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 ['X 
 
 'iM 
 
 LI B RARY 
 
 OF THE 
 
 UNIVERSITY 
 
 Of ILLINOIS 
 
 823 
 
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 Return this book on or before the 
 Latest Date stamped below. 
 
 University of I llinois Library 
 
MARGARET GRAHAM 
 
 ^.. ^ ^alfj 
 
 FOUNDED ON FACTS. 
 
 BY G. P. R. JAMES, ESQ. 
 
 AUTHOR OF "THE GIPSY," 
 ETC. ETC. 
 
 IN TWO VOLUMES. 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON: 
 PARRY AND CO., LEADENHALL STREET. 
 
 1848. 
 
v/. ( 
 
 ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 The following short tale needs very little 
 prefatory matter, as both the general con- 
 struction and the details are exceedingly 
 simple. It may be as well, however, to 
 ^inform the reader that it can hardly be 
 ^^ called a fiction ; for though two histories — 
 I that of Allan Fairfax, and that of Margaret 
 " Graham — have been blended into one, each 
 
 . "^ is more than founded upon fact. I should 
 -^ 
 3 not probably be justified in giving the 
 
 "0 
 
iv ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 names of the persons from whom I received 
 them without permission, which I have not 
 time to obtain ; but both the gentleman, 
 
 Captain F , who related to me the 
 
 story of my hero, and Mrs. S , to 
 
 whom I am indebted for that of my heroine, 
 are persons of undoubted veracity, and 
 vouched for the truth of the narrative. I 
 will only add, that I have not had an oppor- 
 tunity of correcting the press since the 
 work appeared in a periodical ; and that 
 when the first part of it was printed even 
 there, I was many miles distant from my 
 native land. 
 
 The Author. 
 
ERRATA. 
 
 Vol. I. page 94, line \^—for " dow into," read " down into." 
 
 284, line 8, of note,— /or " about two miles," read " about 
 
 two miles and a half." 
 
 Vol. II. page 11, line 11,— /or "with the lanterns," read "with a 
 lantern." 
 
 70, line 15,— /or " beautiful," read " beautifully." 
 
 Ill, line 3,— for " own," read " old." 
 
 141, line 12,— for " and on," read " and in." 
 
 179, line 16,— /or "tumbled down," read "tumble down." 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
mvt tf)t d?ir0t. 
 
 THE DAYS OF PROSPERITY. 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
CHAPTER I. 
 
 THE labourer's RETURN. 
 
 The much-abused climate of England has 
 its advantages both in point of the pic- 
 turesque and the agreeable. Not only- 
 have we an infinite variety, which in itself 
 is one of the great sources of pleasure, but 
 we have beauties which no other land pos- 
 sesses. I have stood under the deep blue 
 sky of Italy, longing more for a cloud than 
 b2 
 
4 MARGARET GRAHAM. 
 
 ever I did for sunshine, when, day after 
 day, and week after week, and month after 
 month, went by, without a film of vapour 
 as big as a man's hand coming to relieve 
 the monotony, or cast a flitting shadow on 
 the earth. I have stood beneath the burn- 
 ing suns of Spain, and longed for a refresh- 
 ing shower, or even a softening mist, while 
 through the whole of a long summer not a 
 drop has fallen to moisten the stones in the 
 dry water-courses, or wet the crisp leaves 
 of the cork tree. The cloud and the 
 shower have all the time been giving- 
 beautiful variety to the English summer, 
 and our own fair land has been alternately 
 in shadow and in light, glittering with 
 drops or sparkling in the beams. 
 
MARGARET GRAHAM. 5 
 
 There may be a blaze of glory and a 
 fiery power in southern countries which our 
 island never knows ; but where is the 
 silvery light which so often at morning or 
 at evening steals through the prospect, 
 casting its gentle gleam upon the waters, 
 the woods, and fields, like the blessed in- 
 fluence of a calm and gentle spirit upon all 
 that it approaches. 
 
 One of the peculiar advantages of more 
 northern lands is the long twilight which 
 follows the close of day. There is cer- 
 tainly something grand and fine, in 
 hotter climates, in the sudden plunge of 
 the sun beneath the horizon, and the in- 
 stantaneous darkness that succeeds, but it 
 little compensates for the calm half hour 
 
6 MARGARET GRAHAM. 
 
 of waning light, when the star of day 
 seems to withdraw his beams as with 
 regret, and to leave a blessing when he bids 
 good night. 
 
 The sun had just sunk — indeed, I cannot 
 be sure that he was absolutely below the 
 horizon, for there were lines of black-blue 
 cloud drawn across the verge of the sky, 
 and the lines were edged with gold. Above 
 was a wide sheet of heavy cloud, low down 
 and flat, like a ceiling of black marble, 
 beneath, and confined by which, the whole 
 rays poured on in horizontal lines, catching 
 the edges of mountain and fell, and wood 
 and moor, and casting long shadows from a 
 solitary fir-tree and the finger-post with its 
 long bare arms. That finger-post pointed, 
 
MARGARET GRAHAM. 7 
 
 in one direction, to a small town in Cum- 
 berland, which I shall call Brownswick, and 
 in the other, to a village, which probably 
 would not have had the honour of being 
 pointed out at all, had not several gentle- 
 men of the fore-mentioned town thought fit 
 to build themselves country-houses in its 
 neighbourhood. The attraction was a little 
 lake, much less in dimensions indeed than 
 Windermere, but hardly less beautiful in 
 the scenery which surrounded it. No in- 
 dication of such scenery being in the 
 vicinity was afforded from the spot where 
 the finger-post was placed. It was a dull 
 wide moor, covered with withered heath, 
 and here and there patches of broom and 
 gorse. On one hand you saw down a wide 
 
8 MARGARET GRAHAM. 
 
 broken slope, presenting nothing but irre- 
 gular undulations for several miles except 
 a pit or a little pond, till, in the extreme 
 distance blue lines of wood and field were 
 seen, not at all unlike those of the sky on 
 which they rested, only broken by the spire 
 of a church, and what seemed an old 
 solitary tower. On the other hand the 
 moor continued to rise, showing a high 
 bank, which cut off the view of everything 
 beyond. It was a desolate scene and chill ; 
 heavy and hard, but not without its sub- 
 limity — from the extent, and the solitude, 
 and the depth of the tones. Let the reader 
 remark it, for we may have to do with it 
 hereafter. At present, it is only necessary 
 to say, that just when the sun was setting. 
 
MARGARET GRAHAM. 9 
 
 if not quite set, as I have said, two labour- 
 ing men walked along the road, under the 
 finger-post, taking a direction from the 
 town, and towards the village. It must 
 be remembered that these two points were 
 some nine miles apart, and that the finger- 
 post stood about half- way. 
 
 Clothed in the common dress of the 
 country, with smock-frocks upon their shoul- 
 ders, and coarse leathern gaiters upon their 
 legs, the aspect of the two labourers showed 
 nothing more than that they were both 
 stout fellows of about the middle age. One 
 might be forty, the other forty-two or three. 
 They were both tall, as most Cumberland 
 men are, but one had an inch or so the 
 advantage of the other. Their pace was 
 B 3 
 
10 MARGARET GRAHAM. 
 
 slow, as if they were somewhat weary, and 
 their gait was heavy and awkward, such 
 as is gained by walking over ploughed 
 fields at the tail of a plough or harrow; yet 
 they were neither of them stupid, nor alto- 
 gether ignorant men. 
 
 It has long been a common mistake, and 
 even since the mistake must have been clearly 
 perceived and corrected in the minds of 
 most men, it has become a common party 
 falsehood to draw comparisons disadvantage- 
 ous to the agricultural classes, between them 
 and the manufacturing class. Those whom 
 it is intended to oppress, it is generally 
 found necessary to calumniate, and the most 
 popular means of promulgating a dangerous 
 error, is to ridicule all those who oppose it. 
 
MARGARET GRAHAM. 11 
 
 Such has been the case with the agricultural 
 labourer and small farmer. In point of 
 plain common sense, and natural strength 
 of intellect, they are generally very far 
 superior to parallel classes in the manufac- 
 turing districts. It is true they are prac- 
 tical more than theoretical in all their pro- 
 ceedings; that they are less quick, less 
 ready, perhaps both in mind and body, than 
 the artisan or shopkeeper of a town, but, 
 at the same time, their notions are sounder, 
 firmer, more precise, as their bodies are 
 more vigorous, healthy, and enduring ; and 
 no class of men have I ever met with more 
 capable of arriving at a just opinion upon 
 a plain proposition, than those classes which 
 have been called stupid, ignorant, and pre- 
 
12 MARGARET GRAHAM. 
 
 judiced. Learning, perhaps, they do not 
 possess. Scattered thinly over a wide tract 
 of country, instead of gathered into the 
 close communion of towns, they have few 
 opportunities of expressing their sentiments 
 as a body, or of uniting for one common 
 object ; but in those cottages, and there are 
 many of them, where such excellent cheap 
 publications as those of Chambers and 
 Knight have penetrated, I have heard 
 reasonings on the subjects submitted, 
 which, though the language might be 
 rude, would not have disgraced, in point 
 of intellect, any society in the world. 
 I am convinced, that if plain common 
 sense be, as I believe it, the most ex- 
 cellent quality of the mind, that quality is 
 to be found more frequently than anywhere 
 
MARGARET GRAHAM. 13 
 
 else ill the yeoman and peasant class of 
 England. 
 
 As the two yeomen plodded on towards 
 the home of rest, they were evidently busy 
 with some subject that interested them 
 deeply. More than once they stopped, 
 turned round towards each other, and 
 spoke earnestly, with more gesticulation, at 
 least on one part, than is common among 
 the phlegmatic nations of the north. 
 
 Let us listen awhile to their conversa- 
 tion, for it may have its interest. 
 
 " 'Fore half of them are paid for," said 
 the shortest of the two men, "they will 
 have to pull them down, and then all the 
 money is wasted." 
 
 " Money enough to feed half of the poor of 
 the country, if it were well managed," said 
 
14 MARGARET GRAHAM. 
 
 the other, jogging on by his companion's 
 side; "but it is all a job, Ben. They 
 wanted to put out the old rogues and put 
 in new ones, and so they made places for 
 them. The gentlemen pretended, when 
 they got up this new law, that the poor's- 
 rates were eating up all the property of 
 the country. That was a lie, Ben, in the 
 first place; but even if it were true, I 
 wonder whose fault that was if not the 
 magistrates' who suffered it?" 
 
 " Part theirs, part other folks," an- 
 swered the man called Ben; "but it was 
 a queer way to begin their saving to pull 
 down, or sell for an old song, or leave to 
 rot by themselves, all the old houses, and 
 build new ones upon the plan of costing 
 
MARGARET GRAHAM. 15 
 
 as much as possible. Why I calculate 
 that our own union-house will cost as much 
 as a quarter of the poor's-rates of all the 
 parishes in the union for twenty years to 
 come. They must pinch very close to save 
 that, and something more into the bargain." 
 " I don't understand what you mean^ 
 Ben," said the other man, " about its 
 being only part the magistrates' fault; I 
 think it was their fault altogether. Why, 
 when I lived over at Brownswick, I saw 
 how the overseers and fellows used to go 
 on. They had eleven parish dinners, 
 as they call them, at the Sun, in the 
 year, and each man of them was allowed 
 a half-a-guinea for his dinner, and there 
 were all kinds of other perquisites. Be- 
 
16 MARGARET GRAHAM. 
 
 sides that, they were for ever making jobs 
 for each other. There was Mr. Weston, 
 the hatter, found out that the court-yard 
 wanted paving, though it had only been 
 paved twelve months l)efore, and Mr. 
 Greensides, another of the board, had the 
 paving of it; but then as a match for 
 that, Mr. Greensides found out that it 
 would be much better for all the parish 
 boys to have hats instead of caps, and 
 Mr. Weston had the supplying of them. 
 It was so well known a thing, that all the 
 contracts for the workhouse went amongst 
 themselves, that no one, unless he was one 
 of the board, ever offered at all; so they 
 got just what price they liked. Now what 
 were the magistrates and gentlemen about 
 
MARGARET GRAHAM. 17 
 
 not to stop such things? It was a very 
 good law, Ben, if it had been rightly- 
 worked, but those who were put to look 
 after it either cheated themselves or let 
 others cheat, and then cried out that the 
 rates were eating up all the rents. I tell 
 you what, Ben, I have often thought that 
 old poor-law was a very safe thing in times 
 of famine or want of work. Men wont 
 stand and see their children starve. If 
 people don't give them food, they will take 
 it, and once they begin taking, will take 
 something more. I recollect hearing a 
 lecturer man say, that the first duty of 
 the soil was the support of every one 
 upon it, and then I thought it was a very 
 lucky thing that there was a law for mak- 
 
18 MARGARET GRAHAM. 
 
 ing it do that duty in a regular sort of 
 way, rather than let those who wanted 
 support take it where they could find it." 
 " They would tell you the same is the 
 case now," answered Ben, *' though it is not, 
 Jacob; for it is a very different case when 
 a man who could get a little work, and 
 was willing to do as much as he could 
 get, went to the parish for a few shillings 
 to eke it out. He could then always go 
 on and look out for more to do. He had 
 something to hold fast by, but now if he 
 can get only five shillings a week, and his 
 family cannot be kept upon less than ten, 
 he must either see some of them starve, or 
 give up his cottage, sell his goods, put 
 himself out of the way of all work, and 
 
MARGARET GRAHAM. 19 
 
 go as a pauper to the Union, where he is 
 separated from his wife and children, and 
 fed and treated worse than one of the pri- 
 soners in the gaol. Then when he comes 
 out, he comes out as a pauper, and finds 
 it ten times more difficult to get work than 
 before, let his character be ever so good. 
 A thousand to one he is a ruined man for 
 ever, and has no spirit left but to hate 
 those who have been ill-treating him. 
 Many a man who has no religion, thinks 
 he may just as well pilfer a bit, and take 
 his chance of getting into gaol, where he 
 is sure to be better treated than in the 
 Union; and all that might be saved by 
 giving a few shillings a week where it is 
 really wanted. Besides, yon see, Jacob, it 
 
20 MARGARET GRAHAM. 
 
 was a great check upon masters — the only 
 check, indeed, we had. One farmer did 
 not like another giving too little wages, 
 because his men were sure to get the rest 
 from the parish, and then the rates rose 
 — but that brings me to what you asked; 
 I say it was partly our own fault, Ben, 
 that all these things have been changed in 
 such a way — not mine, because I never 
 had a sixpence of the parish in my life — 
 but every blackguard used to go and cheat 
 the magistrates through thick and thin. 
 I recollect Jemmy Anderson, when he was 
 getting sixteen or seventeen shillings a 
 week as a carter's shoemaker, going out and 
 getting ten shillings from one parish, and 
 eight from another every week of his life." 
 
MARGARET GRAHAM. 21 
 
 "From two parishes?" cried Jacob. 
 
 *' Ay, he managed it," answered his com* 
 panion, " by a little hard swearing, and 
 there was many a one like him. Our 
 officers found him out, and refused to give 
 him any more, but the impudent varment 
 went up before the magistrates and took 
 his oath, and the magistrate made an order 
 upon the parish. So he had it all his 
 own way." 
 
 " And was not that the magistrate's 
 fault, Ben?" asked his friend; ''the law 
 did not force them to do anything of the 
 kind unless they liked it." 
 
 " I don't know," answered the other, " I 
 never saw the law, Jacob ; but I do believe 
 that very good laws are turned into very 
 
22 MARGARET GRAHAJkl. 
 
 bad ones by the way that magistrates and 
 other people go on, one changing a little 
 of the meaning and another changing a 
 little, till it is not the same thing at all. 
 But one thing is certain, that there were 
 many folks amongst ourselves who were in 
 the wrong, though the magistrates were in 
 the wrong too. Still there was no need of 
 doing away a good law because foolish peo- 
 ple had not used it right, and bad people 
 had abused it; or, if they did change it, 
 they might have made it better, not worse ; 
 less heavy upon the rich, but not throw all 
 the weight upon the poor. They'll have to 
 change it again, depend upon it, or else not 
 act up to it, which is worse ; for the people 
 won't bear it much longer." 
 
MARGARET GRAHAM. 23 
 
 '' They'll not change it, unless they are 
 driven," answered Jacob ; " one of their 
 objects is to lower wages, Ben, all over Eng- 
 land, whether here or in the factories, and 
 the new law is their greatest help; for, 
 don't you see, we have no chance. We 
 must take just what they will give, or 
 starve, or rob, or go to worse than a 
 prison." 
 
 ^^ I'd rather starve in my own cottage 
 than go to a Union," said Ben, "if it 
 were not for the children. I could not 
 bear to hear them cry for bread. However, 
 I do not know that it is one of their objects 
 to bring our labour down, though they've 
 certainly taken a good way to do so, Ja- 
 cob ; and it is such laws as these that make 
 
24 MARGAHET GRAHAM. 
 
 poor men wish they had some hand in 
 making the laws ; for they find none made 
 by others for their good. Some of the gen- 
 tlemen wish to do it, I do believe, but they 
 do not know how; and the end is, they put 
 the sheep into the paws of the wolf, and 
 tell the wolf to take good care of them ; 
 and then they call that political economy. 
 It is the same in factory places. The mas- 
 ter can do just what he likes, and the work- 
 man has no hold upon him. Work as hard 
 as he will, he is cheated one way or another 
 of half his earnings ; if he grumbles, he is 
 turned out to starve ; if he goes to the poor- 
 house, he is worse than a galley-slave, as 
 they call it, and if he goes to a new fac- 
 tory to seek other work, he will not get it 
 
MARGARET GRAHAM. 25 
 
 if he has been turned off for grumbling at 
 the last: for the masters are allowed to 
 combine, as people say, against their work- 
 men, though not the workmen against the 
 masters. I heard it all from poor Will 
 Simpson, when he came back, after having 
 worked himself into a decline, to die amongst 
 his own people. 
 
 *'It is very hard!" said Jacob, "but 
 these Parliament men never will reckon all 
 the power that money gives to a man ; and 
 they do not consider either what a greed a 
 man who is making a great deal has to 
 make more, though he drains men's blood 
 to do it. If they did but think of these 
 two points, they would never put the la- 
 bourer entirely at the mercy of his em- 
 
 VOL. I. c 
 
26 MARGARET GRAHAM. 
 
 ployer, or have the employer and employer's 
 friends and cronies to take care of the laws 
 that are made for the good of the labourer. 
 We take these things quietly, Ben, because 
 our master is one out of a hundred ; but I 
 can tell you, that all the farmers about are 
 already lowering their wages, and I heard 
 Old Stumps grumbling at Mr. Graham for 
 not lowering his." 
 
 " Master wont do that, unless corn comes 
 down a good deal," said the other; ^'he 
 knows what "the value of a man's work 
 is, and does not think how low he can 
 get him to labour, but how much he can 
 afford to give. I think, Jacob, however, 
 we had better be jogging on a little faster, 
 or we shall get in wet." 
 
MARGARET GRAHAM. 27 
 
 '' The blink of liglit is shutting up very- 
 fast," answered the other man, " and the 
 wind is coming sobbing over the moor like 
 a naughty child : signs of rain, sure enough ; 
 and there will be a gale too : don't you see 
 how the dust is swirling round and round !'' 
 
 As he spoke, they somewhat quickened 
 their pace, and walked on for a mile with- 
 out quitting the road that crossed the moor. 
 By the time that mile was passed over, 
 however, the clear space at the edge of the 
 sky was covered with black cloud, and 
 though the arch of the vapoury canopy 
 above was still tinged with a faint shade of 
 purple, all looked lurid and heavy, and twi- 
 light was waning fast. 
 
 At length, upon the edge of the moor — 
 c2 
 
28 MARGARET GRAHAM. 
 
 and, indeed, stolen from it about fifty years 
 before — was a track of woodland, through 
 which the rushing wind was heard rising 
 higher and higher every moment, While a 
 few large drops of rain fell pattering amongst 
 the crisp yellow leaves that strewed the 
 ground beneath. 
 
 " Hark !" cried the man named Ben, as 
 they were following the path into the wood ; 
 " there is some one hallooing down below 
 there." 
 
 " It is that devil's imp, Tommy Hicks," 
 said the other; *' I know his shout well 
 enough. He is worse than a will-o'-the- 
 wisp of nights, and I'll break his bones for 
 him some day." 
 
 " Nonsense, Jacob — nonsense !" said the 
 
MARGARET GRAHAM. 29 
 
 other; "he is but an idiot, man, and you 
 would not go to hit a thing that's got no 
 sense." 
 
 " He has sense enough to do a deal of 
 mischief," answered Jacob; "and he never 
 loses time when any is to be done. A lick- 
 ing would do him a vast deal of good. Why, 
 lie nearly strangled Mrs. Gibbs's boy t'other 
 day, because he would not let him take 
 away his mother's turnips." 
 
 " He is a spiteful chap," answered Ben ; 
 " and I don't let him come near our place 
 for fear of his doing mischief to some of 
 the children; but I don't hit him, for all 
 that. I wonder what he is hooting and 
 hallooing at that way." 
 
 " Just because he sees us walking along, 
 
BO MARGARET GRAHAM. 
 
 and wishes to lead us into a pond or a 
 moss," said the other; "but the rain is 
 coming fast, and we shan't get home very 
 dry, do what we will." 
 
 Concluding that it was as his companion 
 said, and that the shout proceeded from an 
 idiot well known in the country, the other 
 man pursued the path through the wood, 
 merely saying — 
 
 " I wonder they don't shut up Tommy 
 Hicks in one of their Unions, or such sort 
 of places ; there is many a man a great deal 
 wiser than he is put into a madhouse for 
 life." 
 
 The belt of wood was soon passed, and 
 about a quarter of a mile more of moor 
 succeeded, and then some patches of culti- 
 
MARGARET GRAHAM. 31 
 
 vated ground, amidst which were scattered 
 eight or nine cottages of a very superior 
 description to those usually met with in 
 that part of the country. They were, in 
 fact, all the property of one proprietor, a 
 liberal and kind-hearted man, who took the 
 repairs upon himself, and saw that they 
 were always done in time and to perfection. 
 No broken thatch, no unstopped wall, no 
 door half off the hinges was there; but 
 with a great deal for comfort, and a little 
 for taste, each labourer of Mr. Graham 
 possessed a home, certainly not superior to 
 that which every industrious man through 
 the land ought to be able to command, but 
 very much superior to the hovels in which 
 the peasantry of England are often to be 
 
32 MARGARET GRAHAM. 
 
 found. Neither were they huddled close 
 together ; each house possessed its own little 
 garden and bit of potato ground, and was, 
 moreover, separated, from its neighbour, in 
 most cases, by a small field or two inclosed 
 by hedge rows — rather rare in that part of 
 the country. Connecting them all together, 
 however, were several paths, well covered 
 with gray sand, and one principal road, 
 though it seemed to be a private one, 
 adorned from place to place by finger-posts 
 directing the traveller towards AUerdale 
 House. Where this road crossed the high- 
 way from the town, the two labourers sepa- 
 rated, the one turning to the right, the 
 other to the left, each in search of his own 
 cottage. It was by this time as dark as 
 
MARGARET GRAHAM. 33 
 
 pitch, with the rain falling, in heavy, but 
 scattered drops, and the wind dashing it 
 against every opposing object; a sort of 
 night when the sight of a man's own door 
 is very pleasant to him. It was so to Ben 
 Halliday, and he laid his hand upon the 
 latch with the certainty of comfort and 
 repayment for all the day's labour in the 
 smiles of a happy home. 
 
 We must take one glance at the interior 
 of his dwelling before we leave him, as we 
 may hereafter have to retui'n to it when a 
 few short months have passed. As soon as 
 he opened the door, a cheerful blaze pre- 
 sented itself from a large grate, well filled 
 with fire, for it was a country where coal 
 was cheap, and the inferior kinds might be 
 c3 
 
34 MARGARET GRAHAM 
 
 had almost for taking. A good-sized pot 
 hung above, heaving and sputtering with 
 the broth for the evening meal, and Ben's 
 wife, a country-woman of about four or 
 five-and-thirty, who had once been an ex- 
 ceedingly pretty girl, and retained abundant 
 traces of former beauty, was peeping into 
 the black vessel to see that all was going 
 on right within. 
 
 Ben and his wife had married early, and 
 three children, of many, were still left to 
 them; a stout, well-grown boy of about 
 fifteen, known in history as young Ben; 
 another boy of about eight, usually called 
 little Charley, a rosy, curly-headed, cheerful 
 urchin, full of fun and mischief; and a girl 
 of about thirteen, very like her mother, who 
 
MARGARET GRAHAM. 35 
 
 was knitting blue-worsted stockings for her 
 father at the moment he entered, while her 
 elder brother was cutting , out the soles for 
 wooden shoes, and the urchin was teasing 
 the familiar cat, till pussy put out her claws 
 and took to the defensive. Eound about 
 were shelves, upholding various kinds of 
 wares, well garnished in most instances, 
 especially with neat white plates and dishes, 
 and manifold wooden bowls and spoons. 
 Every one c+arted up, or turned round, to 
 welcome home the father of the family. The 
 girl laid down her knitting, the son put 
 away his work, the wife gave him a kiss of 
 welcome, and the urchin pulled his smock- 
 frock, and said, " You are wet, daddy." 
 But we must not pause any further upon 
 
36 MARGARET GRAHAM. 
 
 the cottager's welcome home, for we have 
 other matter on hand, to which it is neces- 
 sary now to turn. 
 
CHAPTEE 11. 
 
 THE IDIOT AND THE TOURIST. 
 
 " Halloo, halloo, lialloo !" cried a voice 
 about half a mile down in the moor, just as 
 the two labourers were entering the little 
 wood, "here, here! you are going wrong, 
 straight on, straight on ! — halloo ! hoy ! 
 halloo!'' 
 
 These words were not addressed to the 
 two men on the road, though the tone was 
 
38 MARGARET GRAHAM. 
 
 loud enough, and the voice was strong 
 enough, to be heard half over the moor. 
 The figure from which this voice proceeded 
 was not one which the eye could pass over 
 without remark. It was that of a man 
 perhaps of eight or nine-and-twenty years 
 of age; but although plenty of time had 
 been allowed him to grow, if he had been 
 so disposed, yet he had never reached the 
 altitude of five feet and an inch, and would 
 have looked like a boy had not a head 
 prematurely grey and a great width of 
 frame shown that he had at least attained 
 the period of manhood. In point of width, 
 indeed, it seemed as if Nature, having 
 curtailed him of his fair proportion in 
 height, had endeavoured to make compen- 
 
MARGARET GRAHAM. 39 
 
 sation, like a bad architect, by running out 
 the building to an enormous extent on 
 either side. His limbs, too, were all power- 
 ful, though somewhat short; and the face 
 was broad, like the person, with coarse, bad 
 features, perhaps not altogether without 
 expression, though generally vacant, and, 
 when lighted up by a ray of intellect, show- 
 ing naught that was good or pleasing. The 
 eyes themselves — small, grey, keen, and un- 
 certain — rendered the look always sinister. 
 One of them must have squinted violently, 
 but which of them it was could not easily 
 be discovered, for it was alternately the 
 right eye and the left that was nearest to 
 the round and turned up nose. He was 
 dressed, according to the old phraseology, 
 
40 MARGARET GRAHAM. 
 
 in hodden grey, with a pair of strong but 
 light lacing boots upon his feet, which were 
 small in proportion to his body, and of 
 which he was wonderfully vain. On his 
 head was a knitted cap very much like 
 those worn, or rather carried, I should say, 
 by the boys of the Blue-Coat School, and 
 in front of this cap was stuck on all occa- 
 sions a twig of heath, fresh when it was in 
 blossom, withered when the season was 
 passed. Such was Tommy Hicks, the Idiot 
 of Brownswick, as he was usually called, 
 and, as far as want of intellect to guide him 
 aright was concerned, the appellation was 
 correct. It is curious, however, to remark 
 how Nature distinctly defines the difference 
 between cunning and sense in such un- 
 
MARGARET GRAHAM. 41 
 
 fortunate beings as he of whom I speak. 
 Very few of the wisest men in Brownswick 
 could match Tommy Hicks in cunning; 
 and it not unfrequently happened that, 
 when brought before the magistrates for 
 some of his offences, he would pose the 
 whole bench by his wild but shrewd replies. 
 His mother had left a small property at her 
 death to be employed in his maintenance, 
 so that Tommy Hicks could always get 
 clothes and food at the cottage of an old 
 man and woman at the bottom of the moor. 
 But very often he would be out for days, 
 weeks — nay, months — together, and in the 
 course of his wanderings he had been the 
 inmate of several workhouses and two 
 gaols; for he did not at all deserve the 
 
42 MARGARET GRAHAM. 
 
 name often bestowed on persons of his 
 peculiar degree of capacity, and Tommy 
 Hicks was by no means an innocent. 
 
 The person to whom his shouts were 
 addressed had reason to feel that such was 
 the case, for, following incautiously the 
 directions he received, he plunged up to his 
 knees in a marshy piece of ground, and at 
 another step would have had the swamp 
 over his head, while Tommy Hicks stood 
 looking on, with his hands in his pockets, 
 enjoying the scene amazingly, but not 
 suffering his satisfaction to display itself in 
 anything beyond a grin which stretched his 
 wide mouth from ear to ear, and showed all 
 his white irregular teeth. The stranger 
 was a tall man, a strong and a quick one. 
 
MARGARET GRAHAM. 43 
 
 and perceiving instantly the trick whicli 
 had been played him, he drew back a step 
 or two, walked quickly round the edge of 
 the swamp to the spot where Tommy Hicks 
 still stood, and, catching him by the collar, 
 threatened to punish him on the spot for 
 what he had done. For an instant the 
 idiot struggled in his grasp with tre- 
 mendous force, but he speedily found that 
 his opponent was still stronger than him- 
 self, and ceasing his efforts, he said, in a 
 sullen tone, "It is your own fault, master; 
 I told you to go straight on, and you went 
 too agee." 
 
 " You can lie, too — can you?" said the 
 other; " come, march on, and show me the 
 way, as you engaged to do, or I will thrash 
 you heartily." 
 
44 MARGARET GRAHAM. 
 
 " You may not catch me quite so easily 
 another time," said Tommy Hicks. 
 
 " Oh, I will catch you," answered the 
 other, '' or find you out afterwards. What's 
 your name, my man ?" 
 
 " Jack o'Lantern," answered Tommy 
 Hicks, readily, and the stranger, laughing, 
 gave him a push forward, saying, 
 
 " Well, get on, get on; it is coming on 
 to rain, and you shall have the shilling I 
 promised when we reach the house." 
 
 Tommy Hicks muttered something to 
 himself, in which the only distinct word was 
 " Shilling!" and then, being free from his 
 companion's grasp, walked on at a stout 
 pace, talking wildly to the wind and rain 
 as they blew and beat against him, and 
 
MARGARET GRAHAM. 45 
 
 seeming to forget altogether the little quar- 
 rel that had taken place. It was not so, 
 however. Tommy Hicks did not forget 
 such things, and though his thoughts wan- 
 dered, his purposes were generally fixed. 
 Instead of taking his way direct towards 
 the road above, the idiot sidled away in the 
 direction of the wood, and when he had 
 come within about fifty yards of it, at a 
 spot where the ground was broken and irre- 
 gular and the paths very difficult to be 
 traced even in broad daylight, he darted 
 away, with a shout of laughter, and, plung- 
 ing into the wood, was lost in a moment to 
 the eyes of the person who followed. 
 
 The stranger stood and gazed around 
 him for a moment or two, murmuring^ 
 
46 MARGARET GRAHAM. 
 
 '' This is very pleasant. Well, it can't be 
 helped; I have passed worse nights than 
 this may be, let it rain as hard as it will, 
 and though I may have no other bed than 
 the moor. I will follow up the edge of the 
 wood; I never yet saw a wood without a 
 road through it;" and pursuing this sage 
 determination, he turned his face to the 
 wind and storm, breasting the slope nobly. 
 It needed a good deal of precaution to 
 find his way along without stumbling, for 
 the ground was rough and uneven, covered 
 with tufts of heath and gorse, and wherever 
 a broken bank gave the bramble an oppor- 
 tunity of hanging itself, there it was ready, 
 with its long arms and sharp claws, to seize 
 upon the traveller's leg, and scratch, if it 
 
MARGARET GRAHAM. , 47 
 
 could not detain him. He was well loaded, 
 too, for strapped upon his shoulders was a 
 capacious knapsack, apparently completely 
 filled, but nevertheless he strode on man- 
 fully, and at length reached the road along 
 which the two labourers had w^alked some 
 ten minutes before. Judging at once that 
 his way could not lie to the right — not 
 from any knowledge of the country, not 
 from any dependence on the idiot's previous 
 guiding, but from an habitual, or intuitive 
 discernment of the bearings of places — he 
 turned directly to the left, walked on a 
 little way, and then to his joy and satis- 
 faction beheld a light like a bright eye look 
 out over the hedge-rows. Advancing fur- 
 ther in search of a path leading to it, he 
 
48 MARGARET GRAHAM. 
 
 observed several more lights on both sides ; 
 but he was constant to his first love, and 
 making his way onward, in about five 
 minutes more he was knocking with his 
 knuckles at Ben Halliday's door. 
 
 The loud " Come in !" was pronounced in 
 
 the broad Cumberland accent, and, entering 
 
 the cottage, the traveller saw the labourer 
 
 and his family seated round an abundant 
 
 bowl of very good potato-soup, with certain 
 
 pieces of meat in it, to the whole of which 
 
 an onion had lent a flavour by no means 
 
 disagreeable to the nose of the hungry. 
 
 Everything was cheerful, contented, and 
 
 happy. The handsome and intelligent 
 
 faces of the labourer and his wife, the clean 
 
 and respectable look and orderly demeanour 
 
MARGARET GRAHAM. 49 
 
 of the children, all aiForded assurance to 
 their visitor that he had fallen into better 
 hands than when he trusted himself to the 
 guidance of an idiot, and he paused for a 
 moment ere he spoke, gazing over the scene, 
 where the assembled family stared at him 
 in return. 
 
 " I beg your pardon," said the stranger, 
 at length, addressing himself to Ben Halli- 
 day, who by this time had risen, " but I 
 have lost my way upon this moor, and have 
 got exceeding wet for my pains." 
 
 " Good Lord, then," exclaimed Ben, 
 interrupting him, " it was you I heard 
 shouting ! Well, sir, I am very sorry I did 
 not come down, but you see, my cousin 
 Jacob vowed that it was the silly fellow 
 
 VOL. I. D 
 
50 MARGARET GRAHAM. 
 
 Tommy Hicks, and I never like to bring 
 Jacob and Tommy together, for Jacob is 
 always dire with the lad, and vows he will 
 break his bones." 
 
 " I dare say it was the fool whom you 
 heard," answered the visitor, '' for the truth 
 is, I was detained just at the foot of the 
 moor by an accident that happened, and 
 meeting with a fellow in a grey coat, I 
 asked him if he could show me my way 
 across, which he undertook to do, and led 
 me into a marsh." 
 
 Ben Halliday laughed : " Well, he's a 
 mischievous devil!" he said, " and as full 
 of spite as a cat. I beg your pardon for 
 laughing, sir; but no one in these parts 
 would have trusted Tommy Hicks to guide 
 
MARGARET GRAHAM. 51 
 
 them. But pray come in to the fire, and dry 
 yourself. Here's some broth, quite hot. 
 Poor stuff enough, but it will warm you." 
 
 The stranger accepted frankly and wil- 
 lingly the hospitality offered, sat down by 
 the fire-side, threw off his knapsack, took 
 a porringer of soup and a lump of bread, 
 and soon was quite at home in the cottage. 
 He talked and laughed with Ben and his 
 wife, he played with Charley, he even 
 stroked the cat when she came purring 
 round his legs. His frank and uncere- 
 monious bearing was strong recommenda- 
 tion to the worthy people within; and his 
 appearance was also very prepossessing. 
 
 He was a man of perhaps six-and- twenty, 
 and, as has been before said, was uncom- 
 D 2 
 
 ^nnr/ 
 
 '^ '0 
 
52 MARGARET GRAHAM. 
 
 monlj powerfully, tliougli lightly, made; 
 one of those thin flanked, broad-chested 
 men, who have more of the Apollo than the 
 Hercules in their form. His features were 
 straight and fine, with dark blue eyes and 
 long black lashes and brows, dark brown 
 hair and whiskers. His complexion, too, 
 was fresh and ruddy, not with a rosy spot 
 on either cheek, like a head upon a sign-post ; 
 but all in one general glow from health and 
 exposure. His hands, however, looked fine 
 and delicate ; and his dress somewhat 
 puzzled the cottagers at first ; for it was of 
 that sort which might have belonged to 
 several classes. It was all of one material, 
 except the shoes and the covering for his 
 Lead, being of a black and white woollen 
 
MARGARET GRAHAM. 53 
 
 check, then not so commonly worn by gentle- 
 men as now ; and when he entered, he wore 
 a plain Lowland bonnet, which might have 
 suited a grazier or good Cheviot farmer 
 perhaps better than himself, for a certain 
 sort of harmony was wanting between the 
 person and the dress, and it was this dis- 
 crepancy which, as I have said, puzzled the 
 family of Ben Halliday. 
 
 As the moments passed by, however, their 
 doubts ceased. There was no mistaking 
 the station of their guest after a quarter of 
 an hour was gone. The southern tongue, 
 the clear, distinct, and rapid articulation, 
 the grace and ease of every movement, the 
 unconscious dignity of carriage, even when 
 playing with the boy, had as convincing an 
 
54 MARGARET GRAHAM. 
 
 effect as if he had given a long catalogue 
 of honourable ancestors. During that 
 quarter of an hour the visitor had said not 
 one word of himself, whither he was going, 
 whence he came, or what he sought; and 
 with a delicacy not unfrequent in the 
 cottages of mountaineers, the good peasant 
 would not have asked a question for the 
 world, as long as he saw his guest contented 
 with his homely fare, and a seat at his fire- 
 side. And he did seem contented ; so much 
 so, indeed, as to win greatly upon his hosts ; 
 for there is an implied compliment of a very 
 kindly character in the cheerful and unaf- 
 fected acceptance of what a poor man can 
 do to entertain us, which is worth all the 
 condescension in the world. 
 
MARGARET GRAHAM. 55 
 
 At length, however, the young gentleman 
 rose with a sigh, as if he really felt regret 
 at going, and said, " I must wend on my 
 way, my good friends, with many thanks for 
 your hospitality. I dare say it has done 
 raining by this time ; but as I cannot well 
 go on to the place where I intended to 
 sleep, so late at night, I will thank you 
 much if you can direct me to some inn or 
 public house where I can get a good clean 
 bed." 
 
 The principle upon which a peasant 
 scratches his head in a case of puzzle has 
 often been a question of deep interest to 
 me, but I have never been able to solve the 
 problem. Whether it is that he seeks by a 
 natural instinct to stimulate the organ of 
 
56 MARGARET GRAHAM. 
 
 cogitation, or whether it is that the un- 
 usual exercise of something within the 
 skull makes its external teguments itch, or 
 whether there is an irresistible inclination 
 in man's nature to do something with the 
 hands when the mind is busy, and that the 
 first thing that presents itself to work upon 
 is the head, I do not know, but certain it is 
 that Ben Halliday was in a puzzle, and did 
 scratch a spot a little above the left ear with 
 a great deal of vigour and determination. 
 
 " Well now, sir," he said, at length, " if 
 you had asked for anything else in the 
 world I could have better told you were to 
 find it than a public house. There is not a 
 place where you would like to sleep, I think, 
 nearer than Brownswick." 
 
MARGARET GRAHAM. 57 
 
 "Wliy, my good friend, that is just 
 where I have come from," replied his 
 visitor ; " and I should not like to go back 
 again over the moor to-night." 
 
 Ben Halliday was exceedingly disposed 
 to be hospitable, and so was his wife, and 
 they looked at each other for a moment or 
 two, as if inq^uiring what could be done. 
 But there are things in this world which 
 are impossible, though I at one time thought 
 there were not. Now, vSuch a thing as a 
 spare room is not to be expected in a 
 labourer's cottage, and no such convenience 
 was to be found in that of Ben Halliday. 
 All the beds he possessed had their tenants, 
 and therefore to lodge the stranger seemed 
 quite out of the question. While he was 
 d3 
 
58 MARGARET GRAHAM. 
 
 pondering upon the subject, however, the 
 conversation and cogitation were suddenly 
 interrupted by the door being flung open 
 and his cousin Jacob presenting himself. 
 The man gave a hasty glance round the 
 cottage, and then inquired, "Have you 
 seen anything of my boy. Bill? He has 
 not come home yet, Ben, and he was out 
 upon the moor." 
 
 Jacob Halliday's eyes had only rested 
 casually on the stranger for a moment, but 
 when Ben and his son had both replied that 
 they had seen nothing of the boy, the 
 young gentleman joined in the conversation, 
 demanding, in a grave tone, " What is he 
 like, my good friend?" 
 
 " Why, sir, he is a boy of about twelve 
 
MARGARET GRAHAM. 59 
 
 years old," replied Jacob Halliday. " He 
 has got on a short jacket and leggins." 
 
 "Has he black curly hair?" asked the 
 stranger. 
 
 "Yes, sir — have you seen him?" de- 
 manded Jacob, eagerly. 
 
 "Yes, I think I have," answered the 
 young gentleman; "he was down at the 
 bottom of the moor when I was coming up 
 from Browns wick. — Now, do not alarm 
 yourself, my good man, for he will do very 
 well, and there is no danger, but he has met 
 with a little accident, if it be the lad I 
 mean." 
 
 Jacob Halliday, a man of a warm and 
 excitable disposition and quick imagination, 
 sank down into a wooden chair by the 
 
60 MARGARET GRAHAM. 
 
 table, and, with his hands resting on his 
 knees, sat gazing in the stranger's face. 
 
 " I assure you he will do very well,'^ said 
 the stranger, who felt for his anxiety; " I 
 had him attended to by a surgeon imme- 
 diately, who assured me there was not the 
 least danger — it was that which detained 
 me so late," he continued, turning towards 
 Ben Halliday, " and the people to whose 
 cottage I carried him promised to send 
 somebody up to let his father know.'' 
 
 " Will you have the goodness to let me 
 hear all about it, sir?" said Jacob, with as 
 much calmness as he could assume. 
 
 "Certainly," replied the young gentle- 
 man. " I have been taking a tour on foot 
 through this part of Cumberland, and I set 
 
MARGARET GRAHAM. 61 
 
 out about three o'clock from Brownswick, 
 to walk up to the house of a gentleman on 
 the other side of the moor, but just as I 
 had come out of a village — I don't know 
 its name " 
 
 " Ay, it is Allenchurch," said Ben Halli- 
 day. 
 
 " And had gone about half a mile upon 
 the moor, just where the path crosses a 
 little stream, I saw a nice-looking boy lying 
 on his back on the bank." 
 
 " Ah, my poor lad !" cried Jacob. 
 
 "As he seemed in some pain," continued 
 the gentleman, " I stopped to ask what was 
 the matter, and he told me that as he was 
 crossing the little wooden bridge a part of 
 it broke down, under his feet, and he fell 
 
62 MARGARET GRAHAM. 
 
 forward, catching his leg against the broken 
 part. He had contrived to scramble to the 
 bank, he said, but he could not stand ; and 
 after examining his leg, I thought it better 
 to take him up in my arms, and carry him 
 to a cottage which I had seen not far off. I 
 found an old man and woman there of the 
 name of Grimly, who kindly took him in, 
 and put him to bed. I sent the old man off 
 to Brownswick for a surgeon, and waited till 
 he had come and set the leg. He assured 
 me that there was no danger, and that he 
 would soon be well ; and making the people 
 promise to let you know, I came on myself, 
 for by that time the sun was going down." 
 " And so the poor boy's leg is broke," 
 cried Jacob Halliday, starting up. " I will 
 
MARGARET GRAHAM. 63^ 
 
 bet a crown that that devil, Tommy Hicks, 
 is at the bottom of it — breaking down the 
 bridge or something. I will break his 
 bones for him, that I will." 
 
 " Nonsense, nonsense, Jacob I'i^ried Ben, 
 as the other moved towards the door; 
 " don't you go to do the poor lad a mis- 
 chief, for you don't know what. Go and 
 see your boy, and how he is going on; 
 but if you find Tommy there, have no- 
 thing to say to him till you find you have 
 got reason." 
 
 " And I will go up and tell Margaret," 
 said Mistress Halliday, ^' and stay with 
 her till you come back." 
 
 " Thank you, thank you, Bella," said 
 Jacob; "but you had better tell her I 
 
64 MARGARET GRAHAM. 
 
 shall rest down there, most likely; for I 
 won't leave Bill alone in that devil's den, 
 and I wdll bring him up to-morrow, if I 
 can find an easy cart." 
 
 " I dare say Mr. Graham will lend you 
 his spring-van," replied Ben Halliday. 
 " I'll go up early to-morrow, and ask him." 
 
 " Do, do, Ben," answered his cousin, 
 " and send down young Ben to let me 
 know." 
 
 Thus saying, he quitted the cottage, and 
 was closing the door without uttering a 
 word of thanks to the stranger; but sud- 
 denly his heart smote him for ingratitude, 
 and putting his head in again, he said — 
 
 " I forgot to thank you, sir, for all your 
 kindness to my poor boy ; but it is not for 
 
MARGARET GRAHAM. 65 
 
 want of feeling it, I can promise you, and 
 I hope I shall be a,ble to speak it out some 
 other time." 
 
 "Oh, never mind — never mind!" an- 
 swered the young gentleman; " I require 
 no thanks, my good friend. God speed 
 you, and give your son a quick recovery." 
 
 As soon as the door had closed on Jacob 
 Halliday, and while Ben's wife was putting 
 on her worst straw-bonnet and thickest 
 cloak to go out upon her charitable errand, 
 the young gentleman turned to Ben, say- 
 ing— 
 
 " You mentioned Mr. Graham's name 
 just now. Pray is that Mr. Anthony Gra- 
 ham, the banker, of Brownswick ?" 
 
 " Yes, sir," answered Ben ; " Jacob and 
 
66 MARGARET GRAHAM. 
 
 I are two of his men ; and a better master 
 or kinder man doesn't live." 
 
 " Pray, is his house far from here?" de- 
 manded the visitor. *' I found a letter 
 from him at Brownswick, inviting me to 
 stay with him for a few days; and it was 
 there I was going when the idiot led me 
 into all the swamps he could find." 
 
 " It isn't much above a half-a-mile," 
 answered Ben; ^^why, we are upon his 
 ground now, sir, and I am sure he will 
 be very glad to see you. Lord, if you had 
 told me that before, it would have saved 
 us all that thinking about public-houses! 
 Mr. Graham would never have forgiven me 
 if I had let you go to an inn, even if 
 there had been one to go to, when you 
 
MARGARET GRAHAM. 67 
 
 were invited to his house up there. He 
 has a great sight of company with him, 
 come to shoot, and all that; and if they 
 expect you, sir, I should not wonder if 
 they were waiting for you before they 
 take their dinner; for they dine when we 
 sup." 
 
 " I cannot well present myself in such 
 a wet and muddy condition," said Ben's 
 visitor, in a musing tone. 
 
 Ben looked at his knapsack, which lay 
 on the floor near the fire, as if he thought 
 that it must contain wherewithal to im- 
 prove his guest's outward appearance; but 
 the other divining instantly what he meant, 
 replied to the glance — 
 
 " No, that will not do. There is no- 
 
68 MARGARET GRAHAM. 
 
 thing in it but some geological specimens, 
 and the linen I have used since I came 
 from Keswick. I sent up my portmanteau 
 from Browns wick. If you will allow me, 
 I will stay half an hour longer here till 
 I am sure they are gone to dinner, and 
 then ask your boy to show me the way." 
 
 " I will go myself, sir," answered Ben 
 Halliday; and while his wife went up to 
 console Jacob's helpmate under the mis- 
 fortune which had happened to her son, 
 the good man remained to entertain his 
 guest. 
 
 The sons and the daughter amused them- 
 selves quietly apart, and the conversation 
 between the cottager and the gentleman 
 took a more serious turn than it had pre- 
 
MARGARET GRAHAM. 69 
 
 viously assumed, running upon the state 
 of the peasantry in that part of the coun- 
 try, their wants and wishes, their notions 
 and their feelings. The stranger ques- 
 tioned with apparent interest, and Ben 
 Halliday answered with frank straightfor- 
 wardness. His replies were not brilliant 
 enough to admit of transcription, though 
 there was a good deal of plain sense in 
 them ; but the stranger found, not a little 
 to his surprise, that w^ithout any vehement 
 discontent or political fanaticism, even Ben 
 Halliday himself was a good deal prepos- 
 sessed in favour of " The People's Char- 
 ter." The good man assured him that the 
 same feelings were very general through- 
 out all that part of the country; and he 
 
70 MARGARET GRAHAM. 
 
 seemed so calm and reasonable, that his 
 guest applied himself to prove to him that 
 what was sought could not be granted with 
 safety to the institutions of the country, 
 and, if granted, would only prove detri- 
 mental to the very classes who demanded 
 it. He pressed him close with various 
 arguments, and Ben answered briefly, from 
 time to time, but at length the labourer 
 paused for a moment or two thoughtfully, 
 and then replied : 
 
 " I dare say it is very true, sir, what 
 you say; and I never pretend that the 
 charter is the best thing that could be in- 
 vented; but of one thing I am very cer- 
 tain, that gentlemen must either allow us 
 a hand in making the laws which govern 
 
MARGAHET GRAHAM. 71 
 
 IIS, or make laws to protect us against 
 oppression. It is all very well saying, as 
 I have heard some say, that labour must 
 find its own market like anything else, 
 and that it is but a commodity that is 
 bought and sold, and such like ; but there's 
 a difference between it and other commo- 
 dities ; for it must eat and drink, and will 
 eat and drink; and the market is not a 
 fair one, for everything is done by law for 
 the buyer, and nothing for the seller ; and 
 all the while, in the nature of things, the 
 commodity wont keep, so that the buyer 
 gets it at what price he likes. I don't 
 understand much of these things, sir, al- 
 though I have heard some of the lecturer 
 people hold forth about them; but one 
 
72 MARGARET GRAHAM. 
 
 tiling I do know, which is, that hunger 
 is a hard task-master, and that rich men 
 can use him, if they like, to drive poor 
 men to anything. It is a sort of power 
 they have beyond the law, and if those 
 who govern the country — parliaments, or 
 ministers, or whatever they may be — do 
 not take care that masters, and farmers, 
 and landlords, and such like, do not abuse 
 that power, they may some time or another 
 find out that patience and suiFering will 
 not last for ever. I should be very sorry 
 to see that day, for I know well that the 
 poor would, in the end, do no good to 
 themselves, and a great deal of harm to 
 the rich; and amongst the rich, whether 
 they be manufacturing gentlemen or land- 
 
MARGARET GRAHAM. 73 
 
 lords, or what not, there are a great many 
 as good men as ever lived — such as my 
 master here, and I am sure I would fight 
 for his property to the last drop of my 
 blood ; but I can see very well that there 
 is a sort of bitter discontent spreading fast 
 amongst us labourers, and growing blacker 
 and blacker, just like a cloud coming over 
 the sky, which will end in a storm. It 
 used not to be so long ago, but the new 
 poor-law has done a great deal to make 
 the change, for that first showed the people 
 clearly that the rich were ready enough to 
 take care of their own money, while they 
 refused to do anything to better the la- 
 bourer's condition, or to make his master 
 deal fairly by him." 
 VOL. I. E 
 
74 MARGARET GRAHAM. 
 
 The guest listened attentively, and then 
 mused; but whether he saw that argument 
 would have no effect, or believed that there 
 might be some truth in the cottager's 
 views, he did not answer, and at length, 
 taking out his watch, he said, 
 
 " Now, I think I will go, my good 
 friend, for it is half-past seven, and, in all 
 jDrobability, they will be at dinner before 
 I reach the house." 
 
CHAPTEE III. 
 
 THE COUNTRY BANKER. 
 
 Every man should build Ms own house, if 
 he can afford to pamper his peculiarities; 
 for the mind, which has been compared to 
 many things, is, in fact, like a fragment of 
 rock fallen off from the crag, full of knobs, 
 and angles, and odd corners, of all sorts 
 of shapes and sizes, and there are many 
 hundred millions of chances to one that — 
 e2 
 
76 MARGARET GRAHAM. 
 
 in all tlie multitude of sheaths or cases 
 which are daily constructed for bodies and 
 souls on this earth — you will not get one 
 which will fit exactly any particular speci- 
 men of mind which has been reft from the 
 great rock. Man must have corners for his 
 oddities, and nobody can make them for 
 him but himself. 
 
 Now, Mr. Graham had built his own 
 house some ten or fifteen years before the 
 period of which I write, and a very com- 
 fortable house it was, large, roomy, well 
 arranged, not what is called magnificent, 
 because Mr. Graham had on certain sub- 
 jects a great fund of good sense, and having 
 become wealthy (after having been by no 
 means so) in consequence of the increasing 
 
MARGARET GRAHAM. 77 
 
 prosperity in manufactures of the town of 
 Brownswick, in which his was the only- 
 bank, he had a strong notion that anything 
 like ostentation would make people re- 
 member, rather than forget, that he had not 
 always been as rich as he now was. He 
 was a man of a very active and cultivated 
 mind, and of a disposition both liberal and 
 enterprising; he loved to do good to all 
 around him, to see happy faces, and to 
 know there were happy hearts. He had 
 been industrious himself, and he loved to 
 encourage industry. His principal object 
 in buying a large tract of what had been 
 considered waste land, and in bringing it 
 into cultivation, was to give employment to 
 the peasantry of a poor district; and in 
 
78 MARGARET GRAHAM. 
 
 dealing with them he did not so mucli 
 consider at what rate he could get their 
 labour as what wages he could properly 
 afford to give. He did not at all wish to 
 do any injury to the neighbouring farmers 
 or gentlemen, by giving higher wages than 
 it was fair to give. That was not at all 
 his object, and, throwing such considera- 
 tions entirely out of the question, he only 
 asked himself, what was fair. The plan 
 succeeded wonderfully : first, in making one 
 half of his neighbours hate him mortally; 
 secondly, in making all the poor people 
 love him warmly; thirdly, in gaining for 
 him all the best labourers in the county; 
 and, fourthly, in rendering the estate ex- 
 ceedingly productive at the very time when 
 
MARGARET GRAHAM. 79 
 
 every market-day heard prognostications of 
 his never getting a penny of return. 
 
 But this was only one of many successful 
 speculations. He was always ready to 
 enter into anything which held out even a 
 tolerable prospect. He lent money to one 
 manufacturer, who could not get on with- 
 out ; he took a share in a mill which was 
 likely to be stopped for want of funds ; he 
 bought up a great quantity of produce 
 which was to be sold at a period of de- 
 pression. If a contract was offered, he was 
 ready to take it on the most favourable 
 terms, and in all he was successful. The 
 manufacturer to whom he had lent money 
 prospered ; the mill went on ; the period of 
 depression passed away, and prices rose; 
 
80 MARGARET GRAHAM. 
 
 the contract proved a good one. Some 
 attributed all this to Mr. Graham's luck, 
 some to a keen foresight to coming events, 
 some to the possession of great wealth, 
 which enabled him to hold on while others 
 were obliged to sell. There was, perhaps, 
 a little of all in the business, and great 
 luck he certainly had, for his least hopeful 
 speculations were often more successful 
 than the most promising. However, so it 
 was, Mr. Graham was a very prosperous 
 man. 
 
 The situation which he had chosen for 
 his house turned out a good one, though 
 people at first thought it would be bad. 
 The moorland lying to the north-west was 
 separated from his grounds, or park, as the 
 
MARGARET GRAHAM. 81 
 
 people called them, by several masses of 
 wood, large and small, to which he added 
 young plantations, arranged with great 
 taste. In front of the house, while it was 
 building, stretched out sloping to the south- 
 ward, some two hundred acres of open 
 ground, rather unpleasantly soft to the 
 foot, with more rushes and moss than were 
 altogether beautiful or agreeable; while at 
 the bottom of this marshy tract was a thick 
 mass of tall old trees, some oaks, but more 
 frequently pines, which cut off entirely the 
 Tiew of the lake. But Mr. Graham set to 
 work, ploughed and harrowed the whole of 
 the open space, drained it upon a plan of 
 his own, gave it a greater inclination away 
 from the house, cropped it, cleansed it 
 e3 
 
82 MARGARET GRAHAM. 
 
 thoroughly, and then laid it down in grass. 
 By the time the house was inhabitable, for 
 it occupied nearly four years in building 
 and fitting up, Mr. Graham had as fine a 
 lawn as ever was seen. He then attacked 
 the wood, and cut his way clear through, 
 till there was not a window on that side 
 which had not a peep of the lake. He did 
 nothing rashly, however. The oaks in 
 general were spared, and he so arranged it, 
 that when the winter wind tore off the 
 brown leaves from the deciduous tree, a 
 tall old pine or fir appeared through the 
 stripped branches. Neither did he any- 
 where afford a view of the whole lake or of 
 either end, it was too small for that. The 
 cutting was so arranged, and the trees left 
 
MARGARET GRAHAM. 83 
 
 standing were in such a position, that from 
 one window yon got a view of one part of 
 the sheet of water and the hills behind, and 
 from another of a different portion, without 
 ever seeing beginning or end. There was 
 a mystery about the extent which is always 
 pleasant. The lines of land and water lost 
 themselves among the trees; and imagina- 
 tion might go on prolonging them for ever 
 if she liked, behind the woody screen, in 
 whatever way suited her best at the 
 moment. In summer it was, indeed, a 
 beautiful scene, with the green slope and 
 the dark broken wood, and the catches of 
 the sunshiny lake, with tall, bare, misty 
 mountains rising blue behind. Often, too, 
 to give greater magic to the scene, a white- 
 
84 MARGARET GRAHAM. 
 
 sailed boat would skim across the face of 
 the waters, be lost behind some of the 
 masses of trees, and then reappear again, 
 till hidden at length entirely behind the 
 part of the old wood which had been left 
 standing. 
 
 A little stream, too, which, flowing down 
 in former times from the moor, had lost it- 
 self in the savannah before the house, and in 
 rainy weather had turned it into a swamp, 
 now collected in a fixed bed with one or 
 two other small brooks, was led along till 
 it reached the top of a rocky bank some 
 twelve or fourteen feet high, and was there 
 left to leap over at its own discretion, form- 
 ing a cascade within sight, produced indeed 
 by art in which no art was apparent. No- 
 
MARGARET GRAHAM. 85 
 
 body who had not seen the place before, 
 ever fancied that the stream had had an- 
 other bed. 
 
 In all these things, as I have before said, 
 Mr. Graham had been very successful. In 
 one point in life, however, he had not been 
 so, and it was an important one. Whenever 
 a man suffers himself to be led in pursuit 
 of an object not consonant to his general 
 views and disposition, he is sure to get into 
 a scrape. Mr. Graham was not naturally 
 an ambitious man, but some four-and- 
 twenty years before, when he was nearly 
 forty, he had done a little bit of ambition. 
 In the straitened circumstances of his early 
 days he had remained single, but as pros- 
 perity visited him, and wealth increased, he 
 
86 MARGARET GRAHAM. 
 
 began to sigh for domestic happiness. He 
 was an enterprising man, as I have said ; 
 and he married a lady without knowing 
 very much of her character. All he did 
 know was, that she was handsome, about 
 thirty years of age, the daughter of a 
 baronet, whose father had been lord-mayor 
 of London, and whose sister had married a 
 poor peer. It was not a hopeful concate- 
 nation for a country banker, Mr. Graham. 
 Nevertheless, something might be said in 
 your defence. One might suppose that the 
 oivic origin of the family dignity, the three 
 turtle-shells rampant in the arms, might 
 keep down aristocratic pride. Such, how- 
 ever, was not the case. 
 
 Mrs. Graham's father had spent a great 
 
MARGARET GRAHAM. 87 
 
 deal of what her grandfather had made; 
 and yet, young, single, and handsome, she 
 had seen no reason why she should not 
 marry a peer as well as her aunt. Peers 
 thought otherwise, however, and did not 
 marry her; considering a little, perhaps, 
 that she had but five thousand pounds for 
 her portion, when her aunt had had fifty. 
 At twenty-six, she began to imagine that a 
 baronet or an honourable would do; but 
 they did not come. At thirty, her father 
 was dead, her brother ruined, some grey 
 hairs were mingling with the black, and 
 she married a rich country banker. But 
 her temper was by this time soured, and 
 her pride not a whit quelled. She fancied 
 she was condescending to Mr. Graham — 
 
88 MARGARET GRAHAM. 
 
 nay, more, that she was lowering herself. 
 She felt a degree of spite at herself and him 
 for what she had done, and her only conso- 
 lation was, that he was rich enough to 
 enable her to domineer over all the families 
 in the neighbourhood. 
 
 Now Mr. Graham did not approve of her 
 consolation at all. He did not consider 
 himself honoured in the least degree; he 
 did not think his wealth or her assumed 
 station gave her any right to treat his 
 friends on any terms but those of equality. 
 He was not weak enough to yield upon 
 such a subject while there was a hope of 
 a change ; and during the two first years of 
 their union he reasoned, remonstrated, even 
 reproved, but all in vain ; and when their 
 
MAKGARET GRAHAM. 89 
 
 first and second child were born dead, Mrs. 
 Graham informed him that it was his ill- 
 temper which had caused the misfortune. 
 There are many ladies who love their faults 
 far better than anything else, and would 
 not part with them for the world ; and, in 
 general, although a husband may consider 
 it his duty to get rid of them as fast as pos- 
 sible, yet he will generally suffer his wife to 
 keep them, if she does but adhere to them 
 with a certain degree of pertinacity. This 
 very incorrigibleness secures them. The 
 maxim embodied in the words " Anything 
 for a quiet life," has done more harm in 
 domestic matters than any other saw that 
 was ever propounded. A man marries for 
 a cheerful and happy home, if he does not 
 
90 MARGARET GRAHAM. 
 
 marry solely for love ; and when he finds 
 that the object is only to be obtained, even 
 in part, on the condition of tolerating his 
 wife's faults, he is sure to yield to them in 
 the end. So did Mr. Graham. He con- 
 tented himself with doing the best he could 
 to make every one forget his fine lady's 
 petulant haughtiness by his own urbanity ; 
 but it cannot be said that he was very suc- 
 cessful. People rarely forgive that which 
 mortifies their pride, and thus, through a 
 great part of the neighbouring society, Mrs. 
 Graham was disliked for her bad qualities 
 and Mr. Graham for his good. He had 
 one consolation, however, — he was univer- 
 sally loved by the poor, and he felt it. 
 
 But one living child tended to soften the 
 discomfort of Mr. Graham's home, and she 
 
MARGARET GRAHAM. 91 
 
 was a comfort indeed. She had her mo- 
 ther's beauty ; but many of the finer quali- 
 ties of her father, and she clung to him with 
 fond and eager attachment. Her mother 
 was fond of her, too, because she was like 
 herself in person ; but she often wished that 
 her daughter was not so poor spirited, and 
 would not in ball or assembly, go over and 
 
 talk to those girls, the s, who dressed 
 
 so badly, and were little taken notice of by 
 any body. 
 
 It is time, however, to go into Mr. Gra- 
 ham's house and see the interior, and we 
 shall beg the reader to walk at once into 
 the dining-room, on the same cold, windy, 
 autumnal night to which the two preceding 
 chapters have been devoted. 
 
 It was a large, handsome room, beauti- 
 
^2 MARGARET GRAHAM. 
 
 fully proportioned, with walls decorated 
 with pilasters, between which hung some 
 fine pictures by both modern and ancient 
 artists. All the ornamental parts were 
 very quiet, chaste, and in good taste, and 
 the draperies which now hung over the 
 windows, though rich in themselves, had 
 not the least bit of gold upon them. A 
 large bronze lamp hung from the ceiling in 
 the centre of the room, with the glasses so 
 shaded that the light fell less upon the faces 
 of the guests than upon the table, round 
 which some sixteen persons were congre- 
 gated. The plate which decorated the board 
 was somewhat ancient in form, and though 
 there was plenty of it, yet there was no 
 great display. It might have been heavier, 
 
MARGARET GRAHAM. 93 
 
 more rich in design, more ornamental, but 
 everything that could be wanted was there^ 
 and Mr. Graham thought the plainer it was 
 the better. 
 
 The dinner, indeed, was somewhat more 
 ostentatious, but that was Mrs. Graham's 
 affair; and though it was not vulgar from 
 its profusion — for she had a French cook 
 who would not tolerate such a thing — it 
 was a great deal too refined for a number 
 of her husband's guests. Mrs. Graham 
 did not care about that, however; it suited 
 her' own guests, and be it remarked that 
 she made a great distinction between her 
 own and her husband's. Those whom she 
 thus specially appropriated to herself con- 
 sisted of four persons whom she had se- 
 
^4 MARGARET GRAHAM. 
 
 duced dow into Cumberland : a Lady Jane 
 Somebody, with long flaxen ringlets, a very 
 beautiful and most delicate complexion, 
 light blue eyes, and a rather over-wide 
 mouth ; her brother, the Honourable Cap- 
 tain Something, with light moustache and 
 wristbands that turned back over the cuffs 
 of his coat. He thought himself like 
 Charles I., and looked melancholy. In- 
 deed, poor man, he was very much bored. 
 Then there was a post-captain in the navy 
 named Hales — at least, so I will name him 
 — distantly related to one or two noble 
 families, and hanging on upon several 
 others. It was long since he had seen any 
 service, was very quiet and insignificant, 
 fond of shooting and fishing, played well 
 
MARGARET GRAHAM. 95 
 
 at billiards and piquet, liked good dinners 
 and frequented country houses where they 
 grew. He was, moreover, a tall, well- 
 dressed, good-looking man, who made him- 
 self useful as well as ornamental. The 
 fourth was a baronet, a member of Par- 
 liament, a sucking politician, aspiring to 
 office for the honour rather than the profit 
 of the thing, for he was wealthy; but 
 he had a vehement conceit in his own 
 powers, wearied the House with large- 
 worded speeches, and not very apposite 
 quotations in Greek and Latin, for he had 
 lately come from Oxford, and had visited 
 the Ionian Islands ; and he was considered 
 a very rising young man, simply because 
 he treated the opinion of everybody with 
 
96 MARGARET GRAHAM. 
 
 contempt who did not exactly agree with 
 the opinions which he formed himself, or 
 which he was instructed to maintain. 
 
 To this gentleman, Sir Arthur Green, 
 Mrs. Graham was particularly attentive and 
 gracious; and, indeed, she had reasons of 
 her own for being so, though he did not 
 know them. In person, he was exceedingly 
 diminutive, except about the hips; which 
 had been intended by Nature for a bigger 
 man, and fitted on him by mistake, and his 
 face, which approached in some degree that 
 of our great prototype, the ape, was alter- 
 nately moved by a quick and irritable 
 expression when he was speaking himself — 
 as if he thought people were not paying 
 sufficient attention to his notions — and 
 
MARGARET GRAHAM. 97 
 
 quiescent when others were talking, with a 
 fixed look of cold contempt for the notions of 
 everybody. 
 
 The rest of the party consisted of neigh- 
 bouring gentlemen, most of whom lived at 
 twelve or fourteen miles distance, and 
 therefore slept the night where they dined, 
 and of a family who inhabited one of the 
 houses by the lake near. But they were 
 nobodies, and consequently turned over to 
 Mr. Graham for entertainment and courtesy. 
 Isov did they lack it. Miss Graham per- 
 versely aiding her father to the best of her 
 power, although Mrs. Graham had purposely 
 placed her next to the baronet, in order 
 to admire and be admired. But Margaret 
 Graham would not admire Sir Arthur Green 
 
 VOL. I. F 
 
98 MARGARET GRAHAM* 
 
 at all. She thought him very ugly, very 
 conceited, and very stupid. She knew no- 
 thing about the corn laws, less about the 
 Irish question, and as little of the tariff. 
 But she did not at all approve of the baro- 
 net's turning away with a sort of inattentive 
 nonchalance when her father had made 
 some very just and practical observations 
 upon the latter subject, and pursuing his 
 own conversation, as if he either did not 
 hear what Mr. Graham said, or thought it 
 quite unworthy of notice. That was not 
 the way to the daughter's heart; but Mrs. 
 Graham rather admired it. 
 
 The second course was nearly concluded, 
 and a great part of the usual subjects of a 
 dinner-table had been exhausted. The 
 
MARGARET GRAHAM. 99 
 
 country gentlemen had done all they could 
 on the topics of pheasants, hares, grouse, 
 and partridges. It had been declared that 
 not one woodcock had yet been seen in the 
 country; which those who wished for an 
 early winter pronounced a bad sign, and 
 those who desired a late one, a good sign. 
 The markets and the weather had been 
 discussed. Some of the ladies had enjoyed a 
 little bit of scandal, delicately administered 
 by Captain Hales, and it was over. The 
 sucking politician's oratory began to fail. 
 The Honourable Captain Somebody amused 
 himself with an orange-wood toothpick, and 
 looked as if he were about to be led to the 
 block. His sister sat in patient insipidity ; 
 and Mrs. Graham herself was beginning to 
 F 2 
 
100 MARGARET GRAHAM. 
 
 find things rather long, when a servant 
 whispered something to Mr. Graham, who 
 looked pleased, and said — 
 
 *' Yery well, see that he has everything 
 to make him comfortable. — My dear, Mr. 
 Fairfax has come, and will join us as soon 
 as he has changed his dress." 
 
 The name was aristocratic ; and Mrs. 
 Graham vouchsafed a smile, inquiring — 
 
 " What Fairfax, Mr. Graham?" 
 
 "" The eldest son of John Fairfax, who was 
 member for Coventry, and nephew of Sir 
 Edward Fairfax," replied her husband, with 
 an inclination to smile; " his father was 
 an old acquaintance of mine, and had many 
 good points, though some \evj strange 
 ones." 
 
 The conversation about Fairfaxes then 
 
MARGARET GRAHAM. 101. 
 
 became general. Everybody knew a Fair- 
 fax or something about a Fairfax ; and it 
 was just over, and the second course re- 
 moved, when the dining-room door opened, 
 and ^Ir. Fairfax was announced. While 
 he came forward and was greeted warmly by 
 Mr. Graham as the son of an old friend, all 
 eyes but those of Sir Arthur Green were 
 turned upon him, and everybody made 
 their comments internally. Sir Arthur did 
 not think anybody worth looking at, and 
 endeavoured to hold Mrs. Graham's at- 
 tention, by asking if she took any interest 
 in the tobacco question? to which Mrs. 
 Graham replied, with a sweet smile, "• Yes, 
 very," and continued to gaze at the new 
 visitor. 
 
 He was remarkably handsome — that was 
 
102 MARGARET GRAHAM. 
 
 the first thing apparent ; he was remarkably 
 well-dressed — that was the next observation 
 made ; he had all the ease, grace, and self- 
 possession, of a man of high station — that 
 was the closing remark ; and Mrs. Graham 
 determined that he should be one of her set. 
 The introduction to his wife and daugh- 
 ter over, Mr. Graham asked if Mr. Fairfax 
 had dined. He replied that he had, at a 
 cottage hard by, where he had taken shelter 
 from the rain; and, seated opposite to 
 Margaret Graham, he gave an account of 
 his adventures of the evening, lightly, 
 gaily, but mingling touches of kindly feel- 
 ing, and good sense, with merry comments 
 on his own wisdom in putting himself under 
 the guidance of an idiot, in a manner which 
 
MARGARET GRAHAM. 103 
 
 amused and pleased both father and daugh- 
 ter, while ]\Irs. Graham declared it was 
 delightful, and the whole party seemed to 
 feel that a new spring of life and pleasure 
 had burst forth in the midst of them, to 
 stir the waters that had been inclined to 
 stagnate. The dessert was the most cheer- 
 ful part of the meal, and the ladies remained 
 longer than Captain Hales, who was fond 
 of claret, thought considerate. Sir Arthur 
 Green hated Mr. Fairfax, for now nobody- 
 paid any more attention to him than he 
 was accustomed to pay to anybody. 
 
 When the whole party assembled in the 
 drawing-room, after that temporary sepa- 
 ration which foreigners so much cry out 
 upon, music and cards succeeded; but 
 
104 MARGARET GRAHAM. 
 
 Mr. Fairfax would have nothing to do with 
 the latter, and kept a position near the 
 piano, especially while Margaret Graham 
 was singing. 
 
 Her voice had not been much cultivated, 
 but it was exceedingly sweet, and feeling 
 and taste did more for the expression of 
 her singing than all the teaching in the 
 world could have effected. Mr. Fairfax 
 seemed delighted, and talked to her a great 
 deal about music, and from music they ram- 
 bled on to painting, and from painting to 
 poetry, so that they might have gone 
 through the whole circle of the arts, had 
 not Mrs. Graham called the young gentle- 
 man to the other side of the room to look 
 at some beautiful engravings which were 
 
MARGARET GRAHAM. 105 
 
 laid upon a table. Such, at least, was 
 Mrs. Graham's pretext; for to say truth, 
 she cared not a straw whether Mr. Fairfax 
 looked at the engravings or not. Certainly 
 society is a strange thing, and the devil 
 must have had some hand in its construc- 
 tion ; for we are told that he is the father 
 of lies, and the whole fabric is filled with 
 his offspring. In reality and truth, Mrs. 
 Graham had for the last half-hour been ob- 
 serving her daughter and Mr. Fairfax. 
 His handsome person, his high-toned air 
 and manner, and his very gentlemanly ap- 
 pearance, seriously alarmed Mrs. Graham 
 for the success of her scheme for marrying 
 Margaret to Sir Arthur Green. She saw 
 Margaret's eyes sparkle with a much 
 f3 
 
106 MARGAKET GRAHAM. 
 
 brighter look than usual, and her cheek 
 grow warmer with excitement, as she lis- 
 tened to a sort of conversation that she 
 had never heard before, and Mrs. Graham 
 reckoned that such a man as Mr. Fairfax 
 would prove a very dangerous rival to the 
 monkey-faced, consequential little being, 
 upon whom she had cast the eyes of affec- 
 tion. Wisely — very wisely — she did not 
 make up her mind to do anything that 
 might check Mr. Fairfax's growing admi- 
 ration for her daughter ; for she thought, 
 judging by what her husband had said of 
 his family, that he himself might be no 
 bad match for Margaret, failing Sir Arthur 
 Green, and, in the meantime, the stimulus 
 of rivalry might prove a sort of hothouse, 
 
IMARGARET GRAHAM. 107 
 
 and bring the baronet's passion rapidly into 
 full bloom. She determined, however, in 
 the first place, to make herself quite sure, 
 from Mr. Fairfax's own mouth, of various 
 little particulars in his situation which her 
 husband had left doubtful. Her first ad- 
 dress to him, therefore, after she had given 
 a reasonable time for the inspection of the 
 engravings, was to the following effect, and 
 delivered with a smile and a look of in- 
 terest : 
 
 " Do you know, Mr. Fairfax, I think I 
 must have been very well acquainted in 
 former years with some of your relations? 
 You are eldest son, Mr. Graham said, 
 of Mr. John Fairfax, who was member for 
 Coventry." 
 
108 MARGARET GRAHAM. 
 
 " The same, my dear madam," answered 
 the young gentleman, gravely, and still 
 looking at the engraving of the " Assump- 
 tion of the Blessed Virgin." 
 
 " Well, then, I must have known your 
 uncle," continued the lady, " at the house 
 of my uncle. Lord Twinkleton. Was he 
 not Sir Edward Fairfax at that time — a 
 colonel in the army, I think?" 
 
 " No, he is not in the army," replied 
 Mr. Fairfax, looking up; "he is now an 
 admiral, but has only been so two or three 
 years." 
 
 " Ah! I must have made a mistake," 
 said Mrs. Graham ; " I knew he was either 
 in the army or navy. How is Lady 
 Fairfax?" 
 
MARGARET GRAHAM. 109 
 
 " Don't frighten me, my dear madam," 
 said her young guest, laughing; " if there is 
 a Lady Fairfax in my family, she must have 
 become so within the last ten days, and the 
 very idea of my uncle marrying is tanta- 
 mount to a charge of lunacy, which you 
 know is a disagreeable circumstance in a 
 man's race. You forget how time flies, dear 
 lady ; he is now seventy-three, and though 
 the best and kindest man in the world, is 
 eaten up with gout." 
 
 " Indeed !" exclaimed Mrs. Graham, ap- 
 parently in great surprise ; '' then was he 
 never married?" 
 
 " Never," replied Mr. Fairfax, '' that I 
 know of; and I think, as I am his adopted 
 son, and have been brought up entirely by 
 
110 MARGARET GRAHAM. 
 
 him almost from my birth, now five-and- 
 twenty years ago, I must have heard of it 
 if such had been the case." 
 
 " How strange that I should make such 
 a mistake 1" exclaimed Mrs. Graham. 
 
 She was now quite satisfied. Nephew, 
 heir, and adopted son of an old and highly- 
 respectable baronet, Mr. Fairfax was quite 
 the sort of man whom she liked ; and she 
 determined from that moment to let him 
 take his chance against Sir Arthur Green, 
 without favour to either party, although, if 
 there was a bias, it was to have her daugh- 
 ter called Lady Fairfax rather than Lady 
 Green. Besides, he was such a handsome, 
 distinguished-looking man too, and that 
 was no slight matter in Mrs. Graham's 
 opinion. 
 
MARGAKET GRAHAM. Ill 
 
 About five or ten minutes after, Mrs. 
 Graham slipped out of the room, and made 
 her way to the library, where she studied 
 " Burke's Peerage and Baronetage" for a 
 short time. When she returned, her face 
 became quite radiant to see Mr. Fairfax 
 seated beside Margaret again, while Lady 
 Jane Something played a fantasia on the 
 piano, and Sir Arthur Green, with the air 
 of a connoisseur, turned over the music in 
 the wrong places. It was evident to Mrs. 
 Graham's eyes that Margaret was well 
 pleased with her companion's conversation. 
 She had never seen her so carried away, as 
 it were, by the presence of any one, and 
 when she approached near enough to hear 
 what was passing, she easily compre- 
 
112 MARGARET GRAHAM. 
 
 hended the cause of the continual variation 
 of expression which took place in her 
 daughter's countenance; the look of half- 
 puzzled thought changing suddenly to that 
 of bright intelligence, then sobering down 
 to gravity, almost sadness, and that again 
 vanishing away in a gay smile or a light 
 lau2:h. But in truth Allan Fairfax's con- 
 versation was very peculiar. It went 
 bounding along like a roe from subject to 
 subject, and figure to figure, finding latent 
 resemblances in the heart of apparently 
 dissimilar things, suddenly setting every- 
 thing in a new point of view, the most joy- 
 ful in the darkest and gloomiest aspect, 
 and extracting a smile even from a tragedy. 
 So rapid was the transition, that it was 
 
MARGARET GRAHAM. 113 
 
 difficult for the mind to follow him; and 
 yet, like a playful child running away from 
 pursuit, he paused every now and then in 
 his gay sport, in order to give the followers 
 time to come up. 
 
 Thus passed the first evening of his visit 
 to Mr. Graham's house, and Allan Fairfax 
 retired to his chamber to think rather than 
 to rest. 
 
 He sat down and leaned his cheek upon 
 his hand; the gay, lively, sparkling young 
 man was suddenly converted into the grave 
 and thoughtful one; and though he could 
 not be called exactly sad, yet a shade of 
 melancholy came over his face, and he 
 sighed heavily more than once. 
 
 " She is very lovely," he said to himself, 
 
114 MARGARET GRAHAM. 
 
 at length — " she is very lovely, and I must 
 take care. Mine is a hard fate." And 
 with that conclusion he ended. 
 
MARGARET GRAHAM. 115 
 
 CHAPTER lY, 
 
 THE lovers' expedition. 
 
 Were the organ of cautiousness projected 
 till it became almost a horn, and had it all 
 the power of communicating prudent im- 
 pulses to the conduct of man which some 
 persons attribute to it, still I fear it would 
 be found all-insufficient to keep youth out 
 of temptation. Two, three, four days 
 passed by, and Allan Fairfax was still at 
 
116 MARGARET GRAHAM. 
 
 Mr. Graham's house. It was shooting- one 
 day, hunting another, sauntering a third; 
 and though Mr. Graham himself was obliged 
 to be absent long on each morning upon the 
 various matters of business in which he was 
 engaged, still he pressed his guests to amuse 
 themselves during his absence, and Mrs. 
 Graham was enchanted to make them as 
 comfortable as possible, inasmuch as they 
 were, after the first day, all of her own 
 particular set; and in that number Mr. 
 Fairfax was now marked out by particular 
 favour. To the greater part of the guests, 
 too, his society was apparently very agree- 
 able. The Honourable Captain Somebody 
 liked him very much, and declared that he 
 rode better than any man he had ever seen 
 
MARGARET GRAHAM. 117 
 
 out of the — — troop of the regiment ; 
 
 Lady Jane thought him, silently, extremely 
 handsome; Captain Hales was, of course, 
 very friendly and civil, though Fairfax shot 
 a great deal better than himself; and 
 Margaret Graham said nothing, but smiled 
 when he approached at first, and then 
 became somewhat thoughtful. 
 
 Thoughtful or smiling, however, he was 
 a great deal with her, and as it so fell out, 
 often alone; for Mrs. Graham's health was 
 by no means good, and Margaret did the 
 honours of her father's house during a great 
 part of the time he was absent each day. 
 She showed Mr. Fairfax the grounds, Avhich 
 were extensive, pointed out to him with 
 pleasure and pride all the changes and im- 
 
118 MARGARET GRAHAM. 
 
 provements Mr. Graham had made, and 
 was well pleased to have an auditor who 
 would fully appreciate the taste which her 
 beloved parent had displayed. The only 
 discontented person was Sir Arthur Green, 
 whose consequence vanished from the 
 moment of Mr. Fairfax's appearance, and 
 who, coldly rude before, was inclined to 
 be warmly rude after his arrival. People 
 paid very little attention to him, however, 
 and he did not venture to go too far. A 
 new life seemed, as I have said, to enter the 
 house with Allan Fairfax. Nobody looked 
 bored any more. There was always some- 
 thing to be seen, something to be done, 
 some amusement, or at least some occu- 
 pation. Margaret and he and Lady Jane 
 
MARGARET GRAHAM. 119 
 
 visited the cottages of Ben Halliday and 
 his cousin, inquired after the boy who had 
 been hurt, and talked kindly with the 
 labourers' wives. They called on the 
 clergyman of the parish, and heard all his 
 details of parochial matters, and Margaret 
 listened with pleasure to the contrast which 
 Mr. Fairfax drew between the state of 
 happiness and prosperity which spread 
 around Mr. Graham's dwelling and some 
 other parts of the country which he had 
 lately visited ; but a rather unpleasant dis- 
 cussion followed at dinner that day, sug- 
 gested by some observations made by 
 Fairfax regarding the condition of the 
 lower classes in England. Sir Arthur 
 Green was an ultra-political economist, and, 
 
120 MARGARET GRAHAM. 
 
 like all fanatics, made a high science ridicu- 
 lous or hateful by bringing it to bear upon 
 subjects not immediately submitted to it. 
 He looked upon all men but as machines ; 
 he spoke of them as such, was inclined 
 to treat them as such. They were, in 
 his opinion, but parts of the great universal 
 manufactory, flesh and blood engines, whose 
 business it was to produce as much as 
 possible at the least imaginable expense. 
 Fairfax reminded him of a slight difference 
 between them and all other machines; that 
 they felt, that they thought, that they loved, 
 that they hated, that they had hearts as well 
 as arms, an immortal spirit as well as a reason- 
 ing brain, that the motive power was one he 
 could not supply, and dared not take away. 
 
MARGARET GRAHAM. 121 
 
 Nevertheless, the sucking politician went 
 on, assuming much as incontrovertibly 
 proved, which everybody in the room was 
 inclined to deny, and covering his cold 
 theories with clouds of schoolboy aphorisms, 
 till in the end he declared that he not only 
 thought it extremely foolish, but unjust to 
 the majority, for any man to give one penny 
 more in wages than the very lowest possible 
 sum at which he could obtain the labour 
 required. 
 
 " Everything has its market price," he 
 said, " and those who pay more for any- 
 thing, raise the price upon others un- 
 justly." 
 
 It was a direct attack upon Mr. Graham's 
 system, but that gentleman did not think 
 
 VOL. I. G 
 
122 MARGARET GRAHAM. 
 
 fit to notice it further than by replying, 
 with a laugh, 
 
 " If we could kill and eat our peasantry, 
 Sir Arthur, when there are too many of 
 them, as we do our oxen, I believe your 
 plan might succeed, but as the law and our 
 own consciences Avould not let us do that 
 even if we could, I am afraid the scale of 
 wages must be framed upon other principles. 
 The possessors of property and the em- 
 ployers of labour must pay at least a 
 sufficiency for the support of those de- 
 pendent on them either in wages, or poor's- 
 rates, or pillage. I like the former mode 
 of payment best — but to change the subject, 
 I have to propose an expedition for to- 
 morrow, which Margaret shall lead, as I 
 
MARGARET GRAHAM. 123 
 
 must be in Brownswick all day. What 
 think you of a ride over to Brugh, and the 
 Marsh, as we call it? although, he it re- 
 marked, there is not an inch of marshy 
 properly so called, in the whole tract* 
 None of you, I think, have seen it, and it 
 is a very interesting district.'* 
 
 The marked and decided turn given to 
 an unpleasant conversation cut it short, of 
 course, and all parties agreed that the pro- 
 posed expedition would he very delightful. 
 Lady Jane, who. Heaven knows how, found, 
 or fancied herself related to the well-known 
 Ann, Countess of Pembroke, to whom 
 Brugh Castle once belonged, besought that 
 it might be included in the ride, and would 
 not be deterred by Mr. Graham's hint that 
 g2 
 
124 MARGARET GRAHAM. 
 
 the distance would be very great. She was 
 an indefatigable horsewoman, she said, and 
 she was sure that Margaret would not be 
 tired ; the day, too, was certain to be fine ; 
 they were just getting the Indian summer, 
 as it was called ; November had become as 
 warm as May ; and, in short, she was re- 
 solved that Brugh Castle should be visited. 
 It is wonderful how pertinacious those fair- 
 haired, wide -mouthed, fine - complexioned 
 girls can be when they like it. Everybody 
 yielded, of course ; and it was arranged that 
 the time of departure should be an hour 
 earlier than had been proposed at first. 
 
 Oh, the ever eager heart of youth, liow 
 it bounds forth upon the course of enjoy- 
 ment! Well may they call hope a flame 
 
MARGARET GRAHAM. 125 
 
 and love a fire, for they both consume that 
 which nourishes them, leaving the smoke 
 •of disappointment and the ashes of regret. 
 Allan Fairfax lay down that night with a 
 bosom fall of bright expectations for the 
 morrow. There was sunshine within, but 
 as when a man gazes over a prospect lighted 
 up by the bright morning rays, he shades 
 liis eyes from the orb whence those lustrous 
 beams proceed, while the sight revels in the 
 loveliness they display, so Fairfax, while 
 he looked forward to the coming day with 
 the thrill of anticipated enjoyment, would 
 not let his mind rest upon her from whom 
 all that sunshine flowed. Little had he 
 thought when, on visiting the small town 
 'of Brownswick, to receive an inconsiderable 
 
126 MARGARET GRAHAM. 
 
 sum of money for the further expenses of 
 his tour, and found a letter of invitation to 
 Mr. Graham's house, that the result of his 
 visit would be the feelings he now expe- 
 rienced — little did he think it, or he would 
 never have come, sweet and charming as 
 those feelings were; but now they were 
 upon him, he gave himself up to their in- 
 fluence, not without doubt, and fear, and 
 hesitation, but with the spell of new-born 
 love too strong for mastery. 
 
 There was another heart, too, within that 
 house which beat high at the thought of 
 the coming day, but with less fear at the 
 sensations which it itself experienced, though 
 with some timidity. Margaret saw that 
 she was loved, and she felt that, for the 
 
MARGARET GRAHAM. 127 
 
 first time, she was loved by one whose pas- 
 sion she could return. It made her thrill 
 when she thought of it, but yet it was very 
 sweet, and no anxiety mingled with the 
 feeling, for she knew that her father's 
 whole hopes were in her happiness, and 
 she saw that her mother was well-inclined 
 to smile upon her love. 
 
 Every one was awake by daybreak, and 
 every one looked out of the window to see 
 the aspect of the sky. It was grey and 
 shrouded, a light frost lay upon the ground. 
 To Margaret's eyes it looked unpromising; 
 for fear will come thrusting herself before 
 hope, at the first obstacle in the course of 
 enjoyment. Still she put on her riding- 
 habit, and looking bright enough herself to 
 
128 MARGARET GRAHAM. 
 
 give sunshine to a wintry day, she went 
 down to the breakfast-room, where she found 
 her father and Allan Fairfax. She caught 
 Mr. Graham's eye fixed upon her while 
 she shook hands with the latter, and she 
 thought she saw a slight but well-pleased 
 smile upon his lips. The colour mounted 
 warmly into her cheek, and, turning to the 
 window, she looked out, saying, in a falter- 
 ing voice — 
 
 " I am afraid it will be a bad day." 
 ^' Oh no, my dear," replied Mr. Graham, 
 ''- the sky will clear within an hour, and 
 you wdll have a beautiful morning for your 
 ride. I will not say as much for to-morrow, 
 and even doubt what we shall have to-night, 
 but we may reckon upon eight or ten hours 
 safely." 
 
MARGARET GRAHAM. 129 
 
 It was as Mr. Graliam said. Before 
 l)reakfast was over, the grey mist that over- 
 spread the sky first broke away into thin 
 -clouds, and then disappeared entirely, as 
 if the sun drank them up as he rose to 
 run his race. Mr. Graham mounted Allan 
 Fairfax on a powerful horse, which was 
 •accustomed to keep pace with that of his 
 daughter ; he lent a good bony hunter to 
 €aptain Hales, and the rest of the party 
 had their horses with them. A servant 
 followed, and all seven set out a little 
 before ten, while Mr. Graham got into his 
 phaeton, and drove away to Brownswick. 
 
 Proceeding slowly at first along the road 
 towards Brugh, Margaret Graham and the 
 rest of the party soon issued forth upon the 
 g3 
 
180 MARGARET GRAHAM. 
 
 banks of the little lake, and skirting round 
 the western side with the reflection of 
 themselves and their horses clear on the 
 surface of the unrippled waters, wound 
 away towards the opposite hills, where the 
 road they were following rose over a narrow 
 neck between two high saddle-shaped moun- 
 tains, and then descended rapidly to a plain 
 several thousand feet below. From the 
 highest point reached by the road the view 
 was wild and sublime in the extreme — 
 sublime from its immensity. As far as the 
 eye could see, was one vast expanse, un- 
 broken, almost interminable; for the faint 
 boundary which separated it from the dis- 
 tant sky was obscured by a mist so slight, 
 that it blended heaven and earth imper- 
 
IIARGARET GRAHAM. 131 
 
 ceptibly together. To the right, indeed, 
 faint and far off, could be traced, after 
 long-gazing, several waving lines, like those 
 of clouds, but probably some of the hills of 
 Niddesdale ; and on the left were the grand 
 Cumberland mountains, which further on 
 appeared crowned by Skiddaw. I have 
 said that it was uninterrupted, but that 
 wide plain was not unvaried, for although 
 the general hue was in the nearest parts 
 of a briglit deep green, and in the distance 
 an intense blue, yet lines of different colours, 
 all profound in their degree, checkered the 
 expanse without injuring the harmony. 
 Here and there was a wide extent of what 
 seemed low wood; beyond, a yellow gleam 
 crossed the plain, then came some undu- 
 
132 MARGARET GRAHAM. 
 
 lations almost black, either from the nature 
 of the soil or from a shadow cast by clouds, 
 which the spectator's eye could not discover 
 in the clear sky above. Nature herself re- 
 lieved the view from monotony, and at the 
 same time marked the vastness of the whole 
 by the variety of colouring. Underneath — 
 almost at the feet of the party who gazed 
 from the hill, were several flocks of sheep 
 and herds of oxen; and others could be 
 distinguished further off, lessening in the 
 distance till they became faint specks, and 
 disappeared. 
 
 " There is the Brugh Marsh," said Mar- 
 garet Graham, in a low, sweet voice, as if 
 almost awed by the grandeur of the scene : 
 " and there lay the camp of Edward I., 
 
MARGARET GRAHAM. 133 
 
 when the fierce and invincible bowed to a 
 stronger and more permanent conqueror 
 than himself." 
 
 " It seems badly cultivated," said Sir 
 Arthur Green. " I wonder no efforts have 
 been made to render it more productive." 
 
 Margaret gently shook her horse's bridle, 
 and began to descend the hill. In the 
 infinitely modified varieties of human 
 vanity, the most unpleasant to the indivi- 
 dual and to those who are brought in con- 
 tact with him, is irritable conceit. The 
 vain man who is not satisfied that all the 
 world thinks as well of him as he thinks of 
 himself, is a wretched creature. Pride, 
 though an isolated passion, is at all events 
 independent: vanity is dependent upon 
 
134 MARGARET GRAHAM. 
 
 others' opinion for its satisfaction, if not 
 for its support. Sir Arthur Green fancied 
 himself proud, but he was only vain ; and 
 a conviction which had been growing upon 
 him that he was b}^ no means particularly 
 pleasing in Margaret's eyes, made him de- 
 termine to revenge himself by paying all his 
 attentions to Lady Jane. He could not 
 have devised a means of making himself 
 more agreeable to Margaret, and while he 
 thought he was inflicting punishment by at- 
 taching himself to the lady of rank, and neg- 
 lecting altogether the banker's daughter, Mar- 
 garet Graham was cantering gaily on over 
 Brugh Marsh by the side of Allan Fairfax, 
 enjoying with him all that was beautiful in 
 nature, and when that failed them, finding 
 
MARGARET GRAHAM. 135 
 
 stores of happiness like hidden treasures in 
 their own hearts. The two captains rode 
 together, and talked fashionable nonsense to 
 each other with long intervals; and thus 
 harmoniously paired, they crossed the wide 
 plain towards a spot upon its verge, where, 
 from the heights above, they had seen some 
 small black mounds which constituted the 
 little town of Brugh, and the remains of its 
 old castle. But distances seen from a height 
 are very deceptive to the eye. Every one 
 but Margaret thought they would reach the 
 ruin in an hour ; but though they rode fast, 
 hour after hour went by, and it was half- 
 past tw^o before they had stabled their horses 
 at the small inn, to let them feed, and were 
 climbing the slope toward the castle. Fair- 
 
136 MARGARET GRAHAM. 
 
 fax offered Margaret his arm to aid her in 
 the ascent, and she took it, as she saw that 
 Lady Jane had made no scruple of accept- 
 ing such assistance from Sir Arthur Green ; 
 but the baronet was evidently — nay, osten- 
 tatiously making love, and Allan Fairfax 
 and his fair companion were not. Perhaps 
 there Avas no need. The other two, how- 
 ever, separated themselves from the rest of 
 the party almost as soon as they reached 
 the old walls. Lady Jane was not at all 
 sorry to have something to amuse her; for 
 Brugh was not enough now she had got 
 1;here ; and therefore she laughed and talked, 
 and showed her fine teeth, and gave the 
 young politician every sort of encourage- 
 ment to go on both with his soft nothings 
 
3IARGARET GRAHAM. 137 
 
 and liis hard facts, without the slightest 
 intention of ever going one step beyond a 
 little innocent flirtation. For some five 
 minutes the other two gentlemen remained 
 with Margaret and her companion; but 
 every one knows how easy it is to break into 
 knots in a ruin, and while Fairfax and Miss 
 Graham were standing in tlie heart of the 
 great square tower, and gazing up, they 
 found themselves left alone together. 
 
 It was a moment of great temptation. 
 Should he tell her, he asked himself, how 
 he loved her, how her beauty, and her 
 grace, and her gentleness had carried him 
 away without power of resistance, and 
 everything in life seemed valueless but her ? 
 But no, he would not do it; there was a 
 
138 MARGARET GRAHAM. 
 
 chain around him which held him back 
 from such happiness as the hope of pos- 
 sessing her. It might be broken, indeed, 
 and her hand might break it, but to do so 
 she must see it, and know it, and the first 
 thing was to tell her all. 
 
 " This is very grand," he said, some- 
 what abruptly ; " but do you know, I never 
 see a ruin without its leaving for a long 
 time a melancholy impression." 
 
 " I think that is the natural effect," re- 
 plied Margaret ; "or if not melancholy, the 
 impression on my mind is always grave 
 and tending to thought. A ruin is in 
 itself a monument to decay, to that which 
 must be undergone, not only by all, but by 
 the works of all." 
 
I MARGARET GRAHAM. 139 
 
 " Yes," replied Fairfax, " such things as 
 these we see around us are the mementoes 
 of the inevitable fate — the skull and cross- 
 bones to the world's undertakings. But I 
 fear, dear Miss Graham, that the melan- 
 choly I feel is more from an individual than 
 a general application of the figure. The 
 sight of a ruin is to me a memorial of my 
 own fate — " 
 
 Margaret started with a look of surprise 
 and distress. 
 
 " Yes," continued Allan Fairfax, " when- 
 ever I see buildings gone to decay, especially 
 where the dilapidation has been effected 
 more by neglect or violence than the natural 
 process of time, I begin, whether I will or 
 not, seeking out similarities between its fate 
 
140 MARGARET GRAHAM. 
 
 and mine. I see an imas^e of the ruin of 
 bright prospects, and in its hopeless, ir- 
 reparable desolation, a picture of my future 
 fate." 
 
 The tears were in Margaret's eyes when 
 he ended, but gazing down upon the ground, 
 she answered, in a low, sweet voice — 
 
 *' I have seen many ruins repaired, and 
 made more beautiful than ever. May it 
 not be so with you?" 
 
 " You shall judge," answered Fairfax. 
 " I will tell you the whole story, which, 
 though a very strange one, is very 
 short." 
 
 *'0h, do," cried Margaret; ^^ it will 
 interest me deeply, I am sure." 
 
 " I was born to wealth," said Allan 
 Fairfax, " and I now have nothing — abso- 
 
MARGARET GRAHAM. l41 
 
 lutely nothing. Dependent upon the good- 
 ness of a kind and excellent old man, so 
 long as he lives I have affluence, but from 
 the hour of his death, with the exception of 
 my commission, I have nothing." 
 
 "Ha, ha, ha I" cried a voice, apparently 
 close to them, *' and I have got nothings 
 either — ^jolly, jolly nothing," and the squat 
 broad figure and sinister countenance of the 
 idiot. Tommy Hicks, appeared from under 
 the archway of the little door on the west 
 side of the tower. 
 
 Allan Fairfax turned upon him angrily. 
 "• Get you gone, you mischievous fool," he 
 exclaimed, shaking his horsewhip at him; 
 " if I catch you near me, I will teach you 
 not to mislead a traveller whom you under- 
 take to guide." 
 
142 MARGARET GRAHAM. 
 
 The idiot leered at him fearfully. " You 
 had better not touch me," he said ; " Tommy 
 can spite them that spite him. You shall 
 have good measure in return. Master Stick- 
 inthemud. I wish you had been laid in 
 the bog all night. You would have had a 
 soft bed of it, and might have made the 
 moon your warming-pan, for those sheets 
 ai'e rather damp, I reckon." 
 
 Fairfax took a step towards him, but at 
 the same moment Tommy scampered off 
 through the doorway, and Margaret laid 
 her hand upon her lover's arm, saying, 
 *• Oh, do not hurt him ! The poor creature 
 is quite insane, and does not know what 
 he says or does." 
 
 " I only wish to frighten him away," 
 
MARGARET GRAHAM. 143 
 
 replied Fairfax, *^ for I would fain end my 
 tale now I have begun it." 
 
 Barely two minutes elapsed, however, 
 before Captain Hales rejoined them, saying, 
 "Come here, come here; there is such a 
 beautiful view from the top of the wall 
 where a dumpy fellow in a grey jacket has 
 guided Lady Jane and Sir Arthur, that 
 they want every one else to see it." 
 
 Margaret and Fairfax followed, and 
 although the sweet girl's face was somewhat 
 melancholy when Captain Hales interrupted 
 their conference, yet as they walked along 
 a step behind him over the grass-grown 
 courts and fragments of broken wall, a 
 smile, bright, warm, and meaning, passed 
 over her face, and she said to her companion, 
 
144 MARGARET GRAHAM. 
 
 in a low tone, " Yet I think even this ruin 
 might be repaired." 
 
 " It is in a sad state of dilapidation," 
 said Fairfax, gloomily ; but the next instant 
 turning the angle of the great square 
 tower, they came in sight of a high and 
 almost detached piece of the outer wall, on 
 the summit of which stood Lady Jane and 
 Sir Arthur Green, while on the steps up to 
 it, formed by the broken stones of the 
 building, appeared the idiot, with his arms 
 crossed upon his breast, gazing far out over 
 the waste. At the foot of the wall were 
 some large masses of fallen stone, with a 
 plentiful crop of nettles amongst them, and 
 the Honourable Captain Somebody was 
 busily engaged with laudible philanthropy 
 
MARGARET GRAHAM. 145 
 
 in cutting down with his horsewhip the 
 pungent enemies of urchins' fingers. 
 
 " Is that a very safe situation, Lady 
 Jane?" demanded Fairfax, when he reached 
 the bottom of the wall, and remarked the 
 many stones which had been loosened by 
 time, and the apertures left by others 
 which had been taken out to build cot- 
 tages in the neighbourhood. 
 
 "I don't know, Mr. Fairfax," cried the 
 lady, apparently alarmed at his question, 
 *' Do you think it is likely to give way? 
 I should like to get down. Sir Arthur — 
 pray help me down." 
 
 '' Get out of the way, Mister Grey- 
 jacket," said Sir Arthur Green, giving 
 his hand to Lady Jane, and addressing 
 
 VOL. I. H 
 
146 MARGARET GRAHAM. 
 
 the idiot, who stood right in the midst 
 of the descent; " I want to pass, my man." 
 
 '^ Well, you may pass, if you can, my 
 minikin pin," said Tommy Hicks, still 
 keeping his arms stoutly crossed upon his 
 chest; ''it is a nice airy situation, and you 
 had better stay there till you are bleached, 
 for your mother wove her cloth terrible 
 yellow." 
 
 " Get out of the way, you scoundrel, or 
 I will knock you down," cried the little 
 baronet, in a great rage, letting go the 
 hand of Lady Jane, who began to scream, 
 and advancing upon the idiot. But 
 Tommy Hicks, with a movement as quick 
 as lightning, and a loud laugh, gave him 
 a push on the shoulder, which instantly 
 
MARGARET GRAHAM, 147 
 
 overthrew his balance and cast him down 
 from the wall just above the nettles which 
 were still undergoing decapitation. The 
 height must have been fourteen feet, and 
 in all probability the little baronet would 
 not have come to the ground safe in life 
 and limb, had he not luckily fallen right 
 upon Lady Jane's brother, who gave way 
 beneath the shock, and both rolled in the 
 bed of nettles together. 
 
 Alarmed for the situation of Lady Jane, 
 left alone with the idiot on the top of the 
 wall, Fairfax paused not to look or laugh 
 at a scene which was certainly more comic 
 than tragic, but sprang up at once over 
 the piles of rubbish, which brought his 
 head within a foot or two of the top of 
 h2 
 
148 MARGARET GRAHAM. 
 
 the wall. He was stretching out his hand 
 to seize the idiot by the heel, when, with 
 one of his wild halloes, Tommy Hicks 
 sprang off on the other side, and, mount- 
 ing the wall, Fairfax aided Lady Jane to 
 descend. As he did so, his eye caught 
 the form of Tommy Hicks, scampering off 
 towards the marsh, apparently unhurt, for, 
 though the depth was somewhat greater 
 on that side, the turf was soft and even. 
 Lady Jane was strongly inclined to faint 
 when she reached the bottom of the de- 
 scent, but the sight presented by her bro- 
 ther and Sir Arthur Green, who by this 
 time were standing face to face, with both 
 their noses streaming with blood, and 
 strongly inclined to quarrel, touched some 
 
MARGARET GRAHAM. 149 
 
 ticklish point in her imagination, and, in- 
 stead of fainting, she burst into a fit of 
 laughter. Captain Hales interposed to 
 calm the two wounded and irritable gen- 
 tlemen, and the whole party, after a short 
 pause, adjourned to the little inn, to get 
 such luncheon as it could afford before 
 they set out upon their way homeward. 
 
 Ere the luncheon was over and the 
 horses saddled, the ill- closed windows of 
 the inn began to rattle with a rising gale, 
 and the sky grew dark and ominous. 
 Then came the mounting in haste, and 
 scampering off, if possible, to outride the 
 storm. But the distance was great, the 
 hour half-past three; night fell while they 
 were still far from their journey's end, 
 
150 MARGARET GRAHAM. 
 
 and, long ere they reached the foot of the 
 hills, the rain was drifting hard against 
 them, mingled with sharp particles of very- 
 fine hail. 
 
 The whole party were drenched before 
 they reached the house of Mr. Graham; 
 and gladly did they see the door open 
 and the lights within. Servants hurried 
 to take the horses; but Allan Fairfax 
 thought that he remarked a somewhat dif^ 
 ferent aspect in the men, and as the party 
 separated in haste, each hurrying to his 
 room to change his wet garments, he 
 heard Margaret inquire of her maid, who 
 had come down to meet her — 
 
 *^ Whose gig is that standing near the 
 door?^ 
 
MARGARET GRAHAM. 151 
 
 "It is old Dr. Kenmore's, Miss Gra- 
 ham," replied the maid; " but you had 
 better come and change your clothes at 
 once, ma'am, for you are terribly wet." 
 
 Allan Fairfax had got some way through 
 his toilet, when, after an introductory tap 
 at the door, the butler entered, with a face 
 exceedingly grave. 
 
 '' Mrs. Graham has told me to give her 
 compliments to you, sir, and the other gen- 
 tlemen and ladies," he said, " and to beg 
 you will excuse her and Miss Graham for 
 not appearing at dinner, as Mr. Graham 
 has been taken very ill immediately after 
 his return from Browns wick." 
 
 " Indeed!" exclaimed Fairfax, in a tone 
 of unfeigned grief; " what is the matter — 
 do you know?" 
 
152 MARGAnET GRAHAM. 
 
 " A fit of apoplexy, the doctor says, 
 sir," replied the butler; " but he is a little 
 better since they bled him and poured the 
 water upon his head; and he looks about 
 him a little, though he does not speak. 
 Mrs. Graham told me to say also, sir, 
 that she hoped to have the pleasure of 
 seeing you to-morrow, at breakfast." 
 
 That evening passed sadly: all the 
 guests preparing to take their departure 
 early on the following morning, although 
 the report of Mr. Graham's health, when 
 they separated for the night, was that he 
 Was a good deal better, and all immediate 
 danger over. Most of those present were 
 willing enough to fly from a sick man's 
 house; but Allan Fairfax would fain have 
 
MARGARET GRAHAM. 153 
 
 lingered, had lie been permitted, to com- 
 fort and support poor Margaret. That, 
 however, was out of the question; and 
 when he at length lay down to rest, it 
 was with a sad and anxious heart, in 
 which all the bright, warm expectations 
 of pleasure which had visited him on the 
 preceding night, had been extinguished, 
 like one of those fireworks which give 
 out for a few minutes a thousand intense 
 and brilliant colours, and then end in an 
 instant in smoke and darkness. 
 
 H 3 
 
154 MARGARET GRAHAM. 
 
 CHAPTEK y. 
 
 Mr. Graham had passed a tolerable night : 
 heavy fits of sleep had fallen upon 
 him from time to time, which alarmed his 
 daughter greatly, for she did not distin- 
 guish — indeed, how could she? — between 
 natural though very profound slumber, and 
 the state of stupor in which she had first 
 seen him after her return. However, the 
 
MARGARET GRAHAM. 155 
 
 old surgeon, who, having got a diploma 
 from some college or another had dubbed 
 himself doctor, watched by his patient 
 throughout the livelong night, marking 
 every turn with the most scrupulous care. 
 Indeed, he was a very skilful man, as the 
 old school of surgery went, and besides 
 that, Dr. Kenmore had an advantage over 
 any surgeon that could have been sent for 
 in the case of Mr. Graham. He was his 
 old personal friend, and he loved him 
 dearly. Circumstances had changed with 
 Mr. Graham since first the doctor knew 
 him, but no alteration had taken place 
 in their demeanour to each other. It 
 was always "Kenmore" and "Graham" 
 with them. The latter had fine houses, 
 
156 MARGAKET GRAHAM. 
 
 broad lands, great wealth, important spe- 
 culations, wore frock coats and trousers, 
 and drove a phaeton; the other remained 
 in a blue coat with brass buttons, a white 
 waistcoat, and black breeches and silk 
 stockings, and drove the same buggy, 
 though the horse had been changed more 
 than once; for he, too, had a thriving 
 practice, and was well to do in the world. 
 But ]\Ir. Graham was not at all ashamed 
 of his old companion, though the style of 
 his dress dated tliirty years before, and 
 his manners were frank even to abrupt- 
 ness. Their heads had grown white toge- 
 ther, and Kenmore was dear to Graham, 
 but not more dear than Graham to Ken- 
 more. Now if it had been a brother, or 
 
MARGARET GRAHAM. 157 
 
 a father, or a child, the good doctor could 
 not have been more anxious than while, 
 sitting by the side of his patient's bed, 
 he watched him by the shaded light, and, 
 ever and anon turned his eyes to Mar- 
 garet, who, till three o'clock, was the com- 
 panion of his guard. 
 
 " There, don't cry, my dear," he said, in 
 a low voice, once, when he saw the tears in 
 her eyes; "you'll make me more nervous 
 than I am; if it were not that I saw you 
 sitting wiping your eyes there, I should 
 have devilish little anxiety at all, for I tell 
 you it is a very good case, and we shall get 
 him quite safely through. I wish you would 
 go to bed, with all my heart; you are of 
 no manner of good, I can tell you ; so if you 
 
158 MARGARET GRAHAM. 
 
 are flattering yourself that you are doing 
 service, you are very much mistaken." 
 
 In the meantime, Mrs. Graham had long 
 retired to rest ; not that she did not love 
 her husband as much as she could love any- 
 thing — for she had gradually acquired a 
 certain sort of affection for him, and indeed 
 it was hardly possible for her to be without 
 it, — but she did not see what good she 
 could do; her own delicate health was a 
 fair pretext; and after asking I)r Kenmore 
 if she could be of use, and having been 
 bluntly told, '' quite the contrary," she went 
 to bed, and slept. She had reasons for 
 sleeping well. She was very well contented 
 with everything that had happened for the 
 last week except Mr. Graham's illness. 
 
MARGARET GRAHAM. 159 
 
 She was well contented that her daughter 
 should not be Lady Green — it was such a 
 vulgar name, Green. Any one could dis*- 
 cover in a moment that Lady Green must 
 be at the best a baronet's wife — she might 
 be a knight's. But Lady Fairfax: that 
 was a different matter; it had an old, 
 rebellious, aristocratical sound about it 
 which she liked. Then again, Sir Arthur 
 looked like a monkey new breeched — a 
 chimpanzee baronet — a representative ape; 
 she began to think him odious when com- 
 pared with Allan Fairfax; she fancied that 
 all his disagreeable qualities had made 
 themselves apparent during the last six 
 or seven days, and she went to sleep 
 murmuring, ^' Lady Fairfax." 
 
160 MARGARET GRAHAM. 
 
 A sad mortification awaited Mrs. Graliam, 
 Iiowever. On the following morning, when 
 the maid opened the curtains, her first 
 question was, of course, for her husband. 
 The woman informed her that he had fallen 
 into a nice quiet sleep, and the doctor, who 
 had lain down on the sofa, said that he was 
 to be disturbed on no account. Mrs. 
 Graham then asked for her letters, which 
 she usually read in bed. Two were then 
 given her, the first of which she read with- 
 out any emotion, for it was only from a dear 
 friend. The second, however, caused great 
 agitation in Mrs. Graham's whole frame; 
 but it is as well to let the reader see a part 
 of the contents. 
 
 " I can tell you all about him, my dear 
 
MARGARET GRAHAM. 161 
 
 Mrs. Graham," said Lady Adeliza News- 
 monger; " we are all profoundly interested 
 in him, and many a heart is breaking for 
 him. He is a lieutenant in the regi- 
 ment, and brought up by his old uncle the 
 admiral, who would leave him all he has, 
 if he could, poor man ; but the estates are 
 all strictly entailed, and go with the title, 
 you know, to the son of William Fairfax, 
 of Ichstead — a poor, humpbacked young 
 man, who married Maria Graves. But the 
 most interesting and curious part of the 
 whole history is, how he came to be brought 
 up by his uncle instead of by his own father. 
 John Fairfax, his father, was a very rising 
 sort of man, and made a great deal of money 
 in a short time in India. When he came 
 
162 MARGARET GRAHAM. 
 
 back, he went into parliament, and married 
 a Miss Allen — I don't know who she was, 
 but I think Dulwich College belonged to 
 her father. There was not a cleverer man 
 in the House than John Fairfax, and he 
 plagued the ministers terribly; but one 
 day, when he was out hunting, just about 
 the time this boy was born, his horse threw 
 him, and he lighted on his head. At first 
 he was thought to be dead, but he got 
 better in a sort of way, though never al- 
 together; for a most unaccountable notion 
 took possession of him, that this boy was a 
 changeling, that his own son had died while 
 he was ill, and that they had put another 
 in the place, not to vex him. He could 
 never get it out of his head till the last day 
 
MARGARET GRAHAM. 163 
 
 of his life, would not own him, and only- 
 left him fifty pounds a year, because he said 
 it was not the lad's fault. That is the way 
 he came to be educated by his uncle. Is it 
 not very shocking and interesting? — all the 
 property went to this young man's next 
 brother, and is entailed upon the rest of 
 them. There were four others before poor 
 Mrs. Fairfax died, which was from grief, 
 they say. But I must tell you of the ball 
 
 at " 
 
 Mrs. Graham did not read anything 
 about the ball. She laid down the letter 
 on the bed ; she put her hand to her head ; 
 she had almost burst into tears. But in- 
 stead of doing so, she thought it better 
 to ring her bell for the maid who had gone 
 
164 MARGARET GRAHAM, 
 
 to fetch the cup of chocolate with which she 
 usually began the day, and to dress herself 
 immediately. 
 
 The maid waited to carry up the choco- 
 late, however; and when she appeared in 
 her mistress's chamber, she had two notes 
 upon the salver — one very neat and lady- 
 like, and one somewhat clerk-like, both 
 taking leave and condoling; the one from 
 Lady Jane, the other from Sir Arthur 
 Green. 
 
 " Are they gone?" demanded Mrs. Gra- 
 ham, eagerly. 
 
 " Yes, ma'am," replied the maid, " they 
 both went about five minutes ago; and the 
 captain and Mr. Fairfax are only waiting 
 for the chaise from Browns wick." 
 
MARGARET GRAHAM. 165 
 
 *' Pray give my compliments to Mr. 
 Fairfax," said Mrs. Graham, " and say that 
 I beg he will not go till I have the pleasure 
 of speaking with him for a moment/' 
 
 It was uttered in the sweetest possible 
 tone, and the maid thought her mistress 
 intended to be very gracious to Mr. Fairfax, 
 for even maids can be mistaken in their 
 mistresses. When, however, Mrs. Graham, 
 after keeping her young guest waiting for 
 about half-an-hour, till she was in some 
 degree dressed, appeared in the library, 
 where the maid had found him, it was very 
 evident to Fairfax himself, that the lady 
 was not in the most placable humour. Her 
 manner w^as cold and distant, and taking 
 her own chair with a haughty air, she 
 
166 MARGARET GRAHAM. 
 
 pointed to another, saying, " Pray be seated, 
 Mr. Fairfax. I have a word or two to say 
 to you before you go." 
 
 Fairfax looked a little confounded, but 
 he replied, '' I was about, my dear madam, 
 to write you a few words to express how 
 much grieved I am at Mr. Graham's illness, 
 and how much I sympathize with yourself 
 and Miss Graham under this severe 
 affliction." 
 
 '' We really do not require sympathy, 
 Mr. Fairfax," replied the lady; "and as 
 you mention Miss Graham, that is exactly 
 the point to which what I have to say tends. 
 Allow me to observe, that I find to my 
 sorrow and regret you have mistakenly been 
 led into paying much greater attentions to 
 
MARGARET GRAHAM. 167 
 
 my daughter than I was previously aware 
 of. To prevent, then, anything like dis- 
 appointment, I think it but fair and just to 
 inform you that we have very different 
 views for her ; and I cannot but hint it may 
 be as well for an acquaintance to cease 
 which I trust has not gone far enough to 
 produce disagreeable results to any party.'' 
 Allan Fairfax was certainly very much 
 astonished. The change in Mrs. Graham's 
 whole demeanour was so marked and 
 painful, so sudden, to him so unaccountable, 
 that for an instant his thoughts became con- 
 fused by the hasty effort of the mind to run 
 over every circumstance in the past for the 
 purpose of finding some solution to the 
 enigma. It was necessary, however, to 
 
168 MARGARET GRAHAM. 
 
 answer, and lie replied Tvitli a degree of 
 causticity wliicli he would have avoided if 
 he had had more time for reflection. " It 
 is strange, my dear madam, that after 
 having reached five-and-twenty, I should 
 find anything to surprise a reasonable man 
 in life. ISTevertheless, your words, your 
 changed manner, your whole demeanour, 
 do so much surprise me, that I must 
 inquire if Miss Graham has in any way 
 complained, or ever thought, that I have 
 paid her attentions disagreeable to her ?" 
 
 Mrs. Graham would not tell a direct lie 
 in answer to a straightforward question, and 
 she herself was not quite so calm as she 
 might have been, so that she answered, 
 *' N'o, sir, she has not ; but I have eyes and 
 
MARGARET GRAHAM. 169 
 
 ears, and others have the same, and I 
 really do not see what should surprise any 
 young gentleman in your peculiar position, 
 that the mother of a young lady, heiress to 
 a large fortune, should object to attentions 
 which can result in no. good, and even 
 prohibit intercourse which may produce 
 evil." 
 
 *' It would not, madam," replied Fairfax, 
 " if it had not been preceded by direct 
 encouragement. We should not feel the 
 absence of light if we had always dwelt in 
 night. But I now begin to gain a little 
 insight into the matter from an expression, 
 perhaps inadvertently used. My '"peculiar 
 position' has, I suppose, been explained to 
 you rather lately, whether by an idiot, who 
 
 VOL. I. I 
 
170 MARGARET GRAHAM. 
 
 has most likely perverted the tale in telling, 
 or not, you best know ; but allow me to say, 
 that my position, whatever it may be, was 
 fully known to Mr. Graham; and before I 
 say anything further on the principal point 
 in question, I shall wait till he is well 
 enough, as I trust he soon will be, to express 
 his opinions." 
 
 " His opinions are, I beg to say, the 
 same as my own," answered Mrs. Graham, 
 with a very angry brow. But this is all 
 trifling. Lady Adeliza will be flattered by 
 the appellation of idiot; and you may 
 depend upon it, Mr. Graham will never feel 
 disposed to oppose my views regarding my 
 own daughter. In the meantime, as you 
 force me to speak plainly, Mr. Fairfax, I 
 must decline the honour of your visits 
 
MARGARET GRAHAM. 171 
 
 altogether. I trust you may find a wealthy 
 ivife elsewhere. It must not be here." 
 
 The sting of the last words was felt to 
 the marrow. To be thought — even to be 
 called a fortune-hunter, was more than he 
 could bear ; and feeling that if he replied 
 at all, his words would be intemperate, he 
 made Mrs. Graham a cold and formal bow, 
 and hurried into the passage, at the door of 
 which the chaise was standing in waiting 
 for himself and Captain Hales. The latter 
 kept him for two or three minutes after he 
 had entered the vehicle, but then jumped 
 in ; and with a sad glance towards the half- 
 closed windows of Mr. Graham's room, Allan 
 Fairfax was borne away from that house, 
 never to set foot in it again while it re- 
 mained in possession of the same family. 
 
i^art tfie SfconU. 
 
 THE DAYS OF ADVERSITY. 
 
MARGARET GRAHAM. 175 
 
 CHAPTER YI. 
 
 THE BRITISH LABOURER'S REWARD. 
 
 Two years and a half had passed, and time 
 had swallowed up many things most pre- 
 cious: hope, happiness, enjoyment, energy 
 had fled from many, leaving disappointment, 
 sorrow, and the apathy of despair. Spring 
 was now in the place of autumn ; but it had 
 been hitherto a cold and dreary spring, with 
 rain and sharp winds and occasional snow j 
 
176 MARGARET GRAHAM. 
 
 and the moor looked even more brown and 
 desolate than at the close of the year. The 
 winter had exhausted all its wrath upon it, 
 and there seemed no prospect of revival; 
 not a green blade of grass was to be seen 
 springing up amongst the moss and heath, 
 not a young rosy bud upon the bare branches 
 of the trees — the very energies of nature 
 seemed extinguished. Like the season was 
 the fate of one of those persons to whom the 
 reader was first introduced in this tale. 
 Poor Ben Halliday trudged back over the 
 moor, with bent head and frowning brow. 
 His cheek was thin and pale, his eye hollow 
 and dim; his clothes, once so neat and trim, 
 though plain and suited to his station, were 
 now worn, soiled, and in some parts ragged. 
 
MARGARET GRAHAM. 177 
 
 But it was not to the neat cottage, with its 
 pleasant little garden, where we have for- 
 merly seen him, that Ben Halliday now 
 took his way. He passed through the little 
 wood, indeed ; he went beyond the turning 
 which led to the spot where he had passed 
 so many pleasant days; he gazed towards 
 it with a sad and sinking heart; and a 
 murmur rose to his lips, but did not find 
 utterance; '' I ought not to grumble," he 
 said — " I ought not to grumble. Those who 
 should be better off are as bad as I am. 
 God help us all ! I wonder what will become 
 of us in the end. We poor people have no 
 business in the world, I can't help thinking. 
 At all events, others seem to think so." 
 And he walked on. 
 
 i3 
 
178 MARGARET GRAHAM. 
 
 The next moment, coming up the road 
 which led from the cottage to that which 
 had been his cousin Jacob's, he saw a figure 
 moving through the trees apparently heavy 
 loaded, and yet it was not the figui^e of 
 a labouring man. It was evening, but 
 not dark; and as the person who ap- 
 proached was seen and lost every second or 
 two, in passing along the hedge-row, there 
 was that undefinable something in the air 
 and walk which distinguishes the gentleman, 
 totally independent of the clothing, which, 
 in this case, could not be seen. But Halli- 
 day, however, passed by the end of the road 
 before the other pedestrian reached it, and 
 in the sort of despairing mood of the moment, 
 he did not even turn his head to see wlio it 
 
MARGARET GRAHAM. 179 
 
 was that approached. As he was walking on, 
 however, a clear, mellow voice sounded on 
 his ear, exclaiming, " Stop, my good fellow ! 
 Here ! I want to speak to you !" And looking 
 down the lane, he saw, at about twenty 
 yards distance, a tall, handsome, well-dressed 
 young man, carrying a heavy portmanteau 
 by one of the handles. 
 
 " I'm looking for somebody," said the 
 stranger, "to carry this thing for me a 
 couple of miles; if you will do it, my good 
 man, I will give you a half-crown for your 
 pains." 
 
 "I'd carry it ten for that sum," said 
 Ben Halliday, with his face brightening. 
 " That will keep my poor girl in broth for 
 a week." 
 
180 MARGARET GRAHAM. 
 
 " Good Heaven !" exclaimed the stranger, 
 ''why surely you are my old acquaintance, 
 Ben Halliday ! Do you not remember Mr. 
 Fairfax?'^ 
 
 " Oh yes, sir, I remember you well 
 enough," answered the labourer, mournfully ; 
 " but times are sadly changed with us down 
 here; and I did not know whether you 
 might remember me. I hardly remember 
 myself as I was then." 
 
 " I know there have been sad reverses,'' 
 answered Allan Fairfax; '' but I did not 
 think they had affected you, my poor fellow. 
 I found your cottage shut up, and could not 
 tell what to make of it ; so I was going on 
 to the village, where there is a public-house, 
 I hear." 
 
MARGARET GRAHAM. 181 
 
 ' " Ay, sir, and a bad place it is, too," an- 
 swered Ben Halliday; '' not fit for such as 
 you ; if there is anything valuable in your 
 trunk, I would advise you not to go there." 
 
 " I am afraid I must," answered his 
 young companion, " for I do not wish to go 
 back to Brownswick just at present." 
 
 " You know, sir, I dare say, all about 
 Mr. Graham," said Ben, looking in Fair- 
 fax's face, and taking up the portmanteau 
 at the same time. 
 
 "I do," answered Fairfax, gravely; 
 " and it has been a sad welcome back to my 
 own country, Halliday, to hear all this. 
 We wont talk any more about it just now. 
 Where do you live now, my good fellow?" 
 
 "Oh, just up at the village, sir," an- 
 
182 MARGARET GRAHAM. 
 
 swerecl Halliclay, " about half-a-mile on this 
 side the public-house. So, by your leave, 
 I'll just stop for a minute and tell my poor 
 wife that I am going on with your portmantle. 
 It will be glad news to her to hear that I 
 have earned half-a-crown by a light job 
 like this." 
 
 " Are you not in work, then, Halliday ?" 
 asked Allan Fairfax. " I should have thought 
 a good fellow like you would have always 
 got employment." 
 
 "Oh, yes, sir, I got work enough," an- 
 swered the labourer; " but people don't pay 
 as Mr. Graham did, and they can do with us 
 just what they like, for there are too many 
 of us." 
 
 Allan Fairfax did not ask any further ques- 
 
MARGARET GRAHAM. 183 
 
 tion, but walked on with his companion, some- 
 times speaking a few words to him, sometimes 
 in silence ; for to say the truth, the young 
 gentleman seemed somewhat moody and 
 strange, sometimes smiling gaily at what was 
 passing in his own thoughts, occasionally 
 plunged into a fit of deep and gloomy medita- 
 tion. At length a village spire came in sight, 
 and immediately afterwards a group of cot- 
 tages appeared at the corner of the road. 
 They were all wretched in the extreme, mere 
 hovels — ay, and hovels out of repair. The 
 winter wind was kept from rushing through 
 the broken windows by patches of paper and 
 bundles of rags. The doors let in the rain, 
 and the thatch protected not what it seemed 
 to cover; the plaster was broken from the 
 
184 MARGARET GRAHAM. 
 
 mud wall in a thousand places, and liung in 
 loose tatters, bagging and bellying out all 
 over each miserable tenement. At the doors 
 of some were seen squalid and dirty children, 
 but half-clothed even with their rags ; and 
 at another, a gaunt pig was grubbing with 
 its snout amongst a pile of rubbish. At 
 the entrance of one of the poorest, stopped 
 Ben Halliday ; and after gazing at it sternly 
 for a moment, he set down the portmanteau, 
 and looked full in Allan Fairfax's face, 
 saying, in a low tone, " It is here I live now, 
 sir." 
 
 If he had spoke for an hour, he could not 
 have made a sadder comment on his changed 
 condition; but when he added, " I will just 
 go and tell my wife," Fairfax answered, 
 " No, Ben, I will come in with you." 
 
MARGARET GRAHAM. 185 
 
 " Oh, don't, sir," replied the labourer, 
 " it will hurt you to see." 
 
 '* It will grieve, but do me good," said 
 Mr. Fairfax, in a firm tone. " I am an old 
 friend, you know, Halliday. Take in the 
 portmanteau, my good fellow." 
 
 Ben Halliday did as he was directed, and, 
 walking slowly forward, opened the door. 
 There was no joy to welcome him ; a faint 
 smile, indeed, lighted the features of his 
 wife as she saw him come in ; but she was 
 busy tending her daughter, who sat in a 
 wooden chair on the other side of a hearth 
 nearly vacant of fire, though the thin white 
 ashes that strewed it showed that wood had 
 been burning there not long before. The 
 daughter's face was pale and emaciated, 
 with a red spot in the centre of the cheek, 
 
186 MARGARET GRAHAM. 
 
 and limbs apparently so powerless that she 
 did not even try to approach her father. 
 The eldest and the youngest boy were both 
 absent, and Fairfax afterwards found that 
 the one was employed at low wages in a ma- 
 nufactory some fifty miles distant, the other 
 gathering sticks in the neighbouring woods 
 and fields. Poverty in the most abject 
 form was evident amidst the once cheerful, 
 laborious family, and the tattered shawl 
 which Mrs. Halliday drew across her chest, 
 when she saw a stranger follow her husband 
 into the cottage, served to show rather than 
 to hide the want of even necessary clothing. 
 To Fairfax, however, as soon as she re- 
 cognised him, she was still the frank, civil 
 countrywoman whom he had before seen, 
 
MARGARET GRAHAM. 187 
 
 and no word of complaint passed her lips. 
 Patient endurance was in all her words and 
 looks, and that one virtue — she had many 
 beside — had been of more value to her 
 husband than a thousand showy qualities 
 could have been. Had she displayed all 
 she suffered, had she made the worst of 
 everything instead of the best, had she 
 complained and murmured, Ben Halliday 
 would have given way long before ; but she 
 had supported, and strengthened, and 
 cheered him, and though she could not 
 lessen the evils which surrounded them, or 
 hide from him the griefs still in store, she 
 enabled him to bear them with fortitude, if 
 not without repining. 
 
 Ben Halliday kissed her as tenderly as 
 
188 MARGARET GRAHAM. 
 
 ever; but one of his first thoughts was for 
 his daughter, to whose side he advanced as 
 soon as he entered, asking, " Well, Lucy, 
 how are you to-night, dear?" 
 
 " I am better, father," said the girl, in a 
 husky tone, broken by a cough; " I shall be 
 quite well when the summer comes, and I 
 can get out to help you and mother." 
 
 " She is very bad, sir,'' said Mrs. 
 Halliday, speaking to Fairfax in the plain 
 and unreserved manner (which some people 
 might think unfeeling) that is common 
 amongst the peasantry ; " she's in a decline, 
 poor thing." 
 
 " I am sorry to see her so unwell," replied 
 Fairfax ; " but I think a little good nourish- 
 ment might do her good. — Here, Halliday," 
 
MARGARET GRAHAM. 189 
 
 he continued, taking out his purse; " I do 
 not like the account you give me of the 
 public-house ; so I think I shall rest myself 
 here for an hour or two, if you will let me, 
 and then go down to Brownswick again for 
 the night. Eun up to the village, my good 
 man, and bring me down something for 
 supper. We'll all sup together to-night. 
 There's a sovereign ; bring down plenty of 
 things — eggs and some beer, and probably 
 you can get a pound of tea, and some milk 
 and butter. — I dare say you would like some 
 nice tea or milk, Susan, would not you?" 
 
 " Oh, that I would," cried the poor girl, 
 eagerly; "I'm sure tea and milk would do 
 me a great deal of good." 
 
 "I'll run up myself, sir," said Mrs* 
 
190 MARGARET GRAHAM. 
 
 Halliday; "Ben is not good at marketing. 
 I'll borrow a basket, and go in a minute." 
 
 Fairfax gave ber tbe sovereign, adding, 
 in a low voice, " Bring anything you think 
 will do her good, Mrs. Halliday." 
 
 But Ben heard him, and said, " God 
 bless you, sir!" with a tear in his eye. 
 
 Mrs. Halliday was hardly out of the 
 door, when their cousin Jacob entered, gaunt 
 as a wolf, with his coal-black hair floating 
 wild and tangled about his haggard face. 
 
 " Well, Ben," he said at once, " have 
 you been to old Stumps ? I saw you come 
 back — did you go ?" 
 
 " Yes, I went, Jacob," replied Halliday, 
 with a sigh; "but it is no good. I told 
 him I and Bella and the two children could 
 
MAKGARET GRAHAM. 191 
 
 not live upon seven shillings a week do what 
 we would, and he said he could not help it. 
 If we did not like it, we might leave, for 
 he would give no more. He said, too, that 
 many a man is glad to get it (which is true 
 enough), so why should he give more 
 to me ?" 
 
 " Hell seize him !" cried Jacob Halliday, 
 vehemently. " Who first brought down the 
 wages here? But what did you answer, 
 Ben?" 
 
 " I said that I must see if I could not get 
 some help from the parish," replied his 
 cousin; "but then he got very high and 
 mighty, and said that I should not have one 
 penny of outdoor relief; that I was an able- 
 bodied labourer at full wages, and in employ ; 
 
192 MARGARET GRAHAM. 
 
 and it was contrary to the rules of the New 
 Law. He made me a little angry, he did ; 
 and so I said, then I must come into the 
 Union, for it was earthly impossible for a 
 man and his wife, and two children unable 
 to earn a penny, to live upon seven shillings 
 a week and pay a shilling a week rent. 
 But that would not do either; for he 
 answered with a sort of laugh, ' You may 
 come in if you like, but I'll answer for it 
 you'll soon be out again. Master Ben. We 
 take care to make it uncomfortable enough, 
 in order to keep all lazy fellows out, and the 
 first thing we'll do with you is to part you 
 and your wife and children.^ He knew he 
 had me there, Jacob ; and he is one of the 
 guardians, you know." 
 
MARGARET GRAHAM. 193 
 
 " Ay, I know," answered Jacob Halliday, 
 with a bitter curse; "they've given the 
 sheep to be taken care of by the wolf in 
 their New Law, that's what they've done; 
 but they may find sheep, even, sometimes 
 turn wolves, too, and that overdriven oxen 
 will toss. But I've something to tell you, 
 Ben, that may mend matters with you a 
 bit, though 'tis a bad way of mending 
 them, too." 
 
 " What's that?" asked his cousin, eagerly ; 
 " it must be bad, indeed, that I would not 
 snap at." 
 
 " I would not at this if it were twice as 
 
 much," said Jacob; "but, however, every 
 
 man to his own thinking. You know old 
 
 Grimly, who had the care of Tommy Hicks, 
 
 VOL. I. K 
 
194 MARGARET GRAHAM. 
 
 is going into the Union-house on account of 
 his bad leg, and as his wife is dead, there 
 is no one to take charge of the idiot; so 
 Mr. Golightly, who has the paying of the 
 money weekly, came up to me to ask if I 
 and my wife would do it. It's five shillings 
 a week, and he's often absent wandering 
 about for days at a time; but Mr. Golightly 
 wants to keep him as far away from Browns- 
 wick as he can, for he's troublesome. I 
 told him that if I were to take it, I should 
 for certain break his neck before a week 
 w^ere over, but that you were a quieter sort 
 of man, and might like it." 
 
 The proposal threw Halliday into a fit of 
 deep thought. " Like it, I don't," he an- 
 swered — " like it, I don't; but five shillings 
 
MARGARET GRAHAM. 195 
 
 a week — that's a good sum. Wliere could 
 I put him ?" 
 
 '* Why, there's that shed place at the 
 back," said Jacob Halliday; "if you could 
 get some timber, it would be easy made into 
 a tidier room than he's ever had at Grimly's. 
 I'll lend you a hand at nights, Ben, and 
 they say the boy is quieter a bit now — 
 dogged, but not so spiteful. Then he has 
 got his own bed and clothes." 
 
 " But the timber," said Ben Halliday, 
 " how am I to buy timber? Why, it would 
 cost fifteen shillings, what with boards and 
 nails." 
 
 " Do not let that stand in the way, 
 Halliday," said Fairfax, who had been 
 talking to the sick girl. " I'm poor enough, 
 k2 
 
1% MARGARET GRAHAM. 
 
 Heaven knows ; but you shall have the 
 timber, my good fellow, for old acquaintance 
 sake.'' 
 
 The poor man was very grateful; and 
 though he made some scruple, yet the 
 temptation of the five shillings a week was 
 too great to be resisted by his poverty, and 
 it was agreed that he was to go down to 
 Brownswick on the following evening and 
 close with Mr. Golightly's proposal. 
 
 About an hour passed before Mrs. 
 Halliday returned, and when she came 
 back, Jacob had gone ; but her husband at 
 once told Avhat had been offered, and his 
 determination to accept it. The worthy 
 woman was evidently ill at ease under the 
 idea of having the idiot an inmate of her 
 
MARGARET GRAHAM. 1^97 
 
 ■dwelling, even poor as they were; but 
 the thought of the money aifording some 
 relief to her husband, reconciled her to it 
 at last, and with quick and busy hands she 
 prepared the meal which the bounty of 
 Fairfax had supplied. The little boy, 
 Charley, had by this time returned with a 
 load of dry wood, and a degree of cheerful- 
 ness spread through the desolate cottage 
 which it had never before known. The tea 
 seemed to warm and revive the poor sick 
 girl, and Ben Halliday himself felt com- 
 forted, less by the food, perhaps, than by 
 the knowledge that there was still one on 
 €arth who showed him kindness and sym- 
 pathy. 
 
 Fairfax himself ate and drank to en- 
 
198 MARGARET GRAHAM. 
 
 courage the others to do so ; but still it was 
 little that he took, and indeed he seemed 
 thoughtful and uneasy. Sometimes he 
 talked a good deal to the cottagers, told 
 them he had been in India since last he saw 
 them, and amused the little boy by a tale of 
 a tiger hunt, and showed him some scars 
 upon his hand where the beast had torn 
 him in its last agony. He reverted, un- 
 willingly it appeared, to his former visit to 
 Mr. Graham's house at AUerdale, and the 
 very mention of the family threw him 
 instantly into a deep reverie. At length, 
 towards nine o'clock, he rose, saying, 
 " Now, Ben, I will walk back to Browns- 
 wick. I will leave my portmanteau here 
 for the night, merely taking out what I 
 want, and will send up for it to-morrow." 
 
MARGARET GRAHAM. 199 
 
 Ben Halliday offered to carry it down 
 that very night, but Fairfax would not 
 suffer him to quit his family after the long 
 and ill-repaid labours of the day, and 
 opening the portmanteau, he disposed of 
 some necessary articles about him, and pre- 
 pared to go. 
 
 " Here is the change, sir," said Mrs. 
 Halliday, taking up a number of shillings 
 and sixpences which she had laid down, at 
 her return, on one corner of the table. 
 
 "No, no," answered Fairfax; "keep it 
 to get Susan some milk or broth every day ; 
 and I had nearly forgotten the money for 
 the timber, Halliday. You said fifteen 
 shillings would do?" 
 
 At the same time he took out his purse, 
 and though there was both s^old and silver 
 
200 MARGARET GRAHAM. 
 
 in it, Ben Halliday saw that it was very 
 meagre. " I really do not like, sir," said 
 the poor man; "I dare say I can manage 
 somehow." 
 
 " Not a word, Halliday," replied Fairfax; 
 ^' there is the amount. It was a bargain, 
 you know, that you should take it. Good 
 night to you all. I shall see you again 
 before I leave this part of the country;" 
 and with thanks and blessings he departed. 
 
 " Don't you think Mr. Fairfax very dull 
 and sad, Ben ?" asked his wife, when their 
 visitor had departed. " Every now and 
 then he seemed to mope sadly." 
 
 " ril tell you what it is, Bella," replied 
 her husband; " I know as well as if I could 
 see it all ; he's sad about Mr. Graham and 
 
MARGARET GRAHAM. 201 
 
 Miss Margaret, and well he may be. He 
 would fain help them too, if he could ; but 
 it is clear he is not rich, and though he can 
 help such as us, he can't help such as them, 
 and every now and then he goes casting 
 about in his head how to do it, and does not 
 find a way anyhow. That is it, I am sure ; 
 because he would not talk of them at all." 
 
 But it is time to turn, and explain many 
 circumstances that were in Ben Halliday^s 
 mind at that moment. 
 
202 MARGARET GRAHAM. 
 
 CHAPTEE VII. 
 
 THE RUIN AND THE SACRIFICE. 
 
 When Allan Fairfax quitted AUerdale 
 House two years and a half before, Mr. 
 Graham lay upon a bed of sickness. The 
 attack had been sudden and unexpected, for 
 he was a man temperate in all his habits, 
 placid and equable in disposition, of a strong 
 and healthy constitution, and showing 
 no tendency to the disease which had as- 
 
MARGARET GRAHAM. 203 
 
 sailed him. But his illness was not with- 
 out a cause. Some slight anxiety had in- 
 duced him, on the day of the expedition to 
 Brugh, to go at an earlier hour than usual 
 to Browns wick, and allow his guests to pro- 
 ceed without him upon an excursion which 
 he would have willingly shared. The 
 anxiety was, as I have said, slight, very 
 slight. He had written about a week before 
 to a great merchant in Liverpool, whom he 
 had aided in an extensive speculation, and, 
 in fact, befriended through life, for some in- 
 formation regarding the result of the opera- 
 tion of which he, Mr. Graham, had furnished 
 about one-third of the funds, and he had re- 
 ceived no answer to his letter. The sum at 
 stake was about fifty thousand pounds, but 
 
204 MARGARET GRAHAM. 
 
 to a man of Mr. Graham's wealth it was not 
 sufficient to cause any great uneasiness. 
 Nevertheless, he was a man of business, and 
 he was not satisfied. He therefore set out 
 for Brownswick to see the letters at the 
 bank, and take whatever steps might be 
 necessary, rather than enjoy a ride with 
 his daughter and his friends. The first 
 
 news that met him was that Messrs. 
 
 and Co. had failed, already gathered from 
 the newspapers by his chief clerk. " There 
 must be considerable assets," thought Mr. 
 Graham, " and I am very sorry for them. 
 If they had dealt more frankly, and told 
 me the difficulty, perhaps I might have been 
 able to avert so unfortunate a result." 
 He was turning over his letters while 
 
MARGARET GRAHAM. 205 
 
 these ideas passed through his rxiind, and 
 at length he fixed upon one the hand- 
 writing of which he knew, and opened it. 
 As he read, his brow grew dark; and well 
 it might do so, for he found that there 
 would not be paid a shilling in the pound, 
 that the man in whose honour he had 
 trusted had been actually insolvent at the 
 time when the money was advanced, and 
 had borrowed it merely to retrieve, if pos- 
 sible, his fallen fortunes, by risking an- 
 other's means in a rash speculation. 
 
 *' This is gambling," said Mr. Graham, 
 " and gambling with other people's money. 
 It is dishonourable — it is ungrateful." He 
 felt the ingratitude more than all. It was, 
 indeed, the first considerable sum he had 
 
206 MARGARET GRAHAM. 
 
 ever lost, and it mortified him the more 
 because it was the first; but the ingrati- 
 tude of a man whom he had so often served 
 and assisted, his want of confidence and 
 frankness, inflicted a severe pang upon him, 
 and he brooded over it during the whole day. 
 " The money," he said to his head clerk, 
 in directing him to answer the letter, " is 
 a trifle compared with the insincerity and 
 the want of good faith. Pray make them 
 feel that I am less pained at the loss than 
 at the deceit and ingratitude of the con- 
 duct pursued towards me." 
 
 Nevertheless, he pursued his usual habits 
 for several hours, read the rest of his let- 
 ters, answered many of them with his own 
 hand, looked at various accounts, and pre- 
 
MARGARET GRAHAM. 207 
 
 pared to return home, when the result of 
 all was, as we have already seen, a terrific 
 apoplectic stroke. His good constitution 
 came to the aid of his friend the surgeon, 
 and he recovered from the fit of apoplexy 
 which had seized him, but not entirely. 
 Mr. Graham was never the same man as 
 before. He had a numbness of the right 
 arm and leg, the clear manly enunciation 
 was gone, he tripped over small obstruc- 
 tions in his way, and his mind was not so 
 clear and firm. It was the same with his 
 fortunes as with his health. That day 
 was the turning point of his fate; that 
 blow he never wholly recovered. The con- 
 duct of his affairs was feeble and uncer- 
 tain; neglected during six weeks of sick- 
 
208 MARGARET GRAHAM. 
 
 ness, they became complicated, and small 
 obstructions proved too much for him. Be- 
 sides, the failure of the house in which he 
 had trusted so fully, entailed the failure 
 of several others with which he was con- 
 nected. Other speculations turned out un- 
 fortunate; there were two runs upon the 
 bank in one month; he was obliged to 
 realize at a great loss; the jealous and 
 the envious began to triumph and to decry. 
 But why need I pursue all the painful 
 details ? In one short year, which, let it be 
 remarked, was a year of crisis and of panic, 
 Mr. Graham was a ruined man. Amidst 
 all that he lost there was one thing Gra- 
 ham did not lose — his honour, and his 
 sense of right and justice. He did not, 
 when he found fortune unfavourable, and 
 
MARGARET GRAHAM. 209 
 
 one thing failing after another, either dis- 
 charge servants or change his style of 
 living, for he believed that to do so would 
 only injure his credit and render recovery 
 hopeless ; but he kept his eye always vigi- 
 lantly upon his accounts, and when he 
 found that nothing was left but barely 
 sufficient to pay all he owed and leave 
 a mere competence for himself and his 
 family, he announced his intention of 
 stopping payment the next day. The 
 same night, his head clerk absconded with 
 ten thousand pounds. Mr. Graham was 
 a bankrupt; but still his property paid 
 twenty shillings in the pound, and left 
 over and above, for himself and daughter, 
 the sum of thirty pounds per annum, an 
 old annuity which he had bought up, and, 
 
210 MARGARET GRAHAM. 
 
 in ready money, one hundred pounds. 
 Strange to say, this sad reverse affected 
 his health much less than might have 
 been anticipated. It was Mrs. Graham 
 Tvho suffered. She had many acquaint- 
 ances who had flattered her prosperity; 
 but her haughty assumption had not left 
 her one friend to console or assist in ad- 
 versity. Every neighbour triumphed in 
 her fall ; those whom she had mortified 
 now sought and found many an occasion 
 to mortify her in return. Mrs. Graham 
 could not brook adversity, and she died 
 within three months after the failure of 
 her husband's bank. 
 
 When the announcement was made that 
 the bank would stop payment next day, 
 
MARGARET GRAHAM. 211 
 
 Mr. Graham had calculated that after pay- 
 ing all, six hundred per annum would be 
 left to him, and the robbery of his clerk 
 did not of course amount to a deprivation 
 of the whole of that sum. But the most 
 moderate men will in some degree over- 
 rate the value of their own possessions, 
 and Mr. Graham had done so. Besides, 
 expenses were incurred to a greater extent 
 than he had expected, so that the result 
 was, as I have said, beggary, or some- 
 thing very like it. When he gave up his 
 property, he had taken a small and com- 
 fortable house in Brownswick, but when 
 he discovered how much he had over-esti- 
 mated his resources, that house was far too 
 expensive for him, and he removed to a 
 
212 MARGARET GRAHAM. 
 
 little cottage belonging to good Doctor 
 Kenmore, at the village of Allencliurcb, 
 which his friend put at his disposal, fur- 
 nished as it was. But the stunning effect 
 began to work, and one morning all power 
 left the side which had been previously 
 xiffected. In this state he still continued 
 with his general bodily health good, but 
 no capability of moving, except with the 
 assistance of his daughter, from his bed to 
 his chair by the fire-side, and with his 
 mental faculties, especially his memory, 
 sadly impaired. It was not, indeed, that 
 the powers of thought and reason were 
 gone ; they were only inert, and from time 
 to time, by a great effort, he could rouse 
 himself to argue or to judge as sanely as 
 
MARGARET GRAHAM. 21S 
 
 ever. As very often happens, too, the 
 qualities of the heart seemed to have be- 
 come more keen and sensible, as the powers 
 of mind and body had decayed. Affec- 
 tion, friendship, compassion of others, sym- 
 pathy with suffering, were all more easily, 
 and yet more deeply excited than in for- 
 mer years, when reason was strong and 
 active to guide and control them. But 
 there is another, of whom we have as yet 
 said little in her day of adversity, and to 
 her we must now turn. 
 
 Margaret Graham had in no degree 
 given way under the evils which blasted 
 her own prospects in life, ruined her 
 father's fortune and health, and deprived 
 her of her mother. The high qualities of 
 
214 MARGARET GRAHAM. 
 
 lier mind and heart seemed but to rise in 
 energy as opportunity was afforded for 
 their exertion. Not a murmur escaped 
 her lips, and although the first shock was 
 terrible, yet it was for her father she felt, 
 not for herself. If she wept, it was in 
 her own chamber. None saw a tear in 
 her eyes, or its trace upon her cheek. She 
 was as cheerful in the small house at 
 Brownswick as she had been in the man- 
 sion by the lake, and in the cottage at 
 AUenchurch she was cheerful still. She 
 had tended her mother through the short 
 illness which ended in Mrs. Graham's 
 death, v/ith unremitting care; she bore the 
 peevishness and complaints of a proud, 
 irritable, and disappointed woman in the 
 
MARGARET GRAHAM. 215 
 
 hours of sickness and despair, with un- 
 failing meekness and patience, and now 
 she was the guardian angel of her father's 
 declining life. She sat by him, she read 
 to him, she watched him, and in every 
 interval she laboured eagerly to turn those 
 accomplishments which he had bestowed 
 upon her youth to some account for the 
 purpose of supporting his old age. She 
 felt grateful to God that instruction had 
 been afforded to her early, and that she 
 had not neglected the opportunity. Yet 
 it was difficult to render her talents avail- 
 able. Lessons she could not give, so that 
 her knowledge of music was of no service. 
 She could not leave Mr. Graham alone 
 during the whole day, while she was teach- 
 
216 MARGARET GRAHAM. 
 
 iiig, with an inexperienced servant girl of 
 fifteen, the only person to attend him. 
 But she drew and painted in water-colonrs 
 very beautifully, and she passed a great 
 part of each day in painting landscapes, 
 which she sent into the town for sale. 
 The sum that she obtained for each was a 
 mere trifle, and after a while she devised 
 the means of rendering her skill more pro- 
 fitable. Few people in Brownswick had 
 taste to appreciate the productions of her 
 pencil, or inclination to buy a mere draw- 
 ing. But multitudes were fond of painted 
 baskets, and boxes, and bags, and not half 
 the time was required by her ready fin- 
 gers to complete a dozen of them which 
 she would have expended on a finished 
 
MARGARET GRAHAM. 217 
 
 drawing. Nevertheless, the resource was 
 a very poor one; it enabled her to supply 
 a few comforts for her father, but that 
 was all. By the end of the first year 
 after the bankruptcy, the hundred pounds 
 which remained, after the payment in full 
 of all claims, was nearly expended, and 
 nothing was left but the small annuity of 
 thirty pounds. Margaret saw that anotlier 
 step must be taken in the descent — that 
 the servant girl must be discharged, that 
 she must do all and everything herself;, 
 but still Margaret Graham did not mur- 
 mur. Her great difficulty was, how she 
 should speak to her father upon such a 
 step. She knew it would cause him a 
 deep and terrible pang, not for his own 
 VOL. I. L 
 
218 MARGARET GRAHAM. 
 
 sake so much as for hers, and she shrank 
 from the task. Even when it was accom- 
 plished, she thought their situation would 
 be terrible, with nothing but thirty pounds 
 each year to supply her own wants and 
 the still greater ones of her father. If by 
 her own exertions she could add twenty 
 pounds each year to that sum, it was as 
 much as she could do, and perhaps more. 
 The first step, hov*^ever, must be to dis- 
 charge the servant, and she determined to 
 ask their good old friend Doctor Kenmore, 
 who came to see Mr. Graham almost every 
 day, to break the necessity to him. She 
 took an opportunity of speaking to the 
 worthy old man when he appeared one 
 morning earlier than usual, and before 
 
MARGARET GRAHAM. 219 
 
 lier father was up. She laid before him 
 a complete view of the case, and the worthy- 
 doctor was moved almost to tears. 
 
 " You are an angel, Margaret," he said, 
 looking in her face — ''you are an angel; 
 that's clear to me ; and I will tell you what 
 we must do, my dear ; we must cheat your 
 poor father. Now, don't look surprised, 
 for the matter is only this. It was with 
 the greatest difficulty in the world I got 
 Graham to accept the loan of this cottage 
 and furniture. He never would be be- 
 holden to any man for a penny in his life, 
 even when he was a lad ; and when I spoke 
 to him the other day about helping him a 
 little, he got so excited, that I thought he 
 would have done himself harm. Now, 
 L 2 
 
220 MARGARET GRAHAM. 
 
 Margaret, I have neither wife nor child ^ 
 kith nor kin, and am well to do in the 
 world. I don t spend one-half of what I 
 have got ; and you must just let me make 
 up your little income to one hundred a 
 year, and not say a word to your father 
 about it." 
 
 The beautiful face of Margaret Graham 
 deepened greatly in colour; but she laid 
 her hand kindly and tenderly on that of 
 the good old man, while she answered, " I 
 cannot; I must not; I never deceived my 
 father in anything. I promised him 
 solemnly never to have any concealment 
 from him, and I dare not break my 
 word. I would do anything, my dear good 
 friend, to obtain comforts and necessaries 
 
MARGARET GRAHAM. 221 
 
 for him ; I would work all clay at teaching ; 
 I would go out as a governess, only that he 
 cannot spare me ; I would do anything ex- 
 cept deceive him, but that I cannot do, 
 even in such a matter as this." 
 
 '' Well, Margaret, well," said the old 
 doctor, with a ruefal shake of his head; 
 ^'you are as bad as your father. I will 
 talk to him, and see what impression I can 
 make upon him. He is my earliest, my 
 best, and dearest friend : we were boys at 
 school together; and I am sure, if at any 
 time I had wanted a thousand pounds, he 
 ■would have given it to me without a 
 thought. I will see what can be done with 
 him; but yoii must not discharge the lass 
 before we have spoken further." 
 
222 MARGARET GRAHAM. 
 
 To this condition Margaret willingly 
 consented ; but unhappily all the skill and 
 friendly zeal of Dr. Kenmore were exerted 
 upon Mr. Graham in vain. He said he 
 would not live upon charity, or sponge 
 upon friendship. If he required anything 
 further than his limited means allowed, he 
 would demand it of the parish, where he 
 had a right to apply ; and he added much 
 more in the same strain, in which early 
 habits of thought were seen, only rendered 
 more keen and vehement by age and infir- 
 mity. There are certain maladies, which, 
 as is well known, render the patient ob- 
 stinate and pertinacious to an exceeding 
 degree, and such is, I believe, usually the 
 case in affections of the brain similar to 
 
MARGARET GRAHAM. 223 
 
 that under wliicli Mr. Graham was suf- 
 fering. Argument on a subject in regard 
 to which he had long before made up his 
 mind only irritated him^ and rendered him 
 more attached to his own opinion, so that 
 Doctor Kenmore was obliged to give the 
 matter up in despair, only beseeching Mar- 
 garet to keep the servant on till the cold 
 weather was past. He himself, in the 
 meantime, was more frequently than ever 
 at the cottage, and Margaret had often the 
 pleasure of seeing some dish upon the table 
 which she had not ordered, some little 
 addition to their comfort which she herself 
 would not have ventured to think of Now 
 it was a large salmon, now some fine trout, 
 now game, now the Christmas turkey and 
 
224 MARGARET GRAHAM. 
 
 chine. She divined easily Avhere all these 
 presents came from, bnt she took care to 
 ask no questions, as they were sent to her 
 father, not herself, and Mr. Graham, in his 
 feeble state, did not remark the fact, or 
 compare very nicely his own means and 
 the expense which such delicacies would 
 imply. But Margaret remarked also that 
 various articles of consumption which 
 might be classed under the head of neces- 
 saries lasted amazingly long. It was won- 
 derful to what an extent a ton of coals 
 would protract themselves, and with lights 
 it was the same. She saw through the 
 friendly fraud, and was somewhat uneasy ; 
 but what could she do? Old Doctor Ken- 
 more seemed utterly unconscious ; he came 
 
MARGARET GRAHAM. 225 
 
 and went every day, and sometimes twice, 
 but he never spoke of coals or candles, or 
 anything of the kind. One day, on the 
 25th of March, he seemed a little uneasy 
 when Mr. Graham directed his daughter 
 to write to Sheffield for the usual certificate 
 of the existence of the person on whose 
 life his little annuity was granted; but he 
 replied — 
 
 " Let me write for it, Graham. Mar- 
 garet has plenty else to do." 
 
 A terrible doubt instantly took possession 
 of Margaret's mind; and her face turned 
 very pale; but she dared ask no question 
 at the time, and her father readily con- 
 sented to his friend's proposal. The life on 
 which the annuity w^as secured was better 
 L 3 
 
226 MARGARET GRAHAM. 
 
 than her father's by twenty years ; but yet 
 there was something odd in Dr. Kenmore's 
 manner, and it seemed certain to Margaret 
 that their last prop was struck from under 
 them. It was three days after that when 
 she first had an opportunity of speaking to 
 the old surgeon alone ; but then she seized it 
 immediately. Uncertainty, she thought, 
 was worse than any reality, and stopping 
 their kind friend as he was hurrying away 
 through the little garden, she said — 
 
 " Stay, stay a moment. There is one 
 question I have to ask you, dear doctor. 
 What made you so anxious to write about 
 the annuity?" 
 
 " Because I thought I could manage 
 matters of business better than a girl," 
 
MARGARET GRAHAM. 227 
 
 replied Dr. Kenmore, abruptly, and was 
 again hurrying away. 
 
 Margaret detained him, however, laying 
 her hand upon his arm, and saying — 
 
 " One question more ; I must know the 
 truth, — is Mr. Jones dead?" 
 
 The old man turned towards her, and 
 gazed in her face with a look of solemn 
 earnestness, and then took her hand in his. 
 " Margaret," he said, after a pause, 
 " will you be my wife? — I say, will you be 
 my wife ? — for, on my soul, that is the only 
 way I see of helping you and your father." 
 IMargaret's surprise was very great. 
 Such an idea had never crossed her mind — 
 the possibility of such a thing had never 
 struck her. But then came crowding upon 
 
228 MARGARET GRAHAM, 
 
 her mind all the particulars of her father's 
 situation ; his and her utter destitution ; his 
 broken health; his hopeless prospects; his 
 need of care and constant watchfulness ; the 
 utter impossibility of her supporting him 
 without leaving him; his desolation and 
 wretchedness if she did — all, all came 
 rushing upon her like a torrent, carrying 
 away every obstacle, every repugnance. 
 One moment of terrible struggle took place 
 within her; and then, gazing in the old 
 man's face, seriously and sadly, she asked — 
 
 " Are you serious?" 
 
 " Yes, Margaret, I am," he answered, in 
 a tone as grave as her own; " there is but 
 a choice of evils, my dear young lady. I 
 have done what I could; I have been 
 
MARGARET GRAHAM. 229 
 
 anxious to do more, but I have been pre- 
 vented, as you know. I have turned the 
 matter over and over again in my own 
 mind, and I see nothing on earth that I 
 can propose but this. It is hard upon you, 
 Margaret, I know; but as my wife you will 
 have a home for your father, with every sort 
 of comfort which you could desire and 
 which his situation needs. Neither will it 
 be as if he went to the house of a stranger. 
 He will sit down for the rest of his life by 
 the fireside of his earliest friend. Consider 
 of it, Margaret, my dear. I do not ask you 
 to decide hastily, for I am only moved by 
 one feeling in all this : affection and friend- 
 ship for you and him. Consider of it." 
 "No," said Margaret, warmly, taking 
 
230 MARGARET GRAHAM. 
 
 his hand in hers, "' I will not consider of it. 
 I say yes at once, with deep and heartfelt 
 gratitude for all your kindness, and I will 
 try to the very best of my power to repay 
 it to the utmost." 
 
 The old surgeon pressed her hand, saying, 
 "I know you, Margaret, I know you well; 
 and although there is not another woman in 
 England whom I would ask to be an old 
 man's wife, yet I am sure you will love me 
 as much as you can, and will leave nothing 
 on earth undone to make my last years com- 
 fortable and happy. Of my own fate I have 
 no fear ; and in regard to yours, I will try 
 hard to make you banish all regret. Xow 
 I had better go and tell your father." 
 
 ^'No," said Margaret Graham, "no; I 
 
MARGARET GRAHAM. 231 
 
 will tell liim myself; for he may ask ques- 
 tions whicli no one but myself can answer, 
 and it is iDetter that it should be ail done 
 at once." 
 
 She paused a moment, and then added, 
 *^ I will tell him that you offer me as much 
 happiness as I believe it is possible for me 
 to Imow in life." 
 
 " You are a good girl, Margaret," said 
 the old surgeon, with an almost sorrowful 
 shake of the head; "you are a dear good 
 girl." 
 
 " And you are the best and kindest of 
 men," answered Margaret, with tears in her 
 eyes; and turning away, she left him, and 
 went into the room where her father sat. 
 
 " You have been talking a long time in 
 
232 3IARGARET GRAHAM. 
 
 the garden with Kenmore, my love," said 
 Mr. Graham; ''now, remember, Margaret, 
 I will have no borrowing money that Ave 
 cannot pay; I would rather go into the 
 workhouse than do that." 
 
 " We have not been talking about that 
 ^t all, my dear father," said Margaret, in a 
 cheerful tone — a very cheerful tone. " He 
 has just been proposing to me that which 
 makes me as happy as anything within the 
 bounds of probability could, I believe, make 
 me. He has been proposing that I should 
 marry him. 
 
 "You, Margaret!" exclaimed Mr. Gra- 
 liam. " You marry Kenmore! Why, he is 
 two years older than I am." 
 
 " I do not think that matters," answered 
 
MARGARET GRAHAM. 233 
 
 Margaret; ''and of one thing I am very 
 sure, that amongst all the younger men 
 who were once our acquaintance, and have 
 noAv forgotten us, I should not find one 
 more generous, good, and kind. Besides, 
 these things depend a good deal upon taste, 
 and I am quite certain, my dear father, 
 that, take the country for forty miles round, 
 there is no one I should prefer to himself." 
 
 "Indeed, indeed," said Mr. Graham; 
 
 '' well, my love, well; but I did think . 
 
 However, I will not try to control you. 
 You always judge right, my Margaret ; but 
 you must let me live near you. I must see 
 you every day." 
 
 " And all day long, my dear father," 
 answered Mar";aret Graham. " I would 
 
234 MARGAEET GRAHAM. 
 
 not have consented to enter any house of 
 which you were not to be an inhabitant; 
 but Dr. Kenmore thought of that himself, 
 as he does, indeed, of everything that can 
 make us comfortable." 
 
 '* Well, it is very strange," said Mr. 
 Graham, and fell into a deep fit of thought. 
 
 Cheerful smiles are very often paid for 
 by bitter tears, and it was so in some degree 
 with Margaret Graham. When she had 
 retired to rest, and her door was locked, 
 she wept for more than an hour; but the 
 next morning she rose again, apparently as 
 cheerful as ever. But scenes are coming 
 on, the details of which we must dwell upon 
 somewhat more minutely. 
 
MARGARET GRAHAM. 
 
 CHAPTER yill. 
 
 THE INAUSPICIOUS MARRIAGE. 
 
 The matter of the marriage was talked 
 over between Mr. Graham and his old 
 friend; but Doctor Kenmore saw clearly 
 that Margaret knew best how to reconcile 
 her father to an arrangement by no means 
 consonant to his own views, and he there- 
 fore followed as she led. The worthy 
 doctor, too, became smarter in his appear- 
 
236 MARGARET GRAHAM. 
 
 ance. He had his long grey hair cut by 
 the most fashionable barber in Brownswiclc. 
 He no longer aiFected the modes of thirty 
 years before, but came out in a bran new 
 suit of black, with trowsers upon his legs; 
 but his buckles — the beloved buckles in his 
 shoes, which had belonged to his father, 
 perhaps his grandfather — those he would 
 not part with. His house was hastily put 
 in order ; and all the people of Brownswick 
 began to ask, " What is going to happen 
 to Doctor Kenmore ?" It was soon buzzed 
 about that he was going to marry Miss 
 Oraham ; and some laughed ; and some said, 
 " Poor thing;" and some declared that they 
 detested mercenary matches ; but all agreed 
 in the story that it was to take place 
 
MARGAEET GRAHAM. 237 
 
 immediately, and on this point they were 
 right. Margaret did not seek for any 
 delay ; her mind was made up, her fate was 
 sealed, and she thought it would be wrong 
 and insulting to a benefactor to show the 
 slightest appearance of reluctance. 
 
 March had passed away into April; the 
 marriage was to take place in a week; and 
 Doctor Kenmore had just left Mr. Graham 
 and his daughter, when a note was 
 brought up to Margaret in her room, with 
 information that the messenger waited 
 for an answer. She did not know the 
 hand, but she opened it hastily. It 
 contained the following words, and wa& 
 dated from the " White Lion," the great 
 inn at Brownswick: — 
 
238 MARGARET GRAHAM. 
 
 " Dear Miss Graham," the writer said, 
 " I have just come back from India, in 
 which distant land I was ordered to join 
 my regiment immediately after I last saw 
 you. On my return, I found much melan- 
 choly intelligence awaiting me; but my 
 first journey has been to Cumberland, 
 where clearer tidings of all that has 
 befallen you and yours reached me last 
 night. I know that Mr. Graham is ill, 
 and does not receive any visitors, but 
 allow me to plead the privilege of an old 
 friend, and beg of you to let me have the 
 pleasure of seeing you for a few minutes, 
 even if your excellent father is himself too 
 unwell to give me admission. I would not 
 venture to come in person without ask- 
 
MARGARET GRAHAM. 239 
 
 ing your permission, but I do trust and hope 
 that you have not yet entirely forgotten 
 " Yours faithfully and ever, 
 
 '' Allan Fairfax." 
 
 Margaret laid down the note upon the 
 table, and trembled violently. ^' Yours 
 faithfully and ever," she repeated, in a low, 
 sad tone; but the very next instant she 
 added — 
 
 " This is weak, this is wrong;" and 
 opening her writing-desk, she sat down to 
 answer the letter. For a moment, she felt 
 sick and giddy ; the paper seemed to move 
 to and fro under her eyes; her hand would 
 hardly hold the pen; but Margaret had 
 learned the hard lesson of making the high 
 
240 MARGARET GRAHAM. 
 
 purpose of the soul command the thoughts 
 of the mind, and support the body in its 
 weakness; and, after a struggle, she wrote 
 words that almost broke her heart to trace. 
 
 " My dear sir," she said, " we have not 
 forgotten you, believe me; and under any 
 other circumstances, I should be extremely 
 happy to see you, and thank you for your 
 kind interest. My father is somewhat 
 better in health than he was ; but still our 
 situation is such that I must, with great 
 regret, decline the pleasure of your visit. 
 At some future time I trust I shall be bet- 
 ter able than now to express the thanks of 
 " Your old accpiaintance, 
 
 '^ Margaret Graham." 
 
MAHGARET GRAHAM. 241 
 
 She would not read it over when she 
 had written it, but sealed it hastily, and 
 calling the maid, directed her to give it to 
 the messenger. When that was done, and 
 she was alone, she sat and gazed at the 
 paper which bore the handwriting of Fair- 
 fax, and it was several minutes before she 
 moved. She then only uttered the words 
 *' madness and folly!" and taking up the 
 note, she put it in the fire. It burned 
 slowly away, a small spark lingered and 
 wandered here and there, and then went 
 out, leaving all black. 
 
 "Such has been my fate!" said Mar- 
 garet to herself; " I will think of it no 
 more — no, no, not for a moment." 
 
 During the evening she was very grave^ 
 VOL. I. M 
 
242 MARGARET GRAHAM. 
 
 but the next morning she resumed her 
 ordinary demeanour, and nothing occurred 
 for two days that could shake it. Then, 
 indeed, old Dr. Kenmore told her, in an 
 ordinary tone, that in going his usual 
 round of visits, he had seen a young gentle- 
 man whom he recollected having once met 
 in the grounds at Allerdale with Mr. 
 Graham. 
 
 " I have not told your father, my dear," 
 he continued, " because I thought it might 
 vex him to hear the lad was wandering 
 about down here, without ever trying to see 
 his old friend." 
 
 Margaret was agitated; but she would 
 not hear a charge against Allan Fairfax 
 unrefuted, and she replied — 
 
MARGAKET GRAHAM. 243 
 
 " No, my dear doctor, he did try to see 
 my father. He wrote a note to me expres- 
 sing a wish to come, but I declined; as, 
 indeed, I have done with every one." 
 
 *' You did right, Margaret, " replied 
 Doctor Kenmore; "Graham should be kept 
 free from all agitation that can be avoided, 
 and the very name of Allerdale moves him 
 a good deal still." 
 
 There ended the conversation; and the 
 wedding-day came rapidly. I will not 
 attempt to pry into the secrets of Mar- 
 garet's heart; I will not inquire what the 
 passing moments brought to her ; I will not 
 dwell upon the thoughts of the day or of 
 the night, as one after the other went by, 
 hurrying on the moment of her fate. She 
 m2 
 
244 MARGARET GRAHAM. 
 
 grew somewhat pale and thin in that last 
 week; but she gave no one cause to say- 
 that she seemed melancholy. A little 
 graver than usual she might be; but what 
 woman can prepare to change the whole 
 relations of her life, to enter upon a new 
 and all-important task, and not be thought- 
 ful. In all else but that light shade of 
 meditation, her demeanour was to every 
 eye the same as usual. She smiled sweetly 
 upon her father, kindly upon the good old 
 surgeon, was pleased with all he did to 
 please her, and approved and confirmed all 
 the arrangements he had made. She pre- 
 ferred only one request, that the marriage 
 might be as private as possible, and to that 
 Doctor Kenmore readily agreed. 
 
MARGARET GRAHAM. 245 
 
 " We will have nobody there, Margaret, 
 hut our ownselves and the lawyer, and 
 your old acquaintance, Miss Harding. 
 The people who came would only very 
 mistakenly call us two fools — me an old 
 one and you a young one; but we will 
 not mind what they say — a nine days' 
 wonder never lasts ten." 
 
 Mr. Graham did not meet matters quite 
 so calmly as his daughter. He seemed ill 
 at ease, and often sighed heavily; and 
 though Margaret, whenever she saw his 
 spirits depressed, talked cheerfully of com- 
 ing years, yet it seemed to have little 
 effect. He had watched her mind and 
 character from the cradle; and, perhaps, 
 even though stricken with severe infirmity, 
 
246 MAKGARET GRAHAM. 
 
 and enfeebled in body and mind, the pa- 
 rent's eye saw the daughter's heart. 
 
 His corporeal health, however, did not 
 seem to suffer; on the contrary, leaning 
 on Margaret's arm, he walked slowly out 
 into the garden. He went the next day, 
 in his good old friend's little phaeton, to 
 see the room prepared for him at Dr. 
 Kenmore's house, and he showed himself 
 pleased with all the arrangements made 
 for his comfort, and still more with the 
 attention paid to Margaret's tastes and 
 habits. He approved, too, of the plan 
 which Margaret proposed — namely that, 
 after the ceremony, he should remain for 
 the rest of the day at the cottage, while 
 she went to take possession of her new 
 
MARGARET GRAHAM. 247 
 
 dwelling, and that early the next morning 
 the doctor's phaeton should come to bring 
 him to Brownswick. Margaret took care 
 that an old and faithful servant of her 
 future husband should be ordered to stay 
 at the cottage to watch and assist him 
 during that day, and he seemed so well 
 that she had no fears. 
 
 The day preceding the marriage was a 
 busy one for Dr. Kenmore; he had a 
 thousand things to do besides seeing all his 
 most important patients. The good doctor 
 himself was fatigued, though he was a 
 hale, active little man, and his handsome, 
 short-legged cob was completely knocked 
 up. But that day went by, and the sun 
 rose upon another. 
 
248 MARGARET GRAHAM. 
 
 The little cliurch of AUenchurch was, 
 luckily, some way out of the village ; there 
 was no crowd, no gazers, and Margaret 
 Graham stood before the altar with her 
 father's old schoolfellow. It was a fine, 
 clear Spring day, one of the first which 
 had visited the world that year, and Mar- 
 garet Graham wanted yet three months 
 and a day of being two-and-twenty — Doc- 
 tor Kenmore was sixty-eight. She had 
 dressed herself very plainly, and in a man- 
 ner to make her look older than she was; 
 but nothing could conceal that she was 
 very young, and very, very beautiful. 
 Her whole demeanour through the service 
 was what any one who knew her well 
 would have expected of Margaret Gra- 
 
MARGAKET GRAHAM. 249 
 
 ham — graceful, quiet, grave; but it was 
 very calm also. The trial was not then 
 — it was over. 
 
 The words were spoken, and she said 
 " I will !" distinctly ; the ring was upon 
 her finger — she was Doctor Kenmore's 
 wife. The cui^tain fell between her and 
 the past; the prospect of the future was 
 clear before her — clear and cold ! 
 
 It was impossible for Mr. Graham to 
 be present ; the vicar of his former parish 
 gave ]\Iargaret away, and she and her 
 husband drove at once to the cottage, 
 where her father waited to see them, be- 
 fore they went to their home. They 
 stayed with him about an hour, and then 
 immediately turned to Brownswick. Doc- 
 M 3 
 
250 MARGARET GRAHAM. 
 
 tor Kenmore had gone to the church in 
 a pair of tied shoes, but as soon as he 
 got home, he resumed his large silver 
 buckles, declaring that his feet felt cold 
 without them. 
 
 There were a great many things to be 
 seen to and arranged about the house, so 
 that there was plenty of occupation till 
 dinner-time, for the good surgeon^s habits 
 were like his clothes, in an old fashion, 
 and he dined at four exactly. A few mi- 
 nutes before that time, he pointed out to 
 Margaret a large iron safe in his own 
 little study, saying — 
 
 " In there, my dear, are all my papers 
 of importance; and they are valuable, for 
 God has prospered my handiwork, and 
 
HARGARET GRAHAM. 251 
 
 there are several mortgages and deeds; 
 but, above all, my will, which I made a 
 week ago in such terms as to render it 
 effectual if I died before or after my 
 marriage." 
 
 Before Margaret could answer, the good 
 doctor's footman came in to inform him 
 that one Mr. Lifrid was there to pay his 
 bill. The surgeon was inclined to send 
 him away again, but the bill was a heavy 
 one, amounting to nearly a hundred pounds. 
 Mr. Lifrid was going away to London, and 
 Doctor Kenmore went out to receive him. 
 When he returned, he had a roll of notes 
 and some gold in his hand, but it was an- 
 nounced at the same time that dinner was 
 upon the table, and thrusting the money 
 
252 MARGARET GRAHAM. 
 
 into his pocket, he led his bride to the 
 table. Hardly, however, were the soup 
 and fish gone when the bell rang violently, 
 and Doctor Kenmore said to the servant, 
 in a very imperative tone — 
 
 " I will go out to see no one; let them 
 go to Mr M^ Swine's; he's as good a doctor 
 as I am, and thinks himself better." 
 
 The man returned in a moment, but his 
 face was very grave, and he whispered a 
 word or two in Doctor Kenmore's ear. 
 The old surgeon's countenance fell. 
 
 " Order round the phaeton directly," he 
 replied; and Margaret, gazing at him in- 
 quiringly, said — 
 
 " My father?" 
 
 The old surgeon rose and took her hand, 
 answering — 
 
MARGARET GRAHAM. 253 
 
 " I will go and see him, my dear, and 
 come back and let you know how he is 
 going on." 
 
 But Margaret answered — 
 
 " I must go with you;" and he made no 
 objection. 
 
 They were both clad for going forth, and 
 standing in the passage with the door half 
 open, waiting for the phaeton, when a poor 
 woman, dressed as the wife of a labourer of 
 the lowest class, looked in, laying her hand 
 at the same time upon the bell; but Doc- 
 tor Kenmore stopped her, saying — 
 
 "What do you want, Mrs. Halliday? 
 — I cannot see anybody to-night — I am 
 going out; Mr. Graham has fallen down in 
 another fit." 
 
254 MARGARET GRAHAM. 
 
 " Ah, poor gentleman !" said Mrs. Hal- 
 liday ; " I don't want to stop you, sir, and 
 indeed I have no right; but Ben is very 
 bad, poor fellow; he came home yesterday 
 with a stitch in his side, and to-day he 
 cannot fetch his breath at all, and is ter- 
 rible red in the face, and restless. I went 
 over this morning to the Union to get an 
 order for the doctor to see him — that is 
 seven miles, and then I had to come here 
 for Mr. M^ Swine, and that is nine more^ 
 and Mr. M^ Swine is out, and his shop-boy 
 says he wont be home till ten or eleven, 
 and poor Ben says he is sure he will die, 
 and I am ready to drop." 
 
 " And seven miles more to walk home," 
 said Doctor Kenmore; ^'I will see your 
 
MARGARET GRAHAM. 255 
 
 husband — he is a good man — I will see 
 him. Here, come in and take a glass of 
 wine; M^Swine is in, but he does not 
 choose to go," continued the surgeon, mut- 
 tering to himself. " This comes of farming 
 out the poor to the lowest contractor. 
 I will see your husband before I sleep, 
 Mrs. Halliday," and he poured the woman 
 out a large glass of wine, adding, however, 
 some water, to prevent it from getting into 
 her head. 
 
 By the time this was all done, the phaeton 
 was at the door, and hurrying away with 
 his wife and the servant (not without a regret 
 that there was no place in the small vehicle 
 for Mrs. Halliday), the good old man drove 
 to AUenchurch, and arrived at the door 
 
256 MARGARET GRAHAM. 
 
 of Mr. Graham's residence just as night 
 fell. 
 
 The door was opened as soon as the 
 sound of wheels was heard, and Margaret 
 ran in, inquiring eagerly for her father. 
 The woman replied, that he seemed a little 
 better, and she instantly hurried to his 
 room. In the meanwhile, Doctor Kenmore 
 had ordered the servant calmly to drive the- 
 horse back to Brownswick, but not to go to 
 bed before twelve unless he heard from him, 
 and having given these orders, he also 
 entered the house, and went to the room 
 where Mr. Graham lay. As soon as he 
 saw him, and heard his breathing, he said — 
 
 *' Margaret, my dear, we must remain 
 here all night; this is a case in which I 
 
MARGARET GRAHAM. 257 
 
 cannot bleed him, for though it might pro- 
 duce temporary relief, it would be followed 
 by more serious evils. We must proceed 
 more slowly, but more safely, and I trust 
 we shall succeed. He must be raised up, 
 and the head sponged with cold water; 
 bottles of hot water to the feet directly, 
 and if we can get some sal volatile down, 
 so much the better. '^ 
 
 All was done which the good old surgeon 
 recommended; the stertorous breathing 
 ceased in about an hour ; ^Ir. Graham 
 moved his right arm and put his hand to 
 his head, and a moment or two after, opened 
 his eyes and looked round confusedly. The 
 next instant he closed them again, and fell 
 into a quiet and gentle sleep, with easy 
 
258 MARGARET GRAHAM. 
 
 breathing, and a face, which had previously 
 been very pale, and covered with profuse 
 perspiration, but which now resumed its 
 natural hue. 
 
 "Now everything must be kept quite 
 quiet," said the good old doctor, in a 
 whisper to Margaret; " re-action will take 
 place in a few hours, and then he must lose 
 a little blood, after which I trust he will be 
 quite safe. You sit by him, my dear, till I 
 return; for I must not forget poor Ben 
 Halliday, and there is nothing to be done 
 here for six hours at least." 
 
 " But you have sent away the phaeton, 
 have you not?" asked Margaret, somewhat 
 anxiously, and, going to the window, she 
 looked out. 
 
MARGARET GRAHAM. 259 
 
 " Never mind, my dear, I will walk," 
 said Doctor Kenmore; " it is a beautiful 
 evening, and the quarter-moon there, just 
 rising over the trees round the church, will 
 light me better than the sun. I sha'n't be 
 long, for I know what is the matter with 
 Halliday already. He has got inflamma- 
 tion of the lungs, and I must bleed him 
 largely. To-morrow it will be too late, 
 and M' Swine would let the poor fellow 
 die, — so good night, my dear, for the 
 present." 
 
 Thus saying, good Doctor Kenmore de- 
 parted, and Margaret sat down to watch by 
 her father's bed-side, falling into a long, 
 sad fit of meditation, which lasted for a 
 considerable time. Hour went by on hour, 
 
260 MARGARET GRAHAM. 
 
 eight, nine, ten o'clock came, eleven struck, 
 twelve approached, and Doctor Kenmore 
 did not come. 
 
MARGARET GRAHAM. 261 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 MEDICAL RELIEF. 
 
 It is time now to turn to the history of the 
 persons towards whose cottage Doctor Ken- 
 more had bent his steps ; and I must take 
 it up again at the period where I last 
 quitted it. Allan Fairfax left the family 
 of Ben Halliday comparatively happy. His 
 children had had food — one sufficient meal, 
 which was more than they had obtained for 
 
262 MARGARET GRAHAM. 
 
 montlis. The sum of thirteen shillings and 
 some pence remained; the change out of 
 the sovereign. Think of it, reader ! What 
 does it seem to you? A trifle, not suificient 
 to provide the daily dinner that smokes 
 upon your table ; little more than the price 
 of two of those bottles of wine, whereof so 
 many are drunk in your household every 
 week. And yet, to Ben Halliday it seemed 
 a treasure. It would add nearly fifty per 
 cent, to his wages for four weeks. It would 
 keep the wolf from the door. It would 
 give bread — bread enough; and he asked 
 little more. The labourer — oh, the poor 
 labourer ! what a life is his, in the richest, 
 the most industrious, the most charitable 
 country in the world ! It is not alone the 
 
MARGARET GRAHAM. 263 
 
 hard, unremitting daily toil for bare sub- 
 sistence, which makes the sadness of his 
 lot; it is not the privation of every ma- 
 terial comfort, of relaxation, of warmth, of 
 sufficient nourishment, of care in sickness 
 for himself or his children, of everything 
 in the shape of enjoyment; but it is the 
 privation of hope and expectation — of pros- 
 pect : the blighting not only of the present 
 harvest but of the seed for the future crop. 
 Is this an exaggerated picture? Let those 
 who have lived much among the lower 
 classes, as I have, answer. What has the 
 British labourer at any period of his course 
 to look forward to? what are his prospects? 
 A life of unremitting, ill-requited toil, con- 
 stant necessity, without the power of pro- 
 
264 MARGARET GRAHAM. 
 
 viding aught for an evil day; cold in his 
 dwelling, want at his table, sickness in the 
 train of want, neglect in the time of sick- 
 ness ; age, infirmity, and death in the rigid 
 imprisonment of the Parish Union. Add 
 to this, the sight of his children brought up 
 to the same lot ; to live, like him, without 
 hope, and to die, like him, in beggary. Such 
 are the prospects of the British labourer; 
 and I defy any one to prove that they are, 
 generally, better. 
 
 Take hope from man, and you render 
 him a demon. We have done it; we are 
 doing it; and -we wonder that there are 
 flaming ricks and stackyards smouldering 
 in their ashes. Let us beware before it be 
 too late, lest the fire extend somewhat 
 
MARGARET GRAHAM. 265 
 
 further. It was an ancient custom in 
 Morocco to punish criminals undergoing 
 sentence of death by giving them small 
 handfuls of couscousou, just sufficient to 
 keep them alive and protract their torture ; 
 but the wise rulers of Morocco impaled 
 them first, so that they could not spring 
 upon their tormentors. We give our men 
 the same diet, and leave them in nearly 
 as much misery; but we do not secure our- 
 selves by fixing them on a stake. 
 
 However, Ben Halliday was compara- 
 tively happy. When Allan Fairfax found 
 him, he had not a penny or a loaf of bread 
 in the house; he had seven shillings a 
 week as a recompence for six days' in- 
 cessant profitable labour; he had himself, 
 
 VOL. I. N 
 
266 MARGARET GRAHAM. 
 
 liis wife, a son incapable of gaining any 
 tiling, and a dying daughter to support; 
 lie had been told by his master, one of the 
 guardians, that if he applied to the Union, 
 he would not receive any relief, unless he 
 came into the house with his wife . and 
 family; and that if he did come in, he 
 should be separated from his wife and 
 family, and be made so miserable that he 
 should soon be glad to quit it again.* Such 
 was his state when Fairfax found him ; and 
 now he had more than thirteen shillings in 
 
 * This is not a fiction. The case occurred within 
 my own knowledge; the farmer made this exact 
 reply j the labourer had three children ; the wages 
 were seven shillings a week ; but the county ivas not 
 Cumberland. 
 
AURGARET GRAHAM. 267 
 
 the house, and the prospect of obtaining 
 five shillings a week more, merely for the 
 care of a mischievous idiot. It was wealth 
 — it was prosperity — it was happiness! 
 How the whole family blessed Allan Fair- 
 fax!* He seemed like a guardian-angel, 
 come to save and to restore. The next 
 morning, Ben was up before daylight, 
 working away in the shed to render it fit 
 for the reception of Tommy Hicks, and he 
 had done all that could be done without 
 boards and nails ere the sun rose, and his 
 time of daily labour returned. In the 
 evening he went to Brownswick, and con- 
 cluded the whole arrangement with the 
 person who paid for the idiot; and at 
 night he worked away at the shed with 
 N 2 
 
268 MARGARET GRAHAM. 
 
 his cousin Jacob, liis wife having in the 
 meantime procured the necessary materials. 
 By the next morning all was ready, the 
 place made warm and tight, and on the 
 third day, the idiot was installed, his bed 
 and clothes moved up, and he an inmate 
 of Ben Halliday's dwelling. They began 
 well together. Father and mother and 
 children did all they could to make the 
 unhappy man comfortable, and he seemed 
 to like the change from old Grimly 's cot- 
 tage. He laughed and talked amazingly, 
 and leered fearfully about him, and said 
 he should be very merry there, and would 
 show them strange tricks. There was only 
 one matter of dispute between him and Ben 
 Halliday. He took a particular affection 
 
MARGARET GRAHAM. 269 
 
 for ^Ir. Fairfax's portmanteau, and would 
 sit on nothing else. When it was taken 
 from him, he turned sullen and walked out 
 of the house, wandering about, without re- 
 turning for twelve hours. He was not far 
 distant, however; for amidst his ramblings 
 he twice found his way to the cottage of 
 Jacob Halliday, and seemed inclined to 
 curry favour with his family, cutting a 
 stick for his son Bill into various grotesque 
 forms, in which art he was extraordinarily 
 skilful. 
 
 I have said nothing of Fairfax's move- 
 ments subsequent to the day of his return 
 to Cumberland, except what the reader has 
 seen in his note to Margaret; but it may 
 be necessary to mention, that he returned 
 
270 MARGARET GRAEAM. 
 
 once to tlie cottage of Ben Halliday, the day 
 after his former visit, and took out of his 
 portmanteau some clothes and a dressing- 
 case, which he sent down to the inn at 
 Brownswick by a little boy of the village. 
 He was seen once or twice for a day or two 
 afterwards, but then disappeared for some 
 time. 
 
 In the meanwhile, Jacob Halliday began 
 to regret that he had not accepted the 
 charge of the idiot himself; for with the 
 perversion of affection, not unfrequent in 
 such persons, Tommy Hicks seemed to at- 
 tach himself to Jacob in proportion to the 
 dislike and threats of the other. Besides, 
 pecuniary matters were no better with Jacob 
 than his cousin. It is true, he had but one 
 child ; but then his wife was not as careful 
 
MARGARET GRAHAM. 271 
 
 and as active as Ben's, and she bore her 
 fate less meekly. Misery and wretchedness 
 were at their height in his cottage. There 
 was hardly a bed to lie on, or clothes to 
 cover its inmates, and Jacob's impatient 
 spirit fretted under the yoke. He used 
 rash and angry words, and at length he 
 went down himself, and vehemently, but 
 not without rude eloquence, represented his 
 condition to the farmer whom he and his 
 cousin both served. 
 
 Farmer Stumps was irritated, and threat- 
 ened to dismiss him altogether, if he heard 
 any further complaints; and Jacob, after 
 gazing at him sternly for a moment, turned 
 upon his heel and walked away, muttering 
 more than once as he went — 
 
 " We must teach them better." 
 
272 MAEGAHET GRAHAM. 
 
 Two days after, Iiis wife seemed more 
 contented, and he himself in better spirits ; 
 and one night he brought up to his cousin's 
 house a porringer of very excellent soup 
 for poor Susan. The girl was delighted 
 with it, and said it tasted better than any- 
 thing she had ever eaten ; and Jacob laughed, 
 and replied that it was made of nothing but 
 what grew in the fields. The idiot took a 
 spoonful, and laughed aloud, answering — 
 *' Ay, with fur and feathers for leaves." 
 Jacob said nothing in return, but went 
 away; and two days after, Tommy Hicks, 
 after having been out till after nightfall, 
 came back with a brace of rabbits in his 
 hand, capering and grinning, and showing 
 a trap of his own invention, which was 
 
^lARGARET GRAHAM. 273 
 
 t^uite as well adapted for snaring hares or 
 any other animals as those which he had 
 caught. In vain did Ben Halliday attempt 
 to make him comprehend that he brought 
 himself into danger by such proceedings; 
 in vain did jlrs. Halliday refuse to roast 
 the rabbits for him. Tommy set to work 
 liimself, and skinned and cooked them in 
 Jiis own peculiar fiishion, devouring them 
 both when they were done, with all the re- 
 lish that even wiser men than himself find 
 in game of their own taking. 
 
 So far all went well enough with Ben 
 Halliday ; but tln-ee nights before the mar- 
 riage day of Margaret Graham, the little 
 boy suddenly pointed to the windov^^ about 
 jiine o'clock, and cried — 
 
274 MARGARET GRAHAM. 
 
 " Look, look, dad I What a pretty colour 
 in the sky. It seems as if morning was 
 coming already." 
 
 Ben went to the door and gazed forth, 
 saying— 
 
 " It's the north-lights, I think." But the 
 moment after, he exclaimed, " No, I do 
 believe it is a great fire somewhere !" and, 
 without waiting to take his hat, he ran out, 
 and proceeded till he could see clear down 
 over the moor. The road he took was not 
 the same as that on which he had lately met 
 Mr. Fairfax; for, as I think I have before 
 explained, the moor extended far along the 
 side of the hills, broken by patches of wood 
 and cultivated ground, and in about five 
 minutes he had a fair view of all the country 
 
MARGARET GRAHAM. 275 
 
 towards Brownswick. At the bottom of 
 the descent lay the principal farm of his 
 present master, with its rick-yard and 
 stacks all round it, and from that point 
 rose the fitful blaze which illuminated the 
 whole heaven, and showed him the lines of 
 barn and stable, housetops and trees, at 
 about a mile and a half distance, with the 
 undulations of the moor in red light and 
 shade between. Two ricks were already on 
 fire ; the wind was blowing cold and strong 
 over the yard and the buildings, and, with- 
 out waiting for further examination, Ben 
 Halliday ran on as fast as he could to give 
 assistance. As he approached, he heard 
 loud voices and curses and threats, but there 
 was, at the moment, a hedge of some tall 
 
276 MARGARET GRAHAM. 
 
 trees between him and the scene of confla- 
 gration, and he could not perceive what was 
 going on. When he had passed that screen, 
 however, a sight presented itself, which has 
 been seen more than once since in many- 
 counties in England. Three large ricks 
 were now blazing ; the wind was driving the 
 sparks and lighted straws right upon the 
 rest of the valuable produce of the last 
 year's harvest. The farmer, liis son, and 
 some of his house-servants were labouring 
 furiously to extinguish the flames, but only 
 adding to their intensity, and endangering 
 the rest of the property by throwing down 
 the blazing corn. Around stood no less 
 than twenty labourers from that and the 
 neighbouring farms ; but all their arms were 
 
MARGARET GRAHAM. 277 
 
 crossed upon their chests, and not a man 
 moved a finger to save the wealth of the 
 hard, rich man. In vain he swore, or 
 threatened, or entreated; no one stirred. 
 
 " You villains !" he cried, " you have set 
 it alight yourselves^ I do believe !" 
 
 " No, no, Master Stumps," answered a 
 sturdy fellow, " that wont do. We did 
 not light it, and we wont put it out. You 
 don't help us, why should we help you?" 
 
 '' There goes the blood and sweat of 
 many a poor, honest man, Farmer Stumps," 
 said another, " blazing up to Pleaven, to 
 tell how you've used him." 
 
 " We should never have had a bushel of 
 it," cried a third; "let those save it as were 
 like to get it." 
 
278 MAHGARET GRAHAM. 
 
 But at that moment Ben Halliday burst 
 into the midst of them. 
 
 " For shame ! for shame, men," he cried, 
 '^ to stand idle there and see a neighbour's 
 corn burn ! Do you think bread would be 
 cheaper, if all the yards in the country 
 were in a blaze ?" 
 
 " No; but wages would be higher, if 
 masters were taught not to starve their 
 men," said a voice not far off, and a loud 
 laugh from several of the peasants followed. 
 
 Ben Halliday listened not to the rejoin- 
 der, but leaped over the low wall of the 
 rick-yard, and running up to the farmer, 
 exclaimed — 
 
 " Don't, Master Stumps; for Heaven's 
 sake, don't stir the fire that way. You've 
 
MARGARET GRAHAM. 279 
 
 got plenty of rick cloths ; get them all out, 
 dip them in the pond, and draw them over 
 the nearest stacks. We've plenty of hands 
 to do that, even though those fellows wont 
 help; ay, and to keep them wet with 
 buckets too, till the engine comes up from 
 Browns wick. 
 
 '' That's a good thought — a devilish good 
 thought !" cried the farmer. " You're a 
 capital fellow, Ben. Here, help us to get 
 down the cloths." 
 
 " Some one get the ladders !" cried the 
 labourer, running with the farmer towards 
 the loft over the barn where the rick-cloths 
 were kept. 
 
 His simple suggestion soon changed the 
 face of affairs. The heavy canvas-cloths 
 
280 HAHGARET GHAHASI. 
 
 were speedily brought forth, dragged through 
 the neighbouring pond, and then, not 
 without great Labour and exertion, drawn 
 over the nearest ricks. Several men were 
 employed to keep them constantly wet ; the 
 rest to throw water over the ends of the 
 barns nearest to the fire ; and the farmer's 
 wife, daughters, and maids, though in a 
 strange state of confusion and agitation, 
 were directed to watch the roof of the house, 
 and guard against the sparks catching the 
 woodwork. 
 
 In every eiiort, in every exertion, Ben 
 Halliday bore as great a share as any one; 
 but his example had no eiiect upon the 
 other labourers, who, after seeing that the 
 fire was likely to do no more damage, and 
 
MARGARET GRAHAM. 281 
 
 hearing the engme coming along the road, 
 dropped away one by one. It is a sad 
 thing, but it too often occurs, that he who 
 on any occasion renders the most service to 
 others is the one who suffers, as if a certain 
 amount of disaster was to be inflicted, and 
 that those who turned it aside from friend, 
 or neighbour, or country, or society, took 
 it upon himself. Thank God, we know 
 that such is not the case, and that all is 
 ordered mercifully and wisely; but yet, as 
 I have said, so it is, the greatest benefactors 
 are the worst requited, and generally suffer 
 by their exertions in favour of other men. 
 
 Sad, sad philosophy ! Too terrible truth ! 
 
 Poor Ben Halliday laboured hard for an 
 hour and a half amidst flame and intense 
 
282 MARGARET GRAHAM. 
 
 heat; he was wet with the water which he 
 brought from the pond ; he was overheated 
 with the fire and the exertion; and when 
 all was done, and he saw that the rest of 
 the property was safe, he turned away, 
 hardly noticed, barely thanked, and walked 
 musing over the moor, towards his own 
 miserable abode. The night wind blew 
 keen and sharp ; but he went slowly, for he 
 was both weary and sad. He had much 
 food for thought, too; for a voice had 
 sounded in his ear which he knew well, and 
 had raised painful doubts and suspicions. 
 Suddenly he quickened his pace, for he felt 
 the blast strike and chill him ; and when he 
 lay down to rest upon his hard bed with 
 scanty covering, an aguish shivering seized 
 him. The next day he rose, feeble and 
 
MARGARET GRAHAM. 283 
 
 feeling ill; but he went to his work as 
 usual, and returned worse. Still he would 
 not apply to the Union for assistance — he 
 had never received any aid from it, and he 
 disliked the very thought; but at length 
 the pain in his side, the difficulty of 
 breathing, the utter prostration of strength, 
 convinced him he was very ill — made 
 him believe he was dying, and he consented 
 that his wife should go and seek the aid of 
 the parish surgeon. It was a thing that 
 could not be refused, but, as we have seen, 
 to obtain it she had to walk near twenty 
 miles, and to be absent from her family the 
 whole day.* She did not mind the toil ; she 
 
 * The case, as it actually occurred, was as follows: 
 A poor woman, whose husband was seized with acute 
 inflammation, living at S , went thence to N 
 
284 MARGARET GRAHAM. 
 
 did not even care about seeing Ben Halliday 
 written down as " Pauper," so that she ob- 
 tained speedy help for him; but when she 
 got to Brownswick, and found that aid was 
 likely to be delayed some eighteen hours 
 longer, the poor woman's heart sunk. The 
 
 to get an order from the overseer for medical relief, 
 the distance there and back being five miles. She 
 
 had then to carry the order to E , five miles, but 
 
 on presenting it to the medical officer at E , he 
 
 told her that her house was in a parish out of his 
 
 district, and she was sent back five miles to N . 
 
 She was then sent by the overseer to the relieving 
 
 officer at D , about two miles. The officer was 
 
 not at home, and she could get no aid that night, 
 but returned to her own house, a distance of more 
 than three miles. Medical attendance was not ob- 
 tained till the middle of the next day, when she had 
 walked eight miles in addition to the twenty she had 
 previously j ourneyed. 
 
MARGARET GRAHAM. 285 
 
 Union authorities were bent upon lowering 
 the poor's rates; it was the object of the 
 institution — they thought it the sole object 
 — for they very well knew, as to its im- 
 proving the character of the labourer by 
 throwing him more upon his own exertions, 
 that was all nonsense — parliamentary-com- 
 mission-report nonsense. They took care, 
 in their individual capacity, that his own 
 exertions should be as unfruitful as possible ; 
 the new law and the increase of population 
 only gave them the opportunity of doing so 
 more easily. The old law, by an easy, 
 constitutional, and, if wisely administered, 
 safe operation, acted as a check upon the 
 rapacity of employers: it provided that 
 what was not paid in wages should be paid 
 
286 MARGARET GRAHAM. 
 
 ill poor's-rates ; but that law had been 
 swept away, and the object now was to 
 reduce the rates. They, therefore, cut 
 down everything, and amongst the rest, the 
 allowance to medical officers. They de- 
 manded tenders; they demanded no tes- 
 timony of ability, skill, kindness, con- 
 scientiousness: all they demanded was 
 cheapness. The cheapest man in Browns- 
 wick was Mr. M' Swine, surgeon and 
 apothecary; and he was appointed. But 
 Mr. M' Swine had no inclination to put 
 himself out of the way for paupers. He 
 farmed them upon an average of twopence- 
 halfpenny per head for medicine and at- 
 tendance, and it was not to be expected 
 that he should give them much of either. 
 His was a true homoeopathic system as to 
 
MARGARET GRAHAM. 287 
 
 the former, and as to the latter, he called 
 on the sick poor when it was convenient. 
 The more of them that died, the better for 
 him, provided it could not be proved that 
 it was his fault. It is all very well to 
 presume that men will not be scoundrels, 
 but much better not to tempt them to be 
 so. Mr. M'Swine was at home when Mrs. 
 Halliday came with the order, but his 
 shop-boy had directions what to say on 
 such occasions, and the poor wife of as good 
 a man as ever existed stood before his door 
 in despair. She saw some one ring Dr. 
 Kenmore's bell : she knew him to be a good, 
 kind, humane man, though somewhat 
 rough, and taking heart of grace, she went 
 over, too, after a few minutes' thought. 
 The good doctor's reception of her we 
 
288 MARGARET GRAHAM. 
 
 have already seen, and, revived by the wine 
 he had given, she turned her steps home- 
 ward with hope refreshed. She found her 
 husband tossing about anxiously in bed, and 
 trying every position in order to draw his 
 breath more easily, but in vain. The two 
 children were close to his bedside, the sick 
 girl at the pillow, the boy near the foot. 
 In the further corner of the hut sat the 
 idiot. Tommy Hicks, on the beloved port- 
 manteau, talking to himself in a low voice, 
 and cutting a stick, according to custom. 
 
 Ben Halliday's first question was, "Is 
 Mr. M'Swine coming, Bella? If he does not 
 make haste, it will be too late." 
 
 " No, Ben, but Doctor Ivenmore is," an- 
 swered his wife, drawing near, and sitting 
 
MARGARET GRAHAM. 289 
 
 down on the side of the bed; ''hewillhc 
 here directly, God bless him ; and he gave 
 me a glass of wine to comfort me." 
 
 " Ah, he is a good man," said Ben Halli- 
 day, " and he'll cure me, if any one can. 
 Now run out, Charley," he continued, in a 
 lower voice, " and see what it was Tommy 
 Hicks put away under the thatch. He is 
 always hiding something, like a tame raven." 
 
 The boy ran out, but the moment the 
 idiot saw him approach the thatch, he 
 started up to follow him. " Sit down, 
 Tommy Hicks," exclaimed Mrs. Halliday, 
 in an authoritative tone, fixing her eyes 
 upon him as she spoke, and the idiot re- 
 sumed his seat without a word. The little 
 boy, Charles, returned the next minute with 
 
 VOL. I. 6 
 
290 MARGARET GRAHAM. 
 
 a table-knife which Tommy Hicks had hid 
 under the thatch; and a candle being 
 lighted, Mrs. Halliday prepared herself a 
 cup of tea, as some refreshment after her 
 long walk. About three-quarters of an 
 hour elapsed, and Ben Halliday became 
 anxious, with the impatience of feverish 
 illness, for the arrival of Doctor Kenmore. 
 The little boy was sent out to look along the 
 road by the moonlight, and see if he was 
 coming. Nobody was in sight, however, 
 but their kinsman, Jacob, who was wending 
 his way slowly towards the moor. After a 
 few minutes' pause, the boy went out again, 
 but this time he returned instantly, saying, 
 " Here he comes — here he comes, with his 
 stick up to his nose; I see him quite well." 
 
MARGARET GRAHAM. 291 
 
 The sick girl got up from the stool by 
 her fiither's side to leave a place for the 
 doctor ; and as soon as his step was heard 
 approaching, Charley Halliday opened the 
 door. As soon as he entered, however, 
 Tommy Hicks started up with a laugh, and 
 thrust the stick he was cutting between the 
 good old surgeon's legs, nearly throwing 
 him down, and exclaiming — 
 
 " Ride in, Doctor Kenmore." 
 
 The good man on whom he played off 
 this trick was constitutionally somewhat iras- 
 cible, and several things had occurred to vex 
 him on a day which he had set apart as a 
 day for happiness. Without more ado, then, 
 he lifted his cane and struck Tommy Hicks a 
 smart blow over the shoulders, saying — 
 02 
 
292 MARGARET GRAHAM. 
 
 " I'll teach you to play me such tricks , 
 you mischievous devil !" 
 
 With a howl of pain and rage the idiot 
 ran out of the cottage, and Doctor Kenmore 
 approaching Ben Halliday's bed-side, sat 
 down, and resumed his kindly nature at once. 
 
 "Well, my poor fellow," he said; *' so 
 you have got yourself into a bad way. In- 
 flammation of the lungs, caught helping 
 Farmer Stumps to put out the fire." 
 
 As he spoke, he laid his hand on Halli- 
 day's pulse, and the labourer replied — 
 
 '^ I don't know what it is, doctor, but I 
 am very bad — I never was so bad as this." 
 
 *• Well, you sha'n't die this time, Ben," 
 answered Doctor Kenmore, putting his 
 hands in his pockets; "give me a basin, 
 
MARGARET GRAHAM. 293 
 
 Mrs. Halliday ; we must have a good drop 
 of blood, Ben ;" and taking out a pocket- 
 book and two rolls of list, he spread them 
 out upon the bed and chose a lancet. Ben 
 Halliday's sleeve was then tucked up, his 
 brawny arm extended, grasping the doctor's 
 cane, and in a minute after the thick, dark 
 blood was spouting forth into the basin as 
 if it had been propelled from a syringe. 
 Doctor Kenmore suffered it to flow for 
 several minutes, watching the labourer's 
 face as he did so with earnest attention; 
 but at last Halliday spoke himself, saying, 
 with a sort of sigh of relief — 
 
 " Oh, that is so comfortable! it seems as 
 if some one was pouring cool water upon 
 the hot place in my side." 
 
294 MARGARET GRAHAM. 
 
 " I know that," answered Doctor Ken- 
 more; " but we must go on till you feel 
 yourself faint, — ay, and must repeat it to- 
 morrow; in these cases it is no use doing 
 things by halves. Open and shut your 
 hand on the stick, my man — do ye feel 
 faint?" 
 
 " A little, sir, and not much," answered 
 Ben Halliday, in a low voice ; but the next 
 moment he fell back in the bed, and Doctor 
 Kenmore put his thumb on the vein, saying, 
 " That is all right." 
 
 Mrs. Halliday was a little frightened; 
 but she had great confidence in the doctor, 
 and in a few minutes her husband was re- 
 stored to consciousness, and declared that 
 he felt comparatively quite well. 
 
MARGARET GRAHAM. 295 
 
 *^ Ay, Ben, but still you will need to be 
 bled to-morrow again," answered Doctor 
 Kenmore. "But we must manage the 
 matter shrewdly, Goody Halliday. If 
 M' Swine does not come to see him to- 
 morrow, before twelve, let me know, and if 
 he does, tell him I said Ben was not to be 
 bled any more, and then he is sure to bleed 
 him." 
 
 Doctor Kenmore knew his professional 
 brother well ; and after giving a few more 
 directions, and leaving a blister, which he 
 had brought for Mr. Graham, to be put 
 upon Ben Halliday 's side, he bade the 
 grateful family farewell, and set out upon his 
 return towards Allenchurch. He was seen by 
 a servant of the manufacturer who had bought 
 
296 MARGARET GRAHAM. 
 
 Mr. Graham's former house, just at the 
 crossing of two roads. He was met by a 
 cottager and a little boy, about a quarter 
 of a mile further on, just at the edge of the 
 moor. These, it would appear, were the 
 last persons but one who saw Doctor Ken- 
 more alive. 
 
 END OF VOL. I. 
 
 T. C. Savill, rrinterj 4, Chandos-street, Covent-garden. 
 
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