale's story she made running 
 comments of "Lors, how wicked people be, to 
 be sure ! " Then she gave way to tears and 
 laughter by turns, as the narration proceeded, 
 and told of Eam's merry ways ; and finally rejoic- 
 ing at the happy conclusion, saying, "That's he 
 all over, sir. He have a power o' fun with he ; 
 he'd come it ower anybody, whether crowner or 
 not, wi' his fun, and he so innicent too. Well, 
 sir, I'm right thankful to ye for coming to tell us 
 the rights of it, though, as they say, there's sum- 
 mat of truth at the bottom o' most lies. He 
 was suspected, but didn't do it. Ha, ha, ha. No, 
 nor he couldn't ha' done it if he tried." 
 
 Mr. Dale rode away with his beagles as she 
 said, " God bless vou, sir." 
 
MARY BOWES. 245 
 
 Her cottage was not in Woodnaston parish, 
 but close upon the border. It was a good ten 
 miles ride to get there, so that Mary and her 
 husband had little interest in Woodnaston ; but 
 Mr. Dale and Mr. Askham were well known all 
 over the country. 
 
246 HER DIGNITY AND GRACE. 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 MR. DALE HEARS FROM MRS. PAGE. 
 
 The rector had been particularly busy all 
 the morning, and had gone out before the post 
 came in at ten o'clock. 
 
 When he returned his little boy Jeffrey came 
 running to him. " Oh, papa, there's such a large 
 letter for you, and such a quantity to pay for it. 
 Mamma says it's from Aunt Charlotte, your Aunt 
 Charlotte." 
 
 " My Aunt Charlotte ! I have not an aunt so 
 named." 
 
 " Oh yes, papa, you know what I mean." 
 
 " I can only tell what a boy means by what 
 he says or does. If you say one thing 
 and mean another, how am I to understand 
 you?" 
 
 " Oh yes, papa." 
 
 " Oh no, my son." 
 
 " Well, papa, I mean your sister, our 
 
MR. DALE HEARS FROM MRS. PAGE. 217 
 
 Aunt Charlotte, not mamma's sister, Aunt 
 Charlotte." 
 
 " That is plain ; I understand now." 
 
 " Well, papa, but there is one thing I don't 
 understand, that is, why the postman should 
 want three shillings and twopence for this letter. 
 You had a larger letter the other day, and he 
 only asked tenpence for that. Ought mamma 
 to give him three shillings and twopence for the 
 letter to-day ? " 
 
 " Of course, my dear ; it is not optional with 
 the postman how much is to be paid for a letter ; 
 it depends upon the weight and the distance it 
 has come. Now come in ; we will see about this 
 letter." 
 
 " Mamma has it." 
 
 " Here is a long letter for you, Alan," said 
 Mrs. Dale, as they entered the drawing-room. 
 
 " Charlotte makes the most of her letters, but 
 I expect it will be really a long one to-day. Ah, 
 yes, crossed as usual ; fortunately she writes a 
 plain hand." 
 
 He then sat down and read it. It ran 
 thus : — 
 
248 her dignity and grace. 
 
 "My dear Alan, 
 
 " In answer to your inquiries about the 
 Becklea family, I will tell you what I remember 
 of them ; and as nearly as I can what I used to 
 hear my father and mother say. 
 
 " They were a very old family in the county. 
 Becklea park and manor had belonged to the 
 Thurlestanes above five hundred years, it was 
 said; but the title was only given by King 
 Charles II. They were Royalists, as my father 
 used to sav, ' to the backbone,' and Yorkists in 
 the same degree. They always cherished the 
 White^Rose in substance and in sentiment. White 
 roses flourished in their gardens, as in their 
 hearts, even to the last of the family, ' the bad 
 lord,' as he was called, and I believe deservedly. 
 I remember Becklea so well ; its yew hedges 
 twenty feet high, walls they might be called, they 
 were so thick, with arches cut for the passage of 
 walks, broad and narrow ; the well-kept flower- 
 beds edged with box ; the quaint yew bushes 
 cut into pagodas and other shapes ; the terrace, 
 the vases of stone, and great stone lions at the 
 head of the stone steps in the middle of the 
 
MR. 
 
 DALE HEARS FROM MRS. PAGE. 249 
 
 balustrade ; all in keeping with the old, old, 
 mansion, with its many and large windows, 
 built, it was said, in the reign of Henry VI., and 
 nearly covered with ivy. Oh, it was a sin to 
 raze such a fine place to the ground, although 
 there was no one to succeed to it in the male 
 line. 
 
 " But you wanted to know about the family 
 history. My father, who was, as you may re- 
 member, much attached to the old Earl Oswy, 
 who was the father of the two last Earls (his 
 eldest and youngest sons), regretted the family 
 had been always so cut off in the wars. Three 
 brothers, Thurlestanes, fell in the battle of Mar- 
 ston Moor, fighting with the Royalists — that battle 
 so fatal to the Royal cause ! It is said their 
 father regretted less their deaths, as fighting in 
 the good, the Royal cause, than the defeat of 
 the king. He did not survive his sons many 
 years, and it is said his grief for the ' murder,' 
 as he called it, of Charles I., preying upon his 
 mind, was the chief cause of his death, which 
 happened not long after that of the king. He 
 was succeeded in the property by his fourth son, 
 
250 HER DIGNITY AND GRACE. 
 
 Oswy. The fifth son, Edgar, who was the young- 
 est of the family, followed the fortunes of the 
 Prince, afterwards Charles II. All the ready 
 money and much of the proceeds of the property 
 were absorbed in this 'following.' He advanced 
 large sums of money to the King, which were 
 never repaid, and Edgar Thurlestane was much 
 impoverished. King Charles, some time after 
 he came to the throne, created him Viscount 
 Thurlestane, and subsequently Earl of Becklea. 
 He had two sons Earls, and I have seen a very 
 bad picture of one of his sons who was killed at 
 the battle of Malplaquet ; another also fell fighting 
 under Marlborough. His son Charles, third 
 Earl, the father of Earl Oswy (our father's friend), 
 married a great heiress, the only child of the 
 last Duke of St. Ives ; and it was to visit her 
 estates in Cornwall that she and Earl Charles 
 made those terrible journeys that I dare say you 
 remember hearing of. Their adventures with 
 the bad roads were like fairy tales. She was a 
 very stately person, and was always spoken of as 
 'The Lady Gwendoline, Countess of Becklea.' 
 She preferred Yorkshire to Cornwall, and had 
 
MR. DALE HEARS FROM MRS. PAGE. 251 
 
 all her family portraits and relics transferred to 
 Becklea Park. I dare say you may remember 
 the long gallery full of portraits and pictures at 
 Becklea, and also the large full-length portraits 
 in court dresses in the reception-rooms. All 
 these pictures came from Pendlebury Castle, her 
 chief estate. The Thurlestanes had a few por- 
 traits of Kings and Queens, but of themselves, 
 till this Lady Gwendoline came into the family t 
 they had but one, the portrait of Sir William 
 Thurlestane, Knight, whose three sons fell at 
 Marston Moor. The full-length portraits of 
 herself and Earl Charles were the first of the 
 large Thurlestane family pictures that had been 
 placed on the walls of Becklea ; others, as you 
 know, have been added since. But where are 
 they all ? I always considered that Ann Lystone, 
 the last 1 of the family, should have had them 
 offered to her." 
 
 "Here we are," cried Mr. Dale, jumping 
 up. 
 
 "What is the matter?" said Mrs. Dale, quite 
 startled. 
 
 " Nothing, my dear, to alarm you ; but I do 
 
252 HER DIGNITY AND GRACE. 
 
 believe I have got the clue to the history of the 
 old lady. Yet/ 5 he said, after a moment's 
 reflection, " that can hardly . be. We shall 
 see." And he sat down again to read the 
 letter. 
 
 " Ah ! ' Ann Lystone, the last of the family ' 
 — Yes," he said, and continued the letter : 
 " — should have had them offered to her if she 
 had been in a position to buy them. Her step- 
 mother died a short time before the last Earl, 
 and Ann, to whom she clung, was quite lost 
 sight of after her death. Earl Charles and the 
 Lady Gwendoline had a large family, but they 
 died off young, with the exception of Earl Oswy ; 
 a daughter who was married but died young ; 
 Lady Editha, of whom we used to hear so much 
 praise for her great virtues ; and the youngest 
 son, Edgar, the great traveller, whom we all knew 
 so well as children. 
 
 " Earl Oswy married Caroline Ann, daughter of 
 Owaine Gwent, Squire of Trenant, Cornwall. 
 Theirs was a romantic attachment from child- 
 hood, when they met during the few-and-far- 
 between ' pilgrimages ' to Pendlebury Castle. 
 
MR. DALE HEARS FROM MRS. PAGE. 253 
 
 He never swerved from that attachment. He 
 succeeded to the title when he was nineteen, 
 and at twenty-three years of age went to claim 
 his bride, who was a few years his junior. She 
 had no fortune then, but eventually came into a 
 little property, which they sold. I suppose a 
 happier couple in themselves never existed. 
 They had the four sons whom we have known, 
 and two little girls who did not live to grow up. 
 The countess used to say, ' I pray God I may 
 not live to see my lord die.' And she had her 
 wish. He never was the same after her death ; 
 they were truly one. The wild ways of their 
 youngest son, Henry, the last Earl, was their 
 grief; from a child he was never to be con- 
 trolled, and, worse than that, he delighted in low 
 company and pursuits. His mother said, 'Where 
 can he have learned these low manners ? ' and 
 then would say to him, ' Oh, my son ! could'st 
 thou but be a gentleman ! ' ' No, mother, the 
 life is too dull and formal,' he would answer; 
 and he seemed to avoid the parental roof as 
 much as possible. 
 
 " Their son George Owaine, fifth Earl, died 
 
254 HER DIGNITY AND GRACE. 
 
 childless. His wife, who was no favourite in the 
 family, died before him, and before the Countess, 
 quite unregretted, T believe, by them all. She 
 had a vile temper, and could keep peace with no 
 one ; she always wanted what was not to be 
 obtained, and encouraged Henry in his wild and 
 spendthrift ways. 
 
 " George was succeeded by this wild brother, 
 Henry, who, as you may remember, ran through 
 the whole properties, even after his debts had 
 been paid more than once. Both his elder 
 brothers, the Rev. Edgar and William, died 
 before their eldest brother. The Hon. and 
 Rev. Edward, of Eddishowe, left only one sur- 
 viving daughter, and William died unmarried. 
 Ann, Edward's only surviving daughter, in- 
 herited the small fortune of her father, and 
 her stepmother left her some money; and we 
 heard that her great-uncle Edgar, who was 
 also her godfather, left her some money, but 
 what became of it all, or herself, I never 
 heard." 
 
 "Here we have it again," said the rector, 
 turning quickly round. 
 
MR. DALE HEARS FROM MRS. PAGE. 2U'~) 
 
 " Oh, Alan, how excited you are ; and 
 you startle me so. What have you come to 
 now ? " 
 
 "Why here's the 'great-uncle and godfather' 
 mentioned. My word ! this is a curious case. 
 I must take this letter up to Askham ; it is 
 worth the three shillings and twopence which 
 Jeffrey grudged so much." 
 
 " But you have not finished the letter ; here 
 is part on the floor." 
 
 " Thank you, my dear," he said, and picking 
 the pieces up he continued to read ■ — 
 
 " The second title was Viscount Thurlestane, 
 but there have only been three of that name — 
 the Earldom so often going to brothers. You 
 are so much younger than I am — six years is a 
 long space in one's youth — and have been so 
 often absent from home, that perhaps you 
 scarcely remember the Ann Thurlestane I have 
 mentioned. She was a very prominent person, 
 however, in the Becklea family, being a very 
 great favourite with her grandfather and grand- 
 mother, and spent as much of her life at 
 Becklea as she did at Eddishowe. Her mother 
 
256 HER DIGNITY AND GRACE. 
 
 died when she was quite a child, and her father 
 married his second wife two years after. Never 
 was there a more kind and devoted stepmother 
 than this Mrs. Thurlestane. She had no 
 children of her own, and her whole thoughts 
 were wrapped up in her husband and his two 
 little girls. This of course I have heard from 
 my mother, w r ho remembered them as children 
 when she herself was young. Ann was a great 
 many years older than I was, and her sister 
 Letitia was older still; she died before I was 
 born. My mother said that Letitia was by far 
 the more amiable, and Ann domineered over her 
 as a child, but that Ann grew more kindly as 
 she increased in years, and the death of Letitia 
 after a lingering illness had a great effect upon, 
 her. Her grief was excessive ; she and Mrs. 
 Thurlestane, their most devoted, gentle, and 
 judicious stepmother, wxpt together. However, 
 the natural wilfulness and strength of character 
 of Ann could not be entirely subdued, and was 
 increased, my mother thought, by the active 
 part she had to play in her grandfather's house. 
 She had also a great deal of pride, and the 
 
MR. DALE HEARS FROM MRS. PAGE. Xi>i 
 
 fashionable manners of the time led to keep it 
 up. She was always addressed and spoken of 
 as ' The Lady Ann/ as belonging to a noble 
 family ; plain ' Mistress Ann ' would have been 
 her ordinary name, but this she resented with a 
 toss of the head, imperious, but most graceful. 
 My father admired her excessively ; not that she 
 was pretty, for that she was not, but for her 
 grace and dignity — ' her majesty of deport- 
 ment/ as he termed it; and said 'even if she 
 were a beggar-woman ' it would stand her in 
 good need, though there was not much likeli- 
 hood of such a catastrophe." 
 
 "Here again/' cried Mr. Dale, "her 'dignity 
 and majestic manner.' It is most extraordinary." 
 
 " I shall be glad when you have finished the 
 letter," said his wife, " for you are really quite 
 beside yourself with it." 
 
 " It is wonderful what a memory Charlotte 
 has ! In her I selected the right person for 
 information." 
 
 " You will let me read the letter ? " 
 
 " Certainly ; and I expect you will be almost 
 as excited as you say I am." 
 
 VOL. I. s 
 
258 HER DIGNITY AND GRACE. 
 
 " We will see," said Mrs. Dale, laughing. 
 
 He continued to read : "I enter into all 
 these details, as you want to know what I can 
 recollect, but I am afraid I shall miss many 
 little things that might be interesting; the 
 distance of time is great, and no one has 
 broached the subject for so many years. It 
 has taken me some hours to write and recall 
 all this, and it is not consecutively written, as 
 a history should be, but that you will please 
 forgive. 
 
 "To continue the Lady Ann's career; she 
 ruled at Becklea, and after her grandmother's 
 death she lived there entirely till the old Earl 
 died. Her great-uncle Edgar idolized her, and 
 brought her the richest presents when he re- 
 turned from his travels, which were extended to 
 India and China." 
 
 " The very things we have seen, I am sure," 
 said Mr. Dale. 
 
 " Oh, Alan, it is very provoking to hear all 
 your remarks and not to know to what they 
 refer." 
 
 "My love, you shall know all, and you 
 
MR. DALE HEARS FROM MRS. PAGE. 259 
 
 will meantime please forgive any impetu- 
 osity." 
 
 " Certainly, most humble sir," said his wife, 
 laughing. " Pray go on with your reading and 
 your running comments." 
 
 The letter continued : " It was after her grand- 
 father's death that she went to Bridlington with 
 her stepmother, who had some relations there, 
 and came back, it is supposed, not heart-whole ; 
 for, to the great surprise and consternation of 
 every one at Ecldishowe, some little time after, 
 she eloped with nobody knew who at the time. 
 A letter was left on her table addressed to her 
 father, saying that ' as he would not consent to 
 her marriage, she had gone off with her lover > 
 and she prayed for his forgiveness and that of 
 her stepmother. She could no longer live 
 without the man she loved ! ' Their horror and 
 indignation were excessive, as may be imagined. 
 Mr. Thurlestane declared he would not see her 
 again ; that she had disgraced herself and 
 them ; that his door should be shut against her ; 
 that her name should never be mentioned. His 
 wife entreated for her, taking all the blame upon 
 
2 GO HER DIGNITY AND GRACE. 
 
 herself. Why had she not been more vigilant ! 
 The sunshine in the house was gone without the 
 girl's presence ! Had they not known for long, 
 and well, how deeply she was attached to her 
 jover? They had been perhaps too exacting. 
 Did they not remember in their young days how 
 heart-breaking resistance against strong affec- 
 tion was ? Ann had the strongest affection 
 
 ' And the most perverse temper,' interposed Mr. 
 Thurlestane. 
 
 " ' After that/ as Mrs. Thurlestane told my 
 mother, c I knew it was no use to say any 
 more.' She succeeded at last in bringing 
 father and daughter together under his roof 
 twice before he died ; and Mrs. Thurlestane was 
 her comforter under many and heavy trials to 
 the end of her life, not many years later. 
 When she died Ann faded completely out of 
 view. I cannot at all tell what became of her, 
 and I never heard of any one trying to trace 
 her, for she had no near relatives left, nor any 
 at all that I ever heard of. Oh, by the bye, I 
 emember hearing that in former years a cousin 
 on her mother's side wished to marry her. 
 
MR. DALE HEARS FROM MRS. PAGE. 2G1 
 
 Indeed she had many suitors, for she was very 
 attractive, and the connection was high. And 
 now, my dear Alan, if you want to know any 
 more you will please put questions to me, 
 which I will answer to the best of my ability ; 
 but for narrative I think I have come to an 
 end." 
 
 "Well done, Mistress Charlotte," said the 
 Rector, "a right good chatty letter; but you 
 have not told us all we want ; you will have 
 to answer a good many questions I expect." 
 Then, turning to his wife, he added, " I shall 
 send up to Askham and tell him I will go 
 there this evening with this letter." 
 
 " They will want you to go and dine." 
 
 " I cannot do that, but will dine here ; and 
 we must dine an hour earlier, as I have a man 
 coming to me after." 
 
 " Did Jeffrey tell you about his argument 
 with the postman? " 
 
 "He said the postman had asked too much 
 for the letter." 
 
 "That was not all; he argued with him that 
 it was not fair ; that he had no business to ask 
 
262 HER DIGNITY AND GRACE. 
 
 so much ; that he should speak to you about it ; 
 in fact, what right had he to ask anything, for 
 it was not much trouble to bring such a small 
 thing from the post office, where they did not 
 ask anything.. The man laughed exceedingly, 
 and told him he had better ask his 'pa/ 
 Jeffrey continued, however. Who told him to 
 ask so much money ? What did he do with it 
 when he got it ? The man told him he got it 
 for the King, and that he was one of His 
 Majesty's servants. - < You one of the king's 
 servants, with such a shabby coat ? Why does 
 he not give you another ? ' said Jeff. ' You can 
 ask your pa,' said the man, < and if he can get 
 me a better one T shan't say nay,' and he went 
 off laughing and much entertained. Jeffrey 
 came to me and said, ' What a rude man that 
 is.' I said, 'Were you not very rude to put 
 such questions to him ? ' ' I shall ask papa,' he 
 said. So you will be cross-examined on the 
 subject, no doubt." 
 
 "This system of questioning and cross-ex- 
 amination upon every occasion becomes quite 
 annoying," said Mr. Dale j " I can't think what 
 I shall do with him." 
 
ME. DALE HEARS FROM MRS. PAGE. 263 
 
 " He will be so teased about it at school that 
 lie may be cured of it." 
 
 "I doubt it, for it seems quite part of his 
 nature." 
 
 " Well, make him a lawyer." 
 
 "A barrister; that is a good idea, if he 
 will study ; he is not fond of his books at 
 present." 
 
 END OF VOL.