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 BY THE SAME AUTHOR. 
 
 Crown 8vo., cloth extra, 3s. 6d. ; post 8vo., illustrated 
 boards, 2s. 
 
 THE SHADOW OF A CRIME. 
 
 OPINIONS OF THE PRESS. 
 
 1 To say that we derive from it much the same quality of literary pleasure as 
 from Mr. Blackmore's masterpiece is to pay it a great compliment, but not an 
 undeserved one. In both we have strong and simple characters of the 
 primitive heroic type, and Ralph Ray is grander morally, if not physically, 
 than the hero of " Loma Doone." . . . It is a fine story finely told, full of 
 racy humour, and rising to true and unaffected pathos. Some of the more 
 tragic scenes— e.g., the night on which the body of Ralph's father is found, and 
 the tailor (Simeon Stagg) is driven from his cave in the mountain by the rain 
 and thunder — are remarkable for sustained strength of tragic power, never 
 degenerating into melodrama. The lesser characters are also well-drawn and 
 distinct individualities, and the village of Withburn, with its inn and the 
 frequenters thereof, is singularly real.'— Saturday Review. 
 
 1 Mr. Caine has written a fine story . . . Ralph Ray, the Parliamentary 
 captain who, in dread lest his outlawry should deprive his family of their 
 heritage, surrenders to the law, and accepts the penalty forte et dure rather 
 than plead, is a strong and a beautiful figure. The character of the heroine, 
 too (Rotha Stagg), is lifelike and charming. The scenes between the Garths 
 (mother and son) are thrilling, and the reader's curiosity is worked up to a 
 high pitch. ... In this art Mr. Caine shows himself to be an adept. 
 The story, indeed, is picturesque, and unusually full of incidents of a strik- 
 ing and novel kind. It is, moreover, full of that true local colour which can 
 only come from local knowledge. The scenes among the Cumbrian hills are 
 highly impressive. There is one scene in particular where, during a funeral 
 procession across the hills, a horse runs away with a coffin strapped to its 
 back, and is lost — a scene which, once read, will not soon be forgotten ; and 
 altogether the characteristics of the story are freshness of incident and 
 originality of treatment.' — Athenceum. 
 
 ' There are in this novel passages which'the most casual reviewer cannot read 
 without emotion of various kinds — of strong sympathy felt with the characters 
 as well as admiration for the writer ; and there are scenes and descriptions 
 which the most cautious reviewer would be inclined to describe as little short 
 of splendid. The tone, too, is so wholesome and manly, and the fundamental 
 conception is so fine, that the most cynical reviewer cannot fail to be im- 
 pressed, and to record, with ready pen, his cordial approbation. A novelist 
 who presents to the public so noble an example of life as the Cumbrian dales- 
 man, Ralph Ray, confers a benefit, whether advantage be taken of it or not, 
 upon the community.' — St. James's Gazette. 
 
 "This book is no ordinary novel ; to treat it as such would be an injustice 
 alike to the author and the public. It is a character-study of a high order 
 of merit — how high we should not venture to say after a first perusal. . . . 
 Mr. Caine has produced a work of art which will live in the memory of all 
 those who can put themselves in the position of sympathy with deep feeling 
 and highly- wrought emotion. That there are many who will not know, till 
 they receive it on authority, that Mr. Caine's book is of an utterly different 
 class from that to which the ordinary novel belongs we feel well assured.
 
 THE SHADOW OF A CRIME. 
 
 Mr. Caine's calm and spiritual writings will for them be always a 
 book, only to be admired when it has become the fashion to do so. . . . 
 Poor Sim, who undergoes the long martyrdom of unfounded suspicion, is one 
 of the best conceived characters we have met with in modern fiction. If we 
 ventured on comparisons, we might seem to praise it too highly.' — Academy. 
 
 ' If this book, as we believe to be the case, is Mr. Caine's first essay as a 
 novelist, it must be at once conceded that it is a most successful one, so suc- 
 cessful that its pages remind the reader of some of the best attributes of 
 Charles Reade. The story has almost all the vigour of the author of "The 
 Cloister and the Hearth," with almost more than that writer's picturesqueness 
 as a romancist. . . . Poor weak-kneed, but true-souled, Simeon Stagg is 
 a masterpiece of character-drawing. His contrition for a crime which he had 
 not committed, and his acceptance of the "position of a guilty man from 
 whose contaminating touch all other men might fairly shrink," is described 
 with a pathetic power which would alone go far to place Mr. Caine in the 
 foremost file of romancists.' — Standard. 
 
 'A very noble note is struck in " The Shadow of a Crime," by Hall Caine. . . . 
 The novel is one which it does the author great honour to have written, and 
 which it should do a reader appreciable good to read. ... It is very 
 seldom indeed that there appears a novel so fine in conception, so heroic 
 in tone, so healthy in its associations, so attractive, and so natural in its 
 descriptions; so altogether good, sound and improving.'— Illustrated London 
 News. 
 
 1 One of the most powerful novels which we have seen for a long time past is 
 Mr. Hall Caine's " The Shadow of a Crime." . . . The plot is worked out with 
 singular power. . . Few more powerful scenes are to be found in any novel. 
 The reader will not fail to learn to love some of the characters, even though he 
 should learn to despise others. But he will find from the first of the story to 
 the end of it there are vigour and attractiveness, and his interest will never 
 for a moment be lessened.' — Scotsman. 
 
 'We should describe the novel as powerful in detail.' — Times. 
 
 1 Mr. Hall Caine has some of George Eliot's power of indicating rustic 
 character by a few touches.'— Spectator. 
 
 ' Moving and powerful ; takes hold of the imagination.' — Daily Neus. 
 
 1 It must be a relief toVeaders and reviewers alike to come across such a fresh 
 and stirring series of narratives as Mr. Caine presents in this Cumberland 
 story. . . We have to thank Mr. Caine for afresh, picturesque, and thoroughly 
 original story, which will, no doubt, be one of the books of the season, and 
 the success of which may well induce the author to prosecute his new career.' 
 — Liverpool Mercury. 
 
 ' We have no hesitation in saying that this is one of the most remarkable 
 
 books that has been published in the last quarter of this century 
 
 One of the most unique of modern literary efforts.'— Whitehall Review. 
 
 1 Mr. Hall Caine is emphatically a new novel-writer, and ' ' The Shadow of a 
 Crime " introduces a fresh individuality into the library of romances of the 
 time. . . . Mr. Caine shows the hand of a master. . . . The novel is 
 high-class work, at the same time that it is full of keen interest for the 
 ordinary novel-reader.'— School Board Chronicle. 
 
 ' Full of human nature.'— Pall Mall Gazette. 
 
 ' Mr. Hall Caine will win a foremost place among novelists of the century.' 
 — Figaro. 
 
 ' At a bound he has taken rank among the first of our novelists.' — Western 
 Mornitig News. 
 
 CHATTO & WINDUS, PICCADILLY, W.
 
 A SON OF HAGAR 
 
 a ftomancc of out %xmt 
 
 By HALL CAINE 
 
 God hath heard the voice of the lad where he is ' 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES 
 VOL. I 
 
 3Lott&ott 
 
 CHATTO AND WINDUS, PICCADILLY 
 
 1887 
 
 [ The right 0/ translation is reserved]
 
 
 
 2-53 
 C use 
 lk27 
 
 
 TO 
 
 K D. BLACKMORE. 
 
 It must be an exceeding great reward, beyond all the 
 rewards of material success, to Jcnoio that you have written 
 a book that is deep, tranquil, strong and pure. You have 
 nobly earned that knowledge. Across the more than thirty 
 years that divide us, the elder from the younger brother, the 
 veteran from the raw comrade, the coming from the departing 
 generation, let me offer my hand to you as to a master of our 
 craft. 
 
 To the author, then, of a romance that has no equal save 
 in Scott, I humbly dedicate this romance of mine. 
 
 h. a
 
 CUMBKIAN WORDS. 
 
 barn = child ; dusta = dost thou ; hasta = hast thou. 
 
 laal = little ; leet = alight ; girt ■= great. 
 
 sista = seest thou. 
 
 varra = very. 
 
 wadsta = wouldst thou. 
 
 wilta = wilt thou. 
 
 Shaf ! = an expression of contempt.
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 In my first novel, ' The Shadow of a Crime,' 
 I tried to penetrate into the soul of a brave, 
 unselfish, long- suffering man, and to lay 
 hare the processes by which he raised him- 
 self to a great height of self-sacrifice. In 
 this novel the aim has been to penetrate 
 into the soul of a bad man, and to lay bare 
 the processes by which he is tempted to his 
 fall. To find a character that shall be 
 above all common tendencies to guilt and 
 yet tainted with the plague-spot of evil 
 hidden somewhere; then to watch the first 
 sharp struggle of what is good in the 
 man with what is bad, until he is in the 
 coil of his temptation; and finally, to show
 
 Vlll PREFACE. 
 
 in what tragic ruin a man of strong pas- 
 sions, great will and power of mind may 
 resist the force that precipitates him and 
 save his soul alive — this is, I trust, a 
 motive no less worthy, no less profitable to 
 study, in the utmost result no less heroic 
 and inspiring, than that of tracing the 
 upward path of noble types of mind. For 
 me there has been a pathetic, and I think 
 purifying interest in looking into the soul 
 of this man and seeing it corrode beneath 
 the touch of a powerful temptation until at 
 the last, when it seems to lie spent, it rises 
 again in strength and shows that the human 
 heart has no depths in which it is lost. 
 If this character had been equal to my in- 
 tention, it might have been a real contri- 
 bution to fiction, and far as I know it to 
 fall short of the first deep glow of feeling in 
 which it was conceived, it is, I think, new 
 to the novel, though it holds a notable
 
 PREFACE. IX 
 
 place in the drama — it would be pre- 
 sumptuous to say where — unnecessary, 
 also, as I have made no disguise of my 
 purpose. 
 
 One of the usual disadvantages of choosing 
 a leading character that is off the lines of 
 heroic portraiture is that the author may 
 seem to be in sympathy with a base part 
 in life and with base opinions. In this 
 novel I run a different risk. I shall not 
 be surprised if I provoke some hostility 
 in making the bad man justify his 
 course by the gaunt and grim morality 
 that masquerades as the morality of our own 
 time, while the good man is made to justify 
 his one dubious act by the full and sincere 
 and just morality that too often wears now 
 the garb of vice — -the morality of the books 
 of Moses. This novel relies, I trust, on the 
 sheer humanities alone, but among its less 
 aggressive purposes is that of a plea for
 
 X PREFACE. 
 
 the natural rights of the bastard. Those 
 rights have been recognised in every 
 country and by every race, except one, 
 since the day when the outcast woman in 
 the wilderness hearkened to the crv from 
 heaven which said, 'God hath heard the 
 voice of the lad, where he is.' In England 
 alone have the rights of blood been as 
 nothing compared with the rights of 
 property, and it is part of the business of 
 this novel to exhibit these interests at a 
 climax of strife. I have no fear that any true- 
 hearted person will accuse me of a desire to 
 cast reproach upon marriage as an ordi- 
 nance. Recognising the beauty and the 
 sanctity of marriage, I have tried to show 
 that true marriage is a higher thing than 
 a ceremony, and that the people who use 
 the gibbet and stake for offenders against 
 its forms are too often those who see no 
 offence in the violation of its spirit.
 
 PREFACE. XI 
 
 My principal scenes are again among the 
 mountains of Cumberland ; but in this 
 second attempt I have tried to realize more 
 completely their solitude and sweetness, 
 their breezy healthfullness, and their scent 
 as of new-cut turf, by putting them side by 
 side with scenes full of the garrulous 
 clangour and the mal-odour of the dark side 
 of London. 
 
 When I began, I thought to enlarge the 
 popular knowledge of our robust north- 
 country by the addition of some whimsical 
 character and quaint folk-lore. If much of 
 this quiet local atmosphere has had to make 
 way before one strong current of tragic 
 feeling, I trust some of it remains that is 
 fresh and bracing in the incidents of the 
 booth, the smithy, the dalesman's wedding, 
 the rushbearing, the cockfighting and the 
 sheep- shearing. Those readers of the earlier 
 book who found human nature and an
 
 Xll PREFACE. 
 
 element of humour in the patois will regret 
 with me the necessity so to modify the 
 dialect in this book as to remove from it 
 nearly all the racy quality that comes of 
 intonation. 
 
 I ought to add that one of my characters. 
 Parson Christian, is a portrait of a dear, 
 simple, honest soul long gone to his account, 
 and that the words here put into his mouth 
 are oftener his own than mine. 
 
 I trust this book may help to correct a 
 prevailing misconception as to the morals 
 and mind of the typical English peasantry. 
 It is certain that the conventional peasant 
 of literature, the broad-mouthed rustic in 
 a smock-frock, dull-eyed, mulish, beetle- 
 headed, doddering, too vacant to be vicious, 
 too doltish to do amiss, does not exist as a 
 type in England. What does exist in every 
 corner of the country is a peasantry speak- 
 ing a patois that is often of varying
 
 PREFACE. xill 
 
 inflections but is always full of racy poetry, 
 illiterate and yet possessed of a vast oral 
 literature, sharing brains with other classes 
 more equally than education, humorous, 
 nimble-witted, clear-sighted, astute, cynical, 
 not too virtuous, and having a lofty con- 
 tempt for the wiseacres of the town. 
 
 The manners and customs, the folk-lore 
 and folk-talk of Cumberland are far from 
 exhausted in my two Cumberland novels ; 
 but it is not probable that I will work in 
 this vein again. In parting from it, may I 
 venture to hope that here and there a reader 
 grown tired of the life of the great cities 
 has sometimes found it a relief to escape 
 with me into these mountain solitudes and 
 look upon a life as real and more true ; 
 a life that is humble and yet not low ; 
 a life in which men may be men, and 
 the rude people of the soil need study the 
 face of no master save nature alone ? 
 
 H. C.
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 BOOK THE FIEST. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 RETRO ME, SATHANA - VOL. I. 1 
 
 BOOK THE SECOND. 
 
 THE COIL OF THE TEMPTATION - - VOL. I. 179 
 
 BOOK THE THIRD. 
 
 THE DECLIVITY OF CRIME - - - VOL. II. 89 
 
 BOOK THE FOURTH. 
 
 THE WATERS OF MARAH ARE 
 
 BITTER - VOL. III. 69
 
 * 
 
 A SON OF HAGAR 
 
 BOOK THE FIRST. 
 RETRO ME, SATHAXA. 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
 X)
 
 PROLOGUE.. 
 
 IN THE YEAR 1845. 
 
 It was a chill December morning. The 
 atmosphere was dense with fog in the dusky 
 chamber of a London police-court ; the 
 lights were bleared and the voices drowsed. 
 A woman carrying a child in her arms had 
 been half dragged, half pushed into the 
 dock. She was young ; beneath her dis- 
 hevelled hair her face showed almost girlish. 
 Her features were pinched with pain ; her 
 eyes had at one moment a serene look, and 
 at the next moment a look of wild defiance. 
 Her dress had been rich ; it was now torn 
 and damp, and clung in dank folds to her 
 
 1—2
 
 4 A SON OF HAG A R. 
 
 limbs. The child she carried appeared to 
 be four months old. She held it con- 
 vulsively at her breast, and when it gave 
 forth a feeble cry she rocked it mechanic- 
 ally. 
 
 ' Your worship, I picked this person out 
 of the river at ha '-past one o'clock this 
 morning,' said a constable, ' She had 
 throwed herself off the steps of Blackfriars 
 Bridge.' 
 
 * Had she the child with her ?' asked the 
 bench. 
 
 ' Yes, your worship ; and when I brought 
 her to land I couldn't get the little one out 
 of her arms nohow — she clung that tight 
 to it. The mother, she was insensible : 
 but the child, it opened its little eyes and 
 cried.' 
 
 ' Have you not learned her name ?' 
 
 ' No, sir ; she won't give ns no answer 
 when we ask her that.' 
 
 ' I am informed,' said the clerk, ' that
 
 RETRO ME, SATHANA. 5 
 
 against all inquiries touching her name and 
 circumstances she keeps a rigid silence. 
 The doctor is of opinion, your worship, that 
 the woman is not entirely responsible.' 
 
 ' Her appearance in court might certainly 
 justify that conclusion/ said the magis- 
 trate. 
 
 The young woman had gazed vacantly 
 about her with an air of indifference. She 
 seemed scarcely to realize that through the 
 yellow vagueness the eyes of a hundred 
 persons were centred on her haggard 
 face. 
 
 1 Anybody here who knows her ?' asked 
 the bench. 
 
 ' Yes, your worship ; I found out the old 
 woman alonger she lodged.' 
 
 ' Let us hear the old person.' 
 
 A woman in middle life — a little, confused, 
 aimless, uncomfortable body — stepped into 
 the box. She answered to the name of 
 Drayton. Her husband was an hotel porter.
 
 6 A SON OF HAGAR. 
 
 She had a house in Pimlico. A month ago 
 one of her rooms on the first-floor back had 
 been to let. She put a card in her window, 
 and the prisoner applied. Accepted the 
 young lady as tenant, and had been duly 
 paid her rent. Knew nothing of who she 
 was or where she came from. Couldn't 
 even get her name. Had heard her call the 
 baby Paul. That was all she knew. 
 
 i Her occupation, my good woman, what 
 was it ?' 
 
 ' Nothing ; she hadn't no occupation,- 
 your worship/ 
 
 * Never went out ? Not at night ?' 
 
 ' No, sir ; leastways not at night, sir. I 
 hopes your worship takes me for an honest 
 woman, sir.' 
 
 * Did nothing for a living, and yet she 
 naid you. Did you board her ?' 
 
 ' Yes, your worship ; she could cook her 
 wittles, but the poor young thing seemed 
 never to have no heart for nothing, sir.'
 
 RETRO ME, SATHANA. 7 
 
 1 Never talked to you V 
 
 * No, sir; nothing but cried. She cried, 
 and cried, and cried, 'cept when she laughed, 
 and then it were awful, your worship. 
 My man always did say as how there 
 was no knowing what she'd be doing of 
 yet/ 
 
 1 Is she married, do you know ?' 
 
 ' Yes, your worship ; she wears her 
 wedding-ring quite regular — only once she 
 plucked it off and flung it in the fire — I 
 saw it with my own eyes, sir, or I mightn't 
 ha' believed it ; and I never did see the 
 like — but the poor creature's not re- 
 sponsible at whiles — that's what my 
 husband says.' 
 
 1 What was her behaviour to the child ? 
 Did she seem fond of it ?' 
 
 1 Oh, yes, your worship; she used to hug, 
 and hug, and hug it, and call it her darling, 
 and Paul, and Paul, and Paul, and all she 
 had left in the world.'
 
 8 A SON OF HAG A R. 
 
 ' When did you see her last before to- 
 day r 
 
 ( Yesterday, sir ; she put on her bonnet 
 and cape and drew a shawl around the baby, 
 and went out in the afternoon. " It will do 
 you a mort of good," says I to her. " Yes, 
 Mrs. Drayton," says she, " it will do us both 
 a world of good/'" That was on the front 
 doorsteps, your worship, and it were a nice 
 afternoon, but I had never no idea what she 
 meant to be doing of; but she's not re- 
 sponsible, poor young thing, that's what 
 my ' 
 
 1 And when night came and she hadn 't 
 got home, did you go in search of her ?' 
 
 ' Yes, your worship ; for I says to my 
 husband, says I, " Poor young thing, I can't 
 rest in my bed, and knowing nothing of 
 what's come to her." And my man he 
 says to me, " Maggie," he says, "you go 
 to the station and give the officers her 
 description," he says — " a tall young woman
 
 RETRO ME, S A Til ANA. 9 
 
 as might ha' been a born lady, a-carrying a 
 baby — that'll be good enough," he says, and 
 I went. And this morning the officer came, 
 and I knew by his face as something had 
 happened, and ' 
 
 1 Let us hear the doctor. Is he in court ?' 
 
 'Yes, your worship,' said the constable. 
 
 Mrs. Drayton was being bustled out of 
 the box. She stopped on the first step 
 down : 
 
 1 And I do hope as no harm will come 
 to her — she's not responsible — that's what 
 my hus ' 
 
 ' All right, we know all that ; down with 
 you ; this way ; don't bother his worship !' 
 
 At the bottom of the steps the woman 
 stopped again, with a handkerchief to her 
 eyes. 
 
 1 And it do make me cry to see her, poor 
 thing, and the baby, too, and innocent as a 
 kitten — and I hopes if anything is done to 
 her as '
 
 io A SON OF HAGAR. 
 
 Mrs. Drayton's further hopes and fears 
 were lost in the bustle of the court. The 
 young woman in the clock still gazed about 
 her vacantly. There was strength in her 
 firmly-moulded lip, sensibility in her large 
 dark eyes, power in her broad, smooth brow, 
 and a certain stateliness in the outlines of 
 her tall, slim figure. 
 
 The doctor who had examined her gave 
 his report in a few words : the woman 
 should be under control, though she was 
 dangerous to no one but herself. Her 
 attempt at suicide was one of the common 
 results of disaster in affairs of love. 
 Perhaps she was a married woman, aban- 
 doned by her husband; more likely she 
 was an unfortunate lady in whom the shame 
 of pregnancy had produced insanity. She 
 was obviously a person of education and 
 delicacy of feeling. 
 
 ' She must have connections of some 
 kind/ said the magistrate ; and, turning to
 
 RETRO ME, SATHANA. n 
 
 the dock, he said quietly, ' Give us your 
 name, my good lady/ 
 
 The woman seemed not to hear, but she 
 clutched her child yet closer to her breast, 
 and it cried feebly. 
 
 The magistrate tried again : 
 
 i Your baby's name is Paul, isn't it ? 
 Paul— what ?' 
 
 She looked around, glanced at the magis- 
 trate and back at the people in the court, 
 but said nothing. 
 
 Just then the door opposite the bench 
 creaked slightly, and a gentleman entered. 
 The woman's wandering eyes passed over 
 him. In an instant her torpor was shaken 
 off. She riveted her gaze on the new- 
 comer. Her features contracted with lines 
 of pain. She drew the child aside, as if to 
 hide it from sight. Then her face twitched, 
 and she staggered back into the arms of the 
 constable behind her. She was now in- 
 sensible. Through the dense folds of the
 
 12 A SON OF HAG A R. 
 
 fog the vague faces of the spectators showed 
 an intent expression. 
 
 It was observed that the gentleman who 
 had entered the court a moment before im- 
 mediately left it. The magistrate saw him 
 pass out of the door merely as a distorted 
 figure in the dusky shadows. 
 
 ' Let her be removed to the Dartford 
 asylum/ said the magistrate ; ' I shall give 
 an order at once.' 
 
 A voice came from the body of the court. 
 It was Mrs. Drayton's voice, thick with sobs. 
 
 ' And if you please, your worship, may 
 me and my husband take care of the child 
 until the poor young thing is well enough 
 to come for it ? We've no children of our 
 own, sir, and my husband and me, we'd 
 like to have it, and no one would do no 
 better by it, 3^our worship.' 
 
 ' I think you are a good woman, Mrs. 
 Drayton,' said the magistrate. Then, turn- 
 ing to the clerk, he added, ' Let inquiries be
 
 RETRO ME, SATHAXA. 13 
 
 made about her, and, if all prove satisfac- 
 tory, let the child be given into her care.' 
 
 * Oh, thank your worship ; it do make 
 me cry ' 
 
 ' Yes, all right — never mind now — we 
 know all about it — come along.' 
 
 The prisoner recovered consciousness in 
 being removed from the dock : the con- 
 stable was taking the child out of her arms. 
 She clung to it with feverish hands. 
 
 1 He says I am not his wife,' she said in 
 a deep whisper, and her eyes wandered to 
 the door. 
 
 ' Stop that man,' said the magistrate, 
 pointing to the vague recesses into which 
 the spectator had disappeared. An officer 
 of the court went out hastily. Presently 
 returning : ' He is gone,' said the officer. 
 
 1 Take me away, take me away !' cried 
 the prisoner in a tense voice. ' Paul, Paul, 
 my own dear little Paul!' The woman's 
 breath came and went in gusts, and her
 
 14 A SON OF H AGAR. 
 
 child cried from the convulsive pressure to 
 her breast. 
 
 ' Eemove them/ said the bench. 
 
 There was a faint commotion. Among 
 the people in the court, huddled like sheep, 
 there was a harsh scraping of feet, and some 
 suppressed whispering. The stolid faces 
 on the bench turned and smiled slightly in 
 the yellow gleam of the gas that burned in 
 front of them. Then the momentary bustle 
 ended, the woman and child were gone, and 
 the calm monotony of the court was resumed. 
 
 Six months later a handsome woman, 
 still little more than a girl, yet with the 
 eyes of suffering, stepped up to the door of 
 a house in Pimlico and knocked timidly. 
 
 ' 1 wish to see Mrs. Drayton/ she said, 
 when the door was opened by an elderly 
 person. 
 
 'Bless you, they're gone, Mrs. Drayton 
 and her husband/
 
 RETRO ME, SATHANA. 15 
 
 ' Gone !' said the young woman, ' gone ! 
 What do you mean ?' 
 
 'Why, gone — removed — shifted.' 
 
 ' Eemoved — shifted ?' The idea seemed 
 to struggle its slow way into her brain. 
 
 ' In course — what else, when the big 
 hotel fails and he loses his job ? Rents 
 can't be paid on nothing a week, and some- 
 thing to put in the mouth besides.' 
 
 1 Gone ? Are you mad ? Woman, think 
 what you're saying. Gone where ?' 
 
 ' How do I know where ? Mad, indeed ! 
 I'll not say but other folks look a mort 
 madder nor ever I looked.' 
 
 The young woman took her by the 
 shoulder. ' Don't say that — don't say you 
 don't know where they're gone. They've 
 got my child, I tell you ; my poor little 
 Paul.' 
 
 ' Oh, so you're the young party as 
 drownded herself, are you ? Well, they're 
 gone anyways, and the little chit with them,
 
 1 6 A SON OF HAGAR. 
 
 and there's no saying where. You may 
 believe me. Ask the neighbours else/ 
 
 The young woman leaned against the 
 door-jamb with a white face and great 
 eyes. 
 
 * Well, well, how hard she takes it ! 
 Deary me, deary me, she's not a bad sort, 
 after all. Well, well, who'd ha' thought it ! 
 There, there, come in and sit awhile. It is 
 cruel to lose one's babby — and me to tell 
 her, too. Misbegotten or not, it's one's 
 own flesh and blood, and that's what I 
 always says.' 
 
 The young woman had been drawn into 
 the house and seated on a chair. She got 
 up again with the face of an old woman. 
 
 ' Oh, I'm choking !' she said. 
 
 1 Eest awhile, do now, my dear — there — 
 there.' 
 
 'No, no, my good woman, let me go.' 
 
 ' Heaven help you, child ; how you look !' 
 
 ' Heaven has never helped me,' said the
 
 RETRO MR, SATHANA. 17 
 
 young woman. ' I was a sister of charity 
 only two years ago. A man found me and 
 wooed me ; married me and abandoned me ; 
 I tried to die and they rescued me ; they 
 separated me from my child and put me in 
 an asylum ; I escaped, and have now come 
 for my darling, and he is gone/ 
 
 1 Deary me, deary me!' and the old woman 
 stroked her consolingly. 
 
 * Let me go,' she cried, starting up afresh. 
 ' If Heaven has done nothing for me, perhaps 
 the world itself will have mercy.' 
 
 The ghastly face answered ill to the 
 grating laugh that followed as she jerked her 
 head aside and hurried away. 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 CHAPTEE I. 
 
 IN THE YEAK 1875. 
 
 It was Young Folks' Day in the Yale of 
 Newlands. The summer was at its height ; 
 the sun shone brightly; the lake to the 
 north lay flat as a floor of glass, and reflected 
 a continent of blue cloud ; the fells were 
 clear to their summits, and purple with 
 waves of heather. It was noontide, and 
 the shadows were short. In the slumberous 
 atmosphere the bees droned, and the hot air 
 quivered some feet above the long, lush 
 grass. The fragrance of new-mown hay 
 floated languidly through a sub -current of 
 wild rose and honeysuckle. In a meadow 
 at the foot of the Causey Pike tents were
 
 RETRO ME, SATHANA. 19 
 
 pitched, flags were flying, and crowds of 
 men, women, and children watched the 
 mountain sports. 
 
 In the centre of a group of spectators 
 two men, stripped to the waist, were wrest- 
 ling. They were huge fellows, with muscles 
 that stood out on their arms like giant bulbs, 
 and feet that held the ground like the hoofs of 
 oxen. The wrestlers were calm to all outward 
 appearance, and embraced each other with 
 the quiet fondling of lambs and the sinuous 
 power of less affectionate creatures. But 
 the people about them were wildly excited. 
 They stooped to watch every wary move • 
 ment of the foot, and craned their 
 necks to catch the subtlest twist of the 
 wrist. 
 
 ' Sista, Reuben, sista ! He'll have enough 
 to do to tummel John Proudfoot. John's 
 up to the scat to-day, anyways.' 
 
 ' Look tha ! John's on for giving him the 
 
 cross-buttock.' 
 
 9 9
 
 2o A SON OF HAGAR. 
 
 John was the blacksmith, a big, buirdly 
 fellow with a large blunt head. 
 
 ' And he has given it too, has John/ 
 ' Nay, nay, John's do on — ey, ey, he's 
 doon, is John.' 
 
 One of the wrestlers had thrown the other, 
 and was standing quietly over him. He 
 was a stalwart young man of eight-and- 
 twenty, brown- haired, clear-eyed, of a ruddy 
 complexion, with a short, thick, curly beard, 
 and the grace of bearing that comes of 
 health and strength, and a complete absence 
 of self-consciousness. He smiled cheerfully, 
 and nodded his head in response to loud 
 shouts of applause. ' Weel done ! Varra 
 weel done ! That's the way to ding 'em 
 ower ! What sayst tha, Reuben ?' 
 ' What a bash it was, to be sure V 
 ' What dust a think of yon wrustling, ey, 
 man ?' 
 
 ' Nay, nay, it's varra middling/ 
 
 * Ever seen owt like it since the good
 
 RETRO ME, SATHAXA. 21 
 
 auld days you crack on sa often, auld 
 man?' 
 
 1 Nay, he doont him varra neat, did Paul 
 — I will allow it.' 
 
 ' There's never a man in Cumberland 
 need take a hand with young Paul Kitson 
 after this.' 
 
 ' Ey, ey ; he's his father's son.' 
 
 The wrestler, surrounded by a little multi- 
 tude of boys, who clung to his sparse 
 garments on every side, made his way to a 
 tent. 
 
 At the same moment a ludicrous figure 
 forced a passage through the crowd, and 
 came to a stand in the middle of the green. 
 It was a diminutive creature, mounted on a 
 pony that carried its owner on a saddle 
 immediately below its neck, and a pair of 
 panniers just above its tail. The rider was 
 an elderly man with shaggy eyebrows and 
 beard of mingled black and grey. His 
 swarthy, keen, wizened face was twisted
 
 22 A SON OF HAGAR. 
 
 into grotesque lines beneath a pair of little 
 blinking eyes, which seemed constantly to 
 say that anybody who refused to see that 
 they belonged to a perfectly wideawake son 
 of old Adam made a portentous mistake. 
 He was the mountain pedlar, and to-day, 
 at least, his visit was opportune. 
 
 ' Lasses, here's for you ! Look you, 
 here's Gubblum Oglethorpe, pony and 
 all/ 
 
 'Why, didsta ever see the like — 
 Gubblum's getten hissel into a saddle !' 
 
 Gubblum, from his seat on the pony, 
 twisted one half of his wrinkled face awry 
 and said : 
 
 ' In course I have ! But it's a vast 
 easier getting into this saddle nor getting 
 out of it, I can tell you !' 
 
 'Why, how's that, Gubblum?' cried a 
 voice from the crowd. 
 
 ' What, man, did you never hear of the 
 day I bought it ?'
 
 RETRO ME, SATHANA. 23 
 
 Sundry shakes of many heads were the 
 response. 
 
 6 No ?' said GubbliiHi, with an accent of 
 sheer incredulity, and added, ' Well, there 
 is no accounting for the ignorance of some 
 folk.' 
 
 * AVhat happened to you, Gubblum ?' 
 
 Gubblum's expression of surprise gave 
 place to a look of condescension. He lifted 
 his bronzed and hairy hand to the rim of 
 his straw hat to shade his eyes from the sun. 
 
 ' Well, when I got on to auld Bessy, 
 hero, I couldn't get off again — that's what 
 happened.' 
 
 'No? Why?' 
 
 ' You see, I'd got my clogs on when I 
 went to buy the saddle in Kezzick, and 
 they're middling wide in the soles, my clogs 
 are. So when I put my feet into the 
 stirrups, there they stuck.' 
 
 < Stuck!' 
 
 1 Ey, fast as nails ! And when I got
 
 24 A SON OF HAGAR. 
 
 home to Branth'et Edge I couldn't get them 
 out. So our Sally, she said to my auld 
 woman, "Mother," she said, "we'll have 
 to put father into the stable with the pony 
 and fetch him a cup of tea." And that's 
 what they did, and when I'd had summat 
 into me I had another fratch at getting out 
 of the saddle ; but I couldn't manish it ; so 
 I had — what do you think I had to do ?' 
 
 ' Nay, man, what?' 
 
 1 1 had to sleep all night in the stable on 
 Bessy's back !' 
 
 ' Bless thee, Gubblum, and whatever 
 didsta do ?' 
 
 ' I'm coming to that, on'y some folks are 
 so impatient. Next morning that lass of 
 mine she said to her mother, " Mother," she 
 said, "wouldn't it be best to take the saddle 
 off the pony, and then father he'll sure 
 come off with it ?" ' 
 
 'And did they do it ?' 
 
 ' Ey, they did. They took Bessy and
 
 RETRO ME, SATHAXA. 25 
 
 rue round to the soft bed as they keeps 
 maistly at the back of the stable, and they 
 loosened the straps and gave a push, and 
 cried " Away." ' 
 
 ' Weel, man, weel ?' 
 
 ' Weel ! nowt of the sort ! It wasn't wed 
 at all ! When I rolled over I was off the 
 pony, for sure ; but I was stuck fast to the 
 saddle just the same.' 
 
 ' Whatever did they do with thee then ?' 
 
 ' I'm coming to that, too, on'y some 
 folks are so mortal fond of hearing their- 
 selves talk. They picked me up, saddle 
 and all, and set me on the edge of the 
 kitchen dresser. And there I sat for the 
 best part of a week, sleeping and waking, 
 and carding and spinning and getting 
 fearful thin. But I got off at last, I did V 
 
 There was a look of proud content in 
 Gubblum's face as he added, ' What a 
 thing it is to be eddicated ! We don't vally 
 eddication half enough !'
 
 ?6 A SON OF HAGAR. 
 
 A young fellow — it was Lang Geordie 
 Moore— pushed a smirking face between the 
 shoulders of two girls, and said, ' Did you 
 take to reading and writing, then, Gub- 
 blum, when you were on the kitchen 
 dresser ?' 
 
 There was a gurgling titter, but, dis- 
 daining to notice the interruption, Gubblum 
 lifted his tawny face into the glare of the 
 sun and said, ' It was my son as did it 
 — him that is learning for a parson. He 
 came home from St. Bees, and " Mother," 
 he said, before he'd been in the house a 
 minute, " let's take father's clogs off, and 
 then his feet will come out of the 
 stirrups/" 
 
 A loud laugh bubbled over the company. 
 Gubblum sat erect in the saddle and added 
 with a grave face : ' That's what comes of 
 eddication and reading the Bible and all o' 
 that ! If I had fifty sons I'd make 'em all 
 parsons/
 
 RETRO ME, SATHAXA. 27 
 
 The people laughed again, and crowed and 
 exchanged nods and knowing winks. They 
 enjoyed the pedlar's talk, and felt an 
 indulgent tenderness for his slow and feeble 
 intellect. He on his part enjoyed no less 
 the assuming a simple and shallow nature. 
 A twinkle lurked under his bushy brows 
 while he ' smoked the gonies. ' They 
 laughed and he smiled slyly, and both were 
 satisfied. 
 
 Gubblum Oglethorpe, pedlar, of Branth'et 
 Edge, got off his pony and stroked its 
 tousled mane. He was leading it to a 
 temporary stable, when he met face to face 
 the young wrestler, Paul Eitson, who was 
 coming from the tent in his walking costume. 
 Drawing up sharply, he surveyed Paul 
 rapidly from head to foot, and then asked 
 him with a look of bewilderment what he 
 could be doing there. 
 
 ' Why, when did you come back to these 
 parts ?'
 
 28 A SON OF HAGAR. 
 
 Paul smiled. ' Come back ! I've not 
 been away/ 
 
 The old man looked slyly up into Paul's 
 face and winked. Perceiving no response 
 to that insinuating communication, his 
 wrinkled face became more grave, and he 
 said, ' You were nigh to London three 
 days ago/ 
 
 ' Nigh to London three days ago !' Paul 
 laughed, then nodded across at a burly dales- 
 man standing near, and said, ' Geordie, 
 just pinch the old man, and see if he's 
 dreaming.' 
 
 There was a general titter, followed by 
 glances of amused inquiry. The pedlar took 
 off his hat, held his head aside, scratched it 
 leisurely, glanced up again into the face of 
 young Kit son, as if to satisfy himself finally 
 as to his identity, and eventually muttered 
 half aloud, ' Well, I'm fair maizelt — that's 
 what I am!' 
 
 ' Maizelt— why?'
 
 RETRO ME, SATHANA. 29 
 
 ' 1 could ha' sworn I saw you at a spot 
 near London three days ago.' 
 
 1 Not been there these three years/ said 
 Paul. 
 
 ' Didn't you wave your hand to me as 
 we went by — me and Bessy ?' 
 
 < Did I ? Where ?' 
 
 'Why, at the " Hawk and Heron," in 
 Hendon.' 
 
 c Never saw the place in my life.' 
 
 ' Sure of that ?' 
 
 ■ Sure.' 
 
 The grave old head dropped once more, 
 and the pony's head was held down to the 
 withered hand that scratched and caressed 
 it. Then the first idea of a possible reason 
 on Paul's part for keeping his movements 
 secret suggested itself afresh to Gubblum. 
 He glanced soberly around, caught the eye 
 of the young dalesman furtively, and winked 
 again. Paul laughed outright, nodded his 
 head good-humouredly, and rather ostenta-
 
 3o A SO A OF HAG AR. 
 
 tiously winked in response. The company 
 that had gathered about them caught the 
 humour of the situation, and tittered au- 
 dibly enough to provoke the pedlar's 
 wrath. 
 
 'But I say you have seen it,' shouted 
 Gubblum in emphatic tones. 
 
 At that moment a slim young man walked 
 slowly past the group. He was well 
 dressed, and carried himself with ease and 
 some dignity, albeit with an air of listless- 
 ness — a weary and dragging gait, due in part 
 to a slight infirmity of one foot. When 
 some of the dalesmen bowed to him his 
 smile lacked warmth. He was Hugh Eit- 
 son, the younger brother of Paul. 
 
 Gubblum's manner gathered emphasis. 
 • You were standing on the step of the 
 "Hawk and Heron," said he, 'and I 
 waved my hand and shouted " A canny 
 morning to you, Master Paul !" — Ey, that 
 I did!'
 
 RETRO ME, SATHAXA. 31 
 
 1 You don't say so !' said Paul with mock 
 solemnity. His brother had caught the 
 pedlar's words, and stopped. 
 
 'But I do say so,' said Gubblum, with 
 many shakes of his big head. Let any 
 facetious young gentleman who supposed 
 that it was possible to make sport out of him, 
 understand once for all that it might be as 
 well to throw a stone into his own garden. 
 
 'Why, Gubblum,' said Paul, smother- 
 ing a laugh, * what was I doing at 
 Hendon ?' 
 
 ■ Doing ! Well, a chap 'at was on the 
 road along of me said that Master Paul had 
 started innkeeper.' 
 
 There was a prolonged burst of laughter, 
 amid which one amused patriarch on a stick 
 shouted, i Feel if tha's abed, Gubblum, ma 
 man!' 
 
 1 And if I is abed, it's better nor being in 
 bed-lam, isn't it ?' shouted the pedlar. 
 
 Paul came to the rescue of Gubblum 's
 
 32 A SON OF II AGAR. 
 
 humour. ' Never mind, my lad. It was 
 somebody like me, no doubt.' 
 
 ' Like you ! It caps all. If it wasn't 
 you, it must ha' been the old gentleman 
 hissel'.' 
 
 * Are we so much alike ? Come, let's 
 see your pack.' 
 
 ' His name was Paul, anyways.' 
 
 Hugh Ritson had elbowed his way through 
 the group, and was now at Gubblum's elbow 
 listening intently. When the others had 
 laughed, he alone preserved an equal coun- 
 tenance. 
 
 < Paul — what ?' he asked. 
 
 ' Nay, don't ax me — I know nowt no 
 mair — I must be an aulcl maizelin, I must 
 for sure !' 
 
 Hugh Piitson turned on his heel and 
 walked off.
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 The Vale of Newlands runs north and south. 
 On its east bank rise the Cat Bell fells and 
 the Eel Crags ; on the west rise Hindscarth 
 and Robinson, backed byWhiteless Pike and 
 Grasmoor. A river flows down the bed of 
 the valley, springing in the south among 
 the heights of Dale Head, and emptying 
 into Bassenthwaite on the north. A 
 village known as Little Town stands about 
 midway in the vale, and a road runs along 
 each bank. The tents were pitched for 
 the sports near the bed of the valley, on 
 the east side of the Newlands Beck. On 
 the west side, above the road, there was 
 a thick copse of hazel, oak, and birch. 
 vol. i. 3
 
 34 A SON OF HAGAR. 
 
 From a clearing in this wood a thin column 
 of pale blue smoke was rising through the 
 still air. A hut in the shape of a cone 
 stood a few yards from the road. It was 
 thatched from the ground upwards with 
 heather and bracken, leaving only a low 
 aperture as door. Near the hut a small 
 fire of hazel sticks crackled under a pot 
 that swung from a forked triangle of oak 
 limbs. Faggots were stacked at one end 
 of the clearing ; a pile of loose bark lay 
 near. It was a charcoal pit, and behind a 
 line of hurdles that were propped with 
 poles and intertwined with dead grass 
 and gorse, an old man was building a 
 charcoal fire. 
 
 He was tall and slight, and he stooped. 
 His eyes were large and heavy ; his long- 
 beard was whitening. He wore a low- 
 crowned hat with broad brim, and a loose 
 flannel jacket without a waistcoat. Most 
 of us convey the idea that to our own view
 
 RETRO ME, SATHAXA. 55 
 
 we are centres of our circles, and that the 
 universe involves about us. This old man 
 suggested a different feeing. To himself 
 he might have been a thing gone somehow 
 out of its orbit. There was a listless 
 melancholy, a lonely weariness in his look 
 and movements. An old misery seemed to 
 sit on him. 
 
 His name was Matthew Fisher ; but the 
 folk of the country- side called him Laird 
 Fisher. The dubious dignity came of the 
 circumstance that he was the holder of an 
 absolute royalty on a few acres of hind 
 under Hindscarth. The royalty had been 
 many generations in his family. His grand- 
 father had set store by it. When the Lord 
 of the Manor had worked the copper pits at 
 the foot of the Eel Crags, he had tried to 
 possess himself of the royalties of the 
 Fishers. But the peasant family resisted the 
 aristocrat. Luke Fisher believed there was 
 a fortune under his feet, and he meant to
 
 36 A SON OF HAGAR. 
 
 try his own luck on his holding some day. 
 That day never came. His son, Mark 
 Fisher, carried on the tradition, hut made 
 no effort to unearth the fortune. They 
 were a cool, silent, slow, and stubborn race. 
 Matthew Fisher followed his father and his 
 grandfather, and iuheiited the family faith. 
 All these years the tenders of the Lord of 
 the Manor were ignored, and the Fishers 
 enjoyed their title of courtesy or badinage. 
 When Matthew was a boy there was a 
 rhyme current in the vale which ran : 
 
 1 There's t' auld laird, and t' young laird, and t' laird 
 
 among t' barns, 
 If iver there comes another kiird, we'll hang him up by 
 
 t' arms.' 
 
 There is a tough bit of Toryism in the 
 grain of these northern dalesfolk. Their 
 threat was idle ; no other Laird ever came. 
 Matthew married, and had one daughter 
 only. He farmed his few acres with poor 
 results. The ground was good enough, but
 
 RETRO ME, SATHAXA. 57 
 
 Matthew was living under the shadow of 
 the family tradition. One day — it was 
 Sunday morning, and the sun shone brightly 
 — he was rambling by the Po Beck that rose 
 on Hindscarth and passed through his land, 
 when his eye glanced over a glittering stone 
 that lay among the pebbles at the bottom of 
 the stream. It was ore, good full ore, and 
 on the very surface. Then the Laird 
 Fisher sank a shaft and all his earnings 
 with it in an attempt to procure iron or 
 copper. The dalespeople derided him, but 
 he held silently on his way. 
 
 ' How dusta find the cobbles to-day — any 
 softer ?' they would ask. 
 
 1 As soft as the hearts of most folk,' he 
 would answer, and then add in a murmur, 
 ' and maybe a vast harder nor their heads/ 
 
 The undeceiving came at length, and 
 then the Laird Fisher was old ar.d poor. 
 His wife died broken- hearted. After that 
 the Laird never rallied. The breezy irony
 
 3 3 A SON OF HAGAR. 
 
 of the dalesfolk did not spare the old man's 
 bent head. ' He's brankan' (holding up his 
 head) * like a steg swan/ they would say as 
 he went past. The shaft was left un worked, 
 and the holding lay fallow. Laird Fisher 
 took wage from the lord of the manor to 
 burn charcoal in the copse. 
 
 The old man had raised his vertical shaft, 
 and was laying the oak limbs against it, 
 when a girl of about eighteen came along 
 the road from the south, and clambered over 
 the stile that led to the charcoal pit. She 
 was followed by a sheep-dog, small and 
 wiry as a hill -fox. 
 
 ' Is that thee, Mercy ?' said the charcoal- 
 burner from the fire, without turning. 
 
 The girl was a pretty little thing ; yet 
 there was something wrong with her pretti- 
 ness. One saw at once that her cheeks 
 should have been pink and white like the 
 daisy ; and that her hair, which was yellow 
 as the primrose, should have tumbled in
 
 RETRO ME, SATHAXA. 39 
 
 wavelets about them. There ought to have 
 been sunshine in the blue eyes, and laughter 
 on the red lips, and a merry lilt in the soft 
 voice. But the pink had faded from the 
 girl's cheek ; the shadow had chased the 
 sunshine from her eyes ; her lips had taken 
 a downward turn, and a note of sadness had 
 stolen the merriment from her voice. 
 
 ' It's only your tea, father,' she said, 
 settiug down a basket. Then, taking up a 
 spoon that lay on the ground, she stirred the 
 mess that was simmering over the fire. 
 The dog lay and blinked in the sun. 
 
 A rabbit rustled through the coppice, and 
 a jay screeched in the distant glade. But 
 above all came the peals of merry laughter 
 from below. The girl's eyes wandered 
 yearningly to the tents over which the flags 
 were flying. 
 
 ' Do you hear the sports, father ?' she 
 said. 
 
 ' Ey, lass, there's gay carryin's on.
 
 4o A SON OF HAGAR. 
 
 They're chinning and chirping like as many 
 sparrows/ The old man twisted about. 
 ' I should have thowt as thou'd have been in 
 the thick of the thrang thysel, Mercy, 
 carryin' on the war.' 
 
 ' I didn't care to go,' said Mercy in an 
 undertone. 
 
 The old man looked at her silently for a 
 moment. 
 
 ' Ways me, but thoo's not the same heart - 
 some lass,' he said, and went on piling the 
 faggots round the shaft. ' But I count 
 nowt of sec wark/he added after a pause. 
 
 Little Mercy's eyes strayed back from the 
 bubbling pot to the tents below 7 . There 
 was a shout of applause. 
 
 ' That's Geordie Moore's voice,' thought 
 Mercy. She could see a circle with linked 
 hands. ' They're playing the cushion game/ 
 she said under her breath, and then drew a 
 long sigh. 
 
 Though she did not care to go to the sports
 
 RETRO ME, SATHANA. 41 
 
 to-day, she felt, oh ! so sick at heart. Like a 
 wounded hare that creeps into quiet ambush, 
 and lies down on the dry clover to die, she 
 had stolen away from all this noisy happi- 
 ness ; but her heart's joy was draining 
 away. In her wistful eyes there was some- 
 thing almost cruel in this bustling merri- 
 ment, in this flaunting gaiety, in this sweet 
 summer day itself. 
 
 The old charcoal-burner had stepped 
 up to where the girl kneeled with far-away 
 eyes. 
 
 ' Mercy,' he said, ' I've wanted a word 
 with you this many a day.' 
 
 < With me, father ?' 
 
 The girl rose to her feet. There was a 
 look of uneasiness in her face. 
 
 ' You've lost your spirits — what's come 
 of them V 
 
 ' Me, father ?' 
 
 The assumed surprise was in danger of 
 breaking down.
 
 42 A SON OF HAGAR. 
 
 < Not well, Mercy— is that it ?' 
 
 He took her head between his hard old 
 
 hands, and stroked her hair as tenderly as a 
 
 mother. 
 
 ' Oh yes, father, quite well, quite.' 
 Then there was a little forced laugh. 
 
 The lucent eyes were full of a dewy wist- 
 
 fulness. 
 
 * Any trouble, Mercy ?' 
 
 < What trouble, father ?' 
 
 ' Nay, any trouble — trouble's common, 
 isn't it ?' 
 
 The old man's voice shook slightly, and 
 his hand trembled on the girl's head. 
 
 1 What have I to trouble me ?' said Mercy 
 in a low voice nigh to breaking. 
 
 * Well, you know best,' said the charcoal- 
 burner. Then he put his hand under the 
 girl's chin and lifted her face until her un- 
 willing eyes looked into his. The scrutiny 
 appeared to console him, and a smile played 
 over his battered features. ' Maybe I was
 
 RETRO ME, SAT NANA. 43 
 
 wrong/ lie thought. ' Folk are alius 
 clattering/ 
 
 Mercy made another forced little laugh, 
 and instantly the Laird Fisher's face 
 saddened. 
 
 ' They do say 'at you're not the same 
 heartsome little lass,' he said. 
 
 ' Do they ? Oh, but I am quite happy ! 
 You always say people are busybodies, 
 don't you, father ?' The breakdown was 
 imminent. 
 
 * Why, Mercy, you're crying.' 
 
 ' Me — crying !' The girl tossed her 
 head with a pathetic gesture of gay pro- 
 testation. ' Oh no ; I was laughing — that 
 was it/ 
 
 * There are tears in your eyes, any- 
 ways/ 
 
 1 Tears ? Nonsense, father ! Tears ? 
 Didn't I tell you that your sight was failing 
 you — ey, didn't I, now ?' 
 
 It was of no use to struggle longer.
 
 44 A SON OF HAGAR. 
 
 The fair head fell on the heaving breast, 
 and Mercy sobbed. 
 
 The old man looked at her through a 
 blinding mist in his hazy eyes. ' Tell me, 
 my little lassie, tell me/ he said. 
 
 * Oh, it's nothing,' said Mercy. She 
 had brushed away the tears and was 
 smiling. 
 
 The Laird Fisher shook his head. 
 
 * It's nothing, father — only ' 
 
 ' Only— what ?' 
 
 ' Only — oh, it's nothing !' 
 
 'Mercy, my lass,' said the Laird Fisher, 
 and the tears stood now in his own dim old 
 eyes, ' Mercy, remember if owt goes wrong 
 with a girl, and her mother is under the 
 grass, her father is the first she should 
 come to and tell all.' 
 
 The old man had seated himself on a stout 
 block cut from a trunk, and was opening 
 the basket, when there was a light springy 
 step on the road.
 
 RE TR ME, SA THA NA . 4 5 
 
 ' So you fire to-night, Matthew?' 
 
 An elderly gentleman leaned over the 
 stile and smiled. 
 
 ' Nay, Mr. Bonnithorne, there's ower 
 much nastment in the weather yet.' 
 
 The gentleman took off his silk hat and 
 mopped his forehead. His hair was thin 
 and of a pale yellow, and was smoothed flat 
 on his brow. 
 
 ' You surprise me. I thought the 
 weather perfecL See how blue the sky is.' 
 
 ' That doesn't argy. It might be better 
 with never a blenk of blue. It was rayder 
 airy yesterday, and last night the moon 
 got up as blake and yellow as May butter/ 
 
 The smile was perpetual on the 
 gentleman's face. It showed his teeth 
 constantly. 
 
 6 You dalesmen are so weather wise. Odd, 
 isn't it?' The voice was soft and womanish. 
 There was a little laugh at the end of each 
 remark.
 
 4 > ^ mv <9F HAGAR. 
 
 ' We go by the moon in firing, sir,' the 
 charcoal-burner answered. ' Last night 
 it rose nor'west, and tha 1 ; doesn't mean 
 betterment, though it's quiet enough now. 
 There'll be clashy weather before nightfall.' 
 
 The girl had strayed away into the 
 thicket, and startled a woodcock out of a 
 heap of dead oak leaves. The gentleman 
 followed her with his eyes. They were 
 very small and piercing eyes, and they 
 blinked frequently. 
 
 ' Your daughter does not look very well, 
 Matthew ?' 
 
 'She's gaily, sir, she's gaily,' said the 
 charcoal-burner shortly, his mouth in his 
 can of tea. 
 
 The gentleman smiled from the teeth out. 
 After a pause he said, ' I suppose it isn't 
 pleasant when one of your hurdles is blown 
 down, and the charcoal burning,' indicating 
 the arc of wooden hurdles which had been 
 propped about the half-built charcoal stack.
 
 RETRO ME, SAT HAN A. 47 
 
 'Ey, it's gay bad wark to be sure — being 
 dragged into the fire.' 
 
 The dog had risen with a startled 
 movement. Following the upward direc- 
 tion of the animal's nose, the gentleman 
 said, ' Whose sheep are those in the ghyll 
 yonder ?' 
 
 ' Auld Mr. Rit son's, them herdwicks.' 
 
 The sheep were on a ridge of shelving 
 rock. 
 
 ' Dangerous spot, eh ?' 
 
 ' Ey, it's a bent place. They're varra 
 clammersome, the black faced sorts.' 
 
 ' I'll bid you good-day, Matthew.' The 
 yellow-haired elderly gentleman with the 
 perpetual smile was moving off. He 
 walked with a jerk and a spring on his toes. 
 1 And mind you take your daughter to the 
 new doctor at Keswick,' he said at parting. 
 
 * It's not doctoring that'll mend Mercy,' 
 the charcoal-burner muttered, when the 
 other had gone.
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 Josiah Bonnithorne was quite without kins- 
 people or connections. His mother had 
 been one of two sisters who lived by keeping 
 a small confectioner's shop in Whitehaven 
 and were devoted Methodists. The sisters 
 had formed views as to matrimony, and they 
 enjoyed a curious similarity of choice. 
 They were to be the wives of preachers. 
 But the opportunity was long in coming, 
 and they grew elderly. At length the 
 younger sister died, and so solved the 
 problem of her future. The elder sister 
 was left for two years more alone with her 
 confectionery. Then she married a stranger 
 who had come to one of the pits as gangs-
 
 RETRO ME, SATHANA. 49 
 
 man. It was a sad falling off. But at all 
 events the gangsman was a local preacher, 
 and so the poor soul who took him for 
 husband had effected a compromise with 
 her cherished ideal. It turned out that 
 he was a scoundrel as well, and had a wife 
 living elsewhere. This disclosure abridged 
 his usefulness among the brethren, and he 
 fled. Naturally he left his second wife 
 behind, having previously secured a bill of 
 sale on her household effects. A few months 
 elapsed, the woman was turned adrift by 
 her husband's creditors, and then a child 
 was born. It was a poor little thing — a 
 boy. The good souls of the ' connection ' 
 provided for it until it was two years old, 
 and afterwards placed it in a charity school. 
 While the little fellow was there, his mother 
 was struck down by a mortal complaint. 
 Then for the first time the poor ruined 
 woman asked to see her child. They 
 brought the little one to her bedside, and 
 vol. 1. 4
 
 So A SON OF HAGAR. 
 
 it smiled down into her dying face. ' Oh, 
 that it may please the Lord to make him a 
 preacher!' she said with a great effort. At 
 a sign from the doctor the child was taken 
 away. The face pinched hy cruel suffering- 
 quivered slightly, the timid eyes worn by 
 wasted hope softened and closed, and the 
 mother bade farewell to everything. 
 
 The boy lived. They christened him 
 Josiah, and he took for surname the 
 maiden name of his mother, Bonnithorne. 
 He was a weakling, and had no love of 
 . boyish sports ; but he excelled in scholar- 
 ship. In spite of these tendencies he was 
 apprenticed to a butcher when the time 
 came to remove him from school. An 
 accident transferred him to the office of 
 a solicitor, and he was articled. Ten 
 years later he succeeded to his master's 
 practice, and then he sailed with all sail 
 set. 
 
 He disappointed the ' connection ' by
 
 RE TRO ME, SA THA NA. 51 
 
 developing into a Churchman, but other- 
 wise aroused no hostile feeling. It was 
 obviously his cue to conciliate everybody. 
 He was liked without being popular, trusted 
 without being a favourite. Churchwarden, 
 trustee for public funds, executor for private 
 friends, he had a reputation for disinterested 
 industry. And people said how well it was 
 that one so unselfish as Josiah Bonnithorne 
 should nevertheless prosper even as this 
 world goes. 
 
 But there was a man in Cumberland who 
 knew Mr. Bonnithorne from the crown of 
 his head to the sole of his foot. That mini 
 was Mr. Hugh Bitson. Xever for an 
 instant did either of these palter with 
 the other. 
 
 When Mr. Bonnithorne left the charcoal- 
 pit, he followed the road that crossed the 
 Newlands Beck, and returned on the breast 
 of the Eel Crags. This led him close to the 
 booth where the sports were proceeding. 
 
 4—2 
 
 LIBRARY 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF Ununm
 
 52 A SON OF HAGAR. 
 
 He heard as he passed the gurgling laugh 
 with which the dalesfolk received the 
 pedlar's story of how he saw T Paul Ritson 
 at Hendon. A minute afterwards he en- 
 countered Hugh Ritson on the road. There 
 was only the most meagre pretence at 
 greeting when these men came face to face. 
 
 ' Your father sent for me/ said Mr. Bonni- 
 thorne. 
 
 ' On what business V Hugh Ritson 
 asked. 
 
 ' I have yet to learn.' 
 
 They walked some steps without speaking. 
 Then the lawyer turned with his conven- 
 tional smile, and said in his soft voice : ' I 
 have just seen your little friend. She looks 
 pale, poor thing. Something must be done, 
 and shortly/ 
 
 Hugh Ritson's face flushed perceptibly. 
 His eyes were on the ground. 
 
 4 Let us go no farther in this matter,' he 
 said in a low, deep tone. ' I saw her
 
 RETRO ME, SATHANA. 53 
 
 yesterday. Then there is her father, poor 
 broken creature ! Let it drop.' 
 
 * I did not believe it of you ! Odd, isn't 
 it ?' Mr. Bonnithorne spoke calmly, and 
 went on smiling. 
 
 ' Besides, I am ashamed. The thing is 
 too mean,' said Hugh Ritson. ' In what 
 turgid melodrama does not just such an 
 episode occur ?' 
 
 ' So, so ! Such compunctious qualms ! 
 Or is it the story of the cat in the adage ? 
 You would and you wouldn't V 
 
 ' My blood is not thick enough, Bonni- 
 thorne. I can't do it.' 
 
 1 Then why did you propose it ? "Was 
 it your suggestion or mine ? I thought to 
 spare the girl her shame. Here her troubles 
 must fall on her in battalions, poor little 
 being. Send her away, and you decimate 
 them.' 
 
 1 It is unnecessary. You know I am 
 superior to prejudice.' Hugh Ritson
 
 54 A SON OF HAGAR. 
 
 dropped his voice and said, as if speaking 
 into his breast : * If the worst comes to 
 the worst I can marry her/ 
 
 Mr. Bonnithorne laughed lightly. 
 
 ' Ho ! ho ! And in what turgid melo- 
 drama does not just such an episode occur?' 
 
 Hugh Kit son drew up sharply. 
 
 ' Why not ? Is she poor ? Then what 
 am I ? Uneducated ? What is education 
 likely to do for me ? A simple creature, 
 all heart and no head ? God be praised 
 for that !' 
 
 At this moment a girl's laugh came 
 rippling through the air. It was one of 
 those joyous peals that make the heart's 
 own music. Hugh Ritson's pale face 
 flushed a little, and he drew his breath 
 hard. 
 
 Mr. Bonnithorne nodded his head in the 
 direction of the voice, and said softly : ' So 
 our friend Greta is here to- day.' 
 
 ' Yes/ said Hugh Ritson very quietly.
 
 RETRO ME, SAT HAN A. 55 
 
 Mr. Bonnithorne's smile broadened. 
 Then the friends walked some distance 
 in silence. 
 
 1 It is scarcely worthy of you to talk in 
 this brain-sick fashion/ said Mr. Bonni- 
 thorne. There was a dull irritation in the 
 tone. ' You place yourself in the wrong 
 point of view. You do not love the little 
 being.' 
 
 Hugh Ritson's forehead contracted, and 
 he said : ' If I have wrecked my life by one 
 folly, one act of astounding unwisdom, what 
 matter ? There was but little to wreck. 
 I am a disappointed man.' 
 
 ' Pardon me, you are a very young one/ 
 said the lawyer. 
 
 ' What am I in my father's house ? He 
 gives no hint of helping me to an inde- 
 pendence in life.' 
 
 ' There are the lands. Your father must 
 be a rich man.' 
 
 * And I am a second son,'
 
 56 A SON OF HA GAR. 
 
 ' Indeed ?' 
 
 Hugh Eitson glanced up quickly. 
 
 1 What do you mean ?' 
 
 ' You say you are a second son.' 
 
 ' And what then ?' 
 
 ' You start. Would it be so fearful a 
 thing if you were not a second son ?' 
 
 ' In the name of truth, be plain. My 
 brother Paul is living.' 
 
 Mr. Bonnithorne nodded his head 
 twice or thrice, and said calmly : ' You 
 know that your brother hopes to marry 
 Greta ?' 
 
 ' I have heard it.' 
 
 Again the flush came to Hugh Kit- 
 son's cheeks. His low voice had a 
 tremor. 
 
 Mr. Bonnithorne laughed a little behind 
 his teeth. 
 
 ' Did I ever tell you of her father's 
 strange legacy ?' 
 
 ' Never.'
 
 RETRO ME, SAT HA X A. 57 
 
 ' My poor dead friend Bobert Lowther 
 left a handsome legacy to a son of his own, 
 who was Greta's half-brother/ 
 
 * An illegitimate son ?' 
 
 ' Not strictly. Lowther married the 
 son's mother,' said Mr. Bonnithorne. 
 
 ' Married her ? Then his son was his 
 heir ?' 
 
 1 No.' 
 
 < No ?' 
 
 Hugh Bitson looked perplexed. 
 
 ' The girl was a Catholic, Lowther a 
 Protestant. A Catholic priest married 
 them in Ireland. That was not a valid 
 marriage by English law.' 
 
 Hugh smiled grimly. 
 
 1 And Lowther had the marriage an- 
 nulled r 
 
 ' He had fallen in love,' began Mr. 
 Bonnithorne. 
 
 1 This time with an heiress ?' There was 
 u caustic lau^h.
 
 58 A SON OF HAGAR. 
 
 Mr. Bonnithorne nodded. ' Greta's 
 mother. So he ' 
 
 1 Abandoned the first wife/ Hugh Eitson 
 interrupted again. 
 
 Mr. Bonnithorne shook his head with an 
 innocent expression. 
 
 < Wife ? Well, he left her.' 
 
 ' You talk of a son. Had they a child V 
 
 ' They, had/ said Mr. Bonnithorne, 
 ' and when the woman and child . . . dis- 
 appeared ' 
 
 6 Exactly/ said Hugh Eitson, and he 
 smiled. 
 
 The lawyer raised his head with a weak 
 show of injured dignity. 
 
 ' You wrong my dead friend by impli- 
 cation — the woman and child hid them- 
 selves.' 
 
 ' What did Lowther then ?' 
 
 ' Married again, and had a daughter — 
 Greta.' 
 
 * Then why the legacy ?'
 
 RETRO ME, SAT HAN A. 59 
 
 1 Conscience-money,' said Mr. Bonni- 
 thorne, pursing up his mouth. 
 
 Hugh Eitson laughed slightly. 
 
 ' The sort of fools' pence the Chancellor 
 of the Exchequer receives labelled "Income 
 Tax." ' 
 
 ' Precisely — only Lowther had no address 
 to send it to.' 
 
 1 He had behaved like a scoundrel,' said 
 Hugh Eitson. 
 
 1 True, and he felt remorse. After the 
 second marriage he set people to find the 
 poor woman and child. They were never 
 found. His last days were overshadowed 
 by his early fault. I believe he died 
 brokenhearted. In his will — I drew it for 
 him, poor dearEobert ! — he left, as I say, a 
 handsome sum to be paid to this son of his 
 first wife — when found.' 
 
 Hugh Eitson laughed half mockingly. 
 
 ' I thought he was a fool. A scoundrel 
 is generally a fool as well.'
 
 60 A SON OF HAGAR. 
 
 'Generally; I've often observed it,' said 
 Mr. Bonnithorne. 
 
 There was a momentary commerce of 
 smiles. 
 
 ' What possible interest of anybody's 
 could it be to go hunting for the son of 
 the fool's deserted wife V 
 
 1 The fool,' answered Mr. Bonnithorne, 
 * was shrewd enough to make an interest 
 by ordering that if the son were not found 
 before Greta came of age, a legacy of double 
 the sum should be paid to an orphanage for 
 boys.' 
 
 Hugh Ritson's respect for the dead 
 man's intelligence experienced a sensible 
 elevation. 
 
 ' So it is worth a legacy to . the family 
 to discover Greta's half-brother,' he said, 
 summing up the situation in an instant. 
 
 1 If alive — if not, then proof that lie is 
 dead.' 
 
 The two men had walked some distance,
 
 RETRO ME, SATHAXA. 
 
 and reached the turning of a lane which 
 led to a house that could be seen among 
 the trees at the foot of a gyhll. The 
 younger man drew up on his infirm foot. 
 
 1 But I fail to catch the relevance of all 
 this. When I mentioned that I was a 
 second son you ■' 
 
 ' I have had hardly any data to help me 
 in my search/ Mr. Bonnithorne continued. 
 He was walking on. ' Only a medallion- 
 portrait of the first wife.' The lawyer dived 
 into a breast-pocket. 
 
 1 My brother Paul is living. What 
 possible ' 
 
 1 Here it is,' said Mr. Bonnithorne, and 
 he held out a small picture. 
 
 Hugh Ritson took it with little interest. 
 
 1 This is the portrait of a nun/ he said, 
 as his eyes first fell on it, and recognised 
 the coif and cape. 
 
 1 A novice — that's what she was when 
 Lowther met her,' said Mr. Bonnithorne.
 
 62 A SON OF HAGAR. 
 
 Then Hugh Eitson stopped. He re- 
 garded the portrait attentively; looked up 
 at the lawyer and back at the medallion. 
 For an instant the strong calm which he 
 had hitherto shown seemed to desert him. 
 The picture trembled in his hand. Mr, 
 Bonnithorne did not appear to see his 
 agitation. 
 
 1 Is it a fancy ? Surely it must be a 
 fancy !' he muttered. 
 
 Then he asked aloud what the nun's 
 name had been. 
 
 ' Ormerod/ 
 
 There was a start of recovered con- 
 sciousness. 
 
 ' Ormerod — that's strange !' 
 
 The exclamation seemed to escape in- 
 advertently. 
 
 • Why strange ?' 
 
 Hugh Eitson did not answer imme- 
 diately. 
 
 ' Her Christian name ?'
 
 RETRO ME, SATHANA. 63 
 
 1 Grace/ 
 
 ' Grace Orinerod ? Why, you must 
 know that Grace Ormerod happened to be 
 my own mother's maiden name !' 
 
 1 You don't say so ! Odd, isn't it ? 
 Yon seem to recognise the portrait.' 
 
 Hugh Eitson had regained his self- 
 possession. He assumed an air of in- 
 difference. 
 
 ' Well, yes — no, of course not — no,' he 
 said" emphatically at last. 
 
 In his heart there was another answer. 
 He thought for the moment when he set 
 eyes on the picture that it looked like — a 
 little like — his own mother's face. 
 
 They walked on. Mr. Bonnithorne's 
 perpetual smile parted his lips. Lifting 
 his voice rather unnecessarily, he said : 
 
 ' By the way, another odd coincidence ! 
 Would you like to know the name of Grace 
 Ormerod 's child by Piobert Lowther ?' 
 
 Hugh Bitson's heart leapt within him,
 
 64 A SON OF HAGAR. 
 
 but he preserved an outward show of in- 
 difference, and drawled : 
 
 ' Well, what was it ?' 
 
 < Paul/ 
 
 The name went through him like an 
 arrow. Then he said rather languidly : 
 
 ' So the half-brother of Greta Lowther, 
 wherever he is, is named ' 
 
 * Paul Lowther,' said Mr. Eonnithorne. 
 ' But/ he added, with a quick glance, ' he 
 may — I say he may — be passing by another 
 name — Paul something else, for example/ 
 
 * Assuredly — certainly — yes— yes,' Hugh 
 Pdtson mumbled. His ail-but impenetrable 
 calm was gone. 
 
 They had reached the front of the house, 
 and stood in a paved courtyard. It was 
 the home of the Bit sons, known as the 
 Ghyll, a long Cumbrian homestead of grey 
 stone and green slate. A lazy curl of 
 smoke was winding up from one chimney 
 through the clear air. A gossamer net of
 
 RETRO ME, SATHANA. 65 
 
 the tangled boughs of a slim briar-rose 
 hung over the face of a broad porch, and at 
 that moment a butterfly flitted through it. 
 The chattering of geese came from behind. 
 
 ' Robert Lowther was the father of 
 Grace Ormerod's child ?' said Hugh Ritson 
 vacantly. 
 
 ' The father of her son Paul/ 
 
 1 And Greta is his daughter ? Is that 
 how it goes ?' 
 
 ' That is so — and half-sister of Paul.' 
 
 Hugh Ritson raised his eyes to Mr. 
 Bonnithorne's face. ' And of what age 
 would Paul Lowther be now ?' 
 
 ' "Well, older than you, certainly. Per- 
 haps as old as — yes, perhaps as old — fully 
 as old as your brother.' 
 
 Hugh Ritson's infirm foot trailed heavily 
 on the stones. His lips quivered. For a 
 moment he seemed to h* rr.pt. Tlien he 
 swung about and muttered : 
 
 * Tut, it isn't within belief. Trusted 
 
 vol. 1. 5
 
 66 A SON OF HAGAR. 
 
 home, it might betray a man, heaven only 
 knows how deeply.' 
 
 Mr. Bonnithorne looked up inquiringly. 
 ' Pardon me, I fail, as you say, to catch the 
 relevance/ 
 
 'Mr. Bonnithorne,' said Hugh Ritson, 
 holding out his hand, ' you and I have long- 
 been good friends, have we not ?' 
 
 ' Oh, the best of good friends.' 
 
 ' At your leisure, when I have had 
 time to think of this, let us discuss it 
 further.' 
 
 Mr. Bonnithorne smiled assent. ' And 
 meantime,' he said softly, ' let the unhappy 
 little being we spoke of be sent away.' 
 
 Hugh Ritson's eyes fell, and his voice 
 deepened. ' Poor little soul — I'm sorry — 
 damnably.' 
 
 ' As for Greta and her lover — well ' 
 
 the lawyer nod^^d his head significantly, 
 and left his words unfinished. 
 
 'My father is crossing the stackyard,'
 
 RETRO ME, SATHANA. 67 
 
 said Hugh Ritson. ' You shall see him in 
 good time. Come this way.' 
 
 The shadows were lengthening in the 
 valley. A purple belt was stretching across 
 the distant hills, and a dark blue tint was 
 nestling under the eaves. A solitary crow 
 flew across the sky, and cawed out its gut- 
 tural note. Its shadow fell, as it passed, on 
 two elderly people who were coming into 
 the courtyard. 
 
 —2
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 ' It's time for that laal Mr. Bonnithorne to 
 be here,' said Allan Eitson. 
 
 1 Why did you send for him ?' asked Mrs. 
 Eitson, in the low tone that was natural to 
 her. 
 
 ' To get that matter about the will off 
 my mind. It'll be one thing less to think 
 about, and it has boddert me sair and 
 lang.' 
 
 Allan spoke with the shuffling reserve of 
 a man to whose secret communings a pain- 
 ful idea had been too long familiar. In the 
 effort to cast off the unwelcome and secret 
 associate, there was a show of emancipation
 
 RETRO ME, SATHANA. 6, 
 
 which, as an acute observer might see, wis 
 more reassumed than real. 
 
 Mrs. Ritson made no terms with the 
 affectation of indifference. Her grave face 
 became yet more grave, and her soft voic3 
 grew softer as she said, ' And if when it is 
 settled and done the cloud would break that 
 has hung over our lives, then all would be 
 well ! But that can never be !' 
 
 Allan tossed his head aside, and made 
 pretence to smile ; but no gleam of sunshine 
 on his corn-fields was ever chased so closely 
 by the line of dark shadow, as his smile by 
 the frown that followed. 
 
 1 Come, worrit thysel' na mair about it ! 
 When I've made my will, and put Paul on 
 the same footing with t'other lad. who 
 knows owt mair nor we choosa to tell ?' 
 
 Mrs. Eitson glanced into his faco with a 
 look of sad reproach. ' Heaven knows, 
 Allan,' she said, 'and the dark cloud still 
 gathers for us there.'
 
 ;o A SOX OF HAGAR. 
 
 The old man took a step or two on the 
 gravel path, and dropped his grey head. 
 His voice deepened : * Tha says reef, mother,' 
 he said, ' tha says reet. Ey, it saddens my 
 auld days — and thine forby F He took a 
 step or two more and added, ' And na lawyer 
 can shak' it off now. Nay, nay, never now. 
 Weel, mother, our sky has been lang ower- 
 kessen, but, mind ye,' lifting his face and 
 voice together, ' we've had gude crops if we 
 tholed some thistles/ 
 
 ' Yes, we've had happy days too,' said 
 Mrs. Kit son. 
 
 At that moment there came from across 
 the vale the shouts of the merrymakers and 
 the music of a fiddle. Allan Eitson lifted 
 his head, nodded it aside jauntily, and 
 smiled feebly through the mist that was 
 gathering about his eyes. 
 
 ' There they are — wrestling and jumping. 
 I mind me when there was scarce a man in 
 Cummerlan' could give me the cross-buttock.
 
 RETRO ME, S A 777 'ANA. 71 
 
 That's many a lang year agone, though. And 
 now our Paul can manish most on 'em — 
 that he can.' 
 
 The fiddle was playing a country dance. 
 The old man listened : his face broadened, 
 he lifted a leg jauntily, and gave a sweep of 
 one arm. 
 
 Just then there came through the air a 
 peal of happy laughter. It was the same 
 heart's music that Hugh Ritson and Mr. 
 Bonnithorne had heard in the road. Allan; s 
 face brightened, and his voice had only the 
 faintest crack in it as he said, ' That's 
 Greta's laugh! It is for sure! What a 
 heartsome lass yon is ! I like a heartsome 
 lassie — a merry touch, and gone!' 
 
 'Yes,' said Mrs. Ritson soberly; * Greta 
 is a winsome girl/ 
 
 It was hardly spoken when a young girl 
 bounded down upon them, almost breathless, 
 yet laughing in gusts, turning her head 
 over her shoulder and shouting :
 
 72 A SON OF HAGAR. 
 
 i Hurrah ! Beaten, sir ! Hurrah !' 
 
 It was Greta Lowther : twenty years of 
 age, with fair hair, quick brown eyes, a 
 sunny face lighted up with youthful anima- 
 tion, a swift smile on her parted lips — an 
 English wild white rose. 
 
 1 I've beaten him,' she said. ' He 
 challenged me to cross Windybrowe while 
 he ran round the Bowder stone, but I got to 
 the lonnin before he had crossed the bridge/ 
 
 Then, running to the corner of the lane, 
 she plucked off her straw hat, waved it 
 about her head, and shouted again in an 
 accent of triumph : 
 
 'Hurrah! hurrah! beaten, sir, beaten!' 
 
 Paul Bitson came running down the fell 
 in strides of two yards apiece. 
 
 ' Oh, you young rogue — you cheated!" 
 he cried, coming to a stand and catching 
 his breath. 
 
 ' Cheated ?' said Greta, in a tone of dire 
 amazement.
 
 RETRO ME, SATHANA. 73 
 
 ' You bargained to touch the beacon on 
 the top of Windybrowe, and you didn't go 
 within a hundred yards of it.' 
 
 ■ The beacon ? On Windybrowe ?'■ said 
 the girl, and wondrous perplexity shone in 
 her lovely eyes. 
 
 Paul wiped his brow, and shook his head 
 and his finger with mock gravity at the 
 beautiful cheat. 
 
 ' Now, Greta, now — now — gently ' 
 
 Greta looked round with the bewildered 
 gaze of a lost lambkin. 
 
 ' Mother,' said Paul, ' she stole a march 
 on me.' 
 
 ' He was the thief, Mrs. Pdtson : you 
 believe me, don't you ?' 
 
 ' Me ? why I never stole anything in my 
 life, — save one thing/ 
 
 ' And what was that, pray ?' said Greta, 
 with another mighty innocent look. 
 
 Paul crept up to her side and whispered 
 something over her shoulder, whereupon
 
 74 A SON OF HAGAR. 
 
 she eyed liim largely, and said with a quick 
 smile : ' You don't say so ! But please 
 don't be too certain of it. I'm sure I never 
 heard of that theft/ 
 
 ' Then here's a theft you shall hear of,' 
 said Paul, throwing one arm about her neck, 
 and tipping up her chin. 
 
 There was a sudden gleam of rosy, roguish 
 lips. Old Allan, with mischief dancing in 
 his eyes, pretended to recover them from a 
 more distant sight. 
 
 ' Ey, why, what's that ?' he said, ' the 
 sneck of a gate, eh ?' 
 
 Greta drew herself up. ' How can 
 you, — and all the people looking — they 
 might really think that we were — we 
 were ' 
 
 Paul came behind, put his head over 
 one shoulder, and said, 'And we're not, 
 are we ?' * 
 
 1 They're weel matched, mother, eh ?' 
 said Allan, turning to his wife. ' They're
 
 RETRO ME, SATHAXA. 75 
 
 marra-to-bran, as folk say. Greta, he's a 
 girt booby, isn't he T 
 
 Greta stepped up to the old man, and 
 with a familiar gesture laid a hand on his 
 arm. At the same moment Paul came to 
 his side. Allan tapped his sou on the back. 
 1 Thou girt lang booby,' he said, and 
 laughed heartily. All the shadows that had 
 hung over him were gone. ' x\nd how's 
 Parson Christian ?' he asked in another 
 tone. 
 
 ■ Well, quite well, and as dear an old 
 soul as ever,' said Greta. 
 
 * He's father and mother to thee baith, 
 my lass. I never knew thy awn father. 
 He was dead and gone before we coom't to 
 these parts. And thy mother, too, God 
 bless her ! she's dead and gone now. But 
 if this lad of mine, this Paul, this girt lang 
 
 Ah, and here's Mr. Bonnithorne, and 
 
 Hughie, too.' 
 
 The return of the lawyer and Hugh
 
 76 A SON OF HAGAR. 
 
 Eitson abridged the threat of punishment 
 that seemed to hang large on the old man's 
 lips. 
 
 Hugh Eitson's lifted eyes had com- 
 prehended everything. The girl leaning 
 over his father's arm ; the pure smooth 
 cheeks close to the swarthy, weather-beaten, 
 comfortable old face ; the soft gaze upwards 
 full of feeling ; the half open lips and the 
 teeth like pearls ; then the glance round, half 
 of mockery, half of protest, altogether of 
 unconquerable love, to where Paul Eitson 
 stood, his eyes j ast breaking into a smile ; 
 the head, the neck, the arms, the bosom 
 still heaving gently after the race ; the light 
 loose costume — Hugh Eitson saw it all, 
 and his heart beat fast. His pale face 
 whitened at that moment, and his infirm foot 
 trailed heavily on the gravel. 
 
 Allan shook hands with Mr. Bonnithorne, 
 and then turned to his sons. ' Come, you 
 two lads, have no been glide friends latterly,
 
 RETRO ME, SATHANA. 77 
 
 and that's a sair grief baith to your mother 
 and me. You're not made in the same 
 mould seemingly. But you must mak' up 
 your fratch, my lads, for your auld folk's 
 sake, if nowt else. 5 
 
 At this he stretched out both arms, as if 
 with the intention of joining their hands. 
 Hugh made a gesture of protestation. 
 
 ■ I have no quarrel to make up,' he said, 
 and turned aside. 
 
 Paul held out his hand. ' Shake hands, 
 Hugh/ he said. Hugh took the proffered 
 hand with unresponsive coldness. 
 
 Paul glanced into his brother's face a 
 moment, and said, ' What's the use of 
 breeding malice ? It's a sort of live stock 
 that's not worth its fodder, and it eats up 
 everything/ 
 
 There was a scarcely perceptible curl 
 on Hugh Pdtson's lip, but he turned silently 
 away. With head on his breast he walked 
 towards the porch.
 
 ;S A SOX OF HAGAR. 
 
 < Stop/ 
 
 It was old Allan's voice. The deep tone 
 betrayed the anger that was choking him. 
 His face was flushed, his eyes were stern, 
 his lips trembled. 
 
 1 Come back and shak' hands wi' thy 
 brother reet.' 
 
 Hugh Eitson faced about, leaning heavily 
 on his infirm foot. ' Why to-day more than 
 yesterday or to-morrow ?' he said calmly. 
 
 ' Come back, I tell thee,' shouted the old 
 man more hotly. 
 
 Hugh maintained his hold of himself, 
 and said in a quiet and even voice, ' I am 
 no longer a child/ 
 
 ' Then bear thyseF like a man — not like 
 a whipped hound.' 
 
 The young man shuddered secretly from 
 head to foot. His eyes flashed for an 
 instant. Then, recovering his self control, 
 he said, ' Even a dog would resent such 
 language, sir.'
 
 RETRO ME, SATHANA. 79 
 
 Greta had dropped aside from the painful 
 scene, and for a moment Hugh Bitson's 
 eyes followed her. 
 
 ' I'll have no see worriinent in my 
 house,' shouted the old man in a broken 
 voice. ' Those that live here must live 
 at peace. Those that want war must 
 
 go, 
 
 Hugh Pdtson could bear up no longer. 
 ' And what is your house to me, sir ? 
 What has it done for me ? The world is 
 wide/ 
 
 Old Allan was confounded. Silent, 
 dumb, with great staring eyes, he looked 
 round into the faces of those about him. 
 Then in thick choking tones he shouted, 
 ' Shak' thy brother's hand, or thou'rfc no 
 brother of his.' 
 
 1 Perhaps not,' said Hugh very quietly. 
 
 ' Shak' hands, I tell thee.' The old man's 
 fists were clenched. His body quivered 
 in eve rv limb.
 
 So A SON OF HAGAR. 
 
 His son's lips were firmly set ; he made 
 no answer. 
 
 Then the old man snatched from Mr. 
 Bonnithorne the stick he carried. At this 
 Hugh lifted his eyes sharply until they met 
 the eyes of his father. Allan was trans- 
 fixed. The stick fell from his hand. Then 
 Hugh Ritson halted into the house. 
 
 ' Come back, come back . . . my boy 
 . . . Hughie . . . come back!' the old 
 man sobbed out. But there was no reply. 
 
 ' Allan, be patient, forgive him ; he will 
 ask your pardon/ said Mrs. Bitson. 
 
 Paul and Greta had stolen away. The 
 old man was now speechless, and his eyes, 
 bent on the ground, swam with tears. 
 
 ' All will be well, please God,' said Mrs. 
 Bitson. ' Bemember, he is sorely tried, 
 poor boy. He expected you to do some- 
 thing for him.' 
 
 ' And I meant to, I meant to —that I 
 did/ the father answered in a broken cry.
 
 RETRO ME, SATHANA. 81 
 
 ' But you've put it off, and off, Allan 
 — like everything else/ 
 
 Allan lifted his hazy eyes from the 
 ground, and looked into his wife's face. 
 * If it had been the other lad I could have 
 borne it maybe,' he said feelingly. 
 
 Mr. Bonnithorne, standing aside, had 
 been ploughing the gravel with one foot. 
 He now raised his eyes and said, with his 
 customary smile, ' And yet, Mr. Ritson, 
 folk say that you have always shown most 
 favour to your eldest son.' 
 
 The old man's gaze rested on the lawyer 
 for a moment, but he did not speak. Mr. 
 Bonnithorne went on smiling ; and to break 
 an awkward silence he added, ' Odd, isn't 
 it?' 
 
 ' I've summat to say to Mr. Bonnithorne, 
 mother,' said the statesman. He was 
 quieter now. Mrs. Ritson stepped into the 
 house. 
 
 Allan Ritson and the lawyer followed her, 
 
 vol. i. 6
 
 82 A SON OF HAGAR. 
 
 going into a little parlour to the right of the 
 porch. It was a quaint room, full of the odour 
 of a bygone time. The floorwas of polished 
 black oak, covered with skins ; the ceiling 
 was of panelled oak, and had a panelled 
 beam. Bright oak cupboards, their fronts 
 carved with rude figures, were set into the 
 walls, which were whitened, and bore one 
 illuminated text and three prints in black 
 and white. The furniture was heavy and 
 old. There was a spinning-wheel under the 
 wide window-board. A bluebottle buzzed 
 about the ceiling ; a slant of sunlight 
 crossed the floor. The men sat clown. 
 
 ' I sent for thee to mak' my will, Bonni- 
 thorne/ said the old man. 
 
 The lawyer smiled. 
 
 ' A necessary precaution, such as admits 
 of no delay. It is a legal maxim that delay 
 in affairs of law is a candle that burns in 
 the daytime : when the night comes it is 
 burnt to the socket/
 
 RETRO ME, SATHAXA. S 3 
 
 Old Allan took little heed of the sentiment. 
 
 ' Ey,' he said, 'but there's mair nor 
 common 'casion for it in my case/ 
 
 The lawyer was instantly on the alert. 
 
 'And what is your especial reason?' he 
 asked. 
 
 Allan's mind seemed to wander. He 
 stood silent for a moment, and then said 
 slowly, as if labouring with thought and 
 phrase : 
 
 ' Weel, tha must know . e . I scarce 
 know how to tell thee. . . . Weel, my 
 eldest son, Paul as they call him ? 
 
 The old man stopped, and his manner grew 
 sullen. Mr. Bonnithorne came to his help. 
 
 ' Yes, I am all attention — your eldest 
 son ' 
 
 ' He is he is ' 
 
 The door opened and Mrs. Eitson entered 
 the room, followed close by the Laird 
 Fisher. 
 
 1 Mr. Eitson, your sheep, them black- 
 
 6—2
 
 84 A SON OF HAGAR. 
 
 faced herd wicks on Hindscarth, have broken 
 the fences, and the red drift of 'em is down 
 in the barrowmouth of the pass/ said the 
 charcoal-burner. 
 
 The statesman got on his feet. 
 
 ' 1 must gang away at once/ he said. 
 ' Mr. Bonnithorne, I must put thee off, or 
 maybe I'll lose fifty head of sheep down in 
 the ghyll/ 
 
 ' I made so bold as to tell ye, for I reckon 
 we'll have all maks of weathers yet.' 
 
 ' Tha's reet, Mattha ; and reet neigh- 
 bourly forby. I'll slip away after thee in a 
 thumb's snitting/ 
 
 The Laird Fisher went out. 
 
 ' Can ye bide here for me until eight 
 o'clock to-neet, Mr. Bonnithorne ?' 
 
 There was some vexation written on the 
 lawyer's face, but he answered with meek- 
 ness : 
 
 ' I am always at your service, Mr. Ritson. 
 I can return at eight.'
 
 RETRO ME, SATHANA. 85 
 
 'Varra good/ Then, turning to Mrs. 
 Bitson, ' Give friend Bonnithorne a bite o' 
 summat, said Allan, and he followed the 
 charcoal-burner. Oat in the courtyard he 
 called the dogs. ' Hey ho we ! hey ho we ! 
 Bright ! Laddie ! Come, boys, come, boys, 
 te-lick, te-smack !' 
 
 He put his head in at the door of an out- 
 house and shouted, ' Beuben, whereiver ista? 
 Come thy ways quick, and bring the lad !' 
 
 In another moment a young shepherd 
 and a cowherd, surrounded by three or 
 four sheep-dogs, joined Allan Bitson in the 
 courtyard. 
 
 ■ Dusta gang back to the fell, Mattha ?' 
 said the statesman. 
 
 1 Nay, Is done for the day. I'm away 
 home.' 
 
 * Good-neet, and thank.' 
 
 Then the troop disappeared down the 
 lonnin — the men calling, the dogs bark-
 
 £6 A SON OF HAGAR. 
 
 In walking through the hall Mr. Bonni- 
 thorne encountered Hugh Eitson, who was 
 passing out of the house, his face very 
 hard, his head much bent. 
 
 'Would you,' said the lawyer, still 
 meekly, ' like to know the business on 
 which I have been called here ?' 
 
 Hugh Eitson did not immediately raise 
 his eyes. 
 
 * To make his will,' added Mr. Bonni- 
 thorne, not waiting for an answer. 
 
 Then Hugh Eitson 's eyes were lifted ; 
 there was one flash of intelligence ; after 
 that the young man went out without a 
 word.
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 Hugh Eitson was seven-and-twenty. His 
 clean-shaven face was long, pale, and intel- 
 lectual ; his nose was wide at the bridge 
 and full at the nostrils ; he had firm-set 
 lips, large vehement eyes, and a broad fore- 
 head, with hair of dark auburn parted 
 down the middle and falling in thin waves 
 on the temples. The expression of the 
 physiognomy in repose was one of pain and 
 in action of power ; the effect of the whole 
 was not unlike that which is produced by 
 the face of a high-bred horse, with its deep 
 eyes and dilated nostrils. He was barely 
 above medium height, and his figure was 
 almost delicate. When he spoke his voice
 
 A SON OF HAGAR. 
 
 startled you — it was so low and deep to 
 come from that slight frame. His lameness, 
 which was slight, was due to a long-stand- 
 ing infirmity of the hip. 
 
 As second son of a Cumbrian statesman, 
 whose estate consisted chiefly of land, he 
 expected but little from his father, and had 
 been trained in the profession of a mining 
 engineer. After spending a few months at 
 the iron mines of Cleator, he had removed 
 to London at twenty-two, and enrolled him- 
 self as a student of the Mining College in 
 Jermyn Street. There he had spent four 
 years, sharing the chambers of a young bar- 
 rister in the Temple Gardens. His London 
 career was uneventful. Taciturn in manner, 
 he made few friends. His mind had a ten- 
 dency towards contemplative inactivity. Of 
 physical energy he had very little, and this 
 may have been partly due to his infirmity. 
 Late at night he would walk alone in the 
 Strand : the teeming life of the city, and
 
 RETRO ME, SATHANA. 89 
 
 the mystery of its silence after midnight, 
 had a strong fascination for him. In these 
 rambles he came to know some of the 
 . strangest and oddest of the rags and rinsings 
 of humanity : among them a Persian noble- 
 man of the late Shah's household, who kept 
 a small tobacco -shop at the corner of a by- 
 street, and an old French exile, once of 
 the court of Louis Phillippe, who sold the 
 halfpenny papers. At other times he 
 went out hardly at all, and was rarely 
 invited. 
 
 Only the housemate, who saw him at all 
 times and in many moods, seemed to suspect 
 that beneath that cold exterior there lay an 
 ardent nature. But he himself knew how 
 strong was the tide of his passion. He could 
 never look a beautiful woman in the face 
 but his pulse beat high, and he felt almost 
 faint. Yet strong as his passion was, his 
 will was no less strong. He put a check 
 on himself, and during his four years in
 
 go A SON OF HAGAR. 
 
 London contrived successfully to dam up 
 the flood that was secretly threatening 
 him. 
 
 At six-and-twenty he returned to Cumber- 
 land, having some grounds for believing that 
 his father intended to find him the means 
 of mining for himself. A year had now 
 passed, and nothing had been done. He was 
 growing sick with hope deferred. His elder 
 brother, Paul, had spent his life on the 
 land, and it was always understood that in 
 due course he would inherit it. That at 
 least was the prospect which Hugh Bitson 
 had in view, though no prospective arrange- 
 ment had been made. Week followed week, 
 and month followed month, and his heart 
 grew bitter. He had almost decided to 
 end this waiting. The day would come 
 when he could bear it no longer, and then 
 he would cut adrift. 
 
 An accidental circumstance was the cause 
 of his irresolution. He used to walk
 
 RETRO ME, SATHANA. 91 
 
 frequently on the moss where the Laird 
 Fisher sank his shaft. In the beck that 
 ran close to the disused head -gear he would 
 wade for an hour early in the summer 
 morning. One day he saw the old Laird's 
 daughter washing linen at the beck- side. 
 He remembered her as a pretty, prattling 
 thing of ten or eleven. She was now a 
 girl of eighteen, with a pure face, a timid 
 manner, and an air that was neither that of 
 a woman nor of a child. Her mother was 
 lately dead, her father spent most of his 
 days on the fell (some of his nights also 
 when the charcoal was burning), and she 
 was much alone. Hugh Eitson liked her 
 gentle replies and her few simple questions. 
 So it came about that he would look for her 
 in the morniugs, and be disappointed if he 
 did not catch sight of her good young face. 
 Himself a silent man, he liked to listen to 
 the girl's modest, unconnected talk. His 
 stern eyes would soften at such times to a
 
 92 A SON OF HAGAR. 
 
 sort of caressing expression. This went on 
 for months, and in that solitude no idle 
 tongue was set to wag. At length Hugh 
 Eitson perceived that the girl's heart was 
 touched. If he came late he found her 
 leaning over a gate, her eyes hent down 
 among the mountain grasses at her feet, 
 and her cheeks coloured by a red glow. It 
 is unnecessary to go farther. The girl gave 
 herself up to him with her whole heart and 
 soul, and he — well, he found the bulwarks 
 with which he had surrounded himself were 
 ruined and down. 
 
 Then the awakening came, and Hugh 
 learned too late that he had not loved the 
 simple child, by realizing that with all the 
 ardour of his restrained but passionate 
 nature he loved another woman. 
 
 So much for the first complication in the 
 tragedy of this man's life. 
 
 The second complication was new to his 
 consciousness, and it was at this moment
 
 RETRO ME, SATHANA. 93 
 
 conspiring with the first to lure him to con- 
 sequences that are now to be related. The 
 story which Mr. Bonnithorne had told of the 
 legacy left by Greta's father to a son by 
 one Grace Ormerod had come to him at a 
 time when, owing to disappointment and 
 chagrin, he was peculiarly liable to the 
 temptation of any ' honest trifle ' that 
 pointed the way he wished to go. If the 
 Grace Ormerod who married Lowther had 
 indeed been his own mother, then — a 
 thousand to one — Paul was Lowther 's son. 
 If Paul was Lowther's son, he was also 
 half-brother of Greta. If Paul was not the 
 son of Allan Pdtson, then he himself, Hugh 
 Ptitson, was his father's heir. 
 
 In the present whirlwind of feeling he 
 did not inquire too closely into the pros 
 and cons of probability. Enough that 
 evidence seemed to be with him, and that 
 it transformed the world in his view. 
 
 Perhaps the first result of this transform a-
 
 94 A SON OF HA GAR. 
 
 tion was that ho unconsciously assumed a 
 different attitude towards the unhappy 
 passage in his life wherein Mercy Fisher 
 was chiefly concerned. "What his feeling* 
 was before Mr. Bonnithorne's revelation, 
 we have already seen. Now the sentiment 
 that made much of such an ' accident ' was 
 fit only for a ' turgid melodrama/ and the 
 idea of ' atonement ' by ' marriage ' was 
 the mock heroic of those ' great lovers of 
 noble histories/ the spectators who applaud 
 it from the pit. 
 
 When he passed Mr. Bonnithorne in the 
 hall at the Ghyll he was on his way to the 
 cottage of the Laird Fisher. He saw in 
 the road ahead of him the group which 
 included his father and the charcoal-burner, 
 and to avoid them he cut across the breast of 
 the Eel Crags. After a sharp walk of a 
 mile he came to a little whitewashed house 
 that stood near the head of Newlands r 
 almost under the bridge that crosses the
 
 RETRO ME, SAT H AX A. 95 
 
 fall. It was a sweet place in a great 
 solitude, where the silence was broken only 
 by the tumbling waters, the cooing of 
 pigeons on the roof, and the twittering cf 
 ringouzels by the side of the torrent. The 
 air was fresh with the smell of new peat. 
 There was a wedge-shaped garden in front, 
 and it was encompassed by chestnut trees. 
 As Hugh Eitson drew near he noticed that 
 a squirrel crept from the fork of one of 
 these trees. The little creature rocked 
 itself on the thin end of a swaying branch, 
 plucking sometimes at the drooping fan of 
 the chestnut, and sometimes at the prickly 
 shell of its pendulous nut. When he opened 
 the little gate Hugh Eitson observed that 
 a cat sat sedately behind the trunk of that 
 tree, glancing up at intervals at the sporting 
 squirrel in her moving seat. 
 
 As he entered the garden Mercy was 
 crossing it with a pail of water just raised 
 from the well. She had seen him, and
 
 96 A SON OF HAGAR. 
 
 now tried to pass into the house. He 
 stepped before her and she set down the 
 pail. Her head was held very low, and 
 her cheeks were deeply flushed. 
 
 ' Mercy,' he said, ' it is all arranged. 
 Mr. Bonnithorne will see you into the train 
 this evening, and when you get to your 
 journey's end the person I spoke of will 
 meet you.' 
 
 The girl lifted her eyes beseechingly to 
 his face. 
 
 ' Not to day, Hugh,' she said in a broken 
 whisper ; ' let me stay until to-morrow.' 
 
 He regarded her for a moment with a 
 steadfast look, and when he spoke again his 
 voice fell on her ear like the clank of a 
 chain. 
 
 ' The journey has to be made. Every 
 week's delay increases the danger.' 
 
 The girl's eyes fell again, and the tears 
 began to drop from them on to the brown 
 arms that she had clasped in front.
 
 RETRO ME, SATHAXA. 97 
 
 1 Come/ lie said in a softer tone, * the 
 train starts in an hour. Your father is 
 not yet home from the pit, and most of the 
 dalespeople are at^the sports. So much 
 the better. Put on your cloak and hat 
 and take the fell path to the Coledale road- 
 ends. There Mr. Bonnithorne will meet 
 you.' 
 
 The girl's tears were flowing fast, though 
 she bit her lip and struggled to check them. 
 
 ' Come, now, come ; you know this was 
 of your own choice/ 
 
 There was a pause. ' I never thought 
 it would be so hard to go,' she said at 
 length. 
 
 He smiled feebly, and tried a more 
 rallying tone. * You are not going for 
 life. When your little trouble is over you 
 will come back safe and happy.' 
 
 The w T ords thrilled her through and 
 through. Her clasped hands trembled 
 visibly, and her fingers clutched them with 
 
 vol. 1. 7
 
 98 A SOX OF H AGAR. 
 
 a convulsive movement. After a while she 
 was calmer, and said quietly : * No, I'll 
 never come back — I know that quite well.' 
 And her head dropped on her breast and 
 she felt sick at heart. ' I'll have to say 
 good-bye to everything. There were Bessy 
 Jackson's children — I kissed them all this 
 morning, and never said why — little Willy. 
 he seemed to know, dear little fellow, and 
 cried so bitterly.' 
 
 The memories of these incidents touched 
 to overflowing the springs of love in the 
 girl's simple soul, and the bubbling child- 
 voice was drowned in sobs. 
 
 The man stood with a smile of pity on 
 his face. He came close, and brushed 
 away her tears, and touched her drooping 
 head with a gesture of protestation. 
 
 Mercy regained her voice. ' And then 
 there's your mother,' she said, ■ and I can't 
 say good-bye to her, and my poor father, 
 and I daren't tell him '
 
 RETRO ME, SATHAXA. 99 
 
 Hugh stamped on the path impatiently. 
 ' Come, come, Mercy, don't be foolish/ 
 
 The girl lifted to his the good young face 
 that had once been bonny as the day and 
 was now pale with weeping and drawn 
 down with grief. She took him by the 
 coat, and then, by an impulse which she 
 seemed unable to resist, threw one arm 
 about his neck, and raised her face to his 
 until their lips all but touched, and their 
 eyes met in a steadfast gaze. 
 
 ' Hugh/ she said passionately, ' are you 
 sure that you love me well enough to think 
 of me when I am gone? — are you quite, 
 quite sure ?' 
 
 'Yes, yes; be sure of that,' he said 
 gently. 
 
 He disengaged her arm. 
 
 ' And will you come and fetch me after 
 —after ' 
 
 She could not say the word. He smiled 
 and finished it. 
 
 7 9.
 
 ioo A SON OF HAGAR. 
 
 1 After somebody has come ? Why, yes.' 
 
 Her fingers trembled and clung together ; 
 her head fell ; her cheeks were aglow. 
 
 ' Why, of course.' He smiled again, as 
 if in deprecation of so much childlike 
 earnestness ; then put his arm about the 
 girl's shoulder, dropped his voice to a tone 
 of mingled compassion and affection, and 
 said, as he lifted the brightening face to his, 
 ' There, there — now go off and make 
 ready/ 
 
 The girl brushed her tears away vigor- 
 ously, and looked half ashamed and half 
 enchanted. 
 
 ' I'm going.' 
 
 ' That's a good little girl.' 
 
 How the sunshine came back at the sound 
 of his words ! 
 
 1 Good-bye for the present, Mercy — only 
 for the present, you know !' 
 
 But how the shadow pursued the sun- 
 shine after all !
 
 RETRO ME, SATHANA. 101 
 
 Hugh saw the tears gathering again in 
 <the lucent eyes, and came back a step. 
 There — a smile — just one little smile !' 
 She smiled through her tears. * There — 
 there — that's a dear little Mercy. Good- 
 day; good-bye.' 
 
 Hugh turned on his heel, and walked 
 sharply away. As he passed out through 
 the gate he could not help observing that 
 the cat from the foot of the chestnut tree 
 was walking stealthily off, with some- 
 thing like a dawning smile on its whiskered 
 face, and the brush of the squirrel between 
 its teeth. 
 
 Hugh Ritson had gained his end, and 
 yet he felt more crushed than at the darkest 
 moment of defeat. He had conquered his 
 own manhood ; and now he crept away 
 from the scene of his triumph with a sense 
 of utter abasement. When he had talked 
 with Mr. Bonnithorne it was with a feeling 
 of the meanness of the folly in which he
 
 102 A SON OF HAGAR. 
 
 was involved ; and if any sentiment touch- 
 ing the girl's situation was strong upon 
 him, it was closely bound up with a personal 
 view of the degradation that might come of 
 a gentleman's humiliating unwisdom. The 
 very conventionality of his folly had irked 
 him. But its cowardice was now upper- 
 most. That a man should enter into 
 warfare with a woman on unequal terms, 
 and win by cajolery and deceit, was more 
 than cruel : it was brutal. He could have 
 borne even this hard saying so far as it 
 concerned the woman's suffering, but for 
 the reflection that it made the man some- 
 thing worse than a coxcomb in his own 
 eyes. 
 
 The day was now far spent ; the bril- 
 liant sun had dipped behind Grisedale, and 
 left a ridge of dark fells in the west. On 
 the east the green sides of Cat Bells and 
 the Eel Crags were yellow at the summit, 
 where the hills held their last commerce
 
 RETRO ME, SATHAXA. 103 
 
 with the hidden sun. Not a breath of 
 wind ; not the rustle of a leaf : the valley 
 lay still, save for the echoing voices of the 
 merry-makers in the booths below. The 
 sky overhead was blue, but a fibrous dark 
 cloud, like the hulk of a ship, had anchored 
 lately to the north. 
 
 Hugh Ritson took the valley road back 
 to the Ghyll. He was visibly perturbed, he 
 walked with head much bent, stopped sud- 
 denly at times, then snatched impetuously 
 at the trailing bushes, and passed on. When 
 he was under Hindscarth the sharp yap of 
 dogs, followed by the bleat of unseen sheep, 
 caused him to look up, and he saw a group 
 of men, like emmets creeping on a dark 
 boulder, moving over a ridge of shelving 
 rock. 
 
 There was a slight spasm of his features 
 at that moment, and his foot trailed more 
 heavily as he went on. At a twist of the 
 road he passed the Laird Fisher. The
 
 104 A SON OF HA GAR. 
 
 old man looked less melancholy than 
 usual. It was as if the familiar sorrow sat 
 a little more lightly to-night on the half- 
 ruined creature. 
 
 ' Good-neet to you, sir, and how fend ye ?' 
 hs said almost cheerily. 
 
 Hugh Kitson responded briefly. ' So 
 you're not sleeping on the fell to-night, 
 Matthew ?' and as he spoke his eyes 
 wandered towards the fell road. 
 
 'Nay; I's not firing to-neet, for sure; 
 my daughter is expecting me.' 
 
 Hugh's eyes were now fixed intently on 
 the road that crossed the foot of the fell to 
 the west. The charcoal-burner was moving 
 off, and, following at the same moment the 
 upward direction of Hugh Eitson's gaze, he 
 said, ' It's a baddish place yon, where your 
 father is with Reuben and the lad, and it's 
 baddish weather that is coming, too — look 
 at yon black cloud over Walna Scar.' 
 
 Then for an instant there was embarrass-
 
 RETRO ME, SATHANA. 105 
 
 ment in Hugh Ritson's eyes. He answered 
 in a faltering commonplace : 
 
 * Ways me ; but I must slip away home, 
 sir; my laal lass will be weary waiting. 
 Good-neet to you, sir ; good-neet.' 
 
 1 Good-night, Matthew, and God help 
 you,' said Hugh, in a tone of startling 
 earnestness, his eyes turned away. 
 
 He had walked half a mile further, and 
 reached the lonnin that led to the Ghyll, 
 when he was almost over-run by Greta 
 Lowther, who came tripping out of the gate 
 of a meadow, her bonnet swinging over her 
 arm, her soft, wavy hair floating over her 
 white forehead, her cheeks coloured with a 
 warm glow, a roguish light in her eyes, and 
 laughter on the point of bubbling out of her 
 lips. 
 
 Greta had just given Paul Ritson the 
 slip. There was a thicket in the- field she 
 had crossed, and it was covered with wild 
 roses, white and red. Through the heart
 
 106 A SON OF HA GAR. 
 
 of it there rippled a tiny streak of water 
 that was amber-tinted from the round 
 shingle in its bed. The trunk of an old 
 beech lay across it for ford or bridge. 
 Underfoot were the sedge and the moss ; 
 overhead the thick boughs and the roses ; 
 in the air, the odour and the songs of 
 birds. And Paul, the cunning rascal, 
 would have tempted Greta into this soli- 
 tude ; but she was too shrewd, the wise 
 little woman, to be so easily trapped. 
 Pretending to follow him in ignorance of 
 his manifest design, she had tripped back 
 oh tiptoe, and fled away like a lapwing over 
 the noiseless grass. 
 
 When Greta met Hugh Eitson she was 
 saying to herself of Paul in particular, and 
 of his sex in general : ' What dear, simple, 
 unsuspecting, trustful creatures they are !' 
 Then she drew up sharply, 'Ah, Hugh V 
 
 1 How happy you look, Greta !' he said, 
 fixing his eyes upon her.
 
 RETRO ME, SATHAXA. 107 
 
 A new light brightened her sunny face. 
 ' Not happier than I feel,' she answered. 
 She swung the arm over which the bonnet 
 hung ; the heaving of her breast showed the 
 mould of her early womanhood. 
 
 Hugh Eitson's mind had for the last 
 half-hour brooded over many a good 
 purpose, but not one of them was now 
 left. 
 
 ' You witnessed a painful scene to-day,' 
 he said with some hesitation. ' Be sure it 
 was no less painful to me because you were 
 there to see it/ 
 
 ' Oh, I was so sorry,' said Greta im- 
 petuously. ' You mean with your father ?' 
 
 Hugh bent his head slightly. ' It was 
 inevitable — I know that full well — but 
 for my share in it I ask your pardon.' 
 
 ' That is nothing,' she said ; ' but you 
 took your father too seriously.' 
 
 ' I took him at his word — that was 
 all/
 
 10S A SON OF HAGAR. 
 
 * But the dear old man meant nothing ; 
 and you meant very much. He only wanted 
 to abuse you a little, and perhaps frighten 
 you, and shake his stick at you, and then 
 love you all the better for it.' 
 
 1 You may be right, Greta. Among the 
 whims of nature there is that of making 
 such human contradictions ; but, as you say, 
 I take things seriously — everything — life 
 itself.' 
 
 He paused, and there was a slight 
 trembling of the lip. 
 
 * Besides/ he went on in another tone, 
 * it has been always so. Since our child- 
 hood — my brother's and mine — there has 
 not been much parental tenderness wasted 
 on me. I can hardly expect it now.' 
 
 ' Surely that must be a morbid fancy,' 
 Greta said in a distressed tone. The light 
 was dying out of her eyes. She made one 
 quick glance downward to where Hugh 
 Eitson's infirm foot trailed on the road, and
 
 RETRO ME, SATHANA. 109 
 
 then, in an instant of recovered conscious- 
 ness, she glanced up, now confused and 
 embarrassed, into his face. 
 
 She was too late : he had read her 
 thought. A faint smile parted his lips, 
 and the light of his own eyes was cold. 
 
 ' No ; not that,' he said ; ' I ask no pity 
 in that regard — and need none. Nature 
 has given my brother a physique that 
 would shame a Greek statue, but he and I 
 are quits — perhaps more than quits.' 
 
 He made a hard smile, and she flushed 
 deep with the shame of having her thought 
 read. 
 
 1 1 am sorry if I conveyed that,' she 
 said slowly. < It must have been quite 
 unwittingly. I was thinking of your 
 mother. She is so good and tender to 
 everybody. Why, she is the angel of the 
 country-side. Do you know what name 
 they've given her ?' 
 
 Hugh shook his head.
 
 no A SON OF HA GAR. 
 
 1 Saint Grace ! Parson Christian told 
 me — it seems it was my own dear mother 
 who christened her.' 
 
 ' Nevertheless there has not been much 
 to sweeten my life, Greta/ he said. 
 
 His voice arrested her ; it was charged 
 with unusual feeling. She made no answer, 
 and they began to walk towards the 
 house. 
 
 After a few steps Greta remembered the 
 trick that she had played on Paul, and 
 craned her beautiful neck to see over the 
 stone cobble -hedge into the field where she 
 had left him. 
 
 Hugh observed her intently. 
 
 * I hear that you have decided. Is it so, 
 Greta ?' he said. 
 
 6 Decided what ?' she asked, colouring 
 again. 
 
 He also coloured slightly, and answered 
 with a strained quietness : 
 
 ' To marry my brother.'
 
 RETRO ME, SATHANA. in 
 
 1 If he wishes it — I suppose he does — 
 he says so, you know.' 
 
 Hugh looked earnestly into the girl's 
 glowing face, and said with deliberation : 
 
 ' Greta, perhaps there are reasons why 
 you should not marry Paul.' 
 
 ' What reasons V 
 
 He did not reply at once, and she re- 
 peated her question. Then he said in a 
 strange tone : 
 
 ' Just and lawful impediments, as they 
 say.' 
 
 Greta's eyes opened wide in undisguised 
 amazement. 
 
 * Impossible — you cannot mean it,' she 
 said with her customary impetuosity. She 
 glanced into Hugh's face, and misread what 
 she saw there. Then she began to laugh, 
 at first lightly, afterwards rather boister- 
 ously, and said with head averted, and 
 almost as if talking to herself, ' No, no ; 
 he is nothing to me but the man I love.'
 
 ii2 A SON OF H AGAR. 
 
 ' Do you then love him ?' 
 
 Greta started. 
 
 ' Do you ask ?' she said. The amaze- 
 ment in the wide eyes had deepened to a 
 look of rapture. ' Love him ?' she said ; 
 ' better than all the world beside.' The 
 girl was lifted out of herself. ' You are to 
 be my brother, Hugh, and I need not fear 
 to speak so.' 
 
 She swung her bonnet on her arm, just 
 to preserve composure by some distracting 
 exercise. 
 
 Hugh Kitson stopped, and his face 
 softened. It was a perplexing smile that 
 sat on his features. While he had talked 
 with Greta there had run through his mind, 
 as a painful undertone, the thought of 
 Mercy Fisher. He had now dismissed the 
 last of his qualms respecting her. To be 
 tied down for life to a mindless piece of 
 physical prettiness — what man of brains 
 could bear it ? He had yielded to a natural
 
 H3 
 
 impulse — true ! That moment of tempta- 
 tion threatened painful consequences — still 
 true ! What then ? Nothing ! Was the 
 dead fruit to hang about his neck for ever ? 
 Tut — all natural law was against it. Had 
 he not said that he was above prejudice ? 
 So was he above .the maudlin sentiment of 
 the 'great lovers of noble, histories.' The 
 sophistry grew apace with Greta's beautiful 
 countenance before him. Catching at her 
 last word he said : 
 
 1 Your brother — yes. But did you never 
 guess that I could have wished another 
 name ?' 
 
 The look of amazement returned to her 
 eyes ; he saw it and went on : 
 
 ' Is it possible that you have not yet 
 read my secret ?' 
 
 1 "What secret V she said in a half- 
 smothered voice. 
 
 1 Greta, if your love had been great love, 
 you must have read my secret just as I 
 
 vol. i. 8
 
 ii4 A SON OF HAGAR. 
 
 have read yours.' In a low tone he con- 
 tinued, ' Long ago I knew that you loved, 
 or thought you loved, my brother. I saw 
 it before he had seen it — before you had 
 realized it.' 
 
 The red glow coloured her cheeks more 
 deeply than before. She had stopped, and 
 he was tramping nervously backwards and 
 forwards. 
 
 ' Greta,' he said again, and he fixed his 
 eyes entreatingly upon her, ' what is the 
 love that scarcely knows itself? — that is 
 the love with which you love my brother. 
 And what is the tame, timid passion of a 
 man of no mind ? — that is the love which 
 he offers you. What is your love for him, 
 or his for you ? — what is it, can it be ? 
 Love is not love unless it is the love of 
 true minds. That was said long ago, 
 Greta, and how true it is!' He went on 
 quickly, in a tone of dull irritation, c All 
 other love is no better than lust. Greta, I
 
 RETRO ME, S ATM ANA. 115 
 
 understand you. It is not for a rude man 
 like my brother to do so.' Then in an 
 eager voice he said, * Dearest, I bring you a 
 love undreamt of among these country boors.' 
 
 ' Country boors !' she repeated in a half- 
 stifled whisper. 
 
 He did not hear her. His vehement 
 eyes swam, and he was dizzy. 
 
 ' Greta, dearest, I said there had been 
 little in my life to sweeten it. Yet I am a 
 man made to love and to be loved. My 
 love for you has been mute for months ; but 
 it can be mute no longer. Perhaps I have 
 had my own impediment, apart from your 
 love for Paul. But that is all over now.' 
 Then with an impatient gesture he went on, 
 ' I am tired of this place. To drag out 
 one's days amid sheep and goats, and men 
 and women as brainless, is not to live — it 
 is only to exist.' 
 
 His cheeks quivered, his lips trembled, 
 his voice swelled, his nervous fingers were 
 
 8 9
 
 n6 A SON OF HAGAR. 
 
 riveted to his palm. He approached her 
 and took her hand. She seemed to be 
 benumbed by strong feeling, 
 
 ' Greta, you shall come with me ! We 
 shall leave this slough where the pulse 
 scarcely beats and the mind stagnates/ 
 
 She had stood as one transfixed, a slow 
 paralysis of surprise laying hold of her 
 faculties. But at his touch her senses 
 regained their mastery. She flung away 
 his hand. Her breast heaved. In a voice 
 charged with indignation she said : 
 
 6 So this is what you mean ! I under- 
 stand you at last !' 
 
 Hugh Eitson fell back a pace. 
 
 ' Greta, hear me — hear me again !' 
 
 But she had found her voice indeed. 
 
 * Sir, you have outraged your brother's 
 heart as surely as if at this moment I had 
 been your brother's wife.' 
 
 * Greta, think before you speak — think, 
 I implore you/
 
 RETRO ME, SATHANA. 117 
 
 * I have thought ! I have thought of 
 you as your sister might think, and spoken 
 to you as my brother. Now I know how 
 mean of soul you are.' 
 
 Hugh broke in passionately : 
 
 6 For God's sake stop ! I am an un- 
 forgiving man — heaven made me so.' His 
 nostrils quivered, every nerve vibrated. 
 
 ' Love ? You have never loved. If 
 you knew what the word means you would 
 die of shame where you stand this instant.' 
 
 Hugh lost all control. 
 
 ' I bid you beware,' he said, in wrath 
 and dismay. 
 
 ' And I bid you be silent,' said Greta, 
 with an eloquent uplifting of the hand. 
 ' You offer your love to a pledged woman. 
 It is only base love that is basely offered. 
 It is bad coin, sir, and goes back dis- 
 honoured.' 
 
 Hugh Kitson regained some self-com- 
 mand. The contractions were deep about
 
 n8 A SON OF H AGAR. 
 
 his forehead, but he answered in an im- 
 perturbable voice : 
 
 ' You shall never marry my brother/ 
 
 1 I shall — God willing.' 
 
 ' Then you shall marry him to your life- 
 long horror and disgrace.' 
 
 ' That shall be as heaven may order.' 
 
 ' A boor — a hulking brute — a bas ' 
 
 { Enough ! I would rather marry a 
 ploughboy than such a gentleman as you.' 
 
 Face to face, eye to eye, with panting 
 breath and scornful looks, there they stood 
 for one moment. Then Greta swung about 
 and walked down the lonnin. 
 
 Hugh Kitson's natural manner returned 
 instantly. He looked after her without 
 the change of a feature, and then turned 
 quietly into the house.
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 There was a drowsy calm in the room 
 where Mr. Bonnithome sat at lunch. It 
 was the little oak-bound parlour to the 
 right, in which he had begun the conversa- 
 tion with old Allan Eitson that had been 
 interrupted by the announcement of the 
 Laird Fisher. Half of the window was 
 thrown up, and the landscape framed by the 
 sash lay still as a picture. The sun that 
 had passed over Grisedale sent a deep glow 
 from behind, and the woods beneath took a 
 restful tone. Only the mountain-head was 
 aglow where it towered into the sky and 
 the silence. 
 
 Mrs. Eitson entered and sat down. Her
 
 120 A SON OF HAGAR. 
 
 manner was meek almost to abjectness. 
 She was elderly, but her face bore traces 
 of the beauty she had enjoyed in youth. 
 The lines had grown deep in it since then, 
 and now the sadness of its expression was 
 permanent. She wore an old-fashioned 
 lavender gown, and there was a white silk 
 scarf about her neck. Her voice was low 
 and tremulous, yet eager, and as if it were 
 always questioning. 
 
 With downcast head, and eyes bent on 
 her lap, where her fingers twitched ner- 
 vously as she knitted without cessation, 
 she sat silent, or put meek questions to her 
 guest. 
 
 Mr. Bonnithorne answered in smiles and 
 speeches of six words apiece. Between 
 each sparse reply he addressed himself 
 afresh to his lunch with an appetite that 
 was the reverse of sparse. All the while 
 a subdued hum of many voices came up 
 from the booth in the fields below.
 
 RETRO ME, SATHANA. 121 
 
 At length Mrs. Bitson's anxiety over- 
 came the restraint of her manner. 
 
 ' Mr. Bonnithorne,' she said, ' do let the 
 will be made to-night. Urge Mr. Eitson, 
 when he returns, to admit of no farther 
 delay. He has many noble qualities, but 
 procrastination is his fault. Ifc has been 
 ever so.' 
 
 Mr. Bonnithorne paused with a glass 
 half-raised to his lips, and lifted his eyes 
 instead. 
 
 4 Pardon me, madam,' he said, with the 
 customary smile which failed to disarm his 
 words; ' this is not a woman's business.' 
 And just then a peacock strutted through 
 the courtyard, startling the still air with its 
 empty scream. 
 
 Mrs. Eitson coloured deeply. Even 
 modesty like hers had been put to a severe 
 strain. But she dropped her eyes again, 
 finished a row of stitches, rested the steel 
 needle on her lip, and answered quietly:
 
 122 A SON OF HAGAR. 
 
 { Surely a woman may talk of what concerns 
 her husband and her children/ 
 
 The great man had resumed his knife 
 and fork. ' Not necessarily/ he said. ' It 
 is a strange fact, unknown to most of your 
 sex, that there is one condition in which 
 the law does not recognise the right of a 
 woman to call her son her own.' 
 
 During this prolonged speech, Hugh 
 Eitson, fresh from his interview with Greta 
 Lowther, entered the room, and stretched 
 himself on the couch. 
 
 Mrs. Eitson, without shifting the determi- 
 nation of her gaze from the nervous fingers 
 in her lap, said, ' What condition ?' 
 
 Mr. Bonnithorne twisted slightly, and 
 glanced significantly at Hugh as he an- 
 swered, 'The condition of illegitimacy.' 
 
 Something supercilious in the tone jarred 
 on Mrs. Eitson's ear. She looked up from 
 her knitting and said, ' What do you 
 mean?'
 
 RETRO ME, SATHANA. 123 
 
 Bonnithorne placed his knife and fork 
 with precision over his empty plate, used 
 his napkin with deliberation, coughed 
 slightly, and said, ' I mean that the law 
 denies the name of son to offspring that 
 has been bastardised/ Then, with another 
 smile and a fresh glance at Hugh, he 
 added, 'Odd, isn't it ?' 
 
 Mrs. Eitson's face grew crimson, and she 
 rose to her feet. 
 
 ' If so, the law is cruel and wicked,' she 
 said in a voice more tremulous with emo- 
 tion. 
 
 Mr. Bonnithorne leaned languidly back 
 in his chair, ejected a long ' hem' from his 
 overburdened chest, inserted his fingers in 
 the armpits of his waistcoat, looked up and 
 said, ' Madam, it is a time-honoured maxim 
 in law as in theology, that your women, 
 like your clowns in the play, shall say no 
 more than is set down for them. Odd, 
 isn't it?'
 
 124 A SON OF HAGAR. 
 
 Unluckily for the full effect of Mr. Bonni- 
 thorne's witticism, Paul Kitson, with Greta 
 at his side, appeared in the doorway at the 
 moment of its delivery. The manner more 
 than the words had awakened his anger, 
 and the significance of both he interpreted 
 by his mother's agitated face. In two 
 strides he stepped up to where the great 
 man sat, even now all smiles and white 
 teeth, and laid a powerful hand on his 
 arm. 
 
 'My friend/ said Paul lustily, ' it might 
 not be safe for you to speak to my mother 
 again like that.' 
 
 Mr. Bonnithorne rose stiffly, and his 
 shifty eyes looked into Paul's wrathful 
 face. 
 
 ' Safe ?' he echoed with emphasis. 
 
 Paul, his lips compressed, bent his head, 
 and at the same instant brought the other 
 hand down on the table. 
 
 Without speaking, Mr. Bonnithorne
 
 RETRO ME, SATHANA. 125 
 
 shuffled back into his seat. Mrs. Ritson, 
 letting fall her knitting into her lap, sat and 
 dropped her face into her hands. Paul 
 took her by the arm, raised her up, and 
 led her out of the room. As he did so he 
 passed the couch on which Hugh Ritson 
 lay, and looked down with mingled anger 
 and contempt into his brother's indifferent 
 eyes. 
 
 When the door closed behind them, 
 Hugh Ritson and Mr. Bonnithorne rose 
 together. There was a momentary gleam 
 of mutual consciousness. Then instantly, 
 suddenly, by one impulse, the two men 
 joined hands across the table.
 
 CHAPTEE VII. 
 
 The cloud that had hung over Walna Scar 
 broke above the valley, and a heavy rain- 
 storm, with low mutterings of distant 
 thunder, drove the pleasure-people from 
 the meadow to the booth. It was a long- 
 canvas tent with a drinking bar at one end, 
 and stalls in the corners for the sale of 
 gingerbreads and gimcracks. The grass 
 under it was trodden flat, and in patches 
 the earth was bare and wet beneath the 
 traipseing feet of the people. They were a 
 mixed and curious company. In a ring- 
 that was cleared by an athletic ploughman 
 the fiddler-postman of Newlands, Tom 
 o' Dint, was seated on a tub turned bottom
 
 RETRO ME, SATHANA. 127 
 
 up. He was a little man with bowed legs 
 and feet a foot long. 
 
 * Now, lasses, step forret. Dunnot be 
 blate.' 
 
 ' Come along with ye, any as have 
 springyness in them/ 
 
 The rough invitation was accepted with- 
 out too much timidity by several damsels 
 dressed in gorgeous gowns and bonnets. 
 Then up and down, one, two, three, cut and 
 shuffle, cross, under, and up and down again. 
 
 ' I'll be mounting my best nag and 
 coram' ower to Scara Crag and tappin' at 
 your window some neet soon/ whispered a 
 young fellow to the girl he had just danced 
 with. 
 
 She laughed a little mockingly. 
 
 1 Your best nag, Willy T 
 
 ' Weel — the maister's/ She laughed 
 again, and a sneer curled her lip. ' You 
 Colebank chaps are famous sweethearters, I 
 hear. Fare-te-weel, Willy.'
 
 128 A SON OF HAGAR. 
 
 And she twisted on her heel. He 
 followed her up. 
 
 'Dunnet gowl, Aggy. Mappen I'll be 
 maister man nrysel' soon.' 
 
 Aggy pushed her way through the crowd 
 and disappeared. 
 
 ' She's packed him off wi' a flea in his 
 ear,' said an elderly man standing near. 
 
 ' Just like all the lave of them,' said 
 another, ' snurling up her neb at a man for 
 lack of gear. Why didna he brag of 
 some rich uncle in Austrilly ?' 
 
 ' Ey, and stuff her with all sorts of 
 flaitchment and lies. Then all the lasses 
 wad be glyming at him.' 
 
 The dance span on. 
 
 ' Why, it's a regular upshot, as good as 
 Carel fair,' said one of the girls. 
 
 1 Bessie, you're reet dipt and heeled for 
 sure,' responded her companion. 
 
 Bessie's eyes sparkled with delight at the 
 lusty compliment paid to her dancing, and
 
 RETRO ME, SATHANA. 129 
 
 she opened her cloak to cool herself, and 
 also to show the glittering locket that hung 
 about her neck. 
 
 'It's famish, this fashion,' muttered the 
 elderly cynic. ' It must tak' a brave canny 
 fortune.' 
 
 1 Shaf, man, the country's puzzen'd 
 round with pride,' answered his gossip. 
 1 Lasses worked in the old days. Now 
 they never do a hand's turn but washin* 
 and bleachin' and starchin' and curling 
 their polls.' 
 
 ' Ey, ey, there's been na luck in the 
 country since the women folk began to 
 think shame of their wark.' 
 
 The fiddler made a squeak on two notes 
 that sounded like kiss-her, and from a 
 corner of the booth there came a clamorous 
 smack of lips. 
 
 'I saw you sweetheartin' laal Bessy,' 
 said one of the fellows to another. 
 
 1 And I saw you last night cutter an sa 
 
 VOL. I. 9
 
 130 A SON OF HAGAR. 
 
 soft in the meadow. Nay, dunnot look sa 
 strange. I never say nowt, not I. Only 
 yon mother of Aggy's, she's a famous 
 fratcher, and dunnot you let her get wind. 
 She brays the lasses, and mappen she'll 
 bray somebody forby.' 
 
 While the dancing proceeded there was 
 a noisy clatter of glasses, and a mutter of 
 voices in the neighbourhood of the bar. 
 
 ' The varra crony one's fidgin to see. 
 Gie us a shak' of thy dadclle/ shouted a 
 fellow with a face like a russet apple. 
 
 ' Come, Dick, let's bottom a quart to- 
 gether. Deil tak' the expense/ 
 
 * Why, man, and wherever hasta been 
 since Whissen Monday ?' 
 
 1 Weel, you see, I went to the fair and 
 stood with a straw in my mouth, and the 
 w r ives all came round, and one of them 
 sayd, " What wage do you ask, canny lad ?" 
 " Five pound ten/' I says. " And what 
 can you do?" she says. " Do ?" I says,
 
 RETRO ME, SATHANA. 131 
 
 " anything from ploughing to threshing 
 and nicking a nag's tail," I says. " Come, 
 be my man," she says. But she was like 
 to clem me, so I packed up my bits of duds 
 and got my wage in my reet-hand breek 
 pocket, and here I am/ 
 
 The dancing had finished, and a little 
 group was gathered around the fiddler's 
 tub. 
 
 ' Come thy ways ; here's Tom 0' Dint 
 conjuring, and telling folk what they are 
 thinking.' 
 
 ' That's mair nor he could do for the 
 numskulls as never think.' 
 
 1 He bangs all the player-folk, does Tom.' 
 
 * Who's yon tatterdemalion flinging by 
 the newspaper and bawling, " The country's 
 going to the dogs "? ' 
 
 1 That's Grey Graham, setting folk by 
 the lug with his blusteration.' 
 
 ' Mess, lads, but he'd be a reet good 
 Parli'ment man to threep about the nation.' 
 
 9—2
 
 132 A SON OF HA GAR. 
 
 ( Weel, I's na pollytishin, but if it's 
 tearin' and snappin' same as a terrier that 
 mak's a reet good Parliament man, I reckon 
 not all England could bang him.' 
 
 ' And that's not saying nowt, Sim. I've 
 heard Grey Graham on the ballot till it's 
 wet him through to the waistcoat.' 
 
 ' Is that Mister Paul Eitson and Mistress 
 Lowther just run in for shelter ?' 
 
 ' Surely, and a reet bonny lass she is.' 
 
 'And he's got larnin' and manners 
 too.' 
 
 ' Ey, he's of the bettermer sort is Paul.' 
 
 ' Does she live at the parson's — Parson 
 Christian's ?' 
 
 ' Why, yes, man, it's only naturable — 
 he's her guardian.' 
 
 * And what a man he is to be sure.' 
 
 1 Ey, we'll never see his like again when 
 he's gone.' 
 
 ' Nay, not till water runs up bank and 
 trees grow down bank.'
 
 RETRO ME, SATHANA. 133 
 
 ' And what a scholar, and no pride 
 neither, and what's mair in a parson, no 
 greed. Why, the leal fellow values the 
 world and the world's gear not a flea.' 
 
 ' Contentment's a kingdom, as folk say, 
 and religion is no worse for a bit 0' 
 charity/ 
 
 There was a momentary pressure of the 
 company towards the mouth of the booth, 
 where Gubblum Oglethorpe reappeared with 
 his pack swung from his neck in front of 
 him. The girls gathered eagerly around. 
 
 ' What have you to-day, Gubblum ?' 
 
 ' Nay, nowt for you, my dear. You're 
 one of them that alius looks best with 
 nothing on.' 
 
 'Oh, Gubblum!' 
 
 The compliment was certainly a dubious 
 one. 
 
 ' Only your bits of shabby duds — that's 
 all that pretty faces like yours wants.' 
 
 ' Oh Gubblum !'
 
 134 .A SON OF HAGAR. 
 
 The pedlar was evidently a dear simple 
 soul. 
 
 ' Lord bless you, yes; what's in here/ 
 slapping his pack contemptuously, 'it's only 
 for them wizzent old creatures up in London 
 — them 'at have faces like the map of 
 England when it shows all the lines of the 
 railways — just to make them a bit present- 
 able, you know. And there is no knowing 
 what some of these things won't do to mak' 
 a body smart — what with brooches and 
 handkerchers and collars, and I don't know 
 what.' 
 
 Gubblum's air of indifference had the 
 extraordinary effect of bringing a dozen 
 pairs of gloating eyes on the strapped pack. 
 The face of the pedlar wore an expression 
 of bland innocence as he continued : 
 
 ' But bless you, I'm such a straight- 
 forrard chap, or I'd make my fortune with 
 the like of what's here.' 
 
 * Open your pack, Gubblum,' said one of
 
 RETRO ME, SATHANA. 135 
 
 the fellows, Geordie Moore, prompted by 
 sundry prods from the elbow of a little 
 damsel by his side. 
 
 The ' straightforrard chap ' made a depre- 
 catory gesture, and then yielded obligingly. 
 While loosening the straps he resumed his 
 discourse on his own general ignorance of 
 business tactics, his ruinous honesty and 
 demoralizing sense of honour. 
 
 ' I'm not cute enough, that's my fault. 
 I know the way to my mouth with a 
 spoonful of poddish, and that's all. If I go 
 farther in the dark I'm lost.' 
 
 Gubblum opened his pack and drew forth 
 a gaudy red and green shawl of a hideous 
 pattern. 
 
 ' Now, just to give you a sample. Here's 
 a nice neat shawl that I never had no more 
 nor two of. Well, I actually sold the 
 fellow of that shawl for seven-and- 
 sixpence !' 
 
 The look of amazement at his own
 
 136 A SON OF HAGAR. 
 
 shortcomings which sat on the childlike 
 face of the pedlar was answered by the 
 expression of mock surprise in the face of 
 Paul Eitson, who came up at the moment, 
 took the shawl from Gubblum's outstretched 
 arms, and said in a hushed whisper : 
 
 ' No, did you now !' 
 
 Geordie Moore thereupon dived into his 
 pocket, and brought out three half-crowns. 
 
 * Here's for you, Gubblum ; let's have 
 it/ 
 
 ' 'Od bliss me,' cried the elderly cynic, 
 1 but that Gubblum will never mak' his 
 plack a bawbee.' 
 
 And Grey Graham, having disposed of 
 the affairs of the nation and witnessed 
 Geordie's snap at the pedlar's bait, cried 
 out in a bitter laugh : 
 
 ' " There's little wit within his powe 
 That lights a candle at the lowe." ' 
 
 Just then a tumult arose in the vicinity
 
 RETRO ME, SATHAXA. 137 
 
 of the bar. The two cronies were at open 
 war. 
 
 ' Deuce take it, I had fifteen white 
 shillin' in my reet-hand breek pocket, and 
 where are they now ?' 
 
 * 'Od dang thee, what should I know 
 about your brass ? You're kicking up a 
 stour to waken a corp.' * 
 
 1 1 had fifteen white shillin' in my reet- 
 hand breek pocket, I tell thee.' 
 
 1 What's that to me, thou poor shaffles ? 
 You're as drunk as muck. Do you think 
 I've taken your brass ? You've got a 
 wrong pig by the lug if you reckon to come 
 ower me.' 
 
 ' They were in my reet-hand breek 
 pocket, I'll swear on it.' 
 
 ' What a fratchin — try your left-hand 
 breek pocket. ' 
 
 The russet-faced ploughman thrust his 
 hand where directed, and instantly a comical 
 smile of mingled joy and shame overspread
 
 138 A SON OF HAGAR. 
 
 his countenance. There was a gurgling 
 laugh, through which the voice of the 
 pedlar could be heard saying : 
 
 ' We'll mak' thee King ower the cockers, 
 my canny lad.' 
 
 The canny lad was slinking away amid 
 a derisive titter when a great silence fell 
 on the booth. Those in front fell back, 
 and those behind craned their necks to 
 see over the heads of the people before 
 them. 
 
 At the mouth of the booth stood the 
 old Laird Fisher, his face ghastly pale, his 
 eyes big and restless, the rain dripping 
 from his long hair and beard. 
 
 ' They've telt me,' he began in a strange 
 voice, ' they've telt me that my Mercy has 
 gone off in the London train. I reckon 
 they're mistook as to the lass, but I've 
 come to see for mysel'. Is she here ?' 
 
 None answered. Only the heavy rain- 
 drops that pattered on the canvas overhead
 
 RETRO ME, SAT HAN A. 139 
 
 broke the silence. Paul Ritson pushed his 
 way through the crowd. 
 
 ' Mercy ? — London ? —Wait, Matthew ; 
 111 see if she's here.' 
 
 The Laird Fisher looked from face to 
 face of the people about him. 
 
 ' Any on you know owt about her ?' he 
 asked in a low voice. ' Why don't* you 
 speak, some on you ? You shake your 
 heads — what does that mean ?' 
 
 The old man was struggling to con- 
 trol the emotion that was surging in his 
 throat. 
 
 1 No, Matthew, she's not here,' said 
 Paul Ritson. 
 
 ' Then maybe it's true,' said Matthew, 
 with a strange quiet. 
 
 There was a pause. Paul was the first to 
 shake off his surprise. 
 
 1 She might be at Little Town — in 
 Keswick — twenty places.' 
 
 1 She might be, Master Paul, but she's
 
 i4o A SON OF HAGAR. 
 
 nowt o' the sort. She's on her way to 
 London, Mercy is !' 
 
 It was Natt, the stableman at the Ghyll, 
 who spoke. 
 
 At that the old man's trance seemed to 
 break. 
 
 ' Gone ? Mercy gone ? Gone without a 
 word ? Why ? Where ?' 
 
 ' She'd her little red bundle aside her ; 
 and she cried a gay bit to hersel' in the 
 corner. I saw her myselY 
 
 Paul's face became rigid with anger. 
 
 ' There's villainy in this — be sure of that,' 
 he said hotly. 
 
 The Laird rocked his head backwards 
 and forwards, and his eyes swam with tears ; 
 but he stood in the middle as quiet as a 
 child. 
 
 ' My laal Mercy,' he said faintly, ' gone 
 from her old father.' 
 
 Paul stepped to the old man's side, and 
 put a great hand on his shoulder as softly
 
 RETRO ME, SAT H ANA. 141 
 
 as a woman might have soothed her babe. 
 Then turning about, and glancing wrathfully 
 in the faces around them, he said : 
 
 6 Some waistrel has been at work here. 
 Who is he ? Speak out. Anybody know ?' 
 
 No one spoke. Only the Laird moaned 
 feebly, and reeled like a drunken man. 
 Then, with the first shock over, the old 
 man began to laugh. What a laugh it 
 was ! 
 
 ' No matter!' he said; 'no matter! Now 
 I've nowt left I've nowt to lose. There's 
 comfort in that, anyways ! Ha, ha, ha ! 
 But my heart is like to choke for all. You 
 say reet, Mr. Kitson, there's villainy in it.' 
 
 The old man's eyes wandered vacantly. 
 
 'Her own father,' he mumbled; ' her 
 lone old father — broken-hearted — him 'at 
 loved her — no matter, I've nowt left to — 
 Ha, ha, ha !' 
 
 He tried to walk away jauntily, and with 
 a ghastly smile on his battered face, but he
 
 142 A SON OF HAGAR. 
 
 stumbled and fell insensible into Paul's out- 
 stretched arms. They loosened his necker- 
 chief and bathed his forehead. 
 
 Just then Hugh Eitson strode into the 
 tent, stepped up to the group, and looked 
 down over the bent heads at the stricken 
 father lying in his brother's arms. 
 
 Paul's lip's trembled and his powerful 
 frame quivered. 
 
 ' Who knows but the scoundrel is here 
 now,' he said ; and his eyes traversed the 
 men about him. ' If he is, let him look at 
 his pitiless work ; and may the sight follow 
 him to his death !' 
 
 At that moment Hugh Eitson's face 
 underwent an awful change. Then the old 
 man opened his eyes in consciousness, and 
 Hugh knelt before him and put a glass of 
 water to his lips.
 
 CHAPTEK VIII. 
 
 In the homestead of the Eitsons the wide 
 old ingle was aglow with a cheerful fire, and 
 Mrs. Eitson stood before it baking oaten 
 cake on a ' girdle.' The table was laid for 
 supper with beef and beer and milk and 
 barley-bread. In the seat of a recessed 
 window, Paul Eitson and Greta Lowther 
 sat together. 
 
 At intervals that grew shorter, and with 
 a grave face that became more anxious, 
 Mrs. Eitson walked to the door and looked 
 out into the thickening sky. The young 
 people had been too much absorbed to 
 notice her increasing perturbation, until she 
 opened a clothes chest and took out dry
 
 144 A SON OF HA GAR. 
 
 flannels and spread thern on the hearth to 
 air. 
 
 ' Don't worrit yourself, mother/ said 
 Paul. ' Hell be here soon. He had to 
 cross the Coledale Pass, and that's a long 
 stroke of the ground, you know.' 
 
 ' It's an hour past supper-time/ said 
 Mrs. Kitson, glancing aside at the old clock 
 that ticked audibly from behind the great 
 arm-chair. ' The rain is coming again — 
 listen !' There was a light patter of rain- 
 drops against the window-panes. ' If 
 he's on the fells now he'll be wet to the 
 skin.' 
 
 1 I wish I'd gone in place of him,' said 
 Paul, turning to Greta. ' A bad wetting 
 troubles him nowadays ! Not same as of 
 old, when he'd follow the fells all day long 
 knee -deep in water and soaked to the skin 
 with rain or snow !' 
 
 A thunder-clap shook the house. The 
 windows rattled, and the lamp that had
 
 RETRO ME, SATNANA. 145 
 
 been newly lit and put on the table 
 flickered slightly and burnt red. 
 
 ' Mercy me, what a night ! Was that a 
 flash of lightning ?' said Mrs. Eitson, and 
 she walked to the door once more and 
 opened it. 
 
 ' Don't worrit, mother !' repeated Paul. 
 ' Do come in. Father w T ill be here soon, 
 and if he gets a wetting there's no help for 
 it now/ 
 
 Paul had turned aside from an animated 
 conversation with Greta to interpolate this 
 remonstrance against his mother's anxiety. 
 Ptesuming the narrative of his exciting 
 wrestling match, he described its thrilling 
 incidents as much by gesture as by 
 words. 
 
 ' John Proudfoot took me — so — and tried 
 to give me the cross-buttock, but I caught 
 his eye and twisted him on my hip — so — 
 and down he w T ent in a bash !' 
 
 A hurried knock came to the outer door. 
 vol. 1. 10
 
 U6 A SON OF HAGAR. 
 
 In an instant it was opened, and a white face 
 looked in. 
 
 ' What's now, Reuben ?' said Paul, rising 
 to his feet. 
 
 ' Come along with me — leave the women- 
 folk behind — master's down — the lightning 
 has struck him — I'm afeart he's dead.' 
 
 ' My father!' said Paul, and stood for a 
 moment with a bewildered look. ' Go on, 
 Reuben, I'll follow.' Paul picked up his 
 hat and was gone in an instant. 
 
 Mrs. Ritson had been stooping over the 
 griddle when Reuben entered. She heard 
 what he said, and rose up with a face of 
 deadly pallor. But she said nothing, and 
 sank helplessly into a chair. Then Greta 
 stepped up to her and kissed her. 
 
 ' Mother — dear mother !' she said, and 
 Mrs. Ritson dropped her head on the girl's 
 breast. 
 
 Hugh had been sitting over some papers 
 in his own room off the first landing. He
 
 RETRO ME, SAT HAN A. i 47 
 
 overheard the announcement, • and came 
 into the hall. 
 
 ' Your father has been struck by the 
 lightning,' said Greta. 
 
 *■ They will fetch him home/ said Hugh. 
 
 At the next moment there was the sound 
 from without of burdened footsteps. They 
 were bearing the injured man. Through 
 the back of the house they carried him to 
 his room. 
 
 ' That is for my sake,' said Mrs. Kitson, 
 raising her tear-stained face to listen. 
 
 Paul entered. His ruddy cheeks had 
 grown ashy white. His eyes, that had 
 blinked with pleasure a minute ago, now 
 stared wide with fear. 
 
 1 Is he alive ?' 
 
 ' Yes.' 
 
 ' Thank God ! oh, thank God for ever 
 and ever ! Let me go in to him.' 
 
 ' He is unconscious — he breathes — but 
 no more.' 
 
 10—2
 
 i 4 8 A SON OF HAGAR. 
 
 Mrs. Ritson, with Paul and Greta, went 
 into the room in which they had placed 
 the stricken man. He lay across the bed 
 in his clothes, just as he had fallen. They 
 bathed his forehead and applied leeches to 
 his temples. He breathed heavily, but 
 gave no sign of consciousness. 
 
 Paul sat at his father's side with his face 
 buried in his hands. He was recalling his 
 boyish days, when his father would lift him 
 in his arms and throw him on the bare 
 back of the pony that he gave him on his 
 thirteenth birthday. Could it be possible 
 that the end was at hand ! 
 
 He got up and led Greta out of the 
 room. 
 
 ' This house of mourning is no place for 
 you,' he said; ' the storm is over: you 
 must leave us ; Natt can put the mare into 
 the trap and drive you home.' 
 
 ' I shall not go/ said Greta ; ' this shall 
 be my home to-night. Don't send me
 
 RETRO ME, SATHAXA. 149 
 
 away from you, Paul. You are in trouble, 
 and my place is here.' 
 
 ' You could do no good, and might take 
 some harm.' 
 
 Mrs. Kitson came out. 
 
 ' Where is Mr. Bonnithorne?' she asked. 
 ' He was to be here at eight. Your father 
 might recover consciousness.' 
 
 ' The lawyer could do nothing to help 
 him/ 
 
 ' If he is to leave us, may it please God 
 to give him one little hour of conscious- 
 ness.' 
 
 ' Yes, knowing us again — giving us a 
 farewell word.' 
 
 ' There is another reason — a more ter- 
 rible reason.' 
 
 * You are thinking of the will. Let that 
 go by. Come, mother — and Greta, too — 
 come, let us go back.' 
 
 Half an hour later the house was as still 
 as the chamber of death. With hushed
 
 150 A SON OF HA GAR. 
 
 voices and noiseless steps the women - 
 servants moved to and from the room 
 where lay the dying man. The farming 
 men sat together in an outer kitchen, and 
 talked in whispers. 
 
 The storm had passed away ; the stars 
 struggled one by one through a rack of 
 flying cloud, and a silver fringe of moon- 
 light sometimes fretted the black patches of 
 the sky. 
 
 Hugh Ritson sat alone in the old hall, 
 that was now desolate enough. His face 
 rested on his hand, and his elbow on his 
 knee. There was a strange light in his 
 eyes. It was not sorrow, and it was not 
 joy; it was anxiety, uncertainty, perturba- 
 tion. Again and again he started up from 
 a deep reverie, and then a half-smothered 
 cry escaped him. He walked a few paces 
 to and fro, and sat down once more. 
 
 A servant crossed the hall on tiptoe. 
 Hugh raised his head.
 
 RETRO ME, SATHANA. 151 
 
 ' How is your patient now ?' he said 
 quietly. 
 
 ' Just breathing, sir ; still quite uncon- 
 scious/ 
 
 Hugh got up uneasily. A mirror hung 
 on the wall in front of him, and he stood 
 and looked vacantly into it. His thoughts 
 wandered, and when a gleam of conscious- 
 ness returned the first object that he saw 
 was the reflection of his own face. It was 
 full of light and expression. Perhaps it 
 wore a ghostly smile. He turned away 
 from the sight impatiently. 
 
 Sitting down again he tried to compose 
 himself. Point by point he revolved the 
 situation. He thought of what the lawyer 
 had said of the deserted wife and lost son 
 of Lowther. Then, taking out of an inner 
 pocket the medallion that Mr. Bonnithorne 
 had lent him, he looked at it long and 
 earnestly. 
 
 The inspection seemed to afford a grim
 
 152 A SON OF H AGAR. 
 
 satisfaction. There could be no doubt now 
 of the ghostly smile that played upon his 
 face. 
 
 There was a tall antique clock in the 
 corner of the hall. It struck eight. The 
 slow beats of the bell echoed chillily in the 
 hushed apartment. The hour awakened 
 the consciousness of the brooding man. 
 At eight o'clock Mr. Bonnithorne was ap- 
 pointed to be there to make the will. 
 
 Hugh Eitson touched gently a handbell 
 that stood on the table. A servant 
 entered. 
 
 1 Send Natt to me/ said Hugh. 
 
 A moment later the stableman shambled 
 into the hall. He was a thick- set young 
 fellow with a short neck and a full face, 
 and eyelids that hung deep over a pair of 
 cunning eyes. At first sight one would 
 have said that the rascal was only half 
 awake ; at the second glance, that he was 
 never asleep.
 
 RETRO ME, SATHANA, 153 
 
 Hugh received him with a show of 
 cordiality. 
 
 ' Ah, Natt, come here — closer.' 
 
 The man walked across. Hugh dropped 
 his voice. 
 
 ' Go down to Little Town and find Mr. 
 Bonnithorne. You may meet him on the 
 way. If not, he will be at the Flying 
 Horse. Tell him I sent you to say that 
 Adam Fallow lies dying at Bigrigg, and 
 must see him at once. You under- 
 stand ?' 
 
 The man lifted his slumbrous eyelids. 
 A suspicious twinkle lurked beneath them. 
 He glanced around, then down at his big, 
 grimy boots, measured with one uplifted 
 hand the altitude of the bump on the top 
 of his bullet head, and muttered, ' 1 under- 
 stand.' 
 
 Hugh's face darkened. 
 
 ' Silence,' he said sternly, and then ho 
 met Natt's upward glance with a faint smile.
 
 154 A SOA r OF II AGAR. 
 
 1 When you come back, get yourself out of 
 the way — do you hear ?' 
 
 The heavy eyelids went up once more. 
 < I hear.' 
 
 < Then be off.' 
 
 The fellow was shuffling away. 
 
 ' Natt/ said Hugh, following him a step, 
 ' you fancied that new whip of mine ; take 
 it. You'll find it in the porch/ 
 
 A smile crossed Natt's face from ear to 
 ear. He stumbled out. 
 
 Hugh Kitson returned to the hearth. 
 That haunting mirror caught the light of 
 his eyes again and showed him that he too 
 was smiling. At the same instant there came 
 from the inner room the dull dead sound of 
 a deep sob. It banished the smile and 
 made him pause. He looked at the reflec- 
 tion of his face — could it be the face of a 
 scoundrel ? Was he playing a base part ? 
 No, he was merely asserting his rights ; 
 his plain legal rights — nothing more.
 
 RETRO ME, SATHAXA. 155 
 
 He opened a cupboard in the wall and 
 took down a bunch of keys. Selecting 
 one key, he stepped up to a cabinet and 
 opened it. In a compartment were many 
 loose papers. Now to see if by chance 
 there existed a will already. He glanced 
 at the papers one by one and threw them 
 aside. When he had finished his inspection 
 he took a hasty turn about the room. No 
 trace — he had been sure of it ! 
 
 Again the deep sob came from within. 
 Hugh Eitson walked noiselessly to the 
 inner door, opened it slightly, bent his 
 head and listened. He turned away with 
 an expression of pain, picked up his hat 
 and went out. 
 
 The night was very dark. He strode a 
 few paces down the lonnin and then back 
 to the porch. Uncovering his head he let 
 the night wind cool his hot temples. His 
 breath came audibly and hard. He was 
 turning again into the house when his eye
 
 156 A SON OF HAGAR. 
 
 was arrested by a light near the turning of 
 the high-road. The light was approaching; 
 he walked towards it, and met Josiah 
 Bonnithorne. The lawyer was jouncing 
 along towards the house with a lantern in 
 his hand. 
 
 6 Didn't you meet the stableman ?' said 
 Hugh in an eager whisper. 
 
 'No.' 
 
 ' The blockhead must have taken the old 
 pack-horse road on the fell side. One 
 would be safe in that fool's stupidity. You 
 have heard what has happened V 
 
 ' I have. Fortune falls into your hand.' 
 
 ' There is no will already, Bonnithorne.' 
 
 ' And your father is insensible ?' 
 
 < Yes.' 
 
 ' Then none shall be made.' 
 
 There was a pause, in which the dark- 
 ness itself seemed full of speech. The 
 lantern cast its light only on an open 
 cart -shed in the lane.
 
 RETRO ME, S A TH ANA. 157 
 
 ' If your mother is the Grace Ormerod 
 who married Robert Lowther and had a son 
 by him, then Paul was that son — the heir 
 of Lowther's conscience-money/ 
 
 ' Bonnithorne,' said Hugh Ritson — his 
 voice trembled and broke, ' if it is so, then 
 it is so, and we need do nothing. Re- 
 member, he is my father. It is not within 
 belief that he wants to disinherit his own 
 son for the son of another man.' 
 
 Mr. Bonnithorne broke into a half- 
 smothered laugh, and stepped close into 
 the cobble-hedge, keeping the lantern 
 down. 
 
 ' Your father — yes ! But you have seen 
 to-day what that may come to. He has 
 always held you under his hand. Paul 
 has been the old man's favourite/ 
 
 ' No doubt of that.' Hugh crept close 
 to the lawyer. He was wrestling in the 
 coil of a tragic temptation. 
 
 ' If he recovers consciousness, he may
 
 158 A SON OF HAGAR. 
 
 be tempted to recognise as his own his 
 "wife's illegitimate son. That ' — the low 
 tone was one of withering irony — ' will 
 keep her from dishonour, and you from 
 the estates.' 
 
 ' At least he is my brother, Bonnithorue 
 — my mother's son. If my father wishes 
 to provide for him, God forbid that we 
 should prevent.' 
 
 Once more the half- smothered laugh 
 came through the darkness. 
 
 ' You have missed your vocation, Mr. 
 Ritson. Believe me, the Gospel has lost a 
 fervent advocate. Odd, isn't it ? Perhaps 
 you would like to pray for this good brother: 
 perhaps you would consider it safe to drop 
 to your knee and say, " My good brother 
 that should be, who has ever loved me, 
 whom I have ever loved, take here my 
 fortune and leave me until death a penni- 
 less dependent on the lands that are mine 
 by right of birth." '
 
 RETRO ME, SATHANA. 159 
 
 Hugh Eitson's breath came in gusts 
 through his quivering, unseen lips. 
 
 1 Bonnithorne, it cannot be — it is mere 
 coincidence, seductive damning coincidence. 
 My mother knows all. If it were true that 
 Paul was the son of Lowther, she would 
 know that Paul and Greta must be half- 
 brother and half-sister. She would stop 
 their unnatural union.' 
 
 1 And do you think I have waited until 
 now to sound that shoal water with a 
 cautious plummet ? Your mother is as 
 ignorant of the propinquity as Greta her- 
 self. Lowther was dead before your family 
 settled in Newlands. The families never 
 once came together while the widow lived. 
 And now not a relative survives who can 
 tell the story.' 
 
 * Parson Christian ?' said Hugh Rit- 
 son. 
 
 1 Pshaw ! A great child just out of 
 swaddling-clothes.'
 
 160 A SON OF HAGAR. 
 
 6 Then the secret rests with me and you, 
 Eonnithorne ?' 
 
 1 Who else ? The marriage must not 
 come off. Greta is Paul's half-sister, but 
 she is no relative of yours ' 
 
 ' You are right, Eonnithorne, ' Hugh 
 Ritson broke in ; ' the marriage is against 
 nature/ 
 
 * And the first step towards stopping it 
 is to stop the will.' 
 
 1 Then why are you here ?' 
 
 ' To make sure that there is no will 
 already. You have satisfied me, and now 
 
 I go.' 
 
 There was a pause. 
 
 ' Who shall say that I am acting a base 
 part ?' said Hugh in an eager tone. 
 
 ' Who indeed ?' 
 
 1 Nature itself is on my side.' 
 
 The man was conquered. He was in 
 the grip of his temptation. 
 
 ' I am off, Mr. Ritson. Get back into
 
 RETRO ME, SATHANA. 161 
 
 the house. It is not safe for you to be out 
 of sight and sound/ 
 
 Mr. Bonnithorne was moving off in the 
 darkness, the lamp before his breast ; its 
 light for that instant on Hugh Eitson's 
 haggard face. 
 
 1 Wait ; put out your lamp.' 
 
 1 It's done.' 
 
 All was now dark. 
 
 * Good-night.' 
 
 ' Good-night.' 
 
 With slow whispers the two men parted. 
 
 The springy step of Josiah Bonnithorne 
 was soon lost in the road below. 
 
 Hugh Ritson stood for a while where 
 the lawyer left him, and then turned back 
 into the house. He found the cabinet 
 open. In the turmoil of emotion he had 
 forgotten to close it. He returned to it, 
 and shuffled with the papers to put them 
 back in their place. At that moment the 
 door opened, and a heavy footstep fell on 
 
 vol. i. 11
 
 1 62 A SON OF HAGAR. 
 
 the floor. Hugh glanced up startled. It 
 was Paul. His face was ploughed deep 
 with Hues of pain. But the cloud of 
 sorrow that it wore was not so black as the 
 cloud of anger when he saw what his 
 brother was doing and guessed his purpose. 
 
 ' What are you about ?' Paul asked, 
 mastering his wrath. 
 
 There was no response. 
 
 * What devil's work are you doing now 
 — here — and in an hour like this ?' 
 
 Still no response. 
 
 ' Shut up that cabinet.' 
 
 Hugh turned about with a flushed face. 
 
 ' I shall do as I please.' 
 
 Paul took two strides towards him. 
 
 ' Shut it up.' 
 
 The cabinet was closed. At the same 
 moment Mrs. Eitson came from the inner 
 room. Paul turned on his heel. 
 
 'He is thinking of the will/ said the 
 elder brother. ' Perhaps it is natural that
 
 RETRO ME, SATHANA. 163 
 
 he should distrust me, but when the time 
 comes he is welcome to the half of every- 
 thing, and ten thousand wills would hardly 
 give him more.' 
 
 Mrs. Ritson was strongly agitated. Her 
 eyes, red with weeping, were aflame with 
 expression. 
 
 'Paul, he is conscious,' she cried, in a 
 voice that her anxiety could not subdue. 
 ' He is trying to speak. Where is the 
 lawyer V 
 
 Hu^h had been moving towards the 
 outer door. 
 
 ' Conscious !' he repeated, and returned 
 to the hearth. 
 
 ' Send for Mr. Bonnithorne at once,' said 
 Mrs. Ritson, addressing Hugh. 
 
 Her manner was feverish. Hugh touched 
 the bell. When the servant appeared he 
 said : 
 
 1 Tell Natt to run to the village for Mr. 
 Bonnithorne.' 
 
 11—2
 
 1 64 A SON OF HA GAR. 
 
 Paul had walked to the door of the inner 
 room. His hand was on the handle, when 
 the door opened and Greta came out. She 
 stepped up to Mrs. Eitson and tried to 
 quiet her agitation. 
 
 The servant returned. 
 
 ' I can't find Natt,' she said. ' He is 
 not in the house.' 
 
 ' You'll find him in the stable,' said 
 Hugh composedly. 
 
 The servant went out hurriedly. 
 
 Paul returned to the middle of the room. 
 
 ' I'll go myself,' he said, and plucked 
 up his hat from the settle, but Mrs. Eitson 
 rose to prevent him. 
 
 'No, no, Paul,' she said in a tremulous 
 voice, ' you must never leave his side.' 
 
 Paul glanced at his brother with a per- 
 plexed look. The calmness of Hugh's 
 manner disturbed him. 
 
 The servant re -appeared. 
 
 'Natt is not in the stable, sir.'
 
 RETRO ME, SATHAXA. 165 
 
 Paul's face was growing crimson. Mrs. 
 Ritson turned to Hugh. 
 
 ' Hugh, my dear son, do you go for the 
 lawyer/ 
 
 A faint smile that lurked at the corners 
 of Hugh's mouth gave way to a look of 
 grievous injury. 
 
 ' Mother, my place, also, is here. How 
 can you ask me to leave my father's side at 
 a moment like this ?' 
 
 Greta had been looking fixedly at Hugh. 
 
 ' I'll go,' she said resolutely. 
 
 ' Impossible,' said Paul. ' It is now 
 dark — the roads are wet and lonely.' 
 
 4 I'll go, nevertheless,' said Greta firmly. 
 
 * God bless you, my darling, and love 
 you and keep you for ever and ever,' said 
 Paul. Wrapping a cloak about her 
 shoulders he whispered, ' My brave girl — 
 that's the stuff of which an Englishwoman 
 may be made,' 
 
 He opened the door and walked out with
 
 1 66 A SON OF HAGAR. 
 
 her across the courtyard. The night was 
 now clear and calm ; the stars burnt ; the 
 trees whispered ; the distant ghylls, swollen 
 by the rain, roared loud through the thin 
 air ; a bird on the bough of a fir-tree 
 whistled and chirped. The storm was 
 gone ; only its wreckage lay in the still 
 room within. 
 
 ' A safe journey to you, dear girl, and a 
 speedy return,' whispered Paul, and in 
 another moment Greta had vanished in 
 the gloom. 
 
 When he returned to the hall, his brother 
 was passing into the room where the sick 
 man lay. Paul was about to follow, when 
 his mother, who was walking aimlessly to 
 and fro in yet more violent agitation than 
 before, called on him to remain. He turned 
 about and stepped up to her, observing, 
 as he did so, that Hugh had paused on the 
 threshold, and was regarding them with a 
 steadfast look.
 
 RETRO ME, SATHAKA. 167 
 
 Mrs. Rifcson took Paul's hand with a 
 nervous grasp. Her eyes, that bore the 
 marks of recent tears, had the light of wild 
 excitement. 
 
 ' God be praised that he is conscious at 
 last,' she said. 
 
 Paul shook his head as if in censure of 
 his mother's feelings. 
 
 * Let him die in peace,' he said ; ' let his 
 soul pass quietly to its rest. Don't vex it 
 now with thoughts of the cares it leaves 
 behind.' 
 
 Mrs. Piitson let go his hand, and dropped 
 into a chair. A slight shudder passed over 
 her. Paul looked down with a puzzled 
 expression. Then there was a low sobbing. 
 He leaned over his mother and smoothed 
 her hair tenderly. 
 
 ' Come, let us go in,' he said in a broken 
 voice. 
 
 Mrs. Ritson rose from her seat and went 
 down on her knees. Her eyes, still wet,
 
 i6S A SON OF HAGAR. 
 
 but no longer weeping, were raised to 
 heaven. 
 
 'Almighty Father, give ine strength!' 
 she said beneath her breath, and then more 
 quietly she rose to her feet. 
 
 Paul regarded her with increasing per- 
 turbation. Something even more serious 
 than he yet knew of was amiss. Hardly 
 knowing why, his heart sank still 
 deeper. 
 
 ' What are we doing ?' he said, scarcely 
 realizing his own words. 
 
 Mrs. Eitson threw herself on his neck. 
 
 ' Did I not say there was a terrible 
 reason why your father should make a 
 
 will r 
 
 Paul's voice seemed to die within him. 
 
 ' What is it, mother ?' he asked feebly, 
 not yet gathering the meaning of his 
 fears. 
 
 1 God knows, I never dreamt it would be 
 my lips that must tell you,' said Mrs. Eitson.
 
 RETRO ME, S ATM AN A. 169 
 
 * Paul, my son, my darling son, you think 
 me a good mother and a pure woman. I 
 am neither. I must confess all — now — 
 and to you. Oh, how your love will turn 
 from me ! How you will hate me ! How 
 every kiss I have given you will seem to 
 leave blisters on your lips !' 
 
 Pad's face turned pale. His eyes gazed 
 into his mother's eyes with a fixed look. 
 The clock ticked audibly. Not another 
 sound broke the silence. At last Paul 
 spoke. 
 
 1 Speak, mother,' he said ; ' is it some- 
 thing about my father ?' 
 
 Mrs. Pvitson's face fell on to her son's 
 breast. A strong shudder ran over her 
 shoulders, and she sobbed aloud. 
 
 ' You are not your father's heir,' she 
 said ; ' you were born before we married. . 
 . . . But you will try not to hate me, . . 
 your own mother. . . . You will try, will 
 you not ?'
 
 ij o A SON OF HAGAR. 
 
 Paul's great frame shook visibly. He 
 tried to speak. His tongue clave to his 
 mouth. 
 
 ' Do you mean that I am a bastard,' 
 
 he said in a hoarse whisper. 
 
 The word seemed to sting his mother 
 like a poisoned arrow She clung yet 
 closer about his neck. 
 
 { Pity me and love me still, though I 
 have wronged you before God and man — I 
 whom the world thought so pure — I am but 
 a whited sepulchre — a dishonoured woman 
 dishonouring her dearest son.' 
 
 The door opened gently, and Hugh Eit- 
 son stood in the doorway. Neither his 
 brother nor his mother realized his presence. 
 He remained a moment, and then withdrew, 
 leaving the door ajar. 
 
 Beneath the two whom he left behind 
 the world at that moment reeled. 
 
 Paul stood with great, wide eyes, that 
 had never tear to soften them, gazing
 
 RETRO ME, S A THAN A. 171 
 
 vacantly into the weeping eyes before hinu 
 His lips quivered, but he did not speak. 
 
 ' Paul, speak to me — speak to me — only 
 speak — curse me, yes, curse me, if you 
 will — only let me hear your voice ! See, I 
 am at your feet — your mother kneels to 
 you — forgive her as God has forgiven her.' 
 
 And loosing her grasp, she flung herself 
 on the ground before him, and covered her 
 face with her hands. 
 
 Paul seemed not at first to know what 
 was happening. Then he stooped and 
 raised his mother to her feet. 
 
 ' Mother, rise up,' he said in a strange, 
 hollow tone. ' Who am I that I should 
 presume to pardon you ? I am your son — ■ 
 you are my mother.' 
 
 His vacant eyes gathered a startled ex- 
 pression. He glanced quickly around the 
 room, and said in a deep whisper : 
 
 ' How many know of this ?' 
 
 ' None beside ourselves.'
 
 172 A SOX OF HA GAR. 
 
 The frightened look disappeared. In 
 its place came a look of overwhelming- 
 agony. 
 
 ' But / know of it ; oh, my God !' he 
 cried ; and into the chair from which his 
 mother had risen he fell like a wounded 
 man. 
 
 Mrs. Kitson dried her eyes. A strange 
 quiet was coming upon her now. Her 
 voice gathered strength. She laid a hand 
 on the hand of her son, who sat before her 
 with buried face. 
 
 ' Paul,' she said, ' it is not until now that 
 the clay of reckoning has waited for me. 
 When you were a babe, and knew nothing 
 of your mother's grief, I sorrowed over the 
 shame that might yet be yours ; and when 
 you grew to be a prattling child I thought 
 if God would look into your innocent eyes 
 they would purchase grace for both of us.' 
 
 Paul lifted his head. At that moment 
 of distress God had sent him the gracious
 
 RETRO ME, SATHAXA. 173 
 
 gift of tears. His eyes were wet, and looked 
 tenderly at his mother. 
 
 ' Paul,' she continued, quite calmly now, 
 1 promise me one thing.' 
 
 ' What is it?' he asked softly. 
 
 1 That if your father should not live to 
 make the will that must recognise you as 
 his son, you will never reveal this secret/ 
 
 Paul rose to his feet. ' That is impos- 
 sible. I cannot promise it,' he said. 
 
 ' Why ?' 
 
 1 Honour and justice require that my 
 brother Hugh, and not I, should be my 
 father's heir — he, at least, must know.' 
 
 1 What honour, and what justice ?' 
 
 ' The honour of a true man — the justice 
 of the law of England.' 
 
 Mrs. Piitson dropped her head. ' So 
 much for your honour,' she said. ' But 
 what of mine?' 
 
 ' Mother, what do you mean ?' 
 
 ' That if you allow your younger brother
 
 174 A SON OF HAGAR. 
 
 to inherit, the world by that act will be 
 told all — your father's sin, your mother's 
 shame.' 
 
 Mrs. Kitson raised her hands to her face, 
 and turned aside. Paul stepped up to her 
 and kissed her forehead reverently. 
 
 1 You are right,' he said. ' Forgive me 
 — -I thought only of myself. The world 
 that loves to tarnish a pure name would like 
 to gloat over your sorrow. That it shall 
 never ! Man's law may have been outraged, 
 but God's law is still inviolate. Whatever 
 my birth, I am as much your son in the 
 light of Heaven as Jacob was the son of 
 Isaac, or David of Jesse. Come, let us go 
 in to him — he may yet live to acknowledge 
 me.' 
 
 It had been a terrible moment, but it was 
 past. To live to manhood in ignorance of 
 the dishonour of his birth, and then to learn 
 the truth under the shadow of death — this 
 had been a tragic experience. The love he
 
 EETRO ME, SATHANA. 175 
 
 Lad borne his father — the revereuce he had 
 learnt at' his mother's knee — to what bitter 
 test had they there been put ! Had all the 
 past been but as the marble image of a 
 happy life! Was all the future shattered 
 before him ! Pshaw ! he was the uncon- 
 scious slave of a superstition — a phantasm, 
 a gingerbread superstition ! 
 
 And a mightier touch awoke his sensi- 
 bilities — the touch of nature. Before God 
 at that moment he was his father's son. If 
 the world, or the world's law, said other- 
 wise, then they were of the devil, and 
 deserving to be damned. What rite, what 
 jabbering ceremony, what priestly ordinance, 
 what legal mummery, stood between him 
 and his claim to his father's name ? 
 
 Paul took in love the hand of his mother. 
 1 Let us go in to him,' he repeated, and 
 together they walked across the room. 
 
 The outer door was flung open, and 
 Greta entered, flushed and with wide-open
 
 176 A SON OF HAGAR. 
 
 eyes. At the same instant the inner door 
 swung noiselessly back, and Hugh Eitsun 
 stood on the threshold. Greta was about 
 to speak, but Hugh motioned her to silence. 
 His face was pale, his hand trembled. ' Too 
 late,' he said huskily, ' he is dead.' 
 
 Greta sank on to the settle in the window 
 recess. Hugh walked to the hearth and 
 paused with rigid features before the haunt- 
 ing mirror. 
 
 Paul stood for a moment hand-in-hand 
 with his mother, motionless, speechless, 
 cold at his heart. Then he hurried into 
 the inner room. Mrs. Eitson followed him, 
 closing the door behind her. 
 
 The little oak-bound room was dusky ; 
 the lamp that burnt low was shaded. 
 Across the bed lay Allan Eitson, in his 
 habit as he lived. But his lips were white 
 and cold. 
 
 Paul stood and looked down. There lay 
 his father — his father still ! His father by
 
 RETRO ME, S ATM ANA. 177 
 
 right of nature — of love — of honour — let the 
 world say what it would. 
 
 And he knew the truth at last : too late 
 to look into those glassy eyes and read 
 the secret of fceir long years of suffering 
 love. 
 
 1 Father/ Paul whispered, and fell to his 
 knees by the deaf ear. 
 
 Mrs. Eitson, strangely quiet, strangely 
 calm, stepped to the opposite side of the 
 bed, and placed one hand on the dead man's 
 breast. 
 
 1 Paul,' she said, ' come here.' 
 
 He rose to his feet and walked to her 
 side. 
 
 4 Lay your hand with mine, and pledge 
 to me your solemn word never to speak of 
 what you have heard to-night until that 
 great day when we three shall stand together 
 before the great white throne/ 
 
 Paul placed his hand side by side with 
 hers, and lifted his eyes to heaven. 
 
 vol. 1. 12
 
 i;8 A SON OF HAGAR. 
 
 ' On my father's body, by my mother's 
 honour — never to reveal to any human soul, 
 by word or deed, his act or her shame — 
 always to bear myself as their lawful son 
 before man, even as I am their rightful son 
 before God — I swear it ! I swear it !' 
 
 His voice was cold and clear, but the 
 words were scarcely uttered when he fell to 
 his knees again, with a subdued cry of 
 overwrought feeling. 
 
 Mrs. Eitson staggered back, caught the 
 curtains of the bed, and covered her face. 
 All was still. 
 
 Then a shuffling footfall was heard on 
 the floor. Hugh Eitson was in the dark- 
 ened room. He lifted the shaded lamp from 
 the table, approached the bedside, and held 
 the lamp with one hand above his head. 
 The light fell on the outstretched body 
 of his father and the bowed head of his 
 brother.
 
 BOOK SECOND. 
 THE COIL OF THE TEMPTATION. 
 
 12 2
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 It was late in November, and the day was 
 dark and drear. Hoar-frost lay on the 
 ground. The atmosphere was pallid with 
 haze and dense with mystery. Gaunt 
 spectres of white mist swept across the 
 valley and gathered at the sides of every 
 open door. The mountains were gone. 
 Only a fibrous vagueness was visible. 
 
 In an old pasture field by the bridge, a 
 man was ploughing. He was an elderly 
 man, sturdy and stolid of figure, and clad in 
 blue homespun. There was nothing clerical 
 in his garb or manner, yet he was the vicar 
 and schoolmaster of the parish. His low- 
 crowned hat was drawn deep over his
 
 1 82 A SON OF HAGAR. 
 
 slumberous grey eyes. The mobile mouth 
 beneath completed the expression of gentle- 
 ness and easy good-nature. It was a fine 
 old face, with the beauty of simplicity and 
 the sweetness of content. 
 
 A boy in front led the horses and 
 whistled. The parson hummed a tune as 
 he turned his furrows. Sometimes he sang 
 in a drawling tone — 
 
 ' Bonny lass, canny lass, wilta be mine ? 
 Thou's nowder wesh dishes nor sarra the swine.' 
 
 At the turn-rows he paused, and rested on 
 his plough handles. He rested longest at 
 the turn-rows on the road side of the field. 
 Like the shivering mists that grouped 
 about the open doors, he was held there by 
 light and warmth. 
 
 The smithy stood at the opposite side of 
 the road, cut into the rock of the fell on 
 three sides, and having a roof of thatch. 
 The glare of the fire, now rising, now
 
 THE COIL OF THE TEMPTATION. 183 
 
 falling, streamed through the open door. 
 It sent a long vista of light through the 
 blank and pulsating haze. The vibrations 
 of the anvil were all but the only sounds 
 on the air ; the alternate thin clink of 
 the smith's hand hammer and the thick 
 thud of the striker's sledge echoed in 
 unseen recesses of the hills beyond. 
 
 This smithy of Newland filled the 
 function which under a higher pro- 
 pitiousness of circumstances is answered by 
 a club. Girded with his leather apron, his 
 sleeves rolled tightly over his knotty arms, 
 the smith, John Proudfoot, stood waiting 
 for his heat. His striker, Geordie Moore, 
 had fallen to at the bellows. On the tool 
 chest sat Gubblum Oglethorpe, leisurely 
 smoking. His pony was tied to the hasp 
 of the gate. The miller, Dick of the Syke, 
 sat on a pile of iron rods. Tom o' Dint, 
 the little bow-legged fiddler and postman, 
 was sharpening at the grindstone a pen-
 
 1 84 A SON OF HAGAR. 
 
 knife already worn obliquely to a point by 
 many similar applications. 
 
 ' Nay, I can make nowt of him. He's 
 a changed man for sure,' said the black- 
 smith. 
 
 Gubblum removed his pipe and muttered 
 sententiously, ' It's die-spensy, I tell thee/ 
 
 ' Dandering and wandering about at all 
 hours of the day and night/ continued the 
 blacksmith. 
 
 1 It's all die-spensy,' repeated the pedlar. 
 
 * And as widderful and wizzent as a pole- 
 cat nailed up on a barn door/ said Tom o' 
 Dint, lifting his grating knife from the 
 grindstone and speaking with a voice as 
 hoarse. 
 
 ' Ey, and as weak as watter with it,' 
 added the blacksmith. 
 
 * Him as was as strong as rum punch/ 
 rejoined the fiddler. 
 
 ' It's die-spensy, John — nowt else/ said 
 Gubblum. 

 
 THE COIL OF THE TEMPTATION. 185 
 
 The miller broke in testily. * What's 
 die-spensy ?' 
 
 1 What ails Paul Bitson,' answered 
 Gubblum. 
 
 * Shaf on your balderdash,' said Dick of 
 the Syke ; ' die-spensying and die-spensy- 
 ing. You've no'but your die-spensy for 
 everything. Tommy's rusty throat, and 
 John's big toe, and lang Geordie's broken 
 nose, as Giles Eaisley gave him a' Satur- 
 day neet at the Pack Horse — it's all die- 
 spensy.' 
 
 The miller was a blusterous fellow, who 
 could swear in lusty anger and laugh in 
 boisterous sport in a single breath. 
 
 Gubblum puffed placidly. ' It is die- 
 spensy. I know it by exper'ence/ he 
 observed persistently. 
 
 The blacksmith's little eyes twinkled 
 mischievously. ' To be sure you do, 
 Gubblum. You had it bad the day you 
 crossed in the packet from Whiteheb-
 
 1 36 A SON OF HAGAR. 
 
 ben. That was die-spensy — a 'cute bout 
 too.' 
 
 ' I've heard as it were amazing rough on 
 the watter that day/ said Tom in a pause 
 of the wheel, glancing up knowingly at the 
 blacksmith. 
 
 ' Heard, have you ? Must have been 
 tolerable deaf else. Rough ? Why, they 
 do say as the packet were wrecked, and 
 only two planks saved. Gubblum was 
 washed ashore cross-legged on one of them, 
 and his pack on the other/ 
 
 The long laboured breathings of the 
 bellows ended, the iron was thrown white 
 hot out of the glowing coals on to the 
 anvil, and the clank of the hand hammer 
 and thud of the sledge were all that could 
 be heard. Then the iron cooled, and was 
 lifted back into the palpitating blaze. The 
 blacksmith stepped to the door, wiped his 
 streaming forehead with one hand and 
 waved the other to the parson ploughing
 
 in the opposite field. ' A canny morning, 
 Mr. Christian/ he shouted. ' Bad luck 
 for the parson's young lady, anyhow — her 
 sweetheart is none too keen for the wed- 
 ding,' he said, turning again to the fire. 
 
 ' She's a fine like lass, yon,' said Tom o' 
 Dint. 
 
 An old man, iron grey, with a pair of 
 mason's mallets swung front and hack 
 across his shoulders, stepped into the smithy. 
 1 How fend ye, John ?' he said. 
 
 ' Middling weel, Job/ answered the 
 blacksmith ; * and what's your errand now '?' 
 
 ' A chisel or two for tempering.' 
 
 ' Cutting in the churchyard to-day, Job ? 
 Cold wark, eh ?' 
 
 'Ey, auldRitson's stone as they've putten 
 over him.' 
 
 The blacksmith tapped the pedlar on the 
 arm. ' Gubblum, shall I tell you what's 
 a- matter with Paul ?' 
 
 k Xeveryou bother, John, it's clie-spensy.'
 
 1 88 A SON OF HAGAR. 
 
 1 It's fretting — that's it — fretting for his 
 father.' 
 
 'Fretting for his fiddlesticks!' shouted 
 Dick, the miller ; ' Allan's dead this half 
 a year.' 
 
 ' John's reet,' said Job, the stonecutter ; 
 
 * it is fretting.' 
 
 Dick of the Syke got up off the iron rods. 
 
 * Because a young fellow has given you 
 a job of wark to cut his father's headstone 
 and tell a lie or two in letters half an inch 
 deep and two shillings a dozen — does that 
 show 'at he's fretting ?' 
 
 ' He didn't do nowt of the sort,' said 
 Job hotly. 
 
 * Dusta mean as it were the other one — ■ 
 Hugh ?' inquired the miller. 
 
 1 Maybe tha's reet,' said Job. 
 
 Dick of the Syke was not to be beaten 
 for lack of the logic of circumlocution. 
 
 ' Then what for do you say as Paul is 
 weeping his insides out about his father,
 
 THE COIL OF THE TEMPTATION. 189 
 
 when lie leaves it to other folks to put 
 a bit of a stone over him and a few scrats 
 on it T 
 
 ' Because I do say so,' said Job con- 
 clusively. 
 
 ' And maybe you've got your reasons, 
 Job,' said the blacksmith with insinuating 
 suavity. 
 
 ' Maybe I have,' said the mason. Then 
 softening, he added, ' I don't mind telling 
 you, neither. Yesterday morning when I 
 went to wark I found Paul Eitson lying 
 full length across his father's grave. His 
 clothes were soaking with dew, and his 
 face was as white as a Feb'uary mist, and 
 stiff and set like, and his hair was frosted 
 over same as a pane in the church window/ 
 
 ' Never !' 
 
 1 He was like to take no note of me, but 
 I gave him a shake, and called out, " What, 
 Mr. Paul ! why, what, man ! what's this !" * 
 
 ' And whatever did he say ?'
 
 rgo A SON OF HAGAR. 
 
 * Say ! Nowt. He get hissel' up — and 
 gay stiff in the limbs he looked, to be sure 
 — and walked off without a word/ 
 
 Gubblum, on the tool chest, had removed 
 his pipe from between his lips during the 
 mason's narrative, and listened with a 
 face of blank amazement. ' Weel, that 
 is a stiffener,' he said, drawing a long- 
 breath . 
 
 * What's a stiffener ?' said Job sharply. 
 
 ' That 'at you're telling for gospel truth.' 
 Then, turning to the blacksmith, the pedlar 
 pointed the shank of his pipe at the mason, 
 and said, ' What morning was it as he 
 found Paul Eitson taking a bath to hissel' 
 in the kirkyard ?' 
 
 ' Why, yesterday morning,' said the 
 smith. 
 
 * Well, he bangs them all at lying,' said 
 Gubblum. 
 
 ' What dusta say ?' shouted Job with 
 sudden fury.
 
 THE COIL OF THE TEMPTATION. 191 
 
 ' As you've telt us a lie,' answered 
 Gubblum. 
 
 ' Sista, Gubblum, if you don't take that 
 word back I'll — I'll throw you into the 
 watterbutt.' 
 
 ' And what would I do while you were 
 thrang at that laal job ?' asked the 
 pedlar. 
 
 The blacksmith interposed. ' Sec a 
 rumpus !' he said ; l you're too sudden in 
 your temper, Job.' 
 
 * Some folks are ower much like their 
 namesakes in the Bible,' said Gubblum, 
 resuming his pipe. 
 
 1 Then what for did he say it warn't true 
 as I found young Ritson yesterday morning 
 wet to the skin in the churchyard ?' said 
 Job, ignoring the pedlar. 
 
 ' Because he warn't there,' said Gub- 
 . blum. 
 
 Job lost all patience. ' Look here,' he 
 said, * if you're not hankering for a cold
 
 192 A SON OF HAGAR. 
 
 bath on a frosty morning, laal man, I don't 
 know as you've got any call to say that 
 again.' 
 
 'He warn't there,' the ' laal man' 
 muttered doggedly. 
 
 The blacksmith had plunged his last heat 
 into the water trough to cool, and a cloud of 
 vapour filled the smithy. ' Lord A 'mighty/ 
 he said, laughing, ' that's the way some 
 folks go off — all of a hiss and a smoke.' 
 
 1 He warn't there,' mumbled the pedlar 
 again, impervious to the homely similitude. 
 
 1 How are you so certain sure ?' said 
 Dick of the Syke. ' You warn't there 
 yourself, I reckon.' 
 
 1 No ; but I was somewhere else, and so 
 was Paul Eitson. I slept at the Pack 
 Horse in Kezzick night afore last, and he 
 did the same.' 
 
 ' Did you see him there ?' said the black- 
 smith. 
 
 1 No ; but Giles Eaisley saw him, and he
 
 THE COIL OF THE TEMPTATION. 193 
 
 warn't astir when Giles went on his morn- 
 ing shift at eight o'clock/ 
 
 The blacksmith broke into a loud guffaw. 
 * Tell us how he was at the Hawk and 
 Heron in London at midsummer.' 
 
 * And so he was,' said Gubblum, 
 unabashed. 
 
 ' Willy nilly, ey ?' said the blacksmith, 
 pausing over the anvil with uplifted hammer, 
 the lurid reflection of the hot iron on his 
 face. 
 
 ' Maybe he had his reasons for denying 
 hisself,' said Gubblum. 
 
 The blacksmith laughed again, tapped 
 the iron with the hand hammer, down 
 came the sledge, and the flakes flew. 
 
 Two miners entered the smithy. 
 
 ' Good morning, John ; are ye gaily ?' 
 said one of them. 
 
 1 Gaily, gaily ! Why, it's Giles hisself.' 
 
 * Giles,' said the pedlar, ' where was 
 Paul Eitson night afore last ?' 
 
 VOL. I. 13
 
 194 A SON OF HAGAR. 
 
 ' Abed, I reckon,' chuckled one of the 
 newcomers. 
 
 ' Where abed ?' 
 
 ' Nay, don't ax me. Wait — night afore 
 last ? That was the night he slept at 
 Jannet's, wasn't it ?' 
 
 Gubblum's eyes twinkled with hiumph. 
 ' What did I tell you ?' 
 
 ' What call had he to sleep at Keswick?' 
 said the blacksmith ; ' it's no'but four miles 
 from his own bed at the Ghyll.' 
 
 ' Nay, now, when ye ax the like o' 
 
 that ' 
 
 Tom, the postman, stopped his grind- 
 stone, and snuckered huskily : ' Maybe he's 
 had a fratch with yon brother — yon Hugh.' 
 
 * I'm on the morning shift this week, 
 and Mother Jannet she said, " Giles/' she 
 said, " the brother of your young master 
 came late last night for a bed." ' 
 
 ' Job, what do you say to that ?' shouted 
 the blacksmith above the pulsating^of the
 
 THE COIL OF THE TEMPTATION. 195 
 
 bellows, and with the sharp white lights of 
 the leaping flames on his laughing face. 
 
 ' Say ! That they're a pack of liars,' said 
 the mason, catching up his untempered 
 chisels and flinging out of the smithy. 
 
 When he had gone, Gubblum removed 
 his pipe and said calmly, * He's ower much 
 like his Bible namesake in temper — that's 
 the on'y fault of Job.' 
 
 The parson, in the field outside, had 
 stood in the turn-rows, resting on his plough 
 handles. He had been drawling ' Bonny 
 lass, canny lass;' but, catching the sound 
 of angry words, he had paused and listened. 
 When Job, the mason, flung away, ho 
 returned to his ploughing, and disappeared 
 down the furrow, the boy whistling at his 
 horse's head. 
 
 ' Why, Mattha, is it thee ?' said the 
 blacksmith, observing for the first time the 
 second of the newcomers ; ' and how r fend 
 
 ye? ! 
 
 13—2
 
 196 A SON OF HAGAR. 
 
 ' Middling weel, John, middling weel,' 
 said Mattlia, in a low voice, resting on the 
 edge of the trough. 
 
 It was Laird Fisher, more bent than of 
 old, with deeper lines in his grave face and 
 with yet more listless eyes. He had 
 brought two picks for sharpening. 
 
 ' Got your smelting-house at wark down 
 at the pit, Mattha ?' asked the black- 
 smith. 
 
 ' Ey, John, it's at wark, it's at wark/ . 
 
 The miller had turned to go, but he 
 faced about with ready anger. 
 
 ' Lord, yes, and a pretty pickle you and 
 your gaffer's like to make of me. Wad ye 
 credit it, John ? they've built their smelting- 
 house within half a rod of my mill. Half 
 a rod ; not a yard mair. When your red 
 hot rubbish is shot down your bank where's 
 it going to go, ey ? That's what I want to 
 know — where's it going to go ?' 
 
 ' Why, into your mill, of course/ said
 
 THE COIL OF THE TEMPTATION. 197 
 
 Gubbluru, with a wink, from the tool-chest. 
 * That'll maybe help you to go by fire 
 when you can't raise the wind.' 
 
 * Varra good for thee, Gubblum,' laughed 
 the blacksmith. 
 
 * I'll have the law on them safe enough,' 
 said the miller. 
 
 ' And where's your damages to come 
 from ?' 
 
 ' From the same spot as all the rest of 
 the brass — that's good enough for me.' 
 
 Matthew's low voice followed the in- 
 sinuating guffaw. 
 
 ' I spoke to Master Hugh yesterday. I 
 telt him all you said about a wall.' 
 
 * Well ?' 
 
 ' He won't build it.' 
 
 ' Of course not. Why didsta not speak 
 to Paul ?' 
 
 ' No use in that/ said Matthew faintly. 
 . ' Nay, young Hugh is gaffer,' exclaimed 
 the blacksmith.
 
 198 A SON OF HAGAR. 
 
 ■ l And Paul has no say in it except find- 
 ing the brass, ey ?' 
 
 ' I mak no doubt as you're reet, Dick/ 
 said Matthew meekly. 
 
 * It's been just so since the day auld 
 Allan died,' said the blacksmith. ' He 
 hadn't been a week in his grave before 
 Hugh bought up Mattha's royalty in the 
 Hammer Hole, and began to sink for 
 copper. He's never found much ore as 
 I've heard tell on, but he goes ahead 
 laying down his pumping engines, and 
 putting up his cranes, and boring his 
 mill-races, just as if he was proper-ietor 
 of a royal mine.' 
 
 ' Hugh is the chain-horse, and Paul's 
 no'but the mare in the shafts,' said 
 Gubblum. 
 
 ' And the money comes somehow,' said 
 Tom o' Dint, who had finished the knife 
 and was testing its edge in whittling a stick, 
 
 Matthew got up from his seat.
 
 THE CaiL OF THE TEMPTATION. 199 
 
 ' I'll come again for the picks, John/ 
 he said quietly, and the old man stepped 
 out of the bright glow into the chill 
 haze. 
 
 ' Mattha has never been the same 
 since ]aal Mercy left him,' said the black < 
 smith. 
 
 * Any news of her ?' asked the pedlar. 
 
 1 Ax Tom 0' Dint ; he's the postman, 
 and like to know if anybody in Newlands 
 ( uets the scribe of a line from the wench,' 
 said the miller. 
 
 ' Tom shakes his head. You could 
 tell summat, an' you would, ey, Tom ?*■ 
 said the blacksmith, showing his teeth. 
 
 ' Don't you misliken me,' said the rural 
 messenger in his husky tones ; ' I'm none 
 of your peeping Toms.' And the postman 
 drew up his head with as much pride of 
 office as could be assumed by a gentleman 
 of bowed legs and curtailed stature. 
 
 ' It baffles me as Mattha hisself could
 
 200 A SON OF HAGAR. 
 
 make nowt of his royalty in the Hammer 
 Hole, if there was owt to make out of it,' 
 said the miller from the gate, buttoning his 
 coat up to his ears. 
 
 ' I've heard as he had a mind to try his 
 luck again,' said Giles Raisley. 
 
 ' Nay, nay, nowt of the sort,' said the 
 blacksmith. ' When the laal lass cut away 
 and left the auld chap he lost heart and 
 couldn't bear the sight of the spot where 
 she used to bide. So he started back to 
 his bit place on Coledale Moss. But Hugh 
 Eitson followed him and bought up his 
 royalty — for nowt as they say — and set 
 him to wark for wage in his own sinking 
 — the same that ruined the auld man lang 
 ago.' 
 
 ' And he's like to see a fortun' come out 
 of it yet,' said Giles. 
 
 ' It won't be Mattha's fortun', then.' 
 
 ' Nay, never fear,' said the miner. 
 
 Gubblum shook the ashes out of his
 
 THE COIL OF THE TEMPTATION. 201 
 
 pipe, and said meditatively, ' Mattha's like 
 me aud the cuckoo.' 
 
 ' Why, man, how's that ?' said the 
 blacksmith, girding his leather apron in a 
 band about Lis waist. A fresh heat was in 
 the fire ; the bellows were belching ; the 
 palpitating flames were licking the smoky 
 hood. A twinkle lurked in the black- 
 smith's eye. ' How's that ?' he repeated. 
 
 1 He's alius stopping short too soon,' 
 said Gubblum. * My missis, she said to me 
 last back end, "Gubblum," she said, "dusta 
 mind as it's alius summer when the cuckoo 
 is in the garden ?" " That's what it is," I 
 said. " Well," she said, " dusta not think 
 it wad alius be summer if the cuckoo could 
 alius be kept here?" " Maybe so," I 
 says; k ' but easier said nor done." " Shaf 
 on you for a clothead," says she ; " nowt 
 so simple. When you get the cuckoo into 
 the garden, build a wall round and keep it 
 in." Aud that's what I did ; and I built
 
 202 A SON OF HAGAR. 
 
 it middling' high, too, but it warn't high 
 enough, for, wad ye think it, one day I 
 saw the cuckoo setting off, and it just 
 skimmed the top of that wall by a bare 
 inch. Now, if I'd no'but put another 
 
 stone ' 
 
 A loud peal of laughter was Gubblum's 
 swift abridgment. The pedlar tapped the 
 mouth of his pipe on his thumb-nail, and 
 smiled under his shaggy brows.
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 When Parson Christian finished his plough- 
 ing the day was far spent. He gave the 
 boy a shilling as day's wage for leading the 
 horses, drove the team back to their owner, 
 Piobert Atkinson, paid five shillings for the 
 day's hire of them, and set out for home. 
 On the way thither he called at Henry 
 Walmsley's, the grocery store in the vil- 
 lage, and bought half a pound of tea, a can 
 of coffee, and a stone of sugar ; then at 
 Eandal Alston's, the shoemaker's, and paid 
 for the repairing of a pair of boots and put 
 them under his arm ; finally, he looked in 
 at the Flying Horse and called for a pot of 
 ale, and drank it, and smoked a pipe and
 
 204 A SON OF HAGAR. 
 
 had a crack with Tommy Lowthwaite, the 
 publican. 
 
 The mist had risen as the day wore on, 
 and now that the twilight was creeping- 
 down the valley, the lane to the Vicarage 
 could be plainly seen in its yellow carpeting 
 of fallen leaves. An outer door of the 
 house stood open, and a rosy glow streamed 
 from the fire into the porch. Not less 
 bright was the face within that was waiting 
 to welcome the old vicar home. 
 
 1 Back again, Greta, back again !' shouted 
 the parson, rolling into the cosy room with 
 his ballast under either arm. ' There — 
 wait — fair play, girl — ah, you rogue ! — 
 now that's what I call a mean advant- 
 age/ 
 
 There was a smack of lips, a little laugh 
 in a silvery voice with a merry lilt in it, 
 and then a deep-toned mutter of affected 
 protestation breaking down into silence and 
 a broad smile.
 
 THE COIL OF THE TEMPTATION. 205 
 
 At arm's length Greta glanced at the 
 parson's burdens, and summoned an austere 
 look. 
 
 ' Now, didn't I tell you never to do it 
 again ?' she said, with uplifted finger and an 
 air of stern reproof. 
 
 ' Did you now V said the parson, with an 
 expression of bland innocence — adding, in 
 an accent of wonderment, ' What a memory 
 I have, to be sure !' 
 
 ' Leave such domestic duties to your 
 domestic superiors, sir,' said the girl, keep- 
 ing a countenance of amazing severity. 
 ' Do you hear me, you dear old darling ?' 
 
 ' I hear, I hear,' said the old man, 
 throwing his purchases on the floor one 
 by one. 'Why, bless me, and here's Mr. 
 Bonnithorne,' he added, lifting his eyes to 
 the chimney-corner, where the lawyer sat 
 toasting his toes. ' Welcome, welcome.' 
 
 'Peter, Peter!' called Greta, opening an 
 inner door.
 
 2o6 A SON OF HAGAR. 
 
 A gaunt old fellow, with only one arm, 
 shambled into the room. 
 
 1 Peter, take away these things to the 
 kitchen,' said Greta. 
 
 The old man glanced down at the par- 
 son's purchases with a look of undisguised 
 contempt. 
 
 'He's been at it again, mistress,' he 
 said. 
 
 The parson had thrown off his coat, and 
 was pushing away his long boots with the 
 boot-jack. 
 
 1 And how's Mr. Bonnithorne this rusty 
 weather ? Wait, Peter, give me the 
 slippers out of the big parcel. I got 
 Ptandal Alston to cut down my old boots 
 into clock sides, and make me slippers out 
 of the feet. Only sixpence, and see what 
 a cosy pair. Thank you, Peter. So you're 
 well, Mr. Bonnithorne. Odd, you say ? 
 Well, it is, considering the world of folk 
 who are badly these murky days.'
 
 THE COIL OF THE TEMPTATION. 207 
 
 Peter lifted the boots and fixed them 
 dexterously under the stump of his abridged 
 member. The tea and coffee he deposited 
 in his pockets, and the sugar he carried in 
 his hand. 
 
 ' There'll be never no living with him/ 
 he muttered in Greta's ear as he passed out. 
 ■ Don't know as I mind his goiug to plough 
 — that's a job for a man with two hands 
 — but the like 0' this isn't no master's 
 wark.' 
 
 4 Dear me!' exclaimed the parson, who 
 was examining his easy-chair preparatory 
 to sitting in it, ' a new cushion — and a bag- 
 on the wall for my specs — and a shelf for 
 my pipes — and a — a — what do you call 
 this T 
 
 ' An antimacassar, Mr. Christian, ' the 
 lawyer answered, smiling, and with un- 
 covered teeth. 
 
 ' I wondered was he ever going to see any 
 difference,' said Greta, with dancing eyes.
 
 20S A SON OF HAGAR. 
 
 1 Dear me, and red curtains on the 
 windows, and a clean print counterpane on 
 the settle ' 
 
 ' A chintz, a chintz/ interposed Greta, 
 with a mock whimper. 
 
 * And the old rosewood clock in the 
 corner as bright as a looking-glass, and 
 the big oak cabinet all shiny with oil ' 
 
 ' Varnish, sir, varnish/ 
 
 £ And all the carvings on it as fresh as a 
 new pin — St. Peter with his great key, and 
 the rich man with his money-bag trying to 
 defy the fiery furnace.' 
 
 ' Didn't I say you would scarcely know 
 your own house when you came home 
 again ?' said Greta. 
 
 She was busying herself at spreading the 
 cloth on the round table and laying the 
 parson's supper. 
 
 Parson Christian was revolving on his 
 slippered toes, his eyes full of childlike 
 amazement, and a maturer twinkle of know-
 
 THE COIL OF THE TEMPTATION. 209 
 
 ingness lurking in that corner of his aged 
 orbs that was not directly under the fire of 
 the girl's sharp, delighted gaze. 
 
 ' Deary rue, have you a young lady at 
 home, Mr. Bonnithorne ?' 
 
 1 You know I am a bachelor, Mr. Chris- 
 tian/ said the lawyer demurely. 
 
 ' So am I, so am I. I never knew any 
 better — not until our old friend Mrs. Low- 
 ther died, and left me to take charge of her 
 daughter.' 
 
 ' Mother should have asked me to take 
 charge of Mr. Christian, shouldn't she, 
 Mr. Bonnithorne ?' said Greta, with roguish 
 eyes. 
 
 'Well, there's something in that,' said 
 the parson with a laugh. ' Peter was get- 
 ting old and a bit rusty in the hinges, you 
 know, and we were likely to turn out a pair 
 of old crows fit for nothing but to scare 
 good Christians from the district. But 
 Greta came to the musty old house, with 
 
 VOL. I. 14
 
 2io A SON OF HAGAR. 
 
 its dust and its cobwebs, and its two old 
 human spiders, like a slant of sunlight on a 
 muggy day. Here's supper — draw up your 
 chair, Mr. Bonnithorne, and welcome. It's 
 my favourite dish — she knows it — barley 
 broth and a sheep's head, with boiled pota- 
 toes and mashed turnips — draw up your 
 chair — but where's the pot of ale, Greta ?' 
 
 ' Peter, Peter.' 
 
 The other spider presently appeared, 
 carrying a quart jug with a little moun- 
 tain of froth — a crater bubbling over and 
 down the sides. 
 
 ' Been delving for potatoes to-day, Peter?' 
 said the parson. 
 
 Peter answered with a grumpy nod of his 
 big head. 
 
 ' Plow many bushels ?' 
 
 'Maybe a matter of twelve/ muttered 
 Peter, shambling out. 
 
 Then the parson and his guest fell to. 
 
 'You're a happy man, Mr. Christian,'
 
 THE COIL OF THE TEMPTATION. 211 
 
 said the lawyer, as Greta left the room on 
 some domestic errand. 
 
 Parson Christian shook his head. ' No 
 call for grace,' he said, ' with all the luxuries 
 of life thrown into one's lap — that's the 
 worst of living such a happy life. No trials, 
 no cross — nothing to say but " Soul, take 
 thine ease " — and that's bad when you think 
 of it. . . . Have some sheep's head, Mr. 
 Bonnithorne ; you've not got any tongue — 
 here's a nice sweet bit.' 
 
 ' Thank you, Mr. Christian. I came 
 round to pay the ten shillings for Joseph 
 Parkinson's funeral sermon last Sunday 
 sennight, and the one pound two half- 
 yearly allowance from the James Bolton 
 charity for poor clergymen.' 
 
 1 Well, well, they may well say it never 
 rains but it pours,' said the parson. ' I 
 called at Henry Walmsley's and Piobert 
 Atkinson's on my way home from the cross 
 roads, and they both paid me their Martin- 
 
 14—2
 
 212 A SON OF HAGAR. 
 
 mas quarterage — Henry five shillings, and 
 Eobert seven shillings — and when I dropped 
 in on Eandal Alston to pay for the welting 
 and soliDg of my shoes, he said they would 
 come to one and sixpence, but that he owed 
 me one and seven pence for veal that Peter 
 sold him, so he paid me a penny, and we are 
 clear from the beginning of the world to this 
 day.' 
 
 1 1 also wanted to speak about our young 
 friend Greta/ said the lawyer softly. ' I 
 suppose you are reconciled to losing her ?' 
 
 1 Losing her? — Greta!' said the parson, 
 laying down his knife. Then smiling, 'Oh, 
 you mean when Paul takes her — of course, 
 of course — only the marriage w T ill not be 
 yet awhile — he said so himself.' 
 
 ' Marriage with Paul — no, 'said Mr.Bonni- 
 thorne, clearing his throat and looking grave. 
 
 Parson Christian glanced into the lawyer's 
 face uneasily and lapsed into silence. 
 
 ' Mr. Christian, you were left guardian
 
 THE COIL OF THE TEMPTATION. 213 
 
 of Greta Lowther by our dear friend her 
 mother. It becomes your duty to see that 
 she does the best for her future welfare and 
 happiness.' 
 
 ' Surely, surely !' said the parson. 
 
 ' You are an old man, Mr. Christian, and 
 she is a young girl. When you and I are 
 gone, Greta Lowther will still have the 
 battle of life before her/ 
 
 ' Please God, please God,' said the parson 
 faintly. 
 
 * Isn't it well that you should see that 
 she shall have a husband that can fight it 
 with her side by side ¥ 
 
 6 So she shall, so she shall — Paul is a 
 manly fellow, and as fond of her as of his 
 own soul — nay, as I tell him, it's idolatry 
 and a sin before God, his love of the girl.' 
 
 * You're wrong, Mr. Christian. Paul 
 Ptitson is no fit husband for Greta. He is 
 a ruined man. Since his father's death he 
 has allowed the Ghyll to go to wreck. It
 
 214 A SON OF HAGAR. 
 
 is mortgaged to the last blade of grass. I 
 know it. Odd, isn't it ?' 
 
 Again the smile and the uncovered teeth. 
 
 Parson Christian shifted his chair from 
 the table and gazed into the fire with be- 
 wildered eyes. ' I knew he was in trouble/ 
 he said, ' but I didn't guess that things 
 wore so grave a look.' 
 
 ' Don't you see that he is shattered in 
 mind as well as purse ?' said the lawyer. 
 
 ' No, no ; I can't say that I do see that. 
 He's a little absent sometimes, but that's 
 all. When I talk of Matthew Henry and 
 discuss his commentaries, or recite the 
 story of dear Adam Clarke, he is a little — 
 just a little forgetful — that's all — yes, that 
 is all.' 
 
 ' Compared with his brother — what a 
 difference !' said Mr. Bonnithorne. 
 
 ' Well, there is a difference,' said the 
 parson. 
 
 ' Such spirit, such intelligence — he'll be
 
 THE COIL OF THE TEMPTATION. 215 
 
 the richest roan in Cumberland one of these 
 days. He has bought up a royalty that is 
 sweating ore, and now he is laying down 
 pumpmg-engines and putting up smelting- 
 houses, and he is getting standing orders to 
 fix a line of railway for the copper he is 
 fetching up. Odd, isn't it ?' 
 
 ' And where did the money come from ?' 
 asked the parson ; ' the money to begin V 
 
 The lawyer glanced up sharply. ' It was 
 his share of his father's personalty.' 
 
 ' A big tree from such a little acorn,' 
 said the parson meditatively, ' and quick 
 growth, too.' 
 
 ' There's no saying what intelligence and 
 enterprise will not do in this world, Mr. 
 Christian,' said the lawyer, who seemed less 
 certain of the next. ' Hugh Eitson is a 
 man of spirit and brains. Now, that's the 
 husband for Greta — that is, if you can get 
 him — and I don't know that you can — 
 but if it were only possible '
 
 2i6 A SON OF HAGAR. 
 
 Parson Christian faced about. ' Mr. Bonni- 
 thorne,' he said gravely, ' the girl is not up 
 for sale, and the richest man in Cumberland 
 can't buy her. The thirty pieces of silver for 
 which Judas sold his Master may have been 
 smelted and coined afresh, but not a piece 
 of that money shall touch fingers of mine.' 
 
 ' You mistake me, Mr. Christian, believe 
 me you do,' protested the lawyer, with an 
 aggrieved expression. ' I was speaking in 
 our young friend's interests. Whatever 
 occurs, I beg of you, as a friend and well- 
 wisher of the daughter of dear Eobert 
 Lowther, now in his grave, never to allow 
 her to marry Paul Kitson.' 
 
 ' That shall be as God wills it,' said the 
 parson quietly. 
 
 The lawyer had risen and drawn on his 
 great- coat. 
 
 ' She can stay here with me,' continued 
 the parson. 
 
 * No, she should marry now,' said Mr.
 
 THE COIL OF THE TEMPTATION. 217 
 
 Bomiithorne, stepping to the door. ■ She is 
 all but of age. It is hardly fair to keep 
 her/ 
 
 ' Why, what do you mean V asked the 
 parson, a puzzled look on his face. 
 
 * She is rich and she is young. Her 
 wealth can buy comforts, and her youth win 
 pleasures/ 
 
 The good old Christian opened wide his 
 great gray eyes with a blank expression. 
 He glanced vacantly about the simple 
 room, rose to his feet, and sat down again. 
 
 ' I never thought of that before,' he said 
 faintly, and stared long into the tire. 
 
 There was a heavy foot on the path out- 
 side. The latch was lifted, and Paul Eitson 
 stepped into the room. At the sound of his 
 step Greta tripped through the inner door, 
 all joy and eagerness, to welcome him. 
 The parson got up and held out both 
 hands, the clouds gone from his beaming 
 face.
 
 2i8 A SON OF HAGAR. 
 
 ' Well, good-night/ said the lawyer, 
 opening the door. ' I've four long miles 
 before me. And how dark ! how very 
 dark ! Odd, isn't it ?' 
 
 Paul Eitson was in truth a changed man. 
 His face was pale and haggard, and his 
 eyes were bleared and heavy. He dropped 
 with a listless weariness into the chair that 
 Greta drew up to the fire. "When he 
 smiled, the lips lagged back to a gloomy 
 repose ; and when he laughed, the note 
 of merriment rang hollow and fell 
 short. 
 
 ' Just in time for a game with me, my 
 lad,' said the parson. ' Greta, fetch the 
 chessboard and box/ 
 
 The board was brought, the pieces fixed; 
 the parson settled himself at his ease w 7 ith 
 slippers on the hearthrug and a handkerchief 
 across his knee. 
 
 * Do you know, Paul, I heard a great 
 pari about you to-day ?'
 
 THE COIL OF THE TEMPTATION. 219 
 
 ' About me ! Where ?' asked Paul, with- 
 out much curiosity in his tone. 
 
 * At Mr. Proudfoot's smithy, while I was 
 turning the fallows in the meadow, down 
 at the cross roads. Little Mr. Oglethorpe 
 was saying that you slept at the Pack 
 Horse, in Keswick, the night before last ; 
 but Mr. Job Sheepshanks, the letter- cutter, 
 said nay, and they had high words indeed, 
 wherein Job called Mr. Oglethorpe all but 
 his proper name, and flung away in high 
 dudgeon/ 
 
 Paul moved his pawn and said, ' I never 
 slept at the Pack Horse in my life, Mr. 
 Christian/ 
 
 Greta sat knitting at one side of the 
 ingle. The kitten, with a bell attached to 
 a ribbon about its neck, sported with the 
 bows of her dainty slippers. Only the 
 click of the needles, and the tinkle of the 
 bell, and the hollow tick of the great clock 
 in the corner broke the silence.
 
 220 A SOX OF HAGAR. 
 
 At last Parson Christian drew himself 
 up in his chair. 
 
 * Well, Paul, man, Paul — deary me, 
 what a sad move ! You're going back, 
 back, back ; once you could beat me five 
 games to four. Now I can run away with 
 you.' 
 
 The game soon finished, amid a chuckle 
 from the parson, a bantering word from 
 Greta, and a loud forced laugh from Paul. 
 
 Parson Christian lifted from a shelf a 
 ponderous tome, bound in leather and en- 
 cased in green cloth. 
 
 ( I must make my day's entry,' he said, 
 i and get off to bed. I was astir before 
 daybreak this morning.' 
 
 Greta crept up behind the old man, and 
 looked over his shoulder as he wrote : 
 
 * Nov. 21. — Ketired to my lodging-room 
 last night, and commended my all to God, 
 and lay down, and fell asleep ; but Peter 
 minded the heifer that was near to calving;
 
 THE COIL OF THE TEMPTATION. 221 
 
 so he came and wakened me, and we went 
 down and sealed her, and foddered her, 
 and milked her. Spent all day ploughing 
 the low meadow, Peter delving potatoes. 
 Called at the Flying Horse, and sat while 
 I drank one pot of ale and no more, and 
 paid for it. Received ten shillings from 
 Lawyer Bonnithorne for funeral sermon, 
 and one pound two for Bolton charity ; 
 also five shillings quarterage from Henry 
 "Walmsley, and seven from Robert Atkin- 
 son, and a penny to square accounts from 
 Randal Alston, and so retired to my closet 
 at peace with all the world. Blessed be 
 God/ 
 
 The parson returned to its shelf the pon- 
 derous diary ' made to view his life and 
 actions in,' and called through the inner 
 door for his bedroom candle. A morose 
 voice answered ' Coming/ and presently 
 came. 
 
 ' Thank you, Peter; and how's the
 
 222 A SON OF HAGAR. 
 
 meeting-house, and who preaches there 
 next Sunday, Peter V 
 
 Peter grumbled out : 
 
 ' I don't know as it's not yourself. I 
 passed them my word as you'd exhort 'em 
 a' Sunday afternoon/ 
 
 * But nobody has ever asked me. You 
 should have mentioned the matter to me 
 first, Peter, before promising. But never 
 mind, I'm willing, though it's a poor dis- 
 course they can get from me.' 
 
 Turning to Paul, who sat silent before 
 the fire : 
 
 c Peter has left us and turned Methodist,' 
 said the parson ; ' he is now Brother Peter 
 Ward, and wants me to preach at the 
 meeting-house. Well, I won't say nay. 
 Many a good ordained clergyman has been 
 dissenting minister as well. Good-night 
 to you. . . . Peter, I wish you to get 
 some whipcord and tie up the reel of my 
 fishing-rod — there it is, on the rafters of
 
 THE COIL OF THE TEMPTATION. 223 
 
 the ceiling ; and a bit more cord to go 
 round the handle of my whip — it leans 
 against the leads of the neuk window ; 
 and, Peter, I'm to go to the mill with the 
 oats to-morrow, and Robin Atkinson has 
 loaned me his shandry and mare. Eobin 
 always puts a bushel of grain into the box, 
 but it's light and only small feeding. I 
 wish you to get a bushel of better to mix 
 with it, and make it more worth the mare's 
 labour to eat it. Good-night all ; good- 
 night.' 
 
 Peter grumbled something beneath his 
 breath and shambled out. 
 
 ' God bless him !' said Greta presently; 
 and Paul, without lifting his eyes from the 
 fire, said quietly : 
 
 1 " The lore of Christ and His apostles twelve 
 He taught : but first he followed it hiraselve." ' 
 
 Then there was silence in the little 
 Vicarage. Paul sat without animation
 
 224 A SON OF If AGAR. 
 
 until Greta set herself to bewitch him out 
 of his moodiness. Her bright eyes, dancing 
 in the rosy firelight that flickered in the 
 room ; her high spirits, bubbling over with 
 delicious teasing and joyous sprightliness ; 
 her tenderness, her rippling laughter, her 
 wit, her badinage — all were brought to the 
 defeat and banishment of Paul's heaviness 
 of soul. It was to no purpose. The 
 gloom of the grave face would not be 
 conquered. Paul smiled slightly into the 
 gleaming eyes, and laughed faintly at the 
 pouting lips, and stroked tenderly the soft 
 hair that was glorified into gold in the glint 
 of the firelight ; but the old sad look came 
 back once and again. 
 
 Greta gave it up at last. She rose from 
 the hassock at his feet. 
 
 ' Sweetheart/ she said, ' I will go to bed. 
 You are not well to-night, or you are angry, 
 or out of humour/ 
 
 She waited a moment, but he did not
 
 THE COIL OF THE TEMPTATION. 223 
 
 speak. Then she made a feeble feint of 
 leaving the room. 
 
 At last Paul said : 
 
 ' Greta, I have something to say.' 
 
 She was back at her hassock in an 
 instant. The laughter had gone from her 
 eyes, and left a dewy wistfulness. 
 
 1 You are unhappy. You have been un- 
 happy a long, long time, and have never 
 told me the cause. Tell me now.' 
 
 The heavy face relaxed. 
 
 1 Whatever put that in your head, little 
 one ?' he asked, in a playful tone, patting 
 the golden hair. 
 
 1 Tell me now,' she said more eagerly. 
 ' Think of me as a woman fit to share your 
 sorrows, not as a child to be pampered and 
 played with, and never to be burdened with 
 a man's sterner cares. If I am not lit 
 to know your troubles, I am not fit to be 
 your wife. Tell me, Paul, what it is that 
 has taken the sunshine out of your life.' 
 
 vol. 1. 15
 
 226 A SON OF HAGAR. 
 
 6 The sunshine has not been taken out of 
 my life yet, little woman — here it is/ said 
 Paul lightly, and he drew his fingers through 
 the glistening hair. 
 
 The girl's lucent eyes fell. 
 
 ' You are playing with me/ she said 
 gravely ; ' you are always playing with me. 
 Am I so much a child ? Are you angry 
 with me?' 
 
 ' Angry with you, little one ? Hardly 
 that, I think/ said Paul, and his voice 
 sank. 
 
 ' Then tell me, sweetheart. You have 
 something to say — what is it ?' 
 
 ' I have come to ask ' 
 
 < Yes ?' 
 
 He hesitated. His heart was too full to 
 tpeak. He began again : 
 
 ' Do you think it would be too great a 
 sacrifice to give up ' 
 
 ' What ?' she gasped. 
 
 ' Do you remember all you told me about
 
 THE COIL OF THE TEMPTATION. 227 
 
 my brother Hugh — that he said he loved 
 you T 
 
 1 Well ?' said Greta, with a puzzled 
 glance. 
 
 * I think he spoke truly,' said Paul, and 
 his voice trembled. 
 
 She drew back with agony in every line 
 of her face. 
 
 1 Would it be ... do you think . . . 
 supposing I went away, far away, and we 
 were not to meet for a time, a long time 
 — never to meet again — could you bring 
 yourself to love him and marry him ?• 
 Greta rose to her feet in agitation. 
 'Him — love him! — you ask me that — 
 you V 
 
 The girl's voice broke down into sobs 
 that seemed to shake her to the heart's 
 core. 
 
 ' Greta, darling, forgive me ; I was 
 blind — I am ashamed.' 
 
 ' Oh, I could cry my eyes out !' she said, 
 
 15— 2
 
 223 A SON OF HAGAR. 
 
 wiping away her tears. ' Say you were 
 only playing with nie, then ; say you were 
 only playing ; do say so, do !' 
 
 ' I will say anything — anything but the 
 same words again — and they nearly killed 
 me to say them.' 
 
 ' And was this what you came to say ?' 
 Greta inquired. 
 
 * No, no,' he said, lifted out of his gloom 
 by the excitement ; ' but another thing, 
 and it is easier now — ten times easier now 
 — to say it. Greta, do you think if I were 
 to leave Cumberland and settle in another 
 country — Australia or Canada, or somewhere 
 far enough away — that you could give up 
 home, and kindred, and friends, and old 
 associations, and all the dear past, and face 
 a new life in a new world with me ? Could 
 you do it ?' 
 
 Her eyes sparkled. He opened his arms, 
 and she flew to his embrace. 
 
 * Is this your answer, little one ?* he
 
 THE COIL OF THE TEMPTATION. 229 
 
 said with choking delight. And a pair of 
 streaming eyes looked up for a brief instant 
 into his face. l Then we'll say no more 
 now. I'm to go to London to-morrow night, 
 and shall be away four days. When I return 
 we'll talk again, and tell the good soul who 
 lies in yonder. Peace be with him, and 
 sweet sleep, the dear old friend.' 
 
 Paul lifted up his hat and opened the 
 door. His gloom was gone ; his eyes 
 were alive with animation. The worn 
 cheeks were aflame. He stood erect, and 
 walked with the step of a strong man. 
 Greta followed him into the porch. The 
 rosy firelight followed her. It flickered 
 over her golden hair, and bathed her beauty 
 in a ruddy glow. 
 
 1 Oh, how free the air will breathe over 
 there,' he said, ' when all this slavery is 
 left behind for ever ! You don't understand, 
 little woman, but some clay you shalL 
 What matter if it is a land of rain and
 
 2 3 o A SON OF HA GAR. 
 
 snow, and tempest ? It will be a land of 
 freedom — freedom, and life, and love. 
 And now, Master Hugh, we shall soon be 
 quits — very soon V 
 
 His excitement carried him away, and 
 Greta was too greedy of his joy to check it 
 with questions. 
 
 They stood together at the door. The 
 night was still and dark ; the trees were 
 noiseless, their prattling leaves were gone. 
 Silent and empty as a vacant street was the 
 unseen road. 
 
 Paul held forth his hand to feel if it 
 rained. A withered leaf floated down from 
 the eaves into his palm. 
 
 Then a footstep echoed on the path. It 
 went on towards the village. Presently 
 the postman came trudging along from the 
 other direction. 
 
 ' Good-night, Tom o' Dint,' cried Paul 
 cheerily. 
 
 Tom stopped and hesitated.
 
 THE COIL OF THE TEMPTATION. 231 
 
 * Who was it I hailed on the road V he 
 asked. 
 
 ■ When ?' 
 1 Just now/ 
 
 I Nay, who was it ?- 
 
 I I thought it was yourself.' 
 
 The little man trundled on in the dark. 
 
 * My brother, no doubt/ said Paul, and 
 pulled the door after him.
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 Next morning a bright snn shone on the 
 frosty landscape. The sky was blue and 
 the air was clear. 
 
 Hugh Kit son sat in his room at the back 
 of the Ghyll, with its window looking out 
 on the fell side and on the river under the 
 leafless trees beneath. The apartment had 
 hardly the appearance of a room in a Cum- 
 brian homestead. It was all but luxurious 
 in its appointments. The character of its 
 contents gave it something of the odour of 
 a bygone age. Besides books on many 
 shelves, prints, pictures in water and oil, 
 and mirrors of various shapes, there were 
 tapestry on the inside of the door, a bust
 
 THE COIL OF THE TEMPTATION. 233 
 
 of Dante above a cabinet of black oak, a 
 piece of bas-relief in soapstone, a gar- 
 goyle in wood, a brass censer, a mediaeval 
 lamp with open mouth, and a small 
 ivory crucifix nailed to the wall above the 
 fire. 
 
 Hugh himself sat at an organ, his 
 fingers wandering aimlessly over the 
 keys, his eyes gazing vacantly out at the 
 window. 
 
 1 May I intrude ?' said the meek voice of 
 Mr. Bonnithorne from without. 
 
 ' Come in/ said the player. The lawyer 
 entered and walked to a table in the middle 
 of the floor. Hugh Eitson finished the 
 movement he was playing, and then rose 
 from the organ and drew an easy chair to 
 the fire. 
 
 1 Brought the deed V he asked quietly, 
 Mr. Bonnithorne still standing. 
 
 1 I have, my dear friend, and something 
 yet more important.'
 
 234 A SON OF HAGAR. 
 
 Hugh glanced up : through his constant 
 smile Mr. Bonnithorne was obviously agi- 
 tated. Dropping his voice, the lawyer 
 added, ' Copies of the three certificates.' 
 
 Hugh smiled faintly. ' Good ; w r e will 
 discuss the certificates first/ he said, and 
 drew his dressing-gown leisurely about 
 him. 
 
 Mr. Bonnithorne began to unfold some 
 documents. He paused ; his eye was 
 keen and bright ; he seemed to survey 
 his dear friend with some perplexity ; his 
 glance was shadowed by a certain look of 
 distrust ; but his words were cordial and 
 submissive, and his voice was, as usual, low 
 and meek. ' What a wonderful man you 
 are. And how changed ! It is only a few 
 months since I had to whip up your lagging 
 spirits at a great crisis. And now you leave 
 me far behind. Not the least anxious ! 
 How different I am, to be sure. It was 
 this very morning my correspondent sent
 
 THE COIL OF THE TEMPTATION. 235 
 
 me the copies, and yet I am here, five 
 miles from home. And when the post 
 arrived I declare to you that such was my 
 eagerness to know if our surmises were 
 right that ' 
 
 Hugh interrupted in a quick cold voice : 
 ' That you were too nervous to open his 
 letter, and fumbled it back and front for an 
 hour — precisely. ' 
 
 Saying this, Hugh lifted his eyes quickly 
 enough to encounter Mr. Bonnithorne's 
 glance, and when they fell again an ex- 
 pression of quiet scorn was playing about 
 his mouth. 
 
 ' Give me the papers/ said Hugh, and 
 he stretched forward his hand without shift- 
 ing in his seat. 
 
 ' Well, really, you are — really ' 
 
 Hugh raised his eyes again. Mr. Bonni- 
 thorne paused, handed the documents, and 
 shuffled uneasily into a seat. 
 
 One by one Hugh glanced hastily over
 
 236 A SON OF HAGAR. 
 
 three slips of paper. ' This is well,' he said 
 quietly. 
 
 ' Well ? I should say so indeed. What 
 could be better ? I confess to you that 
 until to-day I had some doubts. Now I 
 have none/ 
 
 ' Doubts '? So you had doubts/ said 
 Hugh drily. ' They disturbed your sleep, 
 perhaps ?' 
 
 The lurking distrust in Mr. Bonnithorne's 
 eyes openly displayed itself, and he gazed 
 full into the face of Hugh Eitson with 
 a searching look that made little parley 
 with his smile. ' Then one may take a 
 man's inheritance without qualm or con- 
 viction ? Odd, isn't it ?' 
 
 Hugh pretended not to hear, and began 
 to read aloud the certificates in his hand. 
 ' Let me see, this is first — Eegistration of 
 Birth.' 
 
 Mr. Bonnithorne interrupted. ' Luckily, 
 very luckily, the registration of birth is first/
 
 THE COIL OF THE TEMPT A TION. 237 
 
 Hugh read — 
 
 1 Name, Paul. Date of birth, August 14, 
 1845. Place of birth, Piussell Square, 
 London. Father's name, Eobert Lowther. 
 Mother's name, Grace Lowther; maiden 
 name, Ormerod. 
 
 1 Then this comes second — Registration 
 of Marriage.' 
 
 Mr. Bonnithorne rose in his eagerness 
 and rubbed his hands together at the fire. 
 'Yes, second,' he said, with evident relish. 
 
 Hugh read calmly : 
 
 1 Allan Eitson — Grace Ormerod — Regis- 
 trar's office, Bow Street, Strand, London — 
 June 12th, 1847.' 
 
 ' What do you say to that ?' asked Mr. 
 Bonnithorne, in an eager whisper. 
 
 Hugh continued without comment. 'And 
 this comes last — Piegistration of Birth.' 
 
 'Name, Hugh— March 25th, 1848 — 
 Holme, Raven glass, Cumberland — Allan 
 Eitson — Grace Eitson (Ormerod).'
 
 233 A SON OF //AGAR. 
 
 ' There you have the case in a nutshell/ 
 said Mr. Bonnithorne, dropping his voice. 
 * Paul is your half-brother, and the son of 
 Lowther. You are Allan Bitson's heir, born 
 within a year of your father's marriage. 
 Can anything be clearer ?' 
 
 Hugh remained silently intent on the 
 documents. ' Were these copies made at 
 Somerset House ?' he asked. 
 
 Mr. Bonnithorne nodded. 
 
 ' And your correspondent can be relied 
 upon ?' 
 
 ' Assuredly. A solicitor in excellent 
 practice/ 
 
 ' Was he told what items he had to find, 
 or did he make a general search ?' 
 
 1 He was told to find the marriage or 
 marriages of Grace Ormerod, and to trace 
 her offspring.' 
 
 * And these were the only entries.' 
 
 Mr. Bonnithorne nodded again. 
 
 Hugh twirled the papers in his fingers,
 
 THE COIL OF THE TEMPTATION. 239 
 
 and then placed two of them side by side. 
 His face wore a look of perplexity. ' I am 
 puzzled,' he said. 
 
 ' What puzzles you ?' said Mr. Bonni- 
 thorne* ' Can anything be plainer ?' 
 
 1 Yes. By these certificates I am two 
 and a half years younger than Paul. I was 
 always taught that there was only a year 
 between us/ 
 
 Mr. Bonnithorne smiled, and said in a 
 superior tone : 
 
 ' An obvious ruse, my dear young friend.' 
 
 The dear young friend laughed slightly. 
 
 1 You think a child is easily deceived — 
 true!' 
 
 Mr. Bonnithorne preserved a smiling 
 face. 
 
 ' Now, I shall proceed to the payment of 
 the legacy, and you, no doubt, to the insti- 
 tution of your claim.' 
 
 1 No,' said Hugh Kitson, with emphasis, 
 risiD£ to his feet.
 
 240 A SON OF HAGAR. 
 
 ' You know that if a bastard dies seized 
 of an estate, the law justifies his title. He 
 is then the bastard eigne. You must eject 
 this man.' 
 
 ' No,' said Hugh Kitson again. 
 
 The lawyer glanced up inquiringly, and 
 Hugh added : 
 
 ' That shall come later. Meantime the 
 marriage must be brought about.' 
 
 ' Your own marriage with Greta ?' 
 
 < Paul's. \ 
 
 ' Paul's ?' said Mr. Bonnithorne, the very 
 suppression of his tone giving it additional 
 emphasis. 
 
 ' Paul's,' repeated Hugh with grim com- 
 posure. ' He shall marry her.' 
 
 The lawyer had risen once more, and 
 was now face to face with Hugh Ritson, 
 glancing into his eyes with eager scrutiny. 
 
 ' You cannot mean it,' he said at length, 
 with a short, soft gurgle. 
 
 ' And why not ?' said Hugh placidly.
 
 THE COIL OF THE TEMPTATION. 241 
 
 ' Because Paul is her brother — at least 
 her half-brother/ 
 
 1 They don't know that.' 
 
 Mr. Bonnithorne's breath seemed to be 
 arrested. 
 
 ' But we know it, and we can't stand by 
 and witness their marriage/ he said at 
 length. 
 
 Hugh Kitson leaned with his back to the 
 fire. 
 
 * We can, and shall,' he said* and not a 
 muscle of his face moved. 
 
 Mr. Bonnithorne surveyed his friend from 
 head to foot, and then his own countenance 
 relaxed. 
 
 ' You are trifling ; but it will be no trifle 
 to them when they learn that their billing 
 and cooing must end. And from such a 
 cause, too. It will be a terrible shock. 
 The only question is, whether it would not 
 be more humane to say nothing of the 
 impediment until we have brought about 
 
 vol. 1. 1G
 
 242 A SON OF HAGAR. 
 
 another match. Last night, at Parson 
 Christian's, I did what I could for you/ 
 
 Hugh smiled in return ; a close observer 
 might have seen that his was a cold mockery 
 of the lawyer's own smile. 
 
 ' Yes, you were always humane, Bonni- 
 thorne, and now your sensibilities are 
 shocked. But when I spoke of marriage I 
 meant the ceremony. Nothing more.' 
 
 The lawyer's eyes twinkled. 
 
 \ I think *I understand. You intend to 
 separate them at the church door — perhaps 
 at the altar rail. It is a shocking revenge. 
 My very skin creeps.' 
 
 Hugh laughed lightly, and walked to the 
 window. A slant of sunshine fell on his 
 up-turned face. When he turned his head 
 and broke silence he spoke in a deep, harsh 
 voice. 
 
 ' I was humane, too. When she spoke of 
 marriage with Paul I hinted at an impedi- 
 ment. She ridiculed the idea; scoffed at
 
 THE COIL OF THE TEMPTATION. 243 
 
 it/ Another light laugh, and then a stern 
 solemnity. \ She insulted me — palpably, 
 grossly, brutally. What did she say ? 
 Didn't I tell you before ? Why, she said — 
 ha, ha ! would you believe it ? — she said 
 she'd rather marry a ploughboy than such 
 a gentleman as me. That was her very 
 word.' 
 
 Hugh Ritson's face was now dark with 
 passion, while laughter was on his lips. 
 
 ' She shall marry her ploughboy, to her 
 lifelong horror and disgrace. I promised 
 her as much, and I shall keep my word.' 
 
 1 A terrible revenge/ muttered the law- 
 yer, twitching uneasily at his finger nails. 
 
 ' Tut, you don't know to what lengths 
 love may go. Even the poor feeble infant 
 hearts of men whose minds are a blank can 
 carry them any length in the devotion or 
 the revenge of love.' He paused, and then 
 added in a low tone, ' She has outraged my 
 love/ 
 
 16—2
 
 244 A SON OF HAGAR. 
 
 ' Surely not past forgiveness,' interrupted 
 the lawyer nervously. The smile had dis- 
 appeared. ' It would be a life-long injury. 
 And she is a woman too.' 
 
 Hugh faced about. 
 
 * But he is a man ; and I have my reckon- 
 ing with him also.' Hugh Eitson strode 
 across the room, and then stopped suddenly. 
 * Look you, Bonnithorne, you said that with 
 all your confidence on the night of my 
 father's death, you had your doubts until 
 to-day. But I had never a moment's doubt. 
 Why ? Because I had assurance from my 
 mother's own lips. To me ? "No, but 
 worse ; to him. He knows well he is not 
 my father's heir. He has known it since 
 the hour of my father's death. He knows 
 that I know it. Yet he has kept the lands 
 to this day.' Another uneasy perambu- 
 lation. * Do you think of that when you 
 talk of revenge ? Manliness ? He has 
 none. He is a pitiful, truculent, grovelling
 
 THE COIL OF THE TEMPTATION. 245 
 
 coward, ready to buy profit at any price. 
 He has robbed me of my inheritance. He 
 stands in my place. He is a living lie. 
 Revenge ? It will be retribution/ 
 
 Hugh Ritson's composure was gone. His 
 voice quivered and his face was discoloured. 
 Mr. Bonnithorne, not easily cowed, dropped 
 his eyes before him. ' Terrible, terrible V 
 he muttered again, and added with more 
 assurance, ' But you know, I have always 
 urged you to assert your right to the inheri- 
 tance. ' 
 
 Hugh was striding about the room, 
 his infirm foot trailing heavily after 
 him. 
 
 1 Bonnithorne/ he said, pausing, ' when 
 a woman has outraged the poor weak heait 
 of one of the waifs whom fate flings into the 
 gutter, he sometimes throws a cup of vitriol 
 into her face, saying, " If she is not for me 
 she is not for another:" or "Where she 
 has sinned, there let her suffer." That is
 
 246 A SON OF HAGAR, 
 
 revenge ; it is the feeble device of a man 
 who thinks in his simple soul that when 
 beauty is gone loathing is at hand.' 
 
 Another light trill of laughter, 
 
 1 But the cup of retribution is not to be 
 measured by the cup of vitriol/ 
 
 Mr. Bonnithorne fumbled his papers ner- 
 vously, and repeated beneath his breath, 
 ' Terrible, terrible V 
 
 ' She has wronged me, Bonnithorne, and 
 he has wronged me. They shall marry and 
 they shall separate ; and henceforward they 
 shall walk together and yet apart, a gulf 
 dividing them from each other, yet a wider 
 gulf dividing both from the world ; and so 
 on until the end, and he and I and she and 
 I are quits.' 
 
 ' Terrible, terrible !' the lawyer mumbled 
 again. ' All nature rises against it.' 
 
 ' Is it so ? Then be it so,' said Hugh, 
 the flame subsiding from his cheek, and a 
 cold smile creeping afresh about his lips.
 
 THE COIL OF THE TEMPTATION. 247 
 
 ' Your sense of justice would have been 
 answered, perhaps, if I had turned this 
 bastard adrift penniless and a beggar, 
 stopped the marriage, and taken by strategy 
 the woman I could not w 7 in by love.' The 
 smile faded aw T ay. ' That would have been 
 better than the cup of vitriol, but not 
 much better. You are a man of the world.' 
 
 ' It is a terrible revenge/ the lawyer 
 muttered again — this time with a different 
 intonation. It had been fear and horror 
 before ; now it was a kind of pride in his 
 friend's cleverness. 
 
 ' I repeat they shall marry. No more 
 than that/ said Hugh. ' I would outrage 
 nature as little as I would shock the world.' 
 
 The sun had crept round to where the 
 organ stood in one corner of the room. 
 Hugh's passion had gradually subsided. He 
 sidled on to the stool and began to play 
 softly. A knock came to the door, and old 
 Laird Fisher entered.
 
 248 A SON OF HAGAR. 
 
 ' The gentleman frae Crewe is down at 
 the pit about t 'engine in the smelting mill/ 
 said the old man. 
 
 1 Say I shall be with him in half an hour/ 
 said Hugh, and Laird Fisher left the 
 room. Then Hugh put the papers in his 
 pocket. 
 
 1 We have wasted too much time over the 
 certificates — they can wait — where's the 
 deed of mortgage ? — I must have the money 
 to pay for the new engine.' 
 
 ' It is here/ said the lawyer, and he spread 
 a parchment on the table. 
 
 Hugh glanced hastily over it, and touched 
 a handbell. When the maid appeared he 
 told her to go to Mr. Paul, who was thatch- 
 ing in the stackyard, and say he wished to 
 see him at once. Then he returned to the 
 organ, and played a tender air. His touch 
 was both light and strenuous. 
 
 * Any news of his daughter ?' said Mr. 
 Bonnithorne, sinking his voice to a whisper.
 
 THE COIL OF THE TEMPTATION. 249 
 
 * Whose daughter V said Hugh, pausing, 
 and looking over his shoulder. 
 
 1 The old man's — Laird Fisher's/ 
 
 ' Strangely enough — yes. A letter came 
 this morning.' 
 
 Hugh Kitson stopped playing, and thrust 
 his hand into an inner pocket. But Mr. 
 Bonnithorne hastened to show that he had 
 no desire to pry into another man's secrets. 
 
 1 Pray don't trouble. Perhaps you'd 
 rather not — just tell me in a word how 
 things are shaping.' 
 
 Hugh laughed a little derisively, un- 
 folded a sheet of scented writing-paper, 
 with ornamented border, and began to 
 read : 
 
 ' " I am writing to thank you very 
 
 much " Here,' tossing the letter to 
 
 the lawyer, ' read it for yourself.' Then 
 he resumed his playing. 
 
 Mr. Bonnithorne fixed his nose-glasses, 
 and read :
 
 2 So A SON OF HAGAR. 
 
 ' I am writing to thank you very much for 
 your kind remembrance of me, it was 
 almost like having your company, I live in 
 hopes of seeing you soon, when are you 
 coming to me ? Sometimes I think you 
 will never, never come, and then I can't 
 help crying though I try not to, and I don't 
 cry much. I don't go out very often 
 London is far away, six miles, there are 
 nice people here and nice children. Only 
 think when my trouble is over and you 
 come and take me home. How is poor 
 father, does he look much older does he 
 fret for me now ? I wonder will he know 
 me. I am quite well only there is 
 something the matter in my eyes. Some- 
 times when I wake up I can't see plain. 
 Don't be long writing. My eyes are very 
 sore and red to-day, and it is oh so lonely 
 in this strange place. Mrs. Drayton is 
 kind to me. Good-bye. She has a son 
 but he is always at meets, that is races, and
 
 THE COIL OF THE TEMPTATION. 251 
 
 I have never seen him. Write soon to 
 your loving Mercy. The time is near/ 
 
 Hugh played on while Mr. Bonnithorne 
 read. The lawyer, when he came to the 
 end, handed the letter back with the simple 
 comment : 
 
 1 Came this morning, you say ? It was 
 written last Tuesday — nearly a week ago.' 
 
 Hugh nodded his head over his shoulder, 
 and continued to play. He swayed to and 
 fro with an easy grace to the long sweeps 
 of the music until the door opened sharply 
 and Paul entered with a firm step. Then 
 he rose, picked a pen from the inkstand and 
 dipped it in the ink. 
 
 Paul wore a suit of rough light cloth, 
 with leggings, and a fur cap, which he did 
 not remove. His face was pale ; decision 
 sat on every line of it. 
 
 ' Excuse me, Mr. Bonnithorne, if I don't 
 shake hands/ he said in his deep voice, 
 ' I'm at work, and none too clean/
 
 252 A SON OF HAGAR. 
 
 6 Ah, the horny hand of toil is honour- 
 able/ said the lawyer in a tone of suavity. 
 
 Paul answered the clap -trap with a look 
 of undisguised contempt, but said nothing. 
 
 1 This,' said Hugh Eitson, standing 
 between them and twiddling the pen in his 
 fingers, ' this is the deed I spoke of yester- 
 day. You sign there/ pointing to a blank 
 space in front of a little wafer. 
 
 Then he placed one hand firmly on the 
 upper part of the parchment, as if to steady 
 it, and held out the pen. 
 
 Paul made no approach to accepting it. 
 He stretched forward, took hold of the 
 document and lifted it, casting Hugh's 
 hand aside. 
 
 Hugh watched him closely. 
 
 ' The usual formality/ he said lightly, 
 1 nothing more/ 
 
 Paul passed his eye rapidly over the 
 deed. Then he turned to the lawyer. 
 
 * Is this the fourth or fifth mortgage that
 
 THE COIL OF THE TEMPTATION. 253 
 
 has been drawn V he inquired, still holding 
 the parchment before him. 
 
 1 Really, I can't say — I presume it is 
 the — really, I hardly remember ' 
 
 Mr. Bonnithorne's suavity of tone and 
 customary smile broke down into silence 
 and a look of lowering anxiety. 
 
 Paul glanced steadfastly into his face. 
 
 * But I remember,' he said with com- 
 posure more embarrassing than violence. 
 ' It is the fifth. The Holme farm was 
 first, and then came Goldscope. Hinds- 
 earth was mortgaged to the last ear of 
 corn, and then it w r as the turn for Coledale. 
 Now it's the Ghyll itself, I see, house and 
 buildings.' 
 
 Hugh Bitson's face underwent a livid 
 change, but his tone was unruffled as he 
 said : 
 
 1 If you please, we will come to business/ 
 Then with a sinister smile, * You resemble 
 the French counsel — you begin every
 
 254 A SON OF HAGAR. 
 
 speech at the Creation. " Let us go on to 
 the Deluge," said the judge.' 
 
 * To the Deluge !' said Paul, and he 
 turned his head slowly to where Hugh 
 stood, holding the pen in one hand and 
 rapping the table with the knuckles of 
 the other. * Rather unnecessary. We're 
 already under water.' 
 
 The passion in Hugh Eitson's face 
 dropped to a look of sullen anger. But 
 he mastered his voice, and said quietly : 
 
 ' The engineer from Crewe is waiting for 
 me at the pit. I have wasted the whole 
 morning over these formalities. Come, 
 come, let us have done. Mr. Bonnithorne 
 will witness the signature.' 
 
 Paul had not shifted his steadfast gaze 
 from his brother's face. Hugh dogged his 
 glance at first, and then met it with an ex- 
 pression of audacity. 
 
 Still holding the parchment before him, 
 Paul said quietly :
 
 THE COIL OF THE TEMPTATION. 255 
 
 i To-night I leave home for London, and 
 shall be absent four days. Can this 
 business wait until my return ?' 
 
 'No, it can't/ said Hugh with emphasis. 
 
 Paul dropped his voice. 
 
 ' Don't take that tone with me, I warn 
 you. . Can the business wait V 
 
 1 1 mean what I say — it can not. 9 
 
 ' On my return I may have something to 
 tell you that will affect this and the other 
 deeds. Once more, can it wait ?' 
 
 1 Will you sign — yes or no ?' said Hugh, 
 his face now dark with anger. 
 
 Paul looked steady and straight into his 
 brother's eyes. 
 
 ' You are draining away my inheritance 
 — you are ' 
 
 At this word, Hugh's smouldering temper 
 was afire. 
 
 ' Your inheritance !' he broke out in his 
 bitterest tones. ' It is late in the day to 
 talk of that. Your inheritance '
 
 256 A SON OF HAGAR. 
 
 But lie stopped. The expression of 
 audacity gave place to a look of blank 
 bewilderment. Paul had torn the parch- 
 ment from top to bottom and flung it on 
 the table, and in an instant was walking 
 out of the room.
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 Paul Eitson returned to the stackyard, and 
 worked vigorously three hours longer. A 
 stack had heen stripped by a recent storm, 
 and he thatched it afresh with the help of a 
 labourer and a boy. Then he stepped in- 
 doors, changed his clothes, and filled a 
 travelling bag. When this was done, he went 
 in search of the stableman. Natt was in his 
 stable, whistling as he polished his harness. 
 
 ' Bring the trap round to the front at 
 seven,' he said, ' and put my bag in at the 
 back ; you'll find it in the hall.' 
 
 By this time the night had closed in, and 
 the young moon showed faintly over the 
 head of Hindscarth. The wind was rising. 
 
 vol. i. 17
 
 258 A SON OF HAGAR. 
 
 Paul returned to the house, ate, drank, 
 and smoked. Then he rose and walked 
 upstairs, and knocked at the door of his 
 mother's room. 
 
 Mrs. Bit son was alone. A lamp burned 
 on the table, and cast a sharp white light 
 on her face. That face was worn and very 
 pale. Lines were ploughed deep on it. She 
 was kneeling, but she rose as Paul entered. 
 He bent his head and kissed her forehead. 
 There was a book before her ; a rosary was 
 in her hand. The room was without fire. It 
 was chill and cheerless, and only sparsely 
 furnished — sheep-skin rugs on the floor, 
 texts on the wall, a carved oak clothes-chest 
 in one corner, two square high-backed chairs 
 and a small table, a bed, and no more. 
 
 'I am going off, mother,' said Paul; 
 * the train leaves in a hour.' 
 
 ' When do you return ?' said Mrs. Ritson. 
 
 ' Let me see — this is Saturday — I shall 
 be back on Wednesday evening.'
 
 THE COIL OF THE TEMPTATION. 259 
 
 ' God be with you,' she said in a fervent 
 voice. 
 
 ' Mother, I spoke to Greta last night, 
 and she promised. We shall soon be free 
 of this tyranny. Already the first link of 
 the chain is broken. He called me into 
 his room this morning to sign a mortgage 
 on the Ghyll, and I refused/ 
 
 ' And yet you are about to go away, and 
 leave everything in his hands !' 
 
 Mrs. Ritson sat clown, and Paul put his 
 hand tenderly on her head. 
 
 ' Better that than to have it wrested from 
 me inch by inch — to hold the shadow of an 
 inheritance while he grasps the substance. 
 He knows all. His dark hints are not 
 needed to tell me that.' 
 
 ' Yet he is silent,' said Mrs. Bitson, and 
 her eyes fell on to her book. ' And surely 
 it is for my sake that he is so — if in truth 
 he knows all. Is he not my son ? And 
 is not my honour his honour ?' 
 
 17—2
 
 260 A SON OF HA GAR. 
 
 Paul shook his head. 
 
 1 If the honour of twenty mothers, as 
 true and dear as you, were the stepping- 
 stones to his interest, over those stones he 
 would go. No, no ; it is not honour, 
 whether yours or his, that keeps him 
 silent.' 
 
 Mrs. Kit son glanced up. 
 
 ' Are you not too hard on him ? He is 
 guiltless in the eye of the world, and that 
 at least should plead for him. Forgive 
 him. Do not leave your brother in 
 auger !' 
 
 ' I have nothing to forgive,' said Paul. 
 ' Even if he knew nothing I should still go 
 away and leave everything. I could not 
 live any longer under the shadow 7 of this 
 secret, bound by an oath. I would go, as 
 I shall go now, with sealed lips, but a free 
 heart. He should have his own before man 
 — and I mine before God/ 
 
 Mrs. Eitson sat in silence; her lips
 
 THE COIL OF THE TEMPTATION. 261 
 
 trembled perceptibly, and her eyelids 
 quivered. 
 
 ' I shall soon leave you, my dear sod,' 
 she said in a tremulous voice. 
 
 'Nay, nay, you shall not,' he answered 
 in an altered tone, half of raillery, half of 
 tenderness ; ' you are coming with us — 
 with Greta and me — and over there the 
 roses will bloom again in your white cheeks/ 
 
 Mrs. Eitson shook her head. 
 
 ' I shall soon leave you, dearest/ she 
 repeated, and told her beads. 
 
 He tried to dispel her sadness ; he 
 laughed, and she smiled feebly ; he patted 
 her head playfully. But she came back to 
 the same words : b I shall soon leave you.' 
 
 The moon was shining at the full when 
 he lifted his hat to go. It was sailing 
 through a sky of fibrous cloud. The wind 
 was high, and rattled the empty boughs cf 
 the trees against the window. Keen frost 
 was in the air.
 
 262 A SON OF HAGAR. 
 
 ' I shall see my father's old friend in 
 London on Monday, and be back on 
 Wednesday. Good-bye. Keep a good 
 heart. Good-bye.' 
 
 She wept on his breast and clung to him. 
 
 ' Good-bye, good-bye,' he repeated, and 
 tried to disengage himself from her em- 
 brace. 
 
 But she clang the closer. It was as if 
 she was to see him no more. 
 
 ' Good-bye,' she sobbed, and with the 
 tears in his own eyes he laughed at her 
 idle fears. ' Ha, ha, ha, one would think I 
 was going for life — ha, ha ' 
 
 There was a scream on the frosty air 
 without. His laugh died on his lips. 
 
 ' What was that ?' he said, and drew a 
 sharp breath. 
 
 She lifted her face, whiter now than 
 ever, and with tearless eyes. 
 
 ' It was the cry of the bird that foretells 
 death,' she said in a whisper.
 
 THE COIL OF THE TEMPTATION. 263 
 
 He laughed a little — boisterously. 
 ' Nay, nay ; you will be well and happy 
 yet.' Then he broke away. 
 
 Natt was sitting in the trap, and it was 
 drawn up in the courtyard to the door. 
 He was looking through the darkness at 
 some object in the distance, and when Paul 
 came up he was not at first conscious of 
 his master's presence. 
 
 ' What were you looking at. Natt ?' said 
 Paul, pulling on his gloves. 
 
 1 1 war wond'rin' whether lang Dick 0' 
 the Syke had kindled a fire to-night, or 
 whether yon lowe on the side of the 
 Causey were frae the new smelting-house.' 
 
 Paul glanced over the horse's head. A 
 deep glow stood out against the fell. All 
 around was darkness. 
 
 ' The smel ting-house, I should say/ said 
 Paul, and jumped to his seat beside 
 Natt.
 
 264 ^ SON OF HAGAR. 
 
 By one of the lamps that the trap 
 carried he looked at his watch. 
 
 * A quarter-past seven. It will be smart 
 driving, but you can give the mare her 
 own time coming back.' Then he took the 
 reins, and in another moment they were 
 gone.
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 At eight o'clock that night the sky was 
 brilliantly lit up, and the sound of many 
 voices was borne on the night wind. The 
 red flare came from the Syke ; the mill 
 was afire. Showers of sparks and sheets 
 of flame were leaping and streaming into 
 the sky. Men and women were hurrying 
 to and fro, and the women's shrill cries 
 mingled with the men's hoarse shouts. At 
 intervals the brightness of the glare faded, 
 and then a column of choking smoke 
 poured out and was borne away on the 
 wind. Dick, the miller, was there, with 
 the scorching heat reddening his wrathful 
 face. John Proudfoot had raised a ladder
 
 266 A SOX OF HAGAR. 
 
 against the mill, and, hatchet in hand, was 
 going to cnt away the cross-trees ; bat the 
 heat drove him back. The sharp snap of 
 the flames told of timbers being ripped 
 away. 
 
 'No use — it's gone,' said the black- 
 smith, dragging the ladder behind him. 
 
 ' I telt them afore what their damned 
 smelting-house would do for me,' said the 
 miller, striding about in his impotent rage. 
 
 Parson Christian was standing by the 
 gate on the windward side of the mill-yard, 
 with Laird Fisher beside him, looking on 
 in silence at the leaping flames. 
 
 1 The wind is from the south,' he said, 
 ' and a spark of the hot refuse shot 
 down the bank has been blown into the 
 mill.' 
 
 The mill was a wooden structure, and 
 the fire held it like a serpent in its grip. 
 People were coming and going from the 
 darkness into the red glare, and out of the
 
 THE COIL OF THE TEMPTATION. 267 
 
 glare into the darkness. Among them was 
 one stalwart figure that none noticed in 
 the general confusion. 
 
 ' Have you a tarpaulin ?' said this man, 
 addressing those about him. 
 
 1 There's a big one on the stack at Cole- 
 dale, 5 answered another. 
 
 < Run for it,' 
 
 ' It's of no use.' 
 
 ' Damme, run for it.' 
 
 The tone of authority was not to be 
 ignored. In three minutes a huge tar- 
 paulin was being dragged behind a dozen 
 men. 
 
 ' Lay hold of the ropes and let us dip it 
 into the river,' shouted the same voice 
 above the prevailing clangour. It was done. 
 Dripping wet, the tarpaulin was pulled 
 into the mill-yard. 
 
 ' Where's your ladder ? Quick !' 
 
 The ladder was raised against the 
 scorching wooden walls.
 
 263 A SON OF II AGAR. 
 
 'Be ready to throw me the ropes,' 
 shouted the deep voice. 
 
 A firm step was set on the lowest rung. 
 There was a crackle of glass, and then a 
 cloud of smoke streamed out of a broken 
 window. For an instant the bright glare 
 was obscured. But it burst forth afresh, 
 and leapt with great wide tongues into the 
 sky. 
 
 ' The .sheets are caught,' shouted the 
 miller. 
 
 They were ftying round with the wind. 
 A line of flame seemed to be pursuing them. 
 ' Who is the man on the ladder — dusta 
 know ?' cried John Proudfoot. 
 ' I dunnot,' answered the miller. 
 At that instant Hugh Bitson came up. 
 The smoke was gone, and now a dark 
 figure could be dimly seen high up on the 
 mill side. He seized the crosstrees with 
 both hands, and swung himself on to the 
 raking roof.
 
 THE COIL OF THE TEMPTATION. 269 
 
 1 Now for the ropes/ he shouted. 
 
 The flame burst out again and illumined 
 the whole sky ; the dark mass of the fells 
 could he seen far overhead, and the waters 
 of the river in the bed of the valley glowed 
 like amber. The stalwart figure stood out 
 in the white light against the red glare, 
 holding on to the crosstrees on the top of 
 the mill, and with a wheel of crackling fire 
 careering beside him. 
 
 There could be no doubt of his identity, 
 with the light on his strong face and tawny 
 hair. 
 
 ' It's Paul Ritson,' shouted many a 
 voice. 
 
 1 Damme, the ropes — quick.' 
 
 The ropes were thrown and caught, and 
 thrown again to the other side. Then the 
 dripping tarpaulin was drawn over the mill 
 until it covered the top and half the sides. 
 The wheel burnt out, and the iron axle 
 came to the ground with a plunge.
 
 270 A SON OF HAGAR. 
 
 The fire was conquered ; the night 
 sky grew black ; the night wind became 
 voiceless. Then the busy throng had time 
 for talk. 
 
 ' Where's Paul ?' asked Parson Christian. 
 
 ' Aye, where is he ?' said the miller. 
 
 1 He's a stunner, for sure- — where is he ?' 
 said the blacksmith. 
 
 None knew. When the flames began to 
 fade he was missed. He had gone —none 
 knew where. 
 
 ' Nine o'clock,' said Parson Christian, 
 turning his face towards home. ' Sharp 
 work while it lasted, my lads.' 
 
 Then there was the sound of wheels, and 
 Natt drove his trap to the gate of the mill 
 yard. 
 
 ' You've just missed it, Natt,' said John 
 Proudfoot ; ' where have you been ?' 
 
 ' Driving the master to the train.' 
 
 Hugh Eitson was standing by. Every- 
 one glanced from him to Natt.
 
 THE COIL OF THE TEMPTATION. 271 
 
 ' The train ? — master ? What do you 
 mean ? Who ?' 
 
 1 Who ? Why, Master Paul,' said Natt, 
 with a curl of the lip. 'I reckon it could 
 scarce be Master Hugh.' 
 
 1 When ? W 7 hat train ?' said Parson 
 Christian. 
 
 ' The eight o'clock to London.' 
 
 1 Eight o'clock ? London ?' 
 
 * Don't I speak plain V 
 
 1 And has he gone ?' 
 
 ' I's warrant he's gone.' 
 
 Consternation sat on every face but 
 Natt's.
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 Next day was Sunday, and after morning 
 service a group of men gathered about the 
 church porch to discuss the events of 
 the night before. In the evening the 
 parlour of the Flying Horse was full of 
 dalespeople, and many a sapient theory 
 was then and there put forth to account 
 for the extraordinary coincidence of the 
 presence of Paul Ritson at the fire and his 
 alleged departure by the London train. 
 
 Hugh Ritson was not seen abroad that 
 day. But early on Monday morning he 
 hastened to the stable, called on Natt to 
 saddle a horse, sprang on its back, and 
 galloped away towards the town.
 
 THE COIL OF THE TEMPTATION. 273 
 
 The morning was bitterly cold, and the 
 rider was buttoned up to the throat. The 
 air was damp ; a dense veil of vapour lay on 
 the valley and hid half the fells ; the wintry 
 dawn, with its sunless sky, had not the 
 strength to rend it asunder ; the wind 
 had veered to the north, and was now dank 
 and icy. A snowstorm was coming. 
 
 The face of Hugh Ritson was wan and 
 jaded. He leaned heavily forward in the 
 saddle ; the biting wind was in his eyes ; 
 he had a fixed look, and seemed not to 
 see the people whom he passed on the 
 road. 
 
 Dick 0' the Syke was grubbing among 
 the fallen wreck of the charred and dis- 
 mantled mill. When Hugh rode past him 
 he lifted his eyes and muttered an oath be- 
 neath his breath. Old Laird Fisher was 
 trundling a wheelbarrow on the bank of 
 the smelting-house. The head-gear of the 
 pit-shaft was working. As Hugh passed 
 
 vol. 1. 18
 
 274 A SON OF HAGAR. 
 
 the smithy, John Proudfoot was standing, 
 hammer in hand, by the side of a wheelless 
 waggon upheld by poles. John was saying, 
 1 Wonder what sec place Mister Paul slept 
 a' Saturday night — I reckon that wad 
 settle all ;' and a voice from inside the 
 smithy answered, ' Nowt of the sort, John ; 
 it's a fate I tell tha.' The pedlar's pony 
 was standing by the hasp of the gate. 
 
 Never once lifting his eyes, with head 
 bent and compressed lips, Hugh Pdtson rode 
 on in the teeth of the coming storm. There 
 was another storm within that was uproot- 
 ing every emotion of his soul. When he 
 came to the Vicarage he drew up sharply 
 and rapped heavily on the gate. Brother 
 Peter came shambling out at the speed of 
 six steps a minute. 
 
 ' Mr. Christian at home ?' asked Hugh. 
 
 ' Don't know as he is/ said Peter. 
 
 6 Where is he ?' 
 
 ' Don't know as I've heeard.'
 
 THE COIL OF THE TEMPTATION. 275 
 
 1 Tell him I'll call as I come back, in 
 two hours.' 
 
 1 Don't know as I'll see him.' 
 
 ' Then go and look for him,' shouted 
 Hugh impatiently, bringing down the whip 
 on the flank of the horse. 
 
 Brother Peter Ward turned about sulkily. 
 ' Don't know as I will,' he grumbled, and 
 trudged back into the house. 
 
 Then Hugh Ritson rode on. A thin 
 sleet began to fall, and it drove hard 
 into his face. The roads were crisp, and 
 the horse sometimes stumbled : but the 
 rider pressed on. 
 
 In less than half an hour he was riding 
 into the town. The people who were 
 standing in groups in the market-place 
 parted and made space for him. They 
 hailed him with respectful salutations: He 
 responded curtly or not at all. Notwith- 
 standing his long ride his face was still 
 pale, and his lips were livid. He stopped 
 
 18—2
 
 276 A SON OF HAGAR. 
 
 at the courtyard leading to the front of 
 the Packhorse. Old Willie Calvert, the 
 innkeeper, stood there, and touched his cap 
 when Hugh approached him. 
 
 ' My brother Paul slept here a few nights 
 ago, I hear,' said Hugh. 
 
 ' So he did,' said the innkeeper. 
 < What night was it T 
 6 What night ? Let me see — it were a 
 week come Wednesday.' 
 
 * Did you see him yourself ?' 
 ' Nay, I were lang abed.' 
 ' Who did— Mistress Calvert T 
 ' Ey, she did for sure — Jannet ' (calling 
 up the court). ' She'll tell ye all the ins 
 and oots.' 
 
 A comfortable-looking elderly body in a 
 white cap and print apron came to the door. 
 ' You saw my brother — Paul, you know 
 — when he slept at your house last Wednes- 
 day night ?' 
 
 * Yes, surely,' said Jannet.
 
 THE COfL OF THE TEMPTATION. 277 
 
 1 What did he say T 
 
 1 Nay, nowt. It was varra late — maybe 
 twelve o'clock — and I was bolting up and 
 had the cannel in my hand to get me to 
 bed, and a rap came, and when I opened 
 the door who should it be but Mister Paul. 
 He said he wanted a bed, but he seem't to 
 be in the doldrums and noways keen for a 
 crack, so I ax't na questions, but just took 
 him to the little green room over the snug 
 and bid him good-night/ 
 
 ' And next morning — did you see him 
 then ?' said Hugh. 
 
 ' No'but a minute when he paid his bed, 
 for he had nowther bite nor sup in the 
 house.' 
 
 ' Did he look changed ? — anything dif- 
 ferent about him ?' 
 
 ' Nay, nowt but in low feckle some ways, 
 and maybe summat different dressed.' 
 
 * How different ? What did he wear that 
 nisrlit ?' Pale as Hugh Eitson's face had
 
 278 A SON OF HAGAR. 
 
 been before, it was now white as a face in 
 moonlight. 
 
 ' Maybe a pepper-and-salt tweed coat, 
 but I can't rightly call to mind at the 
 minute.' 
 
 Hugh's great eyes stared out of his 
 head. His tongue clave to his mouth, and 
 for the moment denied him speech. 
 
 ' Thank you, Mistress Calvert. Here, 
 Willie, my man, drink my health with the 
 missis.' 
 
 So saying, he tossed a silver coin to the 
 innkeeper, wheeled about, and rode off. 
 
 * I cannut mak nowther head nor tail o' 
 this/ said the old man. 
 
 ' Of what — the brass ?' said Jannet. 
 
 ' Nay, but that's soond enough for sure, 
 auld lass.' 
 
 1 Then just thoo leave other folks's busi- 
 ness to theirselves, and come thy ways in 
 with thee. Thoo wert alius thrang a- 
 meddlin'.'
 
 THE COIL OF THE TEMPTATION. 279 
 
 The innkeeper had gone indoors and 
 drawn himself a draught of ale. 
 
 ' I alius like to see the ins and oots o' 
 things,' he observed with a twinkle in his 
 eye and the pot to his mouth. 
 
 1 Mind as you're not ower keen at seem' 
 the ins and oots 0' that pewter.' 
 
 ' I'll be keerful, auld lass.' 
 
 Hugh Eitson's horse went clattering 
 over the stones of the streets until it came 
 to the house of Lawyer Bonnithorne. 
 Then Hugh drew up sharply, jumped from 
 the saddle, tied the reins to the loop in the 
 gate-pier, and rang the bell. In another 
 minute he was standing in the breakfast - 
 room, which was made comfortable by a 
 glowing fire. Mr. Bonnithorne, in dressing- 
 gown and slippers, rose from his easy-chair 
 with a look of surprise. 
 
 ' Did you hear of the fire at the mill on 
 Saturday night ?' asked Hugh in a faltering 
 voice.
 
 280 A SON OF HA GAR. 
 
 Mr. Bonnithorne nodded Lis head. 
 
 ' Very unlucky, very,' said the lawyer. 
 * The man will want recompense, and the 
 law will support him. Odd, isn't it ?' 
 
 ' Tut — a bagatelle/ said Hugh, with a 
 gesture of impatience. 
 
 ' Of course, if you say so ' 
 
 ' You've heard nothing about Paul ?' 
 
 Mr. Bonnithorne answered with a shake 
 of his yellow head and a look of inquiry. 
 
 Then Hugh told him of the man at the 
 fire, and of Natt's story when he drove up 
 in the trap. He spoke with visible em- 
 barrassment, and in a voice that could 
 scarcely support itself. But the deep fear 
 that had come over him had not yet taken 
 hold of the lawyer. Mr. Bonnithorne list- 
 ened with a bland smile of amused in- . 
 credulity. Hugh stopped with a shudder. 
 
 ' What are you thinking ?' he asked 
 nervously. 
 
 < That Natt lied.'
 
 THE COIL OF THE TEMPTATION. 281 
 
 1 As well say that the people at the fire 
 lied.' 
 
 ' No ; you yourself saw Paul there.' 
 
 * Bonnithorne, like all keen-eyed men, 
 you are short-sighted. I have something 
 more to tell you. The people at the Pack 
 Horse say that Paul slept at their house 
 last Wednesday night. Now I know that 
 he slept at home.' 
 
 The lawyer smiled again. 
 
 ' A mistake as to the night,' he said ; 
 * What can be plainer ?' 
 
 1 Don't wriggle, Bonnithorne ; look the 
 facts in the face.' 
 
 1 Facts ? — a coincidence in evidence — a 
 common error.' 
 
 * Would to God it were !' Hugh strode 
 about the room in obvious perturbation, his 
 eyes bent on the ground. ' Bonnithorne, 
 what is the place where the girl Mercy 
 lives T 
 
 1 An inn at Hen don.'
 
 282 A SON OF HAGAR. 
 
 ' Do they call it the Hawk and Heron V 
 
 ' They do. The old woman Drayton 
 keeps it.' 
 
 Hugh Ritson's step faltered. He listened 
 with a look of stupid consternation. 
 
 ' Did I never tell you that the pedlar 
 Oglethorpe said he saw Paul at the Hawk 
 and Heron in Hendon V 
 
 The lawyer dropped back into his seat 
 without a word. Conviction was taking- 
 hold of him. 
 
 ' "What do the folks say T he asked at 
 length. 
 
 1 Say ? That it was a ghost, a wraith, 
 twenty things — the idiots !' 
 
 ' What do you say, Mr. Kitson ?' 
 
 ' That it was another man.' 
 
 The lawyer remained sitting, his eyes 
 fixed and vacant. 
 
 ' What then ? What if it is another 
 man ? Resemblances are common. We 
 are all brothers. For example, there are
 
 THE COIL OF THE TEMPTATION. 283 
 
 numbers of persons like myself in the 
 world. Odd, isn't it ?' 
 
 ' Very/ said Hugh with a hard laugh. 
 
 ' And what if there exists a man re- 
 sembling your half-brother Paul so closely 
 that on three several occasions he has been 
 mistaken for him by competent witnesses — 
 what does it come to ?' 
 
 Hugh paused. 
 
 I Come to ? God knows. I want to find 
 out. Who is this man ? What is he '? 
 Where does he come from ? What is his 
 business here ? Why, of all places on this 
 wide earth, does he, of all men alive, haunt 
 my house like a shadow ?' 
 
 Hugh Ritson was still visibly perturbed. 
 
 ' There's more in this matter than either 
 of us knows,' he said. 
 
 Mr. Bonnithorne watched him for a 
 moment in silence. 
 
 I I think you draw a painful inference — 
 what is it ?' he asked.
 
 2S 4 A SON OF HAGAR. 
 
 1 What ?' repeated Hugh, and added 
 absently, ' who can tell ?' 
 
 Up and down the room he walked rest- 
 lessly, his eyes bent on the floor, his face 
 drawn down into lines. At length he 
 stood and picked up the hat he had thrown 
 on the couch. 
 
 'Bonnithorne,'he said, ' you and I thought 
 we saw into the heart of a mystery. 
 Heaven pity us for blind moles, I fear we 
 saw nothing.' 
 
 ' Why — what — how so — when ' the 
 
 lawyer stammered with the conventional 
 smile, and then stopped short. 
 
 Hugh had walked out of the room and 
 out of the house. He leapt into the saddle 
 and rode away. 
 
 The wind had risen yet higher ; it 
 blew an icy blast from behind him as he 
 cantered home. Through the hazy atmo- 
 sphere a cloud of dun vapourish red could be 
 seen trailing over the dim fells. It poised
 
 THE COIL OF THE TEMPTATION. 2S$ 
 
 above the ball crown of the Eel Crag like a 
 huge supernatural bird with outstretched 
 wings. 
 
 Hugh held the reins with half-frozen 
 hands. He barely felt the biting cold. 
 His soul was in a tumult, and he was 
 driven on by fears that were all but in- 
 supportable. For months a thick veil had 
 overspread his conscience, and now in an 
 instant, and by an accident, it was being 
 rent asunder. He had lulled his soul to 
 sleep. But no opiate of sophistry could 
 keep the soul from waking. His soul was 
 waking now. He began to suspect that he 
 had been acting like a scoundrel. 
 
 At the Vicarage he stopped, dismounted, 
 and entered. Standing in the hall, he 
 overheard voices in the kitchen. They 
 were those of Brother Peter and little Jacob 
 Berry, the tailor, who had been hired to 
 sew by the day, and was seated on the 
 dresser.
 
 286 A SON OF HAGAR. 
 
 ' I've heeard of such sights afore/ the 
 little tailor was saying. ' "When auld Mother 
 Langdale's son was killed at wrustlin' down 
 Borrowdale way, and Mother Langdale was 
 abed with the rheumatis, she saw him come 
 to the bed-head a-dripping wet with blood, 
 as plain as plain could be, and in less nor 
 an hour after they brought him home to the 
 auld body on a shutter — they did for sure.' 
 
 ' Shaf on sec stories ; I don't know as 
 some folks aren't as daft as Mother Lang- 
 dale herseiy Peter muttered in reply. 
 
 Hugh Kitson beat the door heavily with 
 his riding-whip. 
 
 ' Parson Christian at home now ?' he 
 asked, when Peter opened it. 
 
 i Been and gone,' said Peter. 
 
 ' Did you tell him I meant to come 
 back ?' 
 
 6 Don't know as I did.' 
 
 Hugh's whip came down impatiently on 
 his leggings.
 
 THE COIL OF THE TEMPTATION. 2S7 
 
 1 Do you know anything V he asked. 'Do 
 you know that you are now talking to a 
 gentleman T 
 
 1 Don't know as I do,' mumbled Peter, 
 backing in again. 
 
 * If Miss Greta is at home, tell her I 
 should be glad to speak with her — do you 
 hear ?' Peter disappeared. 
 
 Hugh was left alone in the hall. He 
 waited some minutes, thinking that Peter 
 was carrying his message. Presently he 
 overheard that worthy re-opening the dis- 
 cussion on Mother Langdale's sanity with 
 little Jacob in the kitchen. The deep 
 damnation he desired just then for Brother 
 Peter was about to be indicated by another 
 lusty rap on the kitchen door, when the 
 door of the parlour opened, and Greta her- 
 self stood on the threshold with a smile and 
 an outstretched hand. 
 
 1 I thought it was your voice,' she said, 
 and led the way in.
 
 288 A SON OF HAGAR. 
 
 ' Your cordial welcome heaps coals of 
 fire on my head, Greta. I cannot for- 
 get in what spirit we last talked and 
 parted/ 
 
 1 Let us think no more about it,' said 
 Greta, and she drew a chair for him to the 
 fire. 
 
 He remained standing, and as if be- 
 numbed by strong feeling. 
 
 ' I have come to speak of it — to ask 
 pardon for it — I was in the wrong,' he 
 said falteringly. 
 
 She did not respond, but sat down with 
 drooping eyes. He paused, and there was 
 an ominous silence. 
 
 1 You don't know what I suffered or what 
 I suffer still. You are very happy. I am 
 a miserable man. Greta, do you know 
 what it is to love without being beloved ? 
 How can jou know ? It is torture beyond 
 the gift of words — misery beyond the re- 
 lief of tears. It is not jealousy ; that is
 
 THE COIL OF THE TEMPTATION. 289 
 
 no more than a vulgar kind of envy. It is 
 a nameless, measureless torment/ 
 
 He paused again. She did not speak. 
 His voice grew tremulous. 
 
 ' I'm not one of the fools who think that 
 the souls that are created for each other 
 must needs come together — that destiny 
 draws them from the uttermost parts of the 
 earth — that, trifle as they will with their 
 best hopes, fate is stronger than they are, 
 and truer to the pole-star of ultimate 
 happiness. I know the world too well to 
 believe nonsense like that. I know that 
 every day, every hour, men and women are 
 casting themselves away — men on the 
 wrong women, women on the wrong men 
 — and that all this is a tangle that will 
 never, never be undone.' 
 
 He stepped up to where she sat and 
 dropped his voice to a whisper. 
 
 1 Greta — permit me to say it — I loved you 
 dearly. YVould to heaven I had not. My 
 
 vol. 1. 19
 
 290 A SON OF HAGAR. 
 
 love was not of yesterday. It was you and 
 I, I and you. That was the only true 
 marriage possible to either of us from 
 world's end to world's end. But Paul 
 came between us ; and when I saw you 
 give yourself to the wrong man ' 
 
 Greta had risen to her feet. 
 
 ' You say you come to ask pardon for 
 what you said, but you really come to 
 repeat it.' So saying she made a show 
 of leaving the room. 
 
 Hugh stood awhile in silence. Then he 
 threw off his faltering tone and drew him- 
 self up. 
 
 'I have come,' he said, 'to warn you 
 before it is too late. I have come to say, 
 while it is yet time, " Never marry my 
 brother, for as sure as God is above us, 
 you will repent it with unquenchable tears 
 if you do." ' 
 
 Greta's eyes flashed with an expression 
 of disdain.
 
 THE COIL OF THE TEMPTATION. 291 
 
 'No,' she said ; ' you have come to 
 threaten me — a sure sign that you yourself 
 have some secret cause for fear/ 
 
 It was a home-thrust, and Hugh was hit. 
 
 1 Greta, I repeat it, you are marrying the 
 wrong man.' 
 
 1 What right have you to say so ?' 
 
 1 The right of one who could part you for 
 ever with a word/ 
 
 Greta was sore perplexed. Like a true 
 woman, she would have given half her 
 fortune at that moment to probe this 
 mystery. But her indignation got the 
 better of her curiosity. 
 
 ' It is false,' she said. 
 
 ' It is true,' he answered. 'I could speak 
 the word that would part you wider than 
 the poles asunder.' 
 
 1 Then I challenge you to speak it,' she 
 exclaimed. 
 
 They faced each other, pale and with 
 quivering lips. 
 
 11— 2
 
 2 9 2 A SON OF HAGAR. 
 
 ' It is not ray purpose. I have warned 
 you/ he said. 
 
 ' You do not believe your own warning,' 
 she answered. 
 
 He winced, but said not a word. 
 
 ' You have come to me with an idle 
 threat, and fear is written on your own face/ 
 
 He drew his breath sharply, and did not 
 reply. 
 
 ' Whatever it is, you do not believe it/ 
 
 He w r as making for the door. He came 
 back a step. 
 
 ' Shall I speak the word ?' he said with 
 a cold smile. ' Can you bear it ?' 
 
 ' Leave me/ she said, ' and carry your 
 falsehood with you.' 
 
 He was gone in an instant. Then her 
 anger cooled directly, and her woman's 
 curiosity came back with a hundred-fold 
 rebound. 
 
 * Gracious heaven, what did he mean ?' 
 she thought, and the hot flush mounted to
 
 THE COIL OF THE TEMPTATION. 293 
 
 her eyes. She had half a mind to call him 
 back. ' Could it be true ?' The tears were 
 now rolling down her cheeks ! ' He has a 
 secret power over Paul — what is it ?' She 
 ran to the door. ' Hugh, Hugh.' He was 
 gone. The galloping feet of his horse were 
 heard faint in the distance. She went back 
 into the house and sat down, and wept 
 galling tears of pride and vexation.
 
 CHAPTEE VII. 
 
 At midday Parson Christian came home from 
 the fields to dinner. 4 I've been away 
 loading turf,' he said, ' from Cole Moss, for 
 Eobin Atkinson, to pay him for loan of his 
 gray mare on Saturday when I fetched my 
 grain to the mill. Happen most of it is 
 burnt up though, — but that's no fault of 
 Kobin's. So now we neither owe t'other 
 anything, and we're straight from the be- 
 ginning of the world.' 
 
 Greta was bustling about, with the very 
 efficient hindrance of Brother Peter's assist- 
 ance, to get the dinner on the table. She 
 smiled, and sometimes tossed her fair head 
 mighty jauntily, and laughed out loud with
 
 THE COIL OF THE TEMPTATION. 295 
 
 a touch of rattling gaiety. But there were 
 rims of red around her bleared eyes, and her 
 voice, beneath all its noisy merriment, had 
 a tearful lilt. 
 
 The parson observed this, but said nothing 
 about it. ' Coming round by Harrass End 
 I met John Lowthwaite,' he said, ' and John 
 would have me go into his house and 
 return thanks for his wife's recovery from 
 childbed. So I went in, and warmed me, 
 and drank a pot of ale with them, and 
 assisted the wife and family to return praise 
 to God/ 
 
 Dinner was laid, little Jacob Berry came 
 in from the kitchen, and all sat down to- 
 gether — Parson Christian and Greta, 
 Brother Peter, and the tailor hired to sew. 
 
 4 Dear me, I'm Jack-of-all trades, Greta, 
 my lass,' said the parson after grace. 'Old 
 Jonathan Truesdale came running after me 
 at the bridge, to say that Mistress Trues- 
 dale wanted me to go and taste the medicine
 
 296 A SON OF HAGAR. 
 
 that the doctor sent her from Keswick, and 
 see if it hadn't opium in it, because it made 
 her sleep. I sent word that I had business 
 to take me the other way, but would send 
 Miss Greta if she would go. Jonathan said 
 his missus would be very thankful, for she 
 was lonesome sometimes/ 
 
 6 I'll go and welcome/ said Greta. The 
 rims about her eyes were growing deeper : 
 the parson chattered on to banish the 
 tempest of tears that he saw was coming. 
 
 * Well, Peter, and how did the brethren 
 at the meeting-house like the discourse yes- 
 terday afternoon ?' 
 
 ' Don't know as they thought you were 
 varra soond on the point of 'lection/ mut- 
 tered Peter from the inside of his bowl of 
 soup. 
 
 * Well, you're right homely folk down 
 there, and I'd have no fault to find if you 
 were not a little too disputatious. What's 
 the use of wrangling over doctrine ? Eight
 
 THE COIL OF THE TEMPTATION. 297 
 
 or wrong, it will matter very little to any 
 of us in a hundred years. We're on our 
 way to heaven, and, please God, there'll be 
 no doctrine there.' 
 
 Greta could not eat. She had no 
 appetite for food. Another appetite — the 
 appetite of curiosity — was eating at her 
 heart. She laid down her knife. The 
 parson could hide his concern no longer. 
 * Dear me, my lass, you and that braw lad 
 of yours are like David and Jonathan, and ' 
 (with a stern wag of his white head) ' I'm 
 not so sure that I won't turn myself into 
 Saul, and fling my javelin at him for 
 envy.' 
 
 The parson certainly did not look too 
 revengeful at that moment, with the mist 
 gathering in his eyes. 
 
 'Talking of Saul,' said little Jacob, 
 1 there's that story of the witch of En-dor, 
 and Saul seein' Sam'el when he was dead. 
 I reckon as that's no'but another version
 
 298 A SON OF HAGAR. 
 
 of what happened at the fire a' Saturday 
 neet/ 
 
 Parson Christian glanced furtively at 
 Greta's drooping head, and then meeting the 
 tailor's eye, he put his finger to his lips. 
 
 When dinner was over the parson lifted 
 from the shelf the huge tome, ' made to 
 view his life and actions in/ He drew his 
 chair to the fire and began to turn over the 
 earliest leaves. Greta had thrown on her 
 cloak, and was fixing her hat. 
 
 1 I'm going to see poor Mrs. Truesdale,' 
 she said. Then, coming behind the old 
 man, and glancing over his shoulder at the 
 book on his knees, ' What are you looking 
 for ?' she asked, and smiled ; * a prescription 
 for envy ?' 
 
 The parson shook his old head gravely. 
 1 You must know I met young Mr. Eitson 
 this morning/ 
 
 'Hugh?' 
 
 ' Yes ; he was riding home from his
 
 THE COIL OF THE TEMPTATION, 299 
 
 iron pits, but stopped and asked rae if I 
 could tell him when his father, who is dead 
 and gone, poor fellow, came first to these 
 parts, and how old his brother Paul might 
 be at that time.' 
 
 1 Why did he ask ?' said Greta eagerly. 
 
 1 Nay, I scarce can say. I told him I 
 could not tell without looking at my book. 
 Let me see ; it must be a matter of seven- 
 and-twenty years ago. How old is your 
 sweetheart, Greta ?' 
 
 ' Paul is twenty- eight/ 
 
 ' And this is the year seventy-five. 
 Twenty-eight from seventy-five — that's 
 forty-seven. Paul was a wee toddle, I 
 remember. Ill look for forty -seven. 
 Eighteen forty-four, forty-five, forty-six — 
 here it is — forty-seven. And, bless me, 
 the very page. Look, here we have it.' 
 
 Then the parson read this entry in his 
 diary : 
 
 ' " Nov. 18th. — Being promised to preach
 
 300 A SON OF HAGAR. 
 
 at John Skerton's church at Ravenglass, I 
 got ready to go thither. I took my mare 
 and set forward and went direct to Thomas 
 Storsacre's, where I was to lodge. It 
 rained sore all the way, and I was wet, and 
 took off my coat and let it run an hour. 
 Then we supped and sat discoursing by the 
 fire till near ten ojclock of one thing and 
 another, and, among the rest, of one Allan 
 Ritson, who has newly settled at Raven- 
 glass. Thomas said Allan was fresh from 
 Scotland, being Scottish born, and that his 
 wife was Irish, and that they had a child, 
 called Paul, only a few months old and not 
 yet walking." 
 
 ' The very thing ! Wait, here's some- 
 thing more : 
 
 '"Nov. 19th (Lord's Day).— Went to 
 church, and many people came to worship. 
 Parson Skerton read the prayers and 
 Thomas Storsacre the lessons. I prayed, 
 and preached from Matt. vii. 23, 24 ; then
 
 THE COIL OF THE TEMPTATION. 301 
 
 ceased, and dismissed the people. After 
 service, Thomas brought his new neigh- 
 bour, Allan Ritson, who asked me to visit 
 him that day and dine. So I went with 
 him, and saw his wife and child — an infant 
 in arms. Mrs. Eitson is a woman of some 
 education and much piety. Her husband is a 
 rough, blunt dalesman of the good old type." 
 
 1 The very thing,' the parson repeated ; 
 and he put a mark in the page. 
 
 ' I wonder why he wants it ?' said Greta. 
 
 She left Parson Christian still looking 
 at his book, and went out on her errand. 
 
 She was more than an hour gone, and 
 when she returned the winter's day had all 
 but closed in. Only a little yellow light 
 still lingered in the sky. 
 
 ' Greta, they have sent for you from the 
 Ghyil,' said the parson as she entered. ' Mrs. 
 Ritson wants to see you to-night. Natt, 
 the stableman, came with the trap. But he 
 has gone again/
 
 302 A SON OF HAGAR. 
 
 6 1 shall follow him at once,' said Greta. 
 
 1 Nay, my lass, the day is not young 
 enough,' said the parson. 
 
 'I was never afraid of the dark/ said 
 Greta. 
 
 She took down a lantern and lit it, drew 
 her cloak more closely ah out her, and pre- 
 pared to go. 
 
 ' Then take this paper to young Mr. 
 Hugh. It's a copy of what is written in 
 my book.' 
 
 Greta hesitated. But she could not tell 
 Parson Christian what had passed between 
 Hugh and herself. She took the paper and 
 hastened away. 
 
 The parson sat for a while before the fire. 
 Then he rose, walked to the door, and 
 opened it. ' Heaven b]ess the girl, it's 
 snowing. What a night for the child to 
 be abroad !' He returned in disturbed 
 humour to the fireside.
 
 CHAPTER Till. 
 
 When Greta set out, the atmosphere was 
 yellow and vapourish. The sky grew 
 rapidly darker. As she reached the 
 village, thin flakes of snow began to fall. 
 She could feel them driven by the wind 
 against her face, and when she came by 
 the inn she could see them in the dull 
 yellow light. 
 
 The labourers were leaving the fields, 
 and, with their breakfast cans swung on 
 their fork handles, they were drifting in 
 twos and threes into the Flying Horse. 
 It looked warm and snug within. 
 
 She passed the little cluster of old houses, 
 and scarcely saw them in the deepening
 
 304 A SON OF HAGAR. 
 
 night. As she went by the mill she could 
 just descry its ruined roof standing out like 
 a dark pyramid against the dun sky. The 
 snow fell faster. It was now lying thick 
 on her cloak in front, and on the windward 
 face of the lantern in her hand. 
 
 The road was heavier than before, and 
 she had still fully a quarter of a mile to 
 go. She hastened on. Passing the little 
 church — Parson Christian's church — she 
 met Job Sheepshanks, the letter-cutter, 
 coming out of the shed in the churchyard. 
 ' Bad night for a young lady to be from 
 home, begging your pardon, miss,' said Job, 
 and went on towards the village, his bunch 
 of chisels clanking over his shoulder. 
 
 The wind soughed in the leafless trees 
 that grew around the old roofless barn at 
 the corner of the road that led to the fells. 
 The gurgle of a half-frozen waterfall came 
 from the distant Ghyll. Save for these 
 sounds and the dull thud of Greta's step
 
 THE COIL OF THE TEMPTATION. 305 
 
 on the snow- covered road, all around was 
 still. 
 
 How fast the snow fell now. Yet Greta 
 heeded it not at all. Her mind was busy 
 with many thoughts. She was thinking of 
 Paul as Parson Christian's great book had 
 pictured him — Paul as a child, a little 
 darling babe, not yet able to walk. Could 
 it be possible that Paul, her Paul, had once 
 been that ? Of course, to think like this 
 was foolishness. Every one must have 
 been young at some time. Only it 
 seemed so strange. It was a sort of 
 mystery. 
 
 Then she thought, of Paul the man — Paul 
 as he had been, gay and heartsome ; Paul 
 as he was, harassed by many cares. She 
 thought of her love for him — of his love for 
 her — of how they were soon, very soon, to 
 join hands and face the unknown future in 
 an unknown land. She had promised. 
 Yes, and she would go. 
 
 vol. 1. 20
 
 306 A SON OF HAGAR. 
 
 She thought of Paul in London, and how 
 soon he would be back in Newlands. This 
 was Monday, and Paul had promised to 
 come home on Wednesday. Only two days 
 more ! Yet how long it would be after 
 all! 
 
 Greta had reached the lonnin that went 
 up to the Ghyll. She would soon be there. 
 How thick the trees were in the lane ! 
 They shut out the last glimmer of light 
 from the sky. The lantern burned yellow 
 amidst the snow that lay on it like a 
 crust. 
 
 Then Greta thought of Mrs. Eitson. It 
 was strange that Paul's mother had sent 
 for her. They were friends, but there 
 had never been much intimacy between 
 them. Mrs. Eitson was a grave and earnest 
 woman, a saintly soul, and Greta's light- 
 some spirit had always felt rebuked in her 
 presence. Paul loved his mother, and she 
 herself must needs love as well as reverence
 
 THE COIL OF THE TEMPTATION. 307 
 
 the mother of Paul. It was Paul first and 
 Paul last. Paul was the centre of her 
 world. She was a woman, and love was 
 her whole existence. 
 
 Here in the lonnin she was in pitch 
 darkness. She stumbled once into the 
 dyke ; then laughed and went on again. 
 At one moment she thought she heard a 
 noise not far away. She stood and listened. 
 No, it was nothing. Only a hundred yards 
 more ! Bravely ! 
 
 Then by a swift rebound — she knew not 
 why — her mind went back to the events of 
 the morning. She thought of Hugh Eitson 
 and his mysterious threat. What did he 
 mean ? What harm could he do them ? Oh 
 that she had been calmer, and asked ! Her 
 heart fluttered. It flashed upon her that 
 perhaps it was he and not his mother who 
 had sent for her to-night. Her pulse 
 quickened. 
 
 At that instant the curlew shot over her 
 
 20—2
 
 3o8 A SON OF HAGAR. 
 
 head with its deep, mournful cry. At the 
 same moment she heard a step approaching 
 her. It came on quickly. She stopped. 
 ' Who is it ?' she asked. 
 
 There was no answer. The sound of the 
 footstep ceased. 
 
 ' Who are you ?' she called again. 
 
 Then with heavy thuds in the darkness 
 and on the snow, some one approached. 
 She trembled from head to foot, but advanced 
 a step and stopped again. The footstep 
 was passing her. She brought the light of 
 the lantern full on the retreating figure. 
 
 It was the figure of a man. Going by, 
 hastily, he turned his head over his shoulder 
 and she saw his face. It was the face of 
 Paul — colourless — agitated — with flashing 
 eyes. 
 
 Every drop of Greta's blood stood still. 
 
 'Paul!' she cried, thrilled and im- 
 movable. 
 
 There was an instant of unconsciousness.
 
 THE COIL OF THE TEMPTATION. 309 
 
 The earth reeled beneath her. When she 
 came to herself she was standing alone in 
 the lane, the lantern half-buried in the snow 
 at her feet. 
 
 Had it been all a dream ? 
 She was but twenty yards from the house. 
 The door of the porch stood open. Chilled 
 with fear to the heart's core, she rushed in. 
 No one in the hall. Not a sound, but the 
 faint mutter of voices in the kitchen. 
 
 She ran through the passage, and threw 
 open the kitchen door. The farm labourers 
 were at supper, chatting, laughing, eating, 
 smoking. 
 
 ' Didn't you hear somebody in the house V 
 she cried. 
 
 The men got up and turned about. 
 There was dead silence in a moment.. 
 
 ' When T 
 
 < Now.' 
 
 < No. What body ?' 
 
 She flew off without waiting to explain
 
 310 A SON OF HA GAR. 
 
 The kitchen was too far away. Hugh 
 Bitson's room opened from the first landing 
 of the stairs. The stairs went up almost 
 from the porch. Darting up, she threw 
 open the door of Hugh's room. Hugh was 
 sitting at the table, examining papers by a 
 lamp. 
 
 ' Have you seen Paul ?' she cried, in an 
 agonized whisper, and with a panic-stricken 
 look. 
 
 Hugh dropped the papers, and rose stiffly 
 to his feet. 
 
 ' Great God, where V 
 
 ' Here — this instant/ 
 
 Their eyes met. He did not answer. 
 He was very pale. Had she dreamed ? 
 She looked down at the snow-crusted lantern 
 in her hand. It must have been all a 
 dream. 
 
 She stepped back on to the landing, and 
 stood in silence. The serving people had 
 come out of the kitchen, and, huddled
 
 THE COIL OF THE TEMPTATION. 311 
 
 together, they looked up at her in amaze- 
 ment. Then a low moan reached her ear. 
 She ran to Mrs. Eitson's room. The door 
 to it stood wide open ; a fire burned in the 
 grate, a candle on the table. 
 
 Outstretched on the floor lay the mother 
 of Paul, cold, still, and insensible. 
 
 When Mrs. Eitson regained conscious- 
 ness she looked about with the empty gaze 
 of one who is bending bewildered eyes on 
 vacancy. Greta was kneeling beside her, 
 and she helped to lift her into the bed. She 
 did not speak. But she grasped Greta's 
 hand with a nervous twitch, when the girl 
 whispered something in her ear. From time 
 to time she trembled visibly, and glanced 
 with a startled look towards the door. But 
 not a word did she utter. 
 
 Thus hour after hour wore on, and the 
 night was growing apace. A terrible silence 
 brooded over the house. Only in the kitchen 
 was any voice raised above a whisper.
 
 312 A SON OF HAGAR. 
 
 There the servants quaked and clucked — 
 every tongue among them let loose in con- 
 jecture and the accents of surprise. 
 
 Hugh Eitson passed again and again from 
 his own room to his mother's. He looked 
 down from time to time at the weary, pale, 
 and quiet face. But he said little. He put 
 no questions. 
 
 Greta sat beside the bed, only less weary, 
 only less pale and quiet, only less disturbed 
 by horrible imaginings than the sufferer 
 who lay upon it. 
 
 Towards midnight Hugh came to say that 
 Peter had been sent for her from the Vicarage. 
 Greta rose, put on her cloak and hat, kissed 
 the silent lips, and followed Hugh out of 
 the room. 
 
 As they passed down the stairs Greta 
 stopped at the door of Hugh Bitson's room, 
 and beckoned him to enter it with her. 
 They went in together, and she closed the 
 door.
 
 THE COIL OF THE TEMPTATION. 313 
 
 ' Now tell me,' she said, ' what this means.' 
 
 Hugh's face was very pale. His eyes 
 had a wandering look, and when he spoke 
 his voice was muffled. But by an effort of his 
 unquenchable energy he shook off this show 
 of concern, and smiled feebly. 
 
 ' It means,' he said, ' that you have been 
 the victim of a delusion.' 
 
 Greta's pale face flushed. ' And your 
 mother — has she also been the victim of a 
 delusion ?' 
 
 Hugh shrugged his shoulders, showed his 
 teeth slightly, but made no reply. 
 
 ' Answer me — tell me the truth — be frank 
 for once — tell me, can you explain this 
 mystery ?' 
 
 1 If I could explain it, how would it be a 
 mystery ?' 
 
 Greta felt the blood tingle to her finger 
 tips. 
 
 ' Do you believe I have told you the 
 truth V she asked.
 
 3U A SON OF HAGAR. 
 
 ' I am sure you have.' 
 
 ' Do you believe I saw Paul in the 
 lane ?' 
 
 i I am sure you think you saw him/ 
 
 ' Do you know for certain that he went 
 away ?' 
 
 Hugh nodded his head. 
 
 ' Are you sure he has not got back ?' 
 
 ' Quite sure/ 
 
 ' In short, you think what I saw was 
 merely the result of woman's hysteria V 
 
 Hugh smiled through his livid lips, and 
 his staring eyes assumed a momentary look 
 of amused composure. He stepped to the 
 table and fumbled some papers. 
 
 This reminded Greta of the paper the 
 parson had asked her to deliver. * I ought 
 to have given you this before,' she said. 
 '■ Mr. Christian sent it.' 
 
 He took it without much apparent interest, 
 put it on the table unread, and went to the 
 door with Greta.'
 
 THE COIL OF THE TEMPTATION. 315 
 
 The trap was standing in the courtyard, 
 with Natt in the driver's seat and Brother 
 Peter in the seat behind. The snow had 
 ceased to fall, but it lay several inches deep 
 on the ground. There was the snow's dumb 
 silence on the earth and in the air. 
 
 Hugh helped Greta to her place, and then 
 lifted the lamp from the trap, and looked on 
 the ground a few yards ahead of the horse. 
 1 There are no footprints in the snow,' he 
 said, with a poor pretence at a smile — 'none, 
 at least, that go from the house.' 
 
 Greta herself had begun to doubt. She 
 lacked presence of mind to ask if there were 
 any footprints at all except Peter's; The 
 thing was done and gone. It all happened 
 three hours ago, and it was easy to suspect 
 the evidence of the senses. 
 
 Hugh returned the lamp to its loop. 
 1 Did you scream,' he asked, ' when you saw 
 — when you saw — it V 
 
 Greta was beginning to feel ashamed.
 
 316 A SON OF H AGAR. 
 
 ' I might have done. I cannot positively 
 say ' 
 
 ' Ah, that explains everything. No douht 
 mother heard you and was frightened. I 
 see it all now. Natt, drive on — cold jour- 
 ney — good-night/ 
 
 Greta felt her face burn in the darkness. 
 Before she had time or impulse to reply 
 they were rolling away towards home. 
 
 At intervals her keen ear caught the 
 sound of suppressed titters from the driver's 
 seat. Natt was chuckling to himself with 
 great apparent satisfaction. Since the fire 
 at the mill he had been putting two and 
 two together, and he was now perfectly con- 
 fident as to the accuracy of his computation. 
 When folk said that Paul had been at 
 the fire he laughed derisively, because he 
 knew that an hour before he had left him 
 at the station. But an idea works in a 
 brain like Natt's pretty much as the hop fer- 
 ments. When it goes to the bottom it leaves
 
 THE COIL OF THE TEMPTATION. 317 
 
 froth and bubbles at the top. Natt knew 
 that there was some grave quarrel between 
 the brothers. He also knew that there were 
 two ways to the station and two ways back 
 to Newlands — one through the town, the 
 other under Latrigg. Mister Paul might 
 have his own reasons for pretending to go 
 to London, and also his own reasons for not 
 going. Natt had left him stepping into the 
 station at the town entrance. But what 
 was to prevent him from goiug out again at 
 the entrance from Latrigg ? Of course that 
 was what he had done. And he had never 
 been out of the county. Deary me, how 
 blind folk were, to be sure ! Thus Natt's 
 wise head chuckled and clucked. 
 
 At one moment Natt twisted this sapient 
 and facetious noddle over his shoulder to 
 where Brother Peter sat huddled into a 
 hump and in gloomy silence. ' Mercy me, 
 Peter/ he cried in an affrighted whisper 
 and with a mighty tragical start, ' and is
 
 318 A SON OF HAGAR. 
 
 that thee ? Dusta know I thowt it were 
 thy ghost.' 
 
 ' Don't know as it's not — dragging a body 
 frae bed a cold neet like this,' mumbled 
 Peter, numbed up to his tongue, but still 
 warm enough there. fa 
 
 END OF VOL. I. 
 
 BILLING * SONS, PRINTERS, GUILDFORD.

 
 M