LI E> R.AFLY 
 
 OF THE 
 UN IVLR5ITY 
 or ILLINOIS 
 
 P585s 
 
 V. I
 
 Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 
 in 2009 with funding from 
 
 University of Illinois Urbana-Champaign 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/squire01pick
 
 THE SQUIRE. 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 LONDOV : 
 PRINTED BT SAMUEt BEHTLETi 
 
 r>jrset Street, Fleet Street.
 
 THE SQUIRE. 
 
 BY THE AUTHOR OF 
 THE HEIRESS." " THE MERCHANT'S DAUGHTER," &c. 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES. 
 
 VOL. I. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 RICHARD BENTLEY, NEW BURLINGTON STREET. 
 
 1837.
 
 833 
 
 THE SQUIRE. 
 
 CHAPTER L 
 
 It was a dull November afternoon. The 
 mist hung heavily on the distant hills and 
 above the intervening hollows. The sun, sink- 
 ing in the west, lent no glory to the closing 
 day, but seemed creeping to its rest in gloom 
 and heaviness, as if ashamed that its might 
 had not dispelled the fog — that its noon-day 
 splendour had been obscured. No wonder 
 that it hid its face I the vanquished do not 
 ^like to be looked on ! and there cannot be even 
 ^the semblance of glory in being conquered 
 . ^by a fog. The present defeat resembled genius 
 ^overthrown by stupidity! — borne down by 
 •» the mere dull, animal weic^ht of wealth ! No 
 ^wonder that the sun crept to its rest with a 
 
 •V VOL. I. B 
 
 i
 
 2 THE SQUIRE. 
 
 Stealthy step and a shrouded face ! If it could 
 not conquer in the heyday of its might, its 
 only wisdom was to retire as speedily and 
 quietly as the laws of nature would admit. 
 That noxious vapours should have the power 
 to darken brightness ! It is sad, but very 
 true. Only Chinese pictures have no shade ; 
 and though they may be " selon lafantaisie^'' 
 — that is, Chinese '' fantaisie^^'' — they are cer- 
 tainly not " selon la nature^'' — that is, English 
 nature. 
 
 Not that those who discriminate the weather 
 closely, and affect accuracy in the description 
 of its various varieties, would have pronounced 
 it to be a fog : they would only have declared 
 it to be a misty day, leaving it to the less 
 cautious or more impatient to add, dull, heavy, 
 chilling, and unbearable. 
 
 Dull, heavy, chilling, it certainly was, though 
 not unbearable ; such things have been borne 
 before — must be borne again; but, to my 
 judgment, (and I rather pique myself on its 
 correctness — who does not ?) it was more dull, 
 more heavy, more chilling, than would have
 
 THE SQUIRE. S 
 
 been a dense, unsightless fog. There is some- 
 thing partaking of the sublime in a real, in- 
 disputable fog. When nothing can be seen, 
 all things may be imagined : beauties and de- 
 fects — the grandeur of nature, the littleness of 
 art — the striking outlines of the uncultivated 
 mountain, the petty details of this work-a-day 
 world, are all hidden from our view ; the blind 
 and the seeing, the observing and the heed- 
 less, are brought nearly on a level : none 
 can distinguish more than ten yards in ad- 
 vance, and man sees (pardon the Irishism) 
 how narrow and bounded are his views. It 
 seems as though his mortal course was run, 
 and he had gained nothing by his toil and 
 trouble. He looks back : all is objectless, ob- 
 scure ; there is no vestige of his labours gleam- 
 ing through the mist — his very steps un- 
 traced upon the earth. The monument erect- 
 ed to his sorrows, and the triumphal arch to 
 his glories, are alike lost in the gloom. His 
 joys and his griefs have left no trace : he has 
 felt — he has laughed — he has mourned : per- 
 haps he had wealth — had genius — had do- 
 
 B 2
 
 4 THE SQUIRE. 
 
 minion — and deemed himself a glorious being ! 
 Where are the trophies of his glory ? They 
 are hidden from his view; his gaze cannot 
 pierce the gloom : there are no visible proofs 
 of his triumphs ; they are as nothing in the 
 eyes of others — even his own eye cannot mark 
 them. He learns a juster estimate of himself — 
 he forms a truer judgment of his deeds. — 
 He looks before : how bounded is his view ! 
 He cannot pierce the gloom — he cannot see 
 into the future — he trembles at its unseen 
 perils. Woe to him who would trace its 
 obscurity without a safer guide than man's 
 unaided reason ! 
 
 The history of his own past is traced on me- 
 mory's roll — the characters cannot be obliterat- 
 ed ; but the tale is lost to others — unknown to 
 multitudes, as the past history of those count- 
 less crowds is lost — unknown to him. The 
 grosser part of his nature receives a shock to 
 its pride, and he better understands his worth 
 in the universe — his comparative relation to 
 the Unseen and Infinite. Yet the veil of the
 
 THE SQUIRE. 5 
 
 past shall be withdrawn — the deeds of each 
 stand clearly forth — man's most secret thoughts 
 be bared to the gaze of the countless hosts 
 marshalled before the eternal throne for 
 judgment ; he shall hear his doom, whilst ap- 
 plauding crowds proclaim the sentence just, 
 — the righteous award of One who has said 
 he will judge man by his acts, whether 
 they be good or whether they be evil, and 
 who has promised that none shall be lost but 
 those who will not come to him. The evil 
 of the hereafter rests justly on man's own head. 
 Let us think of this in the early dawn — at the 
 sunset hour — in the noon-day glow and the 
 midnight gloom — in joy and sorrow — in sick- 
 ness and in health — in low estate, and in lofty 
 rank. 
 
 The veil of the future, too, will be with- 
 drawn, though mortal eye cannot pierce it 
 now. Those splendours too dazzling for our 
 gaze, too glorious for our comprehension, will 
 then be revealed, — the mysteries of our hea- 
 venly Father's love be then made plain ; and
 
 6 THE SQUIRE. 
 
 they who have, even here, seen something of 
 its beauty and its power, through faith and 
 hope, will then rejoice and adore. 
 
 Was ever fog so moralised upon before ? — 
 we imagine not. This is an age of wonders : the 
 dull may see nothing in a fog but a fog (for 
 the race of non-seers is numerous) ; the antici- 
 pative and impatient, only a very disagreeable 
 check to some pleasurable excursion. Now, 
 a fog is frequently disappointing, rarely agree- 
 able ; yet do we maintain that a real, sight- 
 less, bona fide fog — such as may be seen, per- 
 haps, once in a winter, (once is quite often 
 enough,) has some touch of the sublime. 
 
 But, we repeat, it was not a fog this sixth 
 day of November 111-. The murky sky, 
 the heavy mist, hanging about on hill and 
 valley, hinted that it might have been a fog 
 in the morning — that it might be a fog again 
 at night; but a fog — that is, a sublime fog— 
 at that moment it certainly was not. Objects 
 could be distinguished near, and even in the 
 distance, though not clearly : it was neither all 
 gloom nor all shine ; in fact, it had no affinity
 
 THE SQUIRE. 7 
 
 with the latter ; and to say that it was neither 
 wet nor dark, was the utmost the most court- 
 eous could report in its. favour. If one was 
 neither afraid of being drenched nor benighted, 
 at least there was no beauty, no variety of 
 colouring, no changing and striking lights to 
 awaken admiration. There was no break in 
 the heavens — no lights on the earth ; the forms 
 that were visible were indistinct — traced, as 
 it seemed, with the timid and confused touch 
 of a beginner. 
 
 Had a landscape-painter (unable to depict 
 the human form) wished to image stupidity 
 and weariness in a representation of soulless 
 nature, here was the model to his hand. You 
 could not even hope that a ray from genius 
 might enlighten the uniform dulness : — you 
 might believe it had tried, and failed. The 
 heaviness seemed determined : there was no 
 room for speculation on the subject ; there it 
 was, and the conviction was forced upon you 
 that there it would be : — you might almost ima- 
 gine it eternal. Nature seemed out of humour, 
 — not in a rage, (that partakes of the sublime,)
 
 8 THE SQUIRE. 
 
 — not even petulant, (that promises change,) 
 — but sullen. 
 
 The thermometer would not have justified a 
 very violent declamation against the cold, or a 
 smothering quantity of furs ; but the heart felt 
 it was cold, — very cold, — chilling, benumbing ; 
 not so absolutely freezing as to command a bold 
 effort to bear it, — that would have caused a 
 little excitement, (petty vexations, winning little 
 glory for their well-bearing, are rarely well 
 borne ;) but the air seemed chilling, paralyzing 
 the fancy with its torpid touch, painting the 
 future in gloom to the mental eye as the sur- 
 rounding landscape was already painted to the 
 bodily : in short, it was one of those days on 
 which one feels wretched — wretched without a 
 hope of relief, — without the power to avert the 
 doom, or lighten its cruelty. The best remedy 
 for such a tyranny is to sleep, if you can ; — at 
 least so seemed to think one of the occupants 
 of the travelling-chaise winding slowly up a 
 dreary hill in a thinly-inhabited part of an 
 inland county. Snugged up in one corner, 
 his hat laid aside that his head might rest
 
 THE SQUIRE. 9 
 
 more comfortably against the cushioned back, 
 his fair, handsome, open countenance, occasion- 
 ally twitched into slight contortions with the 
 vagaries of sleep, and entirely heedless of his 
 young companion, cuddled up in the other 
 corner, reclined Phihp Conyers, called by the 
 villagers "The Squire;" by his friends, (enemies 
 he had none, or so he thought,) " Honest Phil 
 Conyers,'' — the kindest hearted and the most 
 hospitable host, the hardest drinker, the most 
 daring rider, the most generous and unsuspicious 
 of men, though withal a little quick at times: but 
 then the breeze was over on the instant, and 
 the bosom as unrufl3ed as before. 
 
 It was the very last sort of day to choose for 
 returning home, — all looking so dull and heavy 
 might induce a fancy of not being welcome; 
 but Philip Conyers had no fancy, and paid 
 little heed to the gloom : it had only made hira 
 sleepy. Not so his gentle companion : she 
 had seen little notable in reality, — her years 
 had been few. Life might be said to her to be 
 all fancy, and she felt as if sh^ were unwel- 
 come : unsympathised with, she undoubtedly 
 
 B 5
 
 10 THE SQUIRE, 
 
 was. She bent forward, looked on the hand- 
 some and prepossessing features of the sleeper, 
 so indicative of his frank and generous temper, 
 then with a sigh shrank more closely into the 
 corner, and forgot the present whilst dwelling 
 on the past. 
 
 " Tally ho ! hark forward !" shouted the 
 squire, with a view-holla that must have awa- 
 kened the seven sleepers of the Eastern tale, 
 (if anything could,) starting from his uneasy 
 slumber, and dashing down the side glass to 
 look out, regardless of the cold raw air, or the 
 alarm and surprise of his timid daughter. 
 
 Ear and eye were exercised in vain ; he 
 heard only the creaking of the wheels as the 
 carriage was slowly dragged up the weary- 
 ing hill, — saw only the difficult ascent before 
 him. 
 
 " Did not you hear the hounds, Mabel .?" he 
 inquired, turning to his gentle child, who had 
 not recovered from the effects of his sudden 
 burst and startling holla. 
 
 " No, sir," replied Mabel in a voice tremul- 
 ous from emotion.
 
 THE SQUIRE. 11 
 
 Her father looked at her for an instant, and 
 out again on the dull hill ; then pulling up the 
 glass as hastily as he had dashed it down, mut- 
 tered something of his having dreamt, for it 
 was no hunting day, — adding, as some sort of 
 apology for his slumber, that he felt heavy, 
 not being used to a carriage, striving at the 
 same time to keep his eyes open, in which with 
 great difficulty he succeeded. His companion 
 made no reply, his words requiring none, and 
 there was silence till they gained the summit of 
 the hill. Here the squire again put down the 
 glass, but, with a more gentle action, again 
 thrust his head from the window, directing her 
 attention to some distant object, his counte- 
 nance brightening with the prospect of a speedy 
 deliverance from the confinement of the car- 
 riage, as well as with the kindly idea that he 
 could entertain his fellow-traveller. 
 
 " You say you forget your home, Mabel, — 
 there it stands in the distance ; and well does 
 the old grange look too, with its gable ends 
 and its tall chimneys. — Not there, child, — this 
 side. Can't you see ? Why you really have
 
 12 THE SQUIRE. 
 
 forgotten your home !" he added impatiently, 
 as, forgetting that his outstretched head pre- 
 vented all view from one window, he marvelled 
 at his daughter's stupidity in looking from 
 the other. 
 
 She could not deny the charge of having 
 forgotten the situation of the Grange, or rather 
 of not knowing it, (she had not been there 
 since her third year;) but, without offering any 
 defence, she turned her gaze in the direction to 
 which he pointed. Unhappily her eyes were 
 dimmed with weeping, or she was not naturally 
 far-sighted, or her father, knowing the direction 
 in which the Grange was situated, fancied he 
 saw what might be, rather than what really was 
 seen. 
 
 " I believe the girl does not see it now," he 
 continued, more impatiently, on MabeFs making 
 no remark on the beauty of the Grange, as he 
 had expected, though she continued to look in 
 the right direction. 
 
 No wonder he was a little provoked. People 
 who will not see what they ought to see are the 
 most annoying of travelling- companions : the
 
 THE SQUIRE. 13 
 
 iron cage would be too light a doom for their 
 stupidity. 
 
 " Do you see it, Mabel ?" 
 
 *' I think I see something in the distance," 
 replied his daughter hesitatingly ; for Mabel 
 was the most sincere of human beings, and 
 would not even in the matter of sight-seeing 
 be guilty of a falsehood. 
 
 " Think you see something in the distance ! 
 So do I, — two crows on a fallow field, and an 
 idiot boy driving a donkey. Have you quite 
 forgotten your home, Mabel Conyers ? My poor 
 sister should have taught you better. I never 
 forgot her at Christmas." 
 
 " I left it so very young, sir, — so long since. 
 My poor aunt ever taught me to love you and 
 the Grange." 
 
 " Ay, ay ; I forgot you were but a baby then, 
 and a sickly one too. I dare say, poor Eliza 
 did all that was right," replied her father kindly, 
 shamed from his impatience by her tremulous 
 tones, and eager to check the falling tears. " I 
 am quick of temper : never heed my impatience, 
 but dry your eyes. My sister was as kind a
 
 14 THE SQUIRE. 
 
 creature as ever lived : she was too good for 
 this world, and she is gone to a better ; but 
 you have a fond father still left ! — Come, cheer 
 up, and I will show you the Grange, and every- 
 thing else worth seeing," drawing her towards 
 him and kissing her pale cheek as he spoke. 
 
 Mabel did try to cheer up and seem grateful 
 for his intended kindness, though that kindness 
 (the rude touching of a recent wound) pained 
 more than it soothed ; whilst she looked with a 
 shudder at the deeply-rutted and miry road, 
 and the dreary landscape round — forming so 
 great a contrast to the level ways and smiling 
 scenery encircling the abode she had so lately 
 quitted. By dint of pointing out a hill to the 
 left, a clump to the right, and directing the eye 
 exactly as the finger pointed over some in- 
 tervening objects, Mr. Conyers succeeded in 
 making his child at least believe that she saw 
 the Grange ; and her assurance of the fact 
 pleased and satisfied him. This accomplished, 
 his next task was to warn her against impa- 
 tience, as they were yet some miles distant 
 and the road was tedious. There was nothing
 
 THE SQUIRE. 15 
 
 worth seeing at present, but he would point 
 out the village as soon as it came in sight. 
 
 Another glance at the execrable road, and some 
 unmannerly jolts as they descended the hill and 
 crept slowly round its base in the valley below, 
 proved the wisdora of his warning against im- 
 patience. After thanking him for his promise, 
 the daughter and her father again sank into 
 their respective corners and their former silence. 
 The one thought of the inspiring chase, the 
 sagacious hound, the swift hunter, and the 
 gay carouse; the other thought of the warm 
 heart, now cold, who had been as a mother 
 to her — the small but fairy-like abode she had 
 quitted, the one parent whom she had never 
 known, and the other whom, from long absence 
 and a contrast in every taste, she respected 
 rather than loved, and, notwithstanding all his 
 kindness, feared. The thoughts of the one were 
 cheering ; the thoughts of the other, saddening. 
 
 Mrs. Conyers (the most timid and gentle of 
 beings), long drooping, had died soon after the 
 birth of Mabel, who was supposed to inherit 
 the delicate constitution of her mother. What
 
 16 THE SQUIRE. 
 
 could Mr. Conyers do with a sickly female 
 infant ? With the kindest of hearts, he was 
 certainly not the best qualified in the world to 
 rear a delicate child or form female manners, 
 and readily did he consent to his dying wife's 
 request of consigning Mabel to the charge of 
 his only sister, a maiden lady but one year 
 younger than himself — the only old maid, as he 
 declared, whom he could ever endure ; and he 
 almost considered her as a widow. Faithfully 
 had the aunt fulfilled the charge she had un- 
 dertaken, and justly did her pupil value her 
 love and care. 
 
 If her ideas were tinged with what the world 
 of that day and of this w^ould call romance ; — if 
 she still dreamt of gallant gentlemen and peer- 
 less dames, after the multitude had awakened 
 from the delusion ; if she still thought that 
 love, as they tell in the olden time, might live 
 unchanged, unchilled, through a long, long 
 life, amid the deprivations of poverty and the 
 luxuries of prosperity ; — still the same, or but 
 more pure, more holy, though the storm or the 
 pestilence swept the loved one from the earth ; —
 
 THE SQUIRE. 17 
 
 surely the coldest, the most reasonable, will 
 pardon her when the tale of her early life shall 
 be told — the most ultra utilitarian will check 
 his sneer. 
 
 Few were more loved and lovely — more 
 courted and admired, or more worthy of all 
 this, than Elizabeth Conyers. The love sought 
 by many was early bestowed on one, and the 
 hand was promised where the heart had long 
 been given. Who might not have envied Eli- 
 zabeth Conyers at the age of twenty ! There 
 was no earthly blessing that was not hers in 
 possession, or in promise ! With birth, for- 
 tune, beauty, gentleness, and firmness joined ; 
 esteemed by all ; loving and beloved by one ; 
 who should think of dangers in her onward 
 path ? — who should predict of sorrow to her 
 future life? The bridal week was come; — two 
 more days, and the gentle Elizabeth would 
 plight her faith at the altar. 
 
 " Two more days, and you will be mine, — 
 wholly mine ! — mine only !" whispered the lover 
 to the blushing girl as he bade her farewell, 
 mounting his horse that had long been ready
 
 18 THE SQUIRE. 
 
 to convey him to the nearest town for the pur- 
 pose of effecting some last arrangement. 
 
 The lover rode forth in the morning, rich in 
 every blessing, buoyant with health, exulting 
 in his high hopes, rejoicing in the love, the vir- 
 tues, and the beauty of his intended bride. Life, 
 hope, delight, in every look and movement, 
 each so vivid — what should check them ? Ere 
 night came, the active limbs were still — the 
 lightsome laugh was hushed — the happy smile 
 departed ! The bounding heart no longer 
 beat — the rounded cheek no longer glowed — 
 he lay on his bier cold, silent, pale ! He had 
 passed from life in the power of his youth and 
 beauty ! He had not faded by a slow decay — 
 the destroyer had touched him, and he had 
 fallen ! In the morning he had been full of 
 life ; — before evening came, he was the prey of 
 death ! He had been thrown from his horse, 
 and so seriously injured that within three 
 hours he was a corpse ! The hand of his Eli- 
 zabeth was held in his dying grasp ! — his only 
 articulate words were a hope of their future 
 reunion !
 
 THE SQUIRE. 19 
 
 It was long before Miss Conyers recovered 
 from the shock ; — some thought she never did. 
 The gaiety of youth was gone for ever ; but a 
 gentle, holy sweetness had succeeded, a thou- 
 sand times more touching. She did not with- 
 draw from society, but entered rarely into its 
 gayer scenes. She was kind and gentle to all ; 
 but none again proffered hand and heart, 
 though some would gladly have done so, had 
 not her manner fully proved that her love still 
 lingered with the dead. 
 
 There was much in the character of Mrs. 
 Conyers and the circumstances attending her 
 marriage to engage the love and sympathy of 
 her gentle sister-in-law, who soothed the dying 
 mother, and loved the child, first for that mo- 
 ther'*s sake, but soon more for its own. Miss 
 Conyers took the little Mabel to her own quiet 
 and tasteful home, situated in a more polished 
 and beautiful county, lavishing on her the 
 care and fondness of her warm and noble heart. 
 She fancied a slight resemblance in the fair 
 child to her lost lover, to whom her mother was 
 very distantly related, and thus transferred to
 
 20 THE SQUIRE. 
 
 her some portion of the affection which had 
 been bestowed on him. 
 
 For the two succeeding years she took the 
 little Mabel to her father ; and then, as if by 
 mutual consent, and to their mutual relief, 
 these annual visits were relinquished, though 
 brother and sister continued to assign plausible 
 reasons for the discontinuance ; and the former 
 frequently talked of running down to Ivy Cot- 
 tage when the hay was in, or the harvest done, 
 or the hunting over, or something else con- 
 cluded, which was always succeeded by some- 
 thing else to be completed, before he could 
 leave home. Though really attached, (an at- 
 tachment ever proved in essentials,) the tastes, 
 the habits, the ideas of the brother and sister 
 were so totally opposed, that each felt restraint 
 in the presence of the other. The ill-ordered 
 house of the widower — his jovial companions-r- 
 his kind, but rather rough and noisy manners, 
 little suited the gentle and retiring Elizabeth, 
 her natural gaiety sobered by early suffering, 
 her health never completely restored, her spirit 
 sublimed by her still cherished love for one lost 
 to her upon earth.
 
 THE SQUIRE. 21 
 
 Philip Conjers was kind-hearted, generous, 
 and hospitable, incapable of a mean or disho- 
 nourable action, — a good specimen of the coun- 
 try squire of that day. He was an easy land- 
 lord and master, harsh only to poachers and 
 vagrants, always ready to assist the unfortu- 
 nate when it did not interfere with hunting, 
 shooting, or his more than due abhorrence of 
 foreign habits and innovations ; a bold rider, 
 a hearty eater, and a hard drinker, according 
 to the fashion of the times. Never was a more 
 stanch supporter of old customs. He always 
 voted for the blue member, because his family 
 had done so before him. To crown all, he was 
 a great cheerer at the toast of Church and 
 State, without clearly understanding its mean- 
 ing, and, unhappily, without thinking of, far 
 less practising, the duties required from a 
 member of that church he valued and toasted, 
 not for its beautiful liturgy or its apostolic doc- 
 trine, but because it had been the religion of 
 his fathers, was that of his neighbours and con- 
 nexions, and that he had been brought up in 
 its outward ordinances, and entertained some
 
 22 THE SQUIRE. 
 
 confused idea that its downfall would be con- 
 nected with some temporal loss to himself, — 
 perhaps a deprivation of hunting, or a scarcity 
 of wine. To go to the village church, when 
 not very inconvenient, and make his servants 
 do the same, — to have mince pies at Christ- 
 mas, salt fish on Good Friday, pay his tithes 
 with only a low grumble, or a joke on the 
 parson, who was rarely seen in the parish 
 but on Sunday, — was sufficient, in his estima- 
 tion, to mark him as a worthy member of the 
 church. 
 
 It was sad to think that one with so much na- 
 tural kindness of disposition should have passed 
 the age of fifty with scarcely a care for his eter- 
 nal welfare, assenting to the necessity of faith 
 in a Saviour as a mere dogma, instead of feel- 
 ing the immensity of that Saviour's love and 
 striving to acquire an interest in his sacrifice. 
 If an idea that he must render an account of 
 the talents committed to his charge ever came 
 across him, it was speedily dismissed as un- 
 pleasant — he never dwelt on unpleasant things. 
 He defrauded none, he employed and gave to
 
 THE SQUIRE. 23 
 
 many. What more could be required ? Of 
 the corruption of the human heart — of the ne- 
 cessity of self-denial — of acts being judged by 
 their principles, whether proceeding from the 
 love of God, or the desire of the applause of 
 men, or the mere ridding oneself of importu- 
 nity and the sight of pain, he knew nothing — 
 he never inquired. 
 
 The constant companion of her aunt, Mabel 
 had imbibed most of her opinions, and strongly 
 resembled her in character. Gentle, yielding, 
 believing all as guileless as herself, she was 
 naturally inclined to trust, to love, and to en- 
 deavour to contribute to the happiness of all 
 she met ; but, timid and sensitive, she shrank 
 back abashed at the least semblance of rebuke 
 or harshness. Her heart bounded at a smile, 
 felt crushed beneath a frown. Elizabeth Con- 
 yers was no prodigy of learning ; but, a recluse 
 in her later years, from delicate health, she had 
 found pleasure in cultivating MabePs taste for 
 the literature of the past, and then present age ; 
 and if she had no great depth of thought to 
 bring to the task, she had a delicate and taste-
 
 24 THE SQUIRE. 
 
 ful mind, with a feeling heart, keenly alive to 
 the good and the beautiful. In these her niece 
 resembled her : — both had the poetry of the 
 heart — the romance of life was still bright in 
 each : the one as yet knew not its reality ; the 
 other, in consecrating herself to the memory of 
 the dead, had few thoughts to bestow on the 
 petty trials, the follies, and the vices of the 
 living. One was enshrined in her heart, and for 
 his sake all others were thought well of. He 
 had died in the full splendour of their love ! — 
 nor time, nor doubt, nor chance, nor change, 
 had marred its beauty : she deemed it might 
 have lived long years unfaded from its pristine 
 glory. She told of this love to the gentle 
 Mabel ; and she too indulged in dreams as 
 bright. 
 
 If Mabel were ever to mingle in the crowd — 
 to endure the wear and tear of life, other and 
 sterner lessons might have been useful ; the 
 more particularly, considering her father'*s cha- 
 racter. But such lessons she heard not. Her 
 aunt was too much attached to her brother 
 to see that brother exactly as he was. Time
 
 THE SQUIRE. 25 
 
 and absence had obliterated the feeling ap- 
 proaching to disgust -with which she had en- 
 countered some of his companions, — had soften- 
 ed the remembrance of the contrast between 
 them, — and whilst teaching her niece to love 
 and respect her unknown parent, in her affec- 
 tion she painted him as what she wished to 
 consider him, as she desired he should be, 
 rather than as what he was. To Mabel's 
 fancy, therefore, this unknown parent was en- 
 dowed with innumerable graces of thought and 
 feeling, and his idea blended with that of her 
 aunt's lost lover. This was unfortunate, as 
 it made the contrast, when she saw him, the 
 more striking and overwhelming. She felt 
 that she had bestowed the love and duty of 
 a child on an ideal parent : felt it at their 
 first meeting, when they stood beside the bed 
 of the dying, who, deprived of speech by a 
 paralytic stroke, could but look her affection 
 and her hopes, — could but sign her wishes. 
 Her aunt's sudden attack had been Mabel's 
 first real grief, and her instant idea was to 
 send for her father, judging from her own 
 
 VOL. I. c
 
 26 THE SQUIRE. 
 
 feelings how much he would desire a last 
 meeting with the patient sufferer. He came 
 at her summons, but only in time to see his 
 sister die. 
 
 So far he had fulfilled her wishes, and he 
 sincerely mourned her death, more sincerely 
 than Mabel thought, for his mode of showing 
 his grief was strange to her. He looked so 
 surprised and awkward when she clung round 
 him as her sole tie to earth, and seemed so 
 anxious to dispel the grief which she, with the 
 inexperience of youth and the tyranny of a 
 first sorrow, would have cherished, that, trem- 
 bling and abashed, she shrank from his rough, 
 though kindly - intentioned consolation, and 
 holding gaiety as little short of sacrilege to 
 the departed, sought only the opportunity to 
 weep alone. 
 
 The body was precious, though the soul had 
 fled ; and she loved to sit beside that shrouded 
 form, and to press her lips to the cold cheek. 
 To her there seemed a hurry in its com- 
 mitment to the tomb, as though grief was irk- 
 some, and only assumed as a fitting garment
 
 THE SQUIRE. 27 
 
 for the time, to be thrown aside on the con- 
 clusion of the ceremony; and she was con- 
 firmed in this idea on learning that the cottage 
 witjj all its comforts and embellishments was 
 to be sold immediately. The shrubs her hands 
 had planted, the flowers her care had tended, 
 the drawings she had traced, the books which 
 she had prized, (all sacred in her eyes, endeared 
 by a thousand loving recollections,) — were these 
 to be exposed to the gaze of the vulgar and the 
 curious ? — to be critically examined ? — priced 
 to the would-be-purchaser ? — puffed by the 
 auctioneer? — made a jest and a ridicule? — 
 Were these to pass into the hands of uninterest- 
 ed strangers? Could her father have really 
 loved the dead, and yet do this? She knew 
 not that such was a common practice ; she never 
 thought of what the world would consider the 
 reasonableness of parting with things for which 
 he could find little or no use. Use ! — was 
 what the loved dead had touched, or formed, 
 or tended, to be considered as a mere piece 
 of merchandise? — a matter of profit or of 
 loss ? This convinced her of the difference of 
 
 c2
 
 28 THE SQUIRE. 
 
 their feelings towards the departed ; — the one 
 had loved, the other had not ; so she judged, 
 but she judged incorrectly. 
 
 Mr. Conyers had loved his sister — had 
 proved it in many instances, and would have 
 proved it in more had circumstances required 
 it. He had the reality — the usefulness of love, 
 if one may so term it, but little of its beauty, 
 and none of its poetry ; such was scarcely to 
 be expected from a fox-hunter of the last 
 century rarely mixing in female society, how- 
 ever generous his nature, and kindly his dis- 
 position. If he had ever known anything of 
 the poetry of feeling, it had faded into prose 
 at the death of his wife. 
 
 He saw nothing but the usual course of 
 proceeding in the intended sale ; but when he 
 beheld his daughter's passionate burst of grief 
 at its announcement, and comprehended her 
 wishes, he yielded on the instant, rather than 
 see her tears ; urging her to cheerfulness, and 
 trying to explain the difference in their feel- 
 ings by the circumstance of her being a simple 
 girl, he an experienced man.
 
 THE SQUIRE. 29 
 
 Mabel was permitted to select what she chose 
 for transportation to the Grange, her own good 
 sense and gratitude for the permission alone 
 bounding her selection ; whilst the cottage itself 
 was let at a low price to an old and esteemed 
 friend of Miss Conyers, who would keep all 
 things as they then were. Mabel's grateful 
 heart again turned to her father with a child's 
 affection ; and though the delicacy and sensi- 
 tiveness of her love received innumerable shocks 
 from his maladroit attempts at consolation, 
 those attempts arose so evidently from real 
 kindness, that she tried to repay them by the 
 cheerfulness he recommended, and began bet- 
 ter to understand his character and prize his 
 worth, though the awe and disappointment 
 which he had inspired on their first meeting had 
 not passed away. 
 
 The word " home," as applied to the Grange, 
 had struck her painfully, recalling the happy 
 home and the beloved guide now lost for ever. 
 The Grange might be beautiful, its grounds 
 extensive, its apartments lofty, but what were 
 these things to her? It was not her child-
 
 30 THE SQUIRE. 
 
 hood's home, — it had none of the charms of 
 early recollections — was linked with none of 
 the young hearts gentle memories. Its great- 
 est merit in her eyes, was its having been the 
 birth-place of her aunt, and had she been go- 
 ing thither with that aunt, she would have 
 been eager to see — resolved to admire it; but 
 she was gone, and the Grange had lost its 
 interest. The beauties her father had prin- 
 cipally extolled awakened no admiration ; she 
 cared nothing for the best hunting or shoot- 
 ing covers ; the most productive arable, or 
 the most fertile pasture land. She had lis- 
 tened with attention, as she always did, but 
 even the not very penetrating squire saw that 
 her heart was not in the matter. 
 
 That part of the country in which the 
 Grange was situated, was not remarkable for 
 its general beauty, though some lovely spots 
 in the valleys acquired additional charms from 
 their contrast with the bare and barren hills. 
 There was little level ground, the country 
 emulating the ups and downs of life. It was
 
 THE SQUIRE. 31 
 
 not till the chaise had gained the summit of 
 another hill, and the little village of Ranford 
 with its great house, the Grange, lay directly 
 beneath, that Mr. Conyers again addressed 
 his daughter. 
 
 " There, Mabel, — there is the Grange, where 
 those of our name have lived for more than four 
 hundred years. I always feel happier for look- 
 ing on its old walls. There ! — now you have a 
 full view of it through the trees : make haste, 
 or the wood will hide it again." 
 
 Mabel not only looked, but also admired, as 
 was wished ; she would have been deficient in 
 taste if she had not. From that spot the 
 Grange was seen to the greatest advantage. Its 
 picturesque gable-ends, its tall twisted chim- 
 neys, its grey stone copings, its arched entrance, 
 backed by its rich woods, looked imposing in 
 the distance ; whilst the ground, sloping down 
 to a piece of water in the front, the fresh green 
 dotted with sheep and cattle, gave a home-feel- 
 ing to the scene. The observer doubted not of 
 a welcome, till a near approach showed the slo-
 
 32 THE SQUIRE. 
 
 venly style in which all was allowed to remain ; 
 — no, not all, — the stable and the dog-kennel 
 were as they should be. 
 
 " I am glad you like it, Mabel. I began to 
 doubt if you could like anything," said her 
 father, pleased with her admiration. '* And, 
 see ! there is old Sarah Williams, dropping 
 courtesy after courtesy ; and that mischievous 
 young dog. Jack Philips, mocking her. They 
 are all coming out to have a stare at you, men 
 and women, dogs, cats, and children. They 
 could not be more curious if they thought to 
 see a dancing-bear. / am quite overlooked." 
 
 Mr. Conyers was right ; every cottage in the 
 village disgorged its living contents to see the 
 chaise and the young miss, the former ranking 
 little behind the latter as a wonder, no carriage 
 having been seen at Ranford since Miss Con- 
 yers's last visit to the Grange. To see the 
 travelling-chaise in full career was therefore " a 
 marvel and a show" to the simple villagers, — to 
 see the squire in it, who was no patroniser of 
 wheel-carriages, deeming them too luxurious 
 for his sex, enhanced the value of the sight.
 
 THE SQUIRE. 33 
 
 The young mother hurried out with one child 
 in her arms and two or three clinging to her 
 apron ; the old granny hobbled to the door with 
 her crutch ; the sturdy urchins, male and fe- 
 male, rushed before her, bearing kittens, pup- 
 pies, ragged dolls, or pop-guns, in their arms ; 
 the dogs yelped and barked ; and the noise and 
 confusion were amazing. The squire was de- 
 lighted, nodding to one, laughing at another, 
 shouting an inquiry after a third, taking note 
 of the notice of all, as the chaise proceeded at a 
 foot's pace through the village. Greater speed 
 would have been dangerous, so rough was the 
 road. 
 
 " It will be better in summer : the springs 
 rise in it at this season of the year," remarked 
 Mr. Conyers, appearing to think, for the first 
 time in his life, some apology necessary for its 
 wretched state. 
 
 Mabel, too, in the novelty of the scene, for- 
 got her grief for a season, and returned the 
 courtesies and the greetings of the villagers 
 with a sincerity, if not a noise, equal to their 
 own. She had not expected this cordial greet- 
 
 c 5
 
 34 THE SQUIRE. 
 
 ing : she did not consider that curiosity might 
 have increased the crowd of welcomers; enough 
 that she was welcomed ; whilst the regard evi- 
 denced towards her father, with his ready 
 answers and kindly smile, something lessened 
 her feeling of awe, and drew her closer to him.
 
 THE SQUIRE. 35 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 " There is the church," remarked Mr. Con- 
 yers, in his character of cicerone, as they drove 
 through the village. " Your poor mother rests 
 there. That was a sad loss to me ; though I 
 sometimes doubt if she was happy, her smile 
 was so sad, and she drooped from the day I 
 brought her home. Yet she had all she wished 
 for. You are like her, Mabel, — very like her," 
 laying his hand on her shoulder, and looking 
 fondly into the fair face turned towards him 
 with anxious interest. '' It was a sad loss ! — 
 and poor Elizabeth gone too ! But cheer up, 
 Mabel, — you have a kind father left. Don't sob 
 so, poor child !" he continued, striving to check 
 the emotion of his daughter, who, encouraged 
 by his faltering tones as he spoke of the de- 
 parted, had ventured to throw her arms about
 
 36 THE SQUIRE. 
 
 his neck, and weep upon his bosom. This sud- 
 den burst was embarrassing to the squire, who 
 could not bear to see a woman cry; and, 
 ashamed of the moisture in his own eyes, he 
 again made awkward attempts to soothe her. 
 
 *' Cheer up, Mabel ! We must all die ; and 
 they are gone to heaven. There, — hush now ! 
 — and I will see how gay I can make the 
 Grange. There, — that is the cottage of Martha 
 Wilford, your poor brother's nurse,*" trying to 
 divert her grief by turning her attention to a 
 small cottage standing some distance up a lane, 
 and nearly hidden by trees. 
 
 The promised gaiety had been ineffectual, 
 but at this the weeper raised her head, and 
 looked in the direction pointed out. It was the 
 first time her brother had been named between 
 them ; and Martha Wilford was an object of 
 curiosity, from the terms in which she had been 
 spoken of by her aunt. Eager looks were in 
 vain ; Martha Wilford came not to her door, 
 which was closed ; and if she looked at the 
 youthful stranger, she was herself unseen. A 
 turn in the road hid the cottage from her view,
 
 THE SQUIRE. 37 
 
 and the chaise reached the entrance to the 
 Grange. Half a dozen dirty merry-looking 
 boys were disputing with the aged woman at 
 the lodge for the honour of opening the gate, 
 that, old and ricketty, was threatened with de- 
 struction by the contest. Mabel smiled at the 
 emulation and vigorous exertions of the boys in 
 scraping their feet and pulling their hair ; but 
 the smile passed away before she reached the 
 house. 
 
 Though nothing was in absolute ruin, all, 
 save the stable and kennel, was approaching to 
 decay. It might be imagined the residence of 
 a niggard or a prodigal, as the eye rested upon 
 different objects. The road was muddy and 
 uneven, the ruts (carts passed this way) unle- 
 velled, and the edges uncut ; yet there was a 
 large heap of fine gravel near, almost covered 
 with weeds, which, with a little labour, would 
 have made the road good, instead of being it- 
 self, as it now was, only another dissight. The 
 rails fencing the lawn from what was termed 
 the park, were rotten, chipped, broken down, 
 or tied together with pack-thread ; whilst a pile
 
 on THE SQUIRE. 
 
 of timber, far more in sight than a pile of tim- 
 ber should be, sufficiently abundant to fence 
 round a hundred such lawns, was decaying un- 
 employed. The handsome front was still there, 
 (stone is a sturdy bearer of neglect,) but the 
 grass grew up by the hall-steps, and uncouth 
 excrescences were tacked on to the ancient 
 structure, with an ill taste in form and arrange- 
 ment which checked admiration for the ori- 
 ginal building. If Mr. Conyers was not the 
 creator of these excrescences, he was their apo- 
 logist when any ventured to condemn them ; 
 for he could not bear that aught connected with 
 the old mansion should be subjected to blame 
 or ridicule. 
 
 " There had been large families," he said, 
 *' and the old house could not contain the 
 whole tribe of youngsters. Then the ancient 
 hall, nearly occupying the space of the ground 
 floor, might do to sit in on a summer's day, 
 but as well be in an ice-house in winter ; and 
 the door was always left open ; and the dogs 
 came in as they pleased, and carried off what 
 they pleased ; and as times changed, nurseries.
 
 THE SQUIRE. 39 
 
 and china closets, and dressing-rooms, were 
 wanted, and each built as he liked, instead of 
 paying a man to say you could not do this, 
 and you could not do that, and this should be 
 higher and that should be lower, puzzling the 
 country workmen, and talking of harmony and 
 nonsense. There were good cellars and kitchens, 
 and a room to receive friends in, and that was 
 enough for him and his visitors." 
 
 Accustomed to the most exquisite order and 
 neatness, these discrepancies offended the eye 
 of Mabel, who turned to the lawn, for flowers 
 were her passion. A ragged Portugal laurel, 
 a stunted laurestinus, with the remains of a 
 bordering of thrift, round weedy, shapeless 
 beds, were the best specimens that met her 
 view. To her all wore a look of desolation, 
 and she again felt with a sinking heart that she 
 was a stranger, — that this was not her home, — 
 that there was little in common between her 
 and the dwellers at her birth-place. 
 
 *' Down, Fan ! Be quiet, Neptune ! That 
 is enough. Carlo ! Be still, can't you. Dash !" 
 shouted Mr. Conyers, dealing rebuffs and ca-
 
 40 THE SQUIRE. 
 
 resses to the innumerable dogs of every breed, 
 that rushed out yelping and barking at the ap- 
 proach of the chaise, and crowded round, fawn- 
 ing and leaping on him before his foot had 
 touched the ground. 
 
 " Come, get out, child ! Never mind the 
 dogs; they won't hurt. You can"'t be my 
 daughter if you could feel afraid of all the 
 curs in the land ; — you must have been changed 
 at nurse," he continued, seeing that Mabel shrank 
 from the riotous crew, and drew back into the 
 carriage as a large Newfoundland puppy made 
 a wild spring towards her, never doubting that 
 his caresses would be most thankfully received. 
 Still Mabel hesitated, though unwilling to dis- 
 please her father by delay. 
 
 " Halloo ! halloo !" shouted the squire, 
 flinging a stick to some distance. Away rushed 
 the dogs as their master intended, save a sly- 
 looking terrier, and a steady old Newfound- 
 lander. 
 
 " Now, be quick, child, before the fearful 
 creatures come back. But you must get over 
 this : I hate a woman to be afraid of anything,
 
 THE SQUIRE. 41 
 
 and you will soon be used to them. See, old 
 Pompey wants to make friends with you at 
 once, in a quiet, gentlemanly way. He is old 
 now, poor fellow ! but he was a famous re- 
 triever once, and his mother was a great favou- 
 rite with Elizabeth. Pat him, Mabel : he 
 could not bite now if he would.'' 
 
 Mabel did pat the old dog, that looked up 
 in her face with gratitude. Her father, pleased 
 with her compliance, would have won the like 
 favour for his other noisy retainers ; but, draw- 
 ing her cloak closely round her, as though she 
 found it cold, she passed into the hall with a 
 hasty step before the would-be familiar New- 
 foundland puppy and his associates had re- 
 turned ; and the squire with a good-natured 
 smile, mingled with something like contempt at 
 her timidity, followed her example. 
 
 " You will have a young mistress instead of 
 an old master for the future, Sarah. Mabel is 
 a capital housewife, I hear.'' 
 
 The person addressed (a fine-looking woman 
 of forty, in gayer apparel than was usual with 
 housekeepers of those olden times,) looked by
 
 42 THE SQUIRE. 
 
 no means pleased at the assertion ; and though 
 she tried to mould looks and words into a pro- 
 per welcome of her young mistress, neither she 
 nor the old master failed to perceive that the 
 exchange was disagreeable. 
 
 " I dare say Mabel will be no severe mis- 
 tress, and you must assist her inexperience," 
 remarked the squire kindly, to allay her dis- 
 composure. " I hope you have a good dinner 
 for us, and ready too, for I am half famished, 
 and I know that your dinners are worth eating." 
 
 " Dinner is only waiting for you, sir," re- 
 plied Sarah a little less sullenly. 
 
 " That is right : order it up directly ; no 
 time for dress to-day/' 
 
 It was strange to the squire, who for so 
 many years had seen no female gracing his 
 table with her presence, to look at the fair 
 young girl before him, and trace in her an al- 
 most twin-like resemblance to her mother, as 
 he had first known her, and who had sat in 
 that very chair, with something of the same 
 sad and timid air so many years before. He
 
 THE SQUIRE. 43 
 
 Started as he first looked up and saw her before 
 hira. For a moment he forgot the past, think- 
 ing he looked on his young bride ; then that 
 past returned to his mind : he thought of that 
 young wife on her death-bed — of the boy whom 
 she had bade him guard — of her earnest look 
 and her sad tones — of some wrong hinted at and 
 forgiven : — he thought of these things, and his 
 eyes were dimmed ; but no sooner was he aware 
 of the weakness than he strove to shake it off, 
 assuming unwonted hilarity. 
 
 It was newer and sadder still to Mabel to sit 
 in that strange dark room, with the portraits 
 of her ancestors looking down upon her, as she 
 thought, with cold, unfriendly eyes, the one loved 
 face which she had seen for years no longer be- 
 fore her, and its place supplied by that of an 
 almost stranger. She, too, was indulging in 
 melancholy reflections, the silent tears faUing 
 unchidden in her lap, when the scratching of 
 an impatient setter on her arm, who had taken 
 a particular fancy to a bone on her plate, 
 roused her from her reverie in no pleasant
 
 44 THE SQUIRE. 
 
 manner. She started from her seat with a faint 
 scream, while the ready dog helped himself to 
 the desired morsel. 
 
 " A clever fellow," remarked Mr. Conyers. 
 " Take your seat again, Mabel, and do try to 
 conquer these silly fears. I make excuses now, 
 as you have not been accustomed to dogs ; but 
 I cannot have such nonsense long. You shall 
 have a whip, if you cannot keep them in order 
 otherwise ; but never fear a dog, and he will 
 never hurt you. They are sagacious creatures, 
 dogs ;" and Mr. Conyers (mounted on one of 
 his hobbies) lectured long on the qualities and 
 exploits of his four-footed favourites to the 
 silent Mabel, who retook her seat in fear and 
 trembling, gladly availing herself of the advice 
 of her father to retire early, who, on his part, 
 felt depressed at her sadness. 
 
 Mabel wept herself to sleep, and slept till, 
 starting up, awakened by the confused noise of 
 the trampling of horses and the barking of 
 many dogs, she gazed round in wonder on the 
 oak wainscoted room, with its old grim por- 
 traits, and the darkly-curtained bed, all dimly
 
 THE SQUIRE. 45 
 
 seen by the misty morning light. Was she 
 dreaming still? She sprang to the window. 
 Below was her father in his hunting dress as- 
 sisting the groom in driving back the dogs, 
 that desired to be his escort. The task was 
 accomplished, and, putting spurs to his hack, 
 for he was late, he galloped from her sight, 
 without one look, one thought, as it seemed, on 
 the lonely girl who was gazing so sadly upon 
 him. It was still early, and Mabel wept her- 
 self to sleep again. The feeling of desolation 
 grew the stronger ; she felt that man's love 
 was not as woman's, — that her father's grief 
 was not as hers. She cherished the memory of 
 the departed — he strove to forget it. 
 
 The day was twin to the preceding, — no sun- 
 shine to gladden, no break in the clouds to give 
 hope. She went over the house and the near 
 grounds with the housekeeper and gardener, 
 and the hasty impression of the day before was 
 confirmed. Though young and inexperienced, 
 she could not fail to perceive that her fa- 
 ther's affairs in every department were ill ma- 
 naged, his good nature inducing him to grant
 
 46 THE SQUIRE. 
 
 every request that did not very materially in- 
 terfere with his personal comfort. Every fa- 
 mily in the village had a member quartered on 
 him in doors or out ; and the number of loi- 
 terers in the kitchen and the stables, helping 
 each other to do nothing, save devour the 
 squire's substance, would have been absolutely 
 horrifying to any zealous economist. 
 
 '* One mouth cannot make much difference," 
 had been repeated and acted on till a skeleton 
 regiment might have been embodied from the 
 hangers-on at the Grange. Much was actually 
 consumed, to the moral advantage of none, — for 
 idleness teaches no good ; and, unhappily, still 
 more was lost and wasted. There was every- 
 where, and in everything, the same contrast of 
 want and abundance, spoiling, or ill applied, 
 which Mabel had remarked the day before. 
 Waste^ extravagance, and indolence reigned in 
 every department, and the Grange was as 
 though under the absolute rule of the fairy 
 Disorder. 
 
 There was little outward pomp or show ; to
 
 THE SQUIRE. 47 
 
 one used to neatness, little comfort. But a 
 princely fortune could not long have stood the 
 under-current of waste, and it was reported 
 that the squire's lands were not lightly mort- 
 gaged ; but this was the only point on which he 
 was not perfectly frank and open. The domain 
 once belonging to the Conyers had been sadly 
 curtailed in its descent, whenever the expira- 
 tion or cutting off of an entail allowed a sale. 
 It was believed that the estate had not come 
 unincumbered to the present possessor; but, 
 as the last in tail, it rested with him to clear 
 by a farther sale any difficulties caused by him- 
 self or others, as also to devise the property 
 as he should choose. A hint on the subject 
 ever put him in a passion ; and he would not 
 see that his kindness, which descended into 
 weakness, and his disinclination to look into 
 his own affairs must sooner or later cause the 
 catastrophe he dreaded. With Burleigh he 
 thought, '' He who sells an acre of land loses 
 an ounce of credit ;'' and sell land he would 
 not : — neither would he curtail his expenses.
 
 48 THE SQUIRE. 
 
 " He hated niggards ; his family had always 
 been hospitable, and he would not be the first 
 miser of the name." 
 
 Distressed at the strong evidence of waste, 
 Mabel spoke gently on the subject, her fa- 
 ther having desired her to take the control of 
 the household ; but the task of making that 
 household clean, thrifty, and orderly would 
 have exceeded the powers of Hercules. He 
 might cleanse the Augean stable : he would not 
 have reformed and purified the household at the 
 Grange. Every hint even at a better arrange- 
 ment was met by the reply, that '' it was ac- 
 cording to master's will or wishes, — it had been 
 so for years ; they had been too long accus- 
 tomed to old ways to learn new fashions."" 
 Poor Mabel was indeed alone. 
 
 Her father was displeased with her tears and 
 timidity, and the servants showed their vexation 
 at the presence of a mistress, and worse, a 
 reforming mistress, — one who loved neatness 
 and frugality. The very dogs, taking her fear 
 for ill will, showed their teeth at her approach, 
 save old Pompey and the young Newfoundland,
 
 THE SQUIRE. 49 
 
 who, much to her annoyance, continued his im- 
 pertinent advances ; and even the old black cat 
 swore at her for finding fault with her helping 
 herself to some cold beef, without waiting for 
 the ceremony of permission, or the etiquette of 
 a knife and fork. 
 
 We are creatures of habit : and it is very 
 disagreeable to be forced to be cleanly, when 
 one has learnt to find pleasure in being dirty, — 
 to be compelled to be in order, when one has 
 acquired a taste for disorder. Besides, once 
 begin reform, there is no knowing where it 
 may end. 
 
 The idle hangers-on trembled for their idle- 
 ness ; the engaged domestics for their perqui- 
 sites, allowed or disallowed ; some feared that 
 they should be obliged to work, others to remain 
 sober. Their master could not with much show 
 of justice reprove them on the latter point, — 
 their young lady might. Minor differences 
 were forgotten, and all united in a resolution 
 to resist the new ruler in the home department, 
 to preserve their rights untouched, — for as 
 rights they considered them from habit, — and 
 
 VOL. I. D
 
 50 THE SQUIRE. 
 
 their abuses unreformed. A determined but 
 civil opposition to her wishes was unanimously 
 resolved on. One rebel might have been dis- 
 missed; but their kind-hearted master would 
 never part with all his old servants. 
 
 They were wise, as far as the wisdom of this 
 world goes ; and Mabel's sense of isolation in- 
 creased as every moment waned. She longed 
 for her loved cottage, with its happy look of 
 home, and her own cheerful little apartment ; 
 she trod the dark passages, leading to chambers 
 nearly as dark and narrow, with a sad and 
 timid step ; and as she sat in the large gloomy 
 drawing-room, with its dark panels and its 
 antique furniture, and heard the noise made by 
 her heavy chair on the slippery oaken floor as 
 she drew nearer to the wide chimney, — for, ac- 
 cording to the country fashion of those times, 
 there was only a small piece of carpet in the 
 centre of the room, — she started as if she had 
 committed a crime, and glanced with a fright- 
 ened look at the grim starch portraits round, 
 fancying, for the hundredth time, that they 
 eyed her with no friendly mien. She tried to
 
 THE SQUURE. 51 
 
 brighten the fire on the wide open hearth ; but 
 the irons were heavy for her small hands, and 
 the huge green logs only smoked, or hissed 
 across the dogs, whilst the room looked the 
 home of discomfort. The heavy mahogany 
 chairs, with their black seats and upright backs, 
 stood close up against the wainscot in regular 
 array, as if determined to be formal ; the walls 
 felt damp, as well they might, the room being 
 rarely used ; whilst the increasing mist added 
 to the gloom. 
 
 To have ordered drier fuel would have en- 
 sured (as she knew from experience) an irrup- 
 tion of all the dogs, with such noisy, and 
 perhaps purposely, ineffectual endeavours to 
 eject them, should she make the request, 
 as was a greater evil than a hissing sulky fire. 
 She was a stranger in her father's halls ! — the 
 work lay untouched on her lap ; and tears 
 flowed unheeded. 
 
 "How are you, Mabel? — quite recovered 
 the journey ?" asked her father kindly, enter- 
 ing tlie room with the whole tribe of dreaded 
 dogs at his heels. 
 
 d2
 
 52 THE SQUIRE. 
 
 Hastily wiping her eyes, Mabel advanced 
 to take her father's proffered hand, looking 
 fearfully at the dogs as she did so. 
 
 '' Back !" cried her father, smiling at her 
 alarm ; dispersing his train with a brisk cir- 
 cling of his whip, and a crack that startled 
 his daughter more than his dogs. 
 
 The squire could not forbear a laugh at 
 her jump; though, kissing her affectionately, 
 he again asked kindly how she had rested. 
 
 "■ You are moped, poor child,*' seeing her 
 tears ; " no wonder, all day alone. You shall 
 ride with us to-morrow, and I will see what 
 I can do to make you gay ; but you must get 
 over your fear of dogs. What a fire you 
 keep ! it would not singe Rover''s tail. How 
 is this?" 
 
 " The servant says the wood is wet.*" 
 
 " He says the wood is wet, does he ? Then 
 why does not he bring some that is dry ? he 
 knows this is not proper for the drawing- 
 room. My eye off for a moment, and the 
 rascals do nothing right. Hollo there, John ! 
 what do you mean by bringing such wood
 
 THE SQUIRE. 5S 
 
 as this into the drawing-room, and only Miss 
 Conyers at home to manage it ?" 
 
 " Please, sir, Miss " 
 
 "Change it directly. I want no words; and 
 mind it does not happen again. You must 
 speak sharp to the rogues, Mabel, and give 
 them a hollo now and then, or they will never 
 mind you, instead of jumping as though you 
 had heard a lion roar."" 
 
 " Then I fear I have but little chance of 
 being attended to,^ replied Mabel with a faint 
 smile at his advice. " I did but hint a wish 
 that the kitchen and the dairy should be kept 
 a little more in order — the pans and dishes 
 better washed ; and I was met with assertions 
 from all sides, that you preferred pans and 
 dishes unwashed, and anywhere but in their 
 places." 
 
 The squire's hearty laugh rang through the 
 room. 
 
 " That' is just like them I and accounts for 
 the whole kitchen department being in re- 
 bellion. The cook and all her scullions (on 
 my word, I think she has more than she needs)
 
 '^4 THE SQUIRE. 
 
 began talking together as I passed through, 
 telling me some rigmarole of your starving 
 the dogs, not letting them lick, the dishes ; 
 but I would not hear the nonsense. You 
 must not hint and whisper, you must rate 
 them soundly, or they will never attend. I 
 am obliged to give them a blow-up myself 
 sometimes, for they are idle rogues." 
 
 " If they require that, sir, I shall never 
 be heeded." 
 
 " I don't think you will,'* replied the squire, 
 looking at the gentle being before him, his 
 features lighting up with a father's pride at 
 her loveliness. " I doubt the wisest plan will 
 be to let them go on in their own way for the 
 present ; they have had it so long, no wonder 
 they don't like to lose it. I believe them to 
 be honest rogues after all, and attached to 
 the family. Sarah keeps them in tolerable 
 order, and I should not like to appear near, 
 so let them go on as usual; and only speak 
 sharp on great occasions, — that is, if you can 
 speak sharp. If they bring you wet wood 
 again, or neglect any thing for your com-
 
 THE SQUIRE. 55 
 
 fort, I will turn them off directly," he add- 
 ed in a loud voice, as the servant entered 
 with dry logs. ** And now I must get ready 
 for dinner. — By the bye, I have brought you 
 home a visitor, Mabel, to spend some days: 
 you will be sure to like him — every one likes 
 Durnsford." 
 
 And Mabel did like Durnsford, and applied 
 to him by word or look in all her troubles, 
 and smiled her brightest smile when he de- 
 clared that he should demand her of her father. 
 
 And who was Richard Durnsford ? and 
 what was he like ? Was he young, or old ? 
 tall, or short ? rich, or poor ? plain, or hand- 
 some ? In good truth, there are some of these 
 questions his friends could not, and some he 
 would not answer. His friends said he was 
 neither tall, nor short — neither positively hand- 
 some, nor absolutely plain, but with the most 
 prepossessing and best wearing of counte- 
 nances ; but whether he was rich, or poor — 
 young, or old, those friends would not take 
 upon themselves to say ; neither would he, 
 when questioned on the subject. His answers
 
 56 THE SQUIRE. 
 
 on both points were lively jests, or brilliant 
 repartees. Mr. Conyers, and others of his 
 standing, declared him to be little younger than 
 themselves; but his looks belied the declara- 
 tion, and he avowed his determination of be- 
 ing always young, of never becoming old, 
 with such a fascinating smile at the folly of 
 the assertion, as rendered it difficult to deny 
 its truth, or its wisdom. Then riches, he de- 
 clared, depended entirely on the mind ; he 
 was rich, and he only, who considered him- 
 self so : for his part, he was resolved to believe 
 himself the greatest capitalist in England. 
 
 Relations he had few — at least, in those 
 parts, or of whom he talked ; but his friends 
 were countless — nearly, if not quite, of equal 
 number with his acquaintance. He had the pe- 
 netration to discover the way all wished to 
 walk, and the tact and good-nature never 
 to seem to stand before them in that way. 
 He could do all things for everybody ; — pre- 
 scribe for dame or dog; talk sense and po- 
 liteness to the mother ; sing and dance with 
 the daughter ; drink and discuss agriculture
 
 THE SQUIRE. 57 
 
 with the father ; hunt and shoot with the son. 
 He was the friend of the family in families 
 innumerable. But the most remarkable things 
 about him were, that though all came to him 
 for consolation and advice, none were jealous 
 of his influence ; and though willing to oblige 
 all, no one despised him — no one spoke of him 
 with contempt. His was genius — the highest 
 genius for society. 
 
 He had no fixed home. How could he have, 
 without unkindness to his numerous friends in 
 every part of England ? His home was every- 
 where, with all his friends ; and never was he 
 known to weary any with his presence, ever de- 
 parting before the heart acknowledged, and 
 long ere the lip said that his visit had been long. 
 He was always pressed with sincerity to re- 
 main, — ever welcomed with pleasure, and ever 
 parted from with regret ; whilst his steady 
 and taciturn groom, with his three fine horses, 
 were quartered in some neighbouring village, 
 if their master entertained the shadow of a 
 doubt as to his host's hospitality. 
 
 He hated a frown, he said, as he hated a 
 
 D 5
 
 58 THE SQUIRE* 
 
 bog : he could not endure a check in his career, 
 and hitherto he had had the wisdom to avoid it. 
 From Mr. Conyers he was certain of the warm- 
 est welcome; he knew this, and much of his 
 time had been spent at the Grange. The 
 bachelor life of the owner suited him— it was 
 liberty-hall ; but now it had a young mistress, 
 he might find it different. He found no differ- 
 ence : within a few days, he was as great a 
 favourite with the daughter as with the father, 
 and she felt less restraint towards him than 
 towards her parent. He was ever prompt to 
 guess her wishes — more prompt to fulfil them. 
 When her father proposed her riding, the se- 
 cond day after her arrival, and would have . 
 mounted her on a skittish horse, without any 
 heed to her terror, or her assertion of never 
 having mounted anything more spirited than 
 an old stupid Shetland pony, — declaring that 
 a daughter of his must know how to ride, and 
 could have no fear, — ^he took her part so kindly, 
 yet so judiciously, that the plan was laid aside 
 till he had procured her a more fitting steed. 
 In all her troubles, he was the same kind 
 friend.
 
 THE SQUIRE. 59 
 
 Before he took his final departure (at the 
 end of three months), the greater part of which 
 he had spent at the Grange, Mabel better un- 
 derstood her father'*s character, and no longer 
 felt so timid and so desolate. She had just 
 laid aside her mourning, in compliance with 
 Mr. Conyers's wishes ; and he had yielded to 
 hers, that she should not be compelled into 
 society till the county races, when he insisted 
 that she should be introduced, young as she was 
 — nojt eighteen. Till then, she would be little 
 troubled with visitors ; so bad were the roads, 
 so thinly inhabited the country round. She 
 had so far conquered her fear of the dogs, that 
 she warmed herself at the fire, though to do 
 so she was compelled to displace one or more 
 of the sleeping animals : she no longer ob- 
 jected to some of the tribe forming her escort 
 when she walked ; nay, she permitted the at- 
 tentions of the riotous Newfoundland, and 
 coaxed old Pompey to be her constant com- 
 panion. 
 
 The rebellion to her rule in kitchen and 
 dairy was subdued, or, more correctly speak-
 
 60 THE SQUIRE. 
 
 ing, had subsided into an armed neutrality, on 
 the part of the domestics and their satellites. 
 Too gentle and timid to wish to interfere after 
 once stating what she had seen to her father, 
 she acted on his desire to leave all as it had 
 been before ; so that her power was no further 
 exerted than in approving of the dinner proposed 
 by Sarah, and in occasionally sending broth 
 and delicacies to the sick poor. Her orders 
 were always attended to, her wishes generally 
 respected, and her sweet temper would Jiave 
 won love, had not the former rebels feared, 
 from her occasional advice to the villagers, that 
 her desire for reform was not extinct ; only 
 slumbering for a time, ready to break forth 
 again should they relax their vigilance. 
 
 They little guessed how Mabel shrank from 
 reproving, only doing so as matter of duty. 
 That she disapproved of much she saw, was 
 certain ; and that much which she did not see 
 was still more reprehensible, was as certain : 
 but, too timid for contention, she never re^ 
 buked but when the comfort of her father or of 
 some invalid required it. Thoughtless, inju-
 
 THE SQUIRE. 61 
 
 dicious kindness, and indolent extravagance, 
 had long ruled in the house and village ; and 
 the attendant evils were too great to admit of 
 cure by a gentle hand. Though the servants 
 were all respectful, knowing their misdeeds, 
 they looked on her with dread ; and she felt, 
 save in the instance of the old gardener, and 
 Ned the groom, who had been there in her 
 mother's time, that she was served from interest, 
 not affection. This was not seen by her father, 
 and she did not mention it. 
 
 The neglected garden and shrubbery began 
 to look a little less neglected under her care 
 and the gardener's labour, though the season 
 was against her wishes, and the old man 
 sometimes obstinate. Her father had promised 
 her flowers in the spring, and had absolutely 
 insisted on his orders to repair the fence 
 being obeyed ; so that the Grange did look 
 more like a comfortable home than it had done 
 for years. 
 
 Hard drinking (one of the vices of the times, 
 now happily amended, we will hope from higher 
 motives than mere fashion,) did sometimes force
 
 62 THE SQUIRE. 
 
 on Mabel's knowledge what greatly shocked 
 her ; but she had no wish to see her father's 
 errors : — to turn him from them was not in her 
 power. To her, in essentials, he was ever kind : 
 she might have dressed in cloth of gold, had 
 she so wished, and could have proved that it was 
 no French fashion. She now rarely wept ; and 
 though her laugh was seldom heard, and her 
 step had scarcely the buoyancy of youth, yet 
 she glided about with such a gentle grace — her 
 smile was so softly bright — there was such a 
 calm and dove-like beauty in her eyes, with 
 such a touch of feeling in all she did or said — 
 and she was withal so lovely, that the squire 
 looked upon her with a father's pride, and be- 
 gan to love her with a father's love, though his 
 mode of showing this was not always that which 
 Mabel would have preferred. We have said 
 that he had affection, but none of its poetry : — 
 Mabel, perhaps, had too much for her own 
 happiness. 
 
 " Good bye, Miss Conyers ; recollect you 
 have promised to hold me in remembrance," 
 said Mr. Durnsford, raising to his lips the
 
 THE SQUIRE. 63 
 
 hand she had frankly given, — a rarer courtesy 
 then than in these degenerate days. 
 
 " Pooh ! man : one would think you were 
 her lover, with that formal gallantry ; — I 
 should not frown though you touched her lips : 
 you are old enough to be her father," said the 
 blunt squire. 
 
 " No such thing r replied his guest, still 
 retaining, with a gentle and respectful violence, 
 the hand that sought to be withdrawn, and 
 taking no notice of the hint evidently unpleas- 
 ing to Mabel ; " no such thing, Philip ConyersI 
 I am not old enough to be her father : — I am 
 a young man now, and mean to be a young 
 man all my life. Father, indeed ! — why I 
 have taken a romantic cottage at Newton 
 Marsh, and mean to claim Miss Conyers for 
 my bride before the end of the year !" 
 
 '' Is that true, Mabel ?'' asked her father, 
 highly diverted at the idea, and the avowed 
 youth of his old friend. 
 
 " I am afraid I am too old for him, since he 
 is so very young," replied Mabel with a quiet 
 archness rare in her.
 
 64 THE SQUIRE. 
 
 " Not a whit too old,'' rejoined Mr. Durns- 
 ford. '* I want age and gravity to balance my 
 youth and giddiness: — so you will be mine, 
 lovely Mabel !" 
 
 " I think not : Mabel Conyers will be Ma- 
 bel Conyers some time longer," she replied 
 with a blush, — withdrawing her hand, and 
 placing it within her father's arm ; though why 
 she did so, or why she spoke more gravely than 
 before, she would have found some difficulty in 
 explaining. 
 
 " Hear ! hear ! hear !"" shouted her father. 
 " We shall have a new tragedy, — ' Richard, or 
 the Rejected Lover!' " 
 
 " With an afterpiece, — ' The Rejected Lover 
 the Accepted Husband !' " replied his guest, 
 joining in the laugh. 
 
 " There is no hope for you, Durnsford ; — 
 Mabel Conyers will not have you." 
 
 " Mabel Conyers will have me." 
 
 «' When ?" 
 
 " When I ask her." 
 
 " Ay, that she will, I doubt not ; and you 
 shall have my consent when you have won hers."
 
 THE SQUIRE. 65 
 
 " ShaU I ? Remember this !" 
 
 " I will." 
 
 " Farewell, lovely Mabel ! — you will be my 
 bride in time." 
 
 " Make haste ; — time waits for none," re- 
 marked the squire. 
 
 " I shall make no unnecessary delay ; and 
 what I say I will do, shall be done. Health to 
 my future bride and father, till we meet again !" 
 
 " Good fortune to my future son !"
 
 66 THE SQUIRE. 
 
 CHAPTER IIL 
 
 " Halloo ! halloo ! — there, Rover ! — after 
 him, my man !'* shouted Edward Elton to a 
 grave old dog beside him, pointing to a rabbit 
 running across the lawn. 
 
 • Old Rover raised his head, pricked his ears, 
 looked at the flying rabbit, then up in his young 
 master's face, and finally settled his head com- 
 fortably again between his paws. Not so 
 young Rover: the unhappy kitten he had 
 been baying at for the last ten minutes was 
 relieved from his attentions, and away dashed 
 the overgrown puppy across two nicely-raked 
 flower-beds, and through the shrubs, after the 
 terrified rabbit ; and away after him rushed the 
 young man, who had been standing for some 
 time idly gazing on the setting sun. Much 
 scrambling and shouting followed, and then the
 
 THE SQUIRE. 67 
 
 dog and his young master re-appeared, the 
 latter out of breath, with glowing cheeks and 
 disordered hair. 
 
 " You lazy old hound !" exclaimed the young 
 man to the ancient setter : " will you let your 
 master's pinks be eaten up, and not stir a 
 foot, — you who have eaten from his hands so 
 long? You are getting indolent and selfish. 
 Is that the consequence of age ?'"* 
 
 " Probably : age brings wisdom. Why toil 
 for what is not worth the winning ? To whom 
 is gratitude due in this world ? I have fed old 
 Rover for my pleasure — not for his." 
 
 Edward started at the voice : he had not 
 expected an answer. 
 
 " I did not see you, sir," he said, respect- 
 fully, and in some slight confusion. 
 
 " Then you expected old Rover to defend 
 himself.'' Truly, youth is wise !" 
 
 " It is at least active ; — and the lazy old 
 hound deserved reproof for not defending your 
 property." 
 
 " Despite the danger of incurring your con- 
 tempt, I prefer the quietude of the old, to the
 
 68 THE SQUIRE. 
 
 over-activity of the young. The rabbit might 
 have eaten my pinks ; — the puppy has trodden 
 down my snowdrops and anemones. I could 
 have borne the open enmity of foes ; but the 
 falseness of friends ! — it was that which crushed 
 TOy heart — which made me loathe my kind !'' 
 
 The bitterness of the speaker's tone riveted 
 the attention of the young man. Though ac- 
 customed to such occasional^ bursts, they were 
 so clearly the irresistible outpouring of a tor- 
 tured spirit, that they could never be heard 
 unmoved. 
 
 " Look there !" resumed the elder Elton, 
 after a pause, with his usual measured tone. 
 
 Edward did look, and saw the puppy, whose 
 activity he had been lauding, coursing round 
 and over the beds, puppy-like, with a flaunting 
 piece of rag in his mouth, stolen from the cook, 
 who stood at the other side of the lawn scold- 
 ing and calling. Young Rover stopped to give 
 the rag a shake and a tear ; then, perceiving that 
 he was observed, sprang into the middle of a 
 bed, and out again, scattering the mould in 
 every direction, and bounding towards liis
 
 THE SQUIRE. 69 
 
 master with such ludicrous antics, that, though 
 much provoked at the mischief done, and the 
 smile of his companion, Edward could for the 
 moment only laugh at his gambols. 
 
 " I am happy to say, sir, that your favourite 
 anemones have received but little damage," 
 observed Edward, rejoining his father after 
 having quieted the puppy, and restored the 
 flower-beds to their former order, without the 
 slightest assistance from Mr. Elton, who had 
 looked on in perfect silence and seeming un- 
 concern, not even approaching to ascertain 
 what evil had been done. 
 
 " As you are such an advocate for gratitude, 
 am I to thank chance or young Rover for the 
 very judicious manner in which he gambolled ?" 
 
 " You are severe, sir," replied the young 
 man, evidently hurt at the tone of the remark. 
 " A puppy will be a puppy ; — warm young 
 blood will sometimes race a little violently 
 through the veins : you would not have it stag- 
 nate as in that old hound ? Action ! — give me 
 action ! a stirring life ! — not an objectless ex- 
 istence, a dull monotonous being ! I was not
 
 70 THE SQUIRE. 
 
 formed to be a dial, stuck in the centre of a 
 squared garden for the sun to shine and the 
 wind to blow on. I would be ever doing." 
 
 Mr. Elton gazed keenly on the ardent youth, 
 whilst his own look was troubled, and then re- 
 sumed his usual composed and placid tone. 
 
 " There has been enough done for one day 
 to satisfy even your activity. Suppose you and 
 your spirited coadjutor re-enter the house ; my 
 flowers would repose in greater peace if they 
 knew you safely housed."" 
 
 The young man, though not without some 
 show of impatience, followed his father and 
 the old dog, who walked quietly beside his 
 elder master into the sitting-room, whilst young 
 Rover proceeded to the kitchen, doubtless to 
 apologise to the cook for running off with a 
 portion of her apron. 
 
 Mr. Elton took up a book ; his son did the 
 same, threw it down, and then watched the 
 clouds from the casement. 
 
 '' Ha ! the wind is getting up, and the clouds 
 driving furiously across the sky. We shall 
 have a wild stirring night, — a morn of life. I
 
 THE SQUIRE. 71 
 
 hate one of your dull, sombre, soulless days, 
 when you may hear your own heart beat, and 
 watch an hour for the moving of a leaf." 
 
 His father looked up at this burst with a 
 sigh, and his tone was sad. " What ! that 
 calm and lovely sunset, which I admired but so 
 lately, gone ?" 
 
 " Quite gone, sir. We shall have wild wea- 
 ther." 
 
 " And you seem to rejoice. Have you any 
 scheme in view it can advantage .^" 
 
 '* Not I, sir ; I wish I had, having no taste, 
 like old Rover, for an indolent and do-nothing 
 life. It is too cold to fish — besides that is 
 but dull work; shooting is over, and I am 
 weary of hunting out every creak and cranny 
 in the mountains, frightening the wild birds 
 and the lizards. I have counted the trees on 
 the hills, and the stones in the hollows, and 
 noted every patch of heath and furze, till I am 
 weary." 
 
 " A profitable employment !** remarked Mr. 
 Elton drily. 
 
 "As profitable as dozing away life before
 
 72 THE SQUIRE. 
 
 the fire ;" pointing to the old dog sleeping on 
 the hearth. 
 
 " Poor old Rover seems in particular ill fa- 
 vour with you to-day; yet methinks his em- 
 ployment is nearly as profitable as yours.""* 
 
 " It is not my fault, sir, that I am not more 
 profitably employed." 
 
 " What would you do ?" inquired his father 
 in a lower tone. 
 
 " What would I do V repeated the young 
 man, glowing with eagerness. " I would forth 
 into the world to run the race with my fellow 
 men, to seek their good, to win their love, to 
 satisfy the spirit that burns within me, — per- 
 haps to write my name on the roll of my coun- 
 try's glory," 
 
 " I knew it would come to this !"" murmured 
 his companion, as the young man paused for 
 breath. 
 
 For some moments he yielded to the convic- 
 tion of the certainty, then roused himself to 
 oppose it. 
 
 "You judge unwisely: there are too many 
 as it is to run the race of life ; you would be
 
 THE SQUIRE. 73 
 
 trampled on and crushed. None but giants of 
 wealth and rank succeed, whilst thousands pe- 
 rish unnoted and unknown. Glory ! the empty 
 bubble on the stream of time ! it bursts, and 
 leaves no trace. Seek the good of your fellow 
 men ! do so, and they despise you ; — do not 
 so, and they hate you. Win their love ! they 
 know not the meaning of the word ; there is 
 no such thing ; it is but a fancy of the poet's, 
 the dream of the young, the mist of the early 
 morning veiling the rugged features of reality, 
 and dispelled long ere the noon of life. Satisfy 
 the spirit that is within you ! you would but 
 cast fresh fuel on the burning pile. Boy, you 
 understand it not ! — how should you ? What 
 know you of the brooding storm of doubt, the 
 tempest of the passions, the mutiny of mind, 
 the vortex of despair ; the rebel thoughts that 
 will not calm, but rage and riot till they win 
 the mastery ; the memories that will not hush, 
 although you say, ' Be still !' but crowd upon 
 you like relentless foes, mocking and gibing 
 when you bid them go. And you think to 
 still these by fruition ! Fruition ! it may 
 
 VOL. I. E
 
 74 THE SQUIRE. 
 
 come to common minds, for they have common 
 wishes ; they may have fruition — they may not 
 even feel satiety. But there are spirits to 
 whom fruition cannot come ! You do not know 
 yourself: you pamper the spirit, and then 
 think to chain and bind it with links which will 
 not fit — with bands which will not hold. Wave 
 after wave leaps madly on, and so has done for 
 ages : — will the ocean cease to flow ? Cloud 
 after cloud sweeps wildly through the sky, and 
 so has done since time began, and yet the wind 
 is raving now. Hear me, boy ! There is a 
 spirit in you — the spirit of unrest : — check it, 
 curb it ; — give it not way one single inch ; — teach 
 it not to conquer by your yielding ; — force it to 
 be still — compel it into peace ! Once let it 
 forth, and no barrier shall control it. You 
 know not what the contest with your fellow 
 man would be : better seek friendship from the 
 serpent of the waste — better contend with the 
 ravening beasts of prey. Remain unknowing 
 and unknown — seek content — banish these idle 
 dreams."" 
 
 «« I cannot, sir, even if I would. It is not
 
 THE SQUIRE. 75 
 
 the passing fancy of a moment ; it is the sate- 
 less desire of the heart : it is eating life away — 
 will depart only with that life. This very de- 
 sire for action causes what you name ; it is 
 charactered by its own flame, my life's mono- 
 tony its fuel, and burns more fiercely every 
 day. I cannot chain, I cannot bound it ; and 
 if I say ' Depart !' it lingers still. Let me go, 
 sir." 
 
 " You will not heed the warnings of experi- 
 ence, — you mock at the advice of age. Boy, I 
 repeat, you will repent it." 
 
 " I will bear the evils I would brave. Bid 
 me forth with your blessing." 
 
 Mr. Elton shook his head in sadness as he 
 looked on the animated pleader. 
 
 " Would you leave me, Edward, lonely, de- 
 solate, again to feel the heart a waste — this 
 earth a desert .^" 
 
 " No, sir," replied the young man, springing 
 to his side ; " I would have you go forth with 
 me. 
 
 " Again encounter with my kind ? — again 
 combat with the wily, or the ravening beasts of 
 
 e2
 
 76 THE SQUIRE. 
 
 prey ? — again be torn, again glut them with 
 my misery ? Ask it not/"' 
 
 " For my sake ! Surely you j udge harshly ; 
 or if not, we shall be together — we shall com- 
 bat side by side," pleaded the eager youth. 
 
 " I tell you it cannot be. I will forth but 
 for one purpose. Go, if you will leave me : — I 
 ask you not to stay." 
 
 The animated glow passed from the young 
 man's cheek, and after a struggle his cherished 
 hopes were abandoned. His tone was as touch- 
 ing as had been his appeal. 
 
 " No, sir ; I have said I will not leave 
 you.'' 
 
 " Bless you, my boy ! And you will still 
 this spirit of unrest ? — you will be contented in 
 your peaceful home ?" 
 
 " I will try ;" but the lip quivered as it pro- 
 nounced the words. 
 
 The father pressed his hand in silence, and 
 the young man turned away. 
 
 " Read to me, Edward,"" said his father later 
 in the evening. 
 
 His son rose with an assumed alacrity at va-
 
 THE SQUIRE. 77 
 
 riance with his late melancholy listlessness, and 
 without a question took the first book which 
 came to hand. It was the Iliad — the very last 
 work to bring rest to his spirit of unrest — to 
 reconcile him to the monotony of inaction. It 
 is the very genius of action ; and the more he 
 became interested in the deeds of its heroes, the 
 more galling did he feel his own compelled 
 quietude. A burning spot came on his cheek, 
 and his voice rose or fell ; his tones were har- 
 monious or bitter, as his thoughts turned from 
 the poem to himself. His father read his 
 mind. 
 
 " We have heard enous^h of Homer for to- 
 night. Suppose you try these essays." 
 
 Edward tried them without a comment ; but 
 his reading was now as monotonous and spirit- 
 less as his fate. The author could not fix 
 his attention, and his thoughts wandered far 
 away. 
 
 " That will do," said Mr. Elton with a deep 
 sigh, and the book was laid aside. 
 
 There was a long silence : the father looked 
 on the son, but the son looked on nothing.
 
 78 THE SQUIRE. 
 
 " Edward," said Mr. Elton at length. 
 
 Edward started, and answered without look- 
 ing on the speaker. 
 
 " What would you, sir ?" 
 
 " I cannot bear to see you thus." 
 
 " Bear with me for a while, sir. I will retire 
 now, and hereafter try to be all you wish. It 
 is something to give up the desire of a life, 
 though that life has been but short." 
 
 " I do not ask 3^ou to give it up."" 
 
 Edward looked eagerly into the pale, sad 
 face of the speaker. The hair had been grey 
 from his earliest memory, the frame slightly 
 bent, the brow deeply lined, and the features 
 strongly marked, as if charactered b}^ some 
 fearful shock ; but their general expression was 
 a commanding calmness, as if the mind had 
 subdued itself. There were occasional bursts 
 of passionate bitterness, though these were rare ; 
 but such a moving expression of mingled sad- 
 ness and resolution he had never seen before. 
 
 " What mean you, my father ?" he asked, 
 taking his hand. 
 
 '' This, Edward : that you shall hear the
 
 THE SQUIRE. 1i) 
 
 story of my life — the history of my wrongs. 
 If you will then go forth-to those who made a 
 desert of my Eden, — a crater of my heart, I 
 will not stay you." 
 
 " I will go forth to avenge those wrongs." 
 
 " Peace ! be still ! Would you join with the 
 tempter? I have struggled, — I struggle yet 
 with the fiend. Vengeance is not for man ! 
 Would I could subdue hate and contempt ! but 
 they pour their burning lava on my heart, dry- 
 ing up its gentle springs. Tempt me not again ; 
 I would not doubt the Creator's justice." 
 
 The young man shrank back rebuked. 
 
 Mr. Elton leant with his head against the 
 mantelpiece for a few moments, and then re- 
 sumed — 
 
 " I have long seen that this hour must come, 
 though I have striven as the dying strive for 
 life to put it off. It has come ! — you can know 
 rest no more ! The golden age of hope is past, 
 the iron rule of experience must succeed, and 
 peace has passed for ever. That young heart 
 is boiling up with its hopes and desires : it will 
 not be still again till those hopes have been
 
 80 THE SQUIRE. 
 
 crushed, — till those desires have consumed 
 themselves. Listen to me, not with the ear only, 
 but with the heart ; let the mind, too, hear and 
 weigh, — then shall you be the arbiter of your 
 own fate. Perchance you may heed the warn- 
 ing of my tale ; or perchance it may be labour 
 thrown away, and the wounds of bygone years 
 be bared to your sight for nought. It matters 
 not : the history shall be told, — you shall learn 
 that I once felt as you now feel. Once felt, say 
 I ? Have those feelings passed away as a driven 
 cloud or a passing breath ? No, no ! though 
 in my pride I boast at times, I have subdued 
 myself. Look on the sky to-day, — it is calm 
 and cloudless, and the gentle breeze is of a 
 summer softness : to-morrow comes, — the tem- 
 pest raves, the heavy clouds are driven through 
 the air. I have seen your eye upon me, fixed 
 in wonder at my unnatural calmness, as your 
 quick spirit deemed it. It was unnatural ! 
 either a frozen seeming, whilst passion raged 
 beneath, or the fearful calm portending or 
 succeeding to the storm, — the horrid lull, the 
 chilling torpor of despair. The wildest winter
 
 THE SQUIRE. SI 
 
 follows the hottest summer. Ever distrust 
 those who show such calmness : they are not 
 what they seem, or what they should be ; they 
 are the scathed ruins of the war of passions, not 
 to be garlanded with flowery wreaths, or they 
 are cold-blooded deceivers. Trust not these, — 
 nay, trust none. Ay, boy, trust none ! — not 
 even me, your father, — your sole tie on earth, 
 — he who has nursed your childhood, and 
 would fain guide your youth, — trust him not. 
 Why should you, since he dare not trust him- 
 self?" 
 
 " Hush, sir, I entreat ! — speak not such fear- 
 ful words !" said his son soothingly, looking 
 with anxious affection into the speaker's hag- 
 gard face. " Say not so : you can never de- 
 ceive, or I would still bless you if you could. 
 Do not speak of the past, — or not now — some 
 other time. Defer it till a calmer moment."" 
 
 " Calmer moment ! There can be no calm 
 in connexion with the past, — no peace till me- 
 mory shall fail. What is the present of this 
 world .'* — what can the future be while the past 
 is an eternal Etna, pouring out burning tor- 
 
 E 5
 
 S2 THE SQUIRE. 
 
 rents? And you would forth to win such a 
 past ! Look you to it, boy ! When the pre- 
 sent tempts to sin, think there must be a past, 
 — an ever-living, an undying past, weaving in 
 its colours with the present and the future. 
 Think of me, — think if the past, when no crime 
 wrought its darkness, could thus bow down, 
 thus ever wring by its bare memory, — think 
 what a past would be the work of your own 
 guilt, not woven by the guilt of others ! Defer 
 the tale ! — defer nothing — not the gathering 
 of a flower, the uprooting of a weed. The one 
 will fade ere you inhale its odours ; the other, 
 gain a giant strength, and germinate, and 
 bring forth thousand-fold. Now, — now must 
 the tale be told ! I could not check the torrent 
 even if I would. Remove one barrier of the 
 mind, and who shall stay the cataract ? The 
 hopes and the fears, the deeds and the suffer- 
 ings of bygone years, rush on my mind with a 
 whelming force, and the words must forth, or 
 the heart would burst. Now, heed me, boy." 
 
 His son could do no other. The rushing 
 force of his story must have compelled the at--
 
 THE SQUIRE. 83 
 
 tention of the coldest and the dullest, — must 
 have moved the most insensible. The eye could 
 not withdraw its gaze, the ear could not cease 
 to hear, — the listener almost feared to breathe, 
 lest he should lose a word.
 
 84 THE SQUIRE. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 " You see me now bent and worn ; th^ 
 bright curls silvered ; the smooth brow deeply 
 lined ; the flashing eye grown dim ; the smiling 
 lip compressed, lest moans should force their 
 way. Think you I was always thus ? It 
 was the working of one day — the stamping of 
 one shock ! Think of me once as you are 
 now ; — with the glossy curls, and the smiling 
 lip, and the gleaming eye, and the bounding 
 step; the heart that dreamt no guile — the 
 spirit buoyant with its bright hopes, basking 
 in a present to which futurity seemed dull. 
 Such was I in youth ! rich, joyous, courted, — 
 loved, I deemed in my simplicity, by all. What 
 am I now ? — a wreck I a desolate ruin ! None 
 turn to me in friendly guise, none flatter, and 
 none love. As I was, so are you in heart,
 
 THE SQUIRE. 85 
 
 though not in circumstance. As I am, so 
 may you be. Who made me what I am ? — 
 men ! with whom you would hold communion 
 — to whom you would forth with confidence 
 and love ; — woman ! in whom you would trust 
 — in whose flatteries you would sun yourself. 
 Shelter the serpent in your bosom ! cradle 
 the tiger in your arms ! — do this, but trust not 
 man or woman. 
 
 " I stood forward in the world an object 
 of applause and regard. All would have en- 
 vied, had they not loved me ; so said a hun- 
 dred tongues, and I believed. Tliey sped the 
 shaft — I sheathed it in my heart. Thev only 
 spoke — but I gave credence to their words. I 
 had known no suffering — at least none worthy 
 of the name. The petty sorrows of my early 
 years had passed away, leaving no painful 
 memory behind : they had worn no trace on 
 the young heart ; they had come and depart- 
 ed as rain-drops flung from the eagle's wing. 
 My parents died when I was too young to 
 feel their loss. My guardians had been honest, 
 and riches, that I deemed unbounded, were
 
 86 THE SQUIRE. 
 
 at my command. The home of my fathers, 
 too, was mine — an unsullied name — spirits 
 which never drooped — and a heart that, like 
 the brilliant creepers of the Western World, 
 flung its flowery wreaths on all around its 
 path, decking the worthless and the rotten, 
 as the precious and the sound, in splendours 
 not their own. I was the favourite of fortune 
 — he on whom Nature lavished all her bounty, 
 the cynosure of every eye — the admired of all 
 admirers, the loved of each. So said the 
 crowd that pressed around me, with their 
 bright eyes and brighter smiles, their soft 
 and glowing words. So said all ; or the whis- 
 pered tone of dissent was too low to meet an 
 unheeding ear. So said all, and I believed 
 them. Why should I not ? Could eyes and 
 lips deceive.^ Was I not wise, discreet, and 
 generous, as they said ? And how could they 
 fancy to deceive the wise — mislead the dis- 
 creet — bring ruin on the generous ? Oh no ! 
 they said the truth, and I believed the flat- 
 tery of my own heart, more inebriating, it 
 may be, than the flattery of others.
 
 THE SQUIRE. 87 
 
 " If wise, discreet, and generous — above all, 
 wealthy, what wonder all should come for 
 counsel or assistance ? Since all were friends, 
 what wonder if I granted all they asked ? 
 What is wisdom, if it guide not the less wise ? 
 What is wealth, if it bring not joy to those we 
 value ? I counselled, and I gave ; and eyes 
 flashed brighter, and lips lauded louder than 
 before. If any murmured, they murmured 
 not to me, — all left me looking satisfied. How 
 could people talk of self as the universal guide 
 of man ? of woe as his universal doom ? of 
 wearing away existence ? of being alive, and 
 yet not living ? of deceiving, or being deceived ? 
 I knew no woe ! I was exempt from the uni- 
 versal doom — my life was life indeed ! I 
 lived every hour — every minute — neither de- 
 ceiving, nor deceived. Who said these things ? 
 Sour fanatics, neglected poets, disappointed 
 ambitionists, creating an atmosphere of gloom 
 and heaviness, and then complaining that all 
 was dark, and they could not see, — heavy, and 
 they could not breathe ! Grumblers at evils, 
 instead of overcoraers ; passive victims of their
 
 88 THE SQUIRE 
 
 own moody fancies — workers out of their self 
 spoken dooms. Mine v*'as the wiser and the 
 happier creed. 
 
 " I felt for all, but there was one friend 
 to whom I was more closely bound. A har- 
 mony of tastes, a communion of thought, a 
 general sympathy, seemed to link us in bonds 
 that time would only draw the closer, and 
 that no chance could burst. We were as one 
 in heart — as one in mind, though I was gay 
 and prosperous, and he was grave and poor. 
 I loved him as myself — and he deceived me ! 
 Should I not say, trust none ? 
 
 " 1 loved, and in the blindness of love 
 saw — would see, no error in the idol whom 
 I worshipped with the homage of a young 
 warm heart, pouring out on her the force and 
 beauty of a first passion. In my eyes, the 
 world held not a jewel worthy of her wearing. 
 I wooed — I won — though others sought her. I 
 listened to her whispered words — I stood beside 
 her at the altar — I plighted hand and faith — 
 I claimed her as my own. With the pride of 
 a world's conqueror, I bore her to the beautiful
 
 THE SQUIRE. 89 
 
 home of my forefathers, and that home was 
 as an Eden !" 
 
 The speaker paused, then proceeded more 
 rapidly, as if fearing to linger on his tale, 
 lest his powers should prove unequal to the 
 task. 
 
 "For a time my bliss was perfect — my bride 
 all that my doting heart had dreamed. My 
 friend approved my choice, and my wife ap- 
 proved my friend. Oh, happy man with such 
 a wife and such a friend ! And I strove to 
 heighten their regard — idiot, madman that 
 I was, who would not see what others saw ! 
 Your mother placed you in my arms— my 
 friend became your sponsor, and I was more 
 than blest ! I would have staked my life on 
 that wife's love — I would have perilled limb 
 and fortune to have served that friend. 
 
 " My wealth was not as boundless as I 
 thought. Knavish and inefficient agents — false 
 friends, who would not — or unfortunate friends, 
 who could not repay what I had lent, all 
 tended to embarrass me, and an interview 
 with a person residing in the North became
 
 90 THE SQUIRE, 
 
 an act of necessity. The fond wife wept, and 
 I kissed away her tears. I dwell not on de- 
 tails : enough, that a bank broke, one pretend- 
 ed friend for whom I had been bound be- 
 came a bankrupt, another absconded with a 
 large sum ; the interview was delayed by va- 
 rious circumstances, my absence lengthened 
 to more thsCn double its intended time, and 
 I found my affairs less promising than I could 
 have believed ; in fact, I was little better than 
 a ruined man, unless those could repay to 
 whom I had afforded such munificent aid. 
 At length I prepared for my return, but with 
 a troubled and foreboding mind, for my wife's 
 letters had been shorter and less frequent 
 than I had hoped, and in moments of de- 
 spondency I had fancied them cold and con- 
 strained. The nearer I approached the home 
 I had left so blest, the lighter became my 
 heart ; every apprehension passed away, and 
 there was no gloom to dull the anticipated 
 
 joy. 
 
 " Within a few miles of that home dwelt 
 a gentleman whom I esteemed but lightly,
 
 THE SQUIRE. 91 
 
 though the world spoke loudly in his praise. 
 I had sold him land and lent him money, for 
 my dislike was but a fancy. On him I was to 
 call by appointment. I found him courteous 
 and friendly, as I had ever found him, and 
 ready to pay some of the money due, whilst 
 he requested a few days' delay for the re- 
 mainder, if I could grant it without inconveni- 
 ence, showing cause sufficient to induce me to 
 comply with the request. He thanked me 
 warmly, urging me to stay for refreshments, 
 which I declined, giving as a reason my impa- 
 tience to return to my wife and child, more espe- 
 cially as I had heard there was an apprehension 
 of riots in the neighbourhood. He no longer 
 pressed my stay, but remarked with a smile, 
 which did not please me, though I understood 
 not why, that I need be under no alarm, as 
 my wife had a friend who would be sure to 
 provide for her safety. Impatient to reach 
 home, I pushed my horse to his utmost speed, 
 thinking a little tenderness in one of his fore 
 feet arose from stiffness and would wear off; 
 but his lameness increased, and I found he
 
 92 THE SQUIRE. 
 
 had run a nail into his foot, which I could 
 not extract. I was without attendant, such 
 being my custom. I led the poor animal, 
 though fretting at the delay, for the lonely 
 cross-road I had taken left little hope of meet- 
 ing with assistance. A boy crouching under a 
 hedge was the only human being in sight. As 
 I approached, he came forward and placed a 
 letter in my hands. 
 
 ** Rage and indignation were my feeHngs on 
 reading its contents, — not against ray wife, but 
 against the author of the slander, who bade me 
 be at such a spot in my own grounds, at such an 
 hour, when I should see the false friend whom I 
 believed was with a dying relative, meeting the 
 wife of my love in secret, by appointment. I 
 gave no credit to the tale — no, not for a moment, 
 but swore justice on the vile slanderer. A 
 paper which had fallen from within the one I 
 had read lay at my feet : I picked it up, and 
 these words were traced on the outside : ' This 
 will prove the truth of the writer's information; 
 and he who is wronged knows how to right him- 
 self.' I opened it ; and then, and not till then,
 
 THE SQUIRE. 93 
 
 were my doubts awakened. It was my wife's 
 writing: I could not be deceived in that, though 
 I tried to disbelieve the fact. I closed my eyes 
 — I would not look upon the words of shame ; 
 but the characters glared out before me ! To 
 believe was worse than madness — to disbelieve, 
 than folly. The note was directed to my 
 friend, who had taught me to believe he was 
 with the dying far away. It contained these 
 words : 
 
 " ' I will be in the arbour walk to-morrow 
 evening a little after seven. My husband will 
 not return till the following day, and your pre- 
 sence in the neighbourhood is, I still hope, un- 
 suspected. I entreat you to be cautious ; the 
 happiness of her who loves you depends on 
 your prudence.' 
 
 " There was no signature — there needed 
 none. I stared wildly round for the messen- 
 ger, but he was gone ; nothing was to be seen 
 but a horseman at full speed crossing a field in 
 the direction towards my home. He was too 
 distant for me to distinguish accurately : but 
 hate proclaimed what sight left doubtful ; that
 
 94 THE SQUIRE. 
 
 horseman was my treacherous friend, speeding 
 on, no doubt, in full security, as I had fixed 
 the following day for my return, fearing that I 
 might not arrange my business sooner, and 
 willing to give my wife a pleasurable surprise. 
 "When the first effects of. the shock had 
 passed, I hurried on towards the place of meet- 
 ing, but could not reach it till after the ap- 
 pointed time. The false wife and the false 
 friend were already there. I crept through 
 the shrubs till I was near enough to hear words 
 that fell on my heart like the searing iron on 
 the open wound. My stealthy step had not 
 disturbed them ; and there I crouched, glaring 
 on the faithless pair, drinking in with the 
 thirsting spirit of revenge each tone that proved 
 my wrongs. He was before her, looking into 
 those very eyes into which I had looked to 
 read their tale of love, holding that very hand 
 plighted to me, and me alone, in the sight of 
 Heaven, and pleading earnestly, passionately, 
 for some boon on which he declared his every 
 hope of happiness depended. The tone would 
 have told that love was his theme, had not his
 
 THE SQUIRE. 95 
 
 last words come with torturing distinctness on 
 my ear. 
 
 " ' Grant me one more interview — to-night 
 or to-morrow; I ask but one to plead my 
 cause. Will she whom I love refuse me this ? 
 Why not fly with me at once, and thus break 
 bonds hateful to both ! It must— it shall be 
 so : I swear I will not leave this country with- 
 out another meeting. No one but nurse knows 
 of my being here, and I can enter unseen, 
 knowing the house so well. You cannot, you 
 will not refuse me ?' he pleaded still more pas- 
 sionately. I listened breathlessly for the reply. 
 It came: the tone was low and tremulous ; but 
 I heard every word. ' I will not refuse you, 
 though dreading that some evil may ensue. 
 Should my husband by chance return, or should 
 others see you — ** ' Deny me not for such 
 simple doubts and fears. My future happiness 
 or misery is in your hands. Would you see me 
 die before you, or, worse, pine day by day in 
 hopeless wretchedness? You cannot be so 
 dull at an excuse if my friend should return 
 before he named : say anything — his love is too
 
 96 THE SQUIRE. 
 
 confiding to admit a doubt. I will be in your 
 dressing-room by twelve, and in the mean time 
 shall prepare all things for flight. I quit not 
 the house alone.' 'I still fear,' murmured his 
 companion ; and then she spoke so low, I could 
 only catch the unconnected words, ' Fiery 
 spirit — will not quietly submit — death may en- 
 sue.*" ' Fear nothing for me or others,' replied 
 her paramour in the eager tones of love and hope. 
 ' To-morrow we shall be beyond reach, and no 
 further secrecy will be required. How shall I 
 repay you ?"* ' Let me see you happy, and I 
 ask no more ; but be prudent, for my sake.' 
 ' I will ; and nurse can be relied on." ' Fly, 
 sir, fly ! some one comes !' exclaimed the nurse, 
 rushing from a sheltering thicket. My eye 
 was on their movements : I sprang forward to 
 slay them as they stood at the moment of their 
 guilty plotting. They fled ; but my arm ap- 
 peared endowed with more than mortal power, 
 and the avenger was behind them. Heedless 
 in my fury, my foot caught in the tangled 
 brushwood, and I fell. Before I had risen and 
 recovered sense and thought, false friend and
 
 THE SQUIRE. 97 
 
 wife were gone. I listened breathlessly : there 
 were footsteps in an adjoining path. I stag- 
 gered forward, for my foot was injured by my 
 fall, a pistol in my willing hand. 
 
 " ' Follow me ! there is yet time !' exclaimed 
 the gentleman with whom 1 had parted some 
 few hours before. 
 
 " ' Whither are they gone ?' I demanded. 
 ' I seek vengeance !' 
 
 " ' You must first seek safety,' he replied, 
 leading me deeper into the shrubbery as he 
 spoke. 
 
 " ' My wife I" I exclaimed, trying to free 
 myself from his hold. 
 
 " ' — Is hastening towards the house, followed 
 at a distance by a muffled figure, who affects 
 concealment : you must seek safety by some 
 other road,' replied my companion. ' Some 
 bond for a bankrupt has become due, and the 
 bailiffs are even now in sight. I heard of your 
 peril, and galloped on to overtake you, judging 
 from our late conversation that present payment 
 was beyond your power ; whilst all are not so 
 willing to be bound for others as yourself. 
 
 VOL. I. p
 
 98 THE SQUIRE. 
 
 Come with me; your servants do not seem 
 aware of your return, and I will show you 
 a safe asylum till you can make arrange- 
 ments.' 
 
 " ' No, no !' I shouted ; ' I will on, though 
 thousands should oppose me. They shall not 
 meet to-night ! — they shall not escape my 
 vengeance ! I will upbraid them with their 
 guilt, and destroy, or be destroyed I"* 
 
 " ' Ha ! has it already come to that ? I 
 knew not it had proceeded so far,' remarked 
 my companion. 
 
 " ' So far ! Then you suspected ?"* I ques- 
 tioned, fiercely. 
 
 " ' I have heard rumours, but refused belief, 
 knowing that you doubted neither wife nor 
 friend.' 
 
 " ' Then the whole country knows the tale : 
 yet you would stay me. Back ! and let me on !' 
 
 " I burst from his grasp ; but my will was 
 stronger than my power : — my injured foot 
 failed to support me, and I should have fallen 
 but for his arm. I had never liked the man ; 
 but in my hour of need he did me service : he
 
 THE SQUIRE. 99 
 
 guessed ray meaning from my incoherent rav- 
 ings, and calmed me for the time, leaving me 
 the hope of future vengeance. To proceed to 
 the house was to ensure my detention, (having 
 no present means to redeem the bond,) and leave 
 the guilty time and freedom ; so, yielding to his 
 arguments, I consented to accompany him, and 
 remain concealed, at least till night. With his 
 assistance I reached his horse, which was tied 
 to a tree at a little distance. Meeting the nurse 
 with my sleeping infant in her arms, I insisted 
 it should accompany me : — never again should 
 it rest near the false heart which had betrayed 
 its father. Remonstrance was vain, and my 
 frenzied wish was accomplished. My child 
 could not have deceived me ; to all else, my 
 love had turned to hate. Threats silenced the 
 nurse's objections, and I bore my child before 
 me on the horse, which my companion aided me 
 to mount. 
 
 " I know not by what lonely paths we reach- 
 ed the cottage that was to be my hiding-place : 
 — my senses wandered, and days elapsed before 
 I could even crawl to the window to breathe 
 
 F 2
 
 100 THE SQUIRE. 
 
 the fresh pure air. The sudden shock had been 
 too much — one hour had destroyed the happi- 
 ness of a whole life ! Hope and confidence 
 were gone : — distrust and despair had become 
 the habit of my mind, varied only by bursts of 
 frenzied rage ! 1 demanded madly, why I was 
 spared ? — why life had conquered in the strug^ 
 gle, when death had been a blessing ? During 
 my delirium, the treacherous wife and friend 
 seemed ever before me ! I see them now, as I 
 saw them then : and the fiend rules in my heart 
 when I think upon them, as they stood, in that 
 calm summer evening, plotting my shame and 
 agony ! — I, who had loved and trusted them, 
 and would have given life for either !'* 
 
 Mr. Elton covered his face, whilst his son 
 pressed his hand in his with earnest sympathy. 
 It was some moments before the speaker re- 
 sumed his tale. 
 
 " I was spared for years of suffering — suf- 
 ferings that, I fear me, have been borne with 
 pride rather than submission. The titled and 
 the wealthy, with all the luxuries of life around 
 — its pleasures all before them, with skill and
 
 THE SQUIRE. 101 
 
 gold at their command, become the prey of 
 death ; whilst, in a wretched hut, upon a hard 
 uncurtained bed, with bare cold walls, and no 
 attendant but a simple woman, I, a struck and 
 blasted tree, for whom none cared, lived on ! 
 And why ? It was His will — I know no more ; 
 for I had welcomed death — wished not for life. 
 Will time reveal a reason ? — or eternity alone 
 proclaim the bond that linked me still to 
 being ? 
 
 " The mistress of the cottage, to whom I had 
 once shown some kindness, nursed me with a 
 poor but willing gratitude ; and he who had 
 led me thither assisted as he best could, with- 
 out revealing my retreat. Before I could tread 
 on the green turf, and gaze upon the clear blue 
 sky, (both hateful for their bright and happy 
 look,) the objects of my vengeance had de- 
 parted I — gone ! — none could tell me whither — 
 but gone together, the morning after my return. 
 So well had the guilty laid their schemes, that 
 I could learn no traces of their flight, or I 
 would have followed to taunt them with their 
 guilt. The woman guessed the thoughts that
 
 102 THE SQUIRE. 
 
 were crowding on my brain — evil thoughts, 
 and placed you in my arms, whom she had 
 tended as carefully as she had tended me. 
 You smiled ; your little fingers clung to mine ; 
 and ray heart still owned a tie to earth. 
 
 " Disgusted with my kind — shrinking from 
 again encountering those who, basely flattering 
 in the hour of wealth, as basely blamed when 
 ruin came, I resolved to retire from the world, 
 leaving unexplained the mystery that, in the 
 eyes of the many, enveloped my fate. An 
 enemy had obtained possession of the bond, 
 urging the law to its utmost tyranny. There 
 was enough to satisfy his claim, and I yielded 
 without a struggle, rather than hold commu- 
 nion with my kind. But, though resolved to 
 rear you in seclusion, some means were requi- 
 site. I would not mingle in the bustling scenes 
 of life, for I hated man ; and I could not stoop 
 to be a beggar. I had lent money to one 
 deemed frank and honourable, but held no 
 legal acknowledgment ; there needed none from 
 one so highly principled, and the recent death 
 of an uncle would enable him to repay me
 
 THE SQUIRE. 103 
 
 without inconvenience. This, joined to the sum 
 I had already collected, and what I should 
 receive from him who had provided for my 
 safety, would more than satisfy my humbled 
 wishes. I thought I could trust the frank and 
 generous hunter ; and to him, with an injunc- 
 tion of secrecy, I revealed the place of my 
 abode, hinting a probability of my leaving the 
 country, and requesting the repayment of the 
 loan. In due time came the answer — brief, 
 cautious, cold : he would pay the debt when 
 I should produce its legal acknowledgment. 
 He knew I had it not ! In my wrath, I would 
 have abandoned my concealment, braving de- 
 tention and the sneers of the rabble rout, to 
 show him to the world the villain that he was; 
 but he who had before preserved me again 
 came forward, offering to advance the money. 
 I accepted the offer, assigning over to him, in 
 return, after the payment of my debts, all to 
 which I was entitled ; my signature being wit- 
 nessed by the woman of the cottage and some 
 stranger brought for the purpose. To baffle 
 all endeavours to trace me, the deed, at his
 
 104 THE SQUIRE. 
 
 suggestion, was dated the day of my visit at 
 his house. He placed the money in my hands, 
 received my thanks, and took a friendly leave, 
 promising his services at any other time, should 
 I require them, though my manner was rough 
 and ungracious, and I refused to tell him of 
 my future plans. I should have felt more 
 grateful ; but gratitude comes not always at our 
 bidding, and I liked him not. I doubted — 
 hated all ! The friend of my youth had entered 
 my Eden — tempted to evil, and deceived me ! 
 The wife of my bosom had given the love 
 plighted to me to another ! — the frank and 
 generous spirit I had trusted played the 
 cheat ! — those I had aided showed not com- 
 mon honesty ! — and the herd, who had so 
 lauded, sneered and mocked ! My name was 
 a by-word and a jest ! How could I trust 
 again ? 
 
 *' Carefully disguised, I left the cottage, 
 yielding in anger to the entreaties of my hostess 
 that I would depart sooner than I had intend- 
 ed, and leave the neighbourhood immediately. 
 What evil she apprehended from my stay, I
 
 THE SQUIRE. 105 
 
 could Dot guess ; but she might be said to thrust 
 us from her door, so eager was she for our 
 going, and I marked that she watched us as 
 though fearing our return. The way was lone- 
 ly — the sum I carried considerable, and I had 
 taken care to make my pistols fit for use, — I 
 have remembered since, against the inclination 
 of my hostess; yet I had paid her liberally, 
 and she had been a kind and careful nurse. 
 With a bundle at my back, and you in ray 
 arms and calmly sleeping, whilst I suffered tor- 
 tures, (for this departure appeared the re- 
 alising of a misery which had seemed before 
 but as a dream,) I set out on my melancholy 
 journey. It was evening — darkness coming 
 on ; and this, joined to my disguise and the 
 change wrought by suffering, left no fear of 
 recognition. 
 
 " I had proceeded some distance without en- 
 countering a human being, and, lost in thought, 
 paid little heed to the wildness of the way, 
 (a dreary waste with scattered brakes,) when 
 the hollow tramp of a coming horse speeding 
 over the heathery sward recalled my attention 
 
 p 5
 
 106 THE T5QUIRE. 
 
 to the present. On came the horseman, heed- 
 less of the ruggedness of the track, either un- 
 conscious of the peril, or too intent on some 
 purposed act to be turned aside by a danger- 
 ous road. Night had set in. Save the coming 
 horseman and his steed, neither man nor beast 
 were in sight, and there was no habitation 
 within miles : we were man to man on that 
 dreary waste ; I ill armed, not in full health, 
 and embarrassed by the guarding of a helpless 
 child, 1 had lately, too, learnt lessons of mis- 
 trust, and there was that in the muffled 
 stranger, as he rode directly towards me, the 
 moon bursting from behind a cloud and gleam- 
 ing full upon him, which was little calculated 
 to inspire confidence. I had but just time to 
 place you on the ground and prepare for de- 
 fence, when the horseman came within pistol- 
 shot. For an instant he seemed to waver ; 
 the next, something held in his extended hand 
 glittered in the moonshine. There was a whiz- 
 zing noise in the air beside me, preceded by 
 a bright flash, and followed by a loud report. 
 The horse had shied, and his shot was harmless :
 
 THE SQUIRE. 107 
 
 — not so mine. Before he could reach me, a fear- 
 ful imprecation proved my aim and suspicions 
 of his personal enmity alike correct. The prac- 
 tised horse stood still, — the rider's head bowed 
 to his neck — his hands clutched at the mane, 
 then relaxed their grasp, and the body fell to 
 the earth with a dull heavy sound. I raised the 
 head, loosened the crape, and sought to give 
 him air. He half rose — glared upon me with 
 a look of baffled rage— uttered a deep groan, 
 and sank into my arms — a corpse. 
 
 " I was vexed that my aim had been so sure — 
 I had but fired in self-defence — I felt no en- 
 mity towards the dead. What was the evil 
 which he had sought to do me, compared with 
 the wrong wrought on me by a friend ? I had 
 no hate to waste on petty injuries. Till I 
 looked on you, my child, I was little thankful 
 for my safety. The hollow tramp of a second 
 horse in the same direction roused me to 
 action. It was probable that the approaching 
 horseman was a comrade of the fallen man's, 
 and I had no wish for a second encounter. 
 Taking you again in my arms, I sprang on
 
 108 THE SQUIRE. 
 
 the robber's horse, which was quietly grazing 
 near, and galloped towards a wood at some 
 little distance through which lay a path to 
 the river. The fine animal did his best to 
 repair the evil which his master might have done 
 me ; the hollow tramp of the following horse- 
 man sounded fainter and more faint, and 
 long before I reached the river, was entirely 
 lost to my eager ear. 
 
 " Stepping into a small fishing-boat, whose 
 mooring-place I had learnt in happier days, 
 I rowed out into the broad clear stream that 
 showed a tranquil face, flowing calmly on in 
 its gentle might with scarce a murmur, and 
 drifted down in the current with silent oars, 
 keeping the shady side and avoiding the moon- 
 light, till I had passed miles on my course. 
 There was neither rock nor fall to stop my way, 
 and I dreamt of no obstruction, till my little 
 boat was suddenly upset by striking against 
 a rope stretched across the river. A good 
 swimmer from my youth, I succeeded in saving 
 you and the money which was about my per- 
 son ; but the bundle and some of your wraps
 
 THE SQUIRE. 109 
 
 were borne away by the current. You suf- 
 fered nothing from the accident, and we reach- 
 ed this retreat without further peril. Of those 
 who wronged me I have heard nothing — their 
 names have never reached my ear, have never 
 passed my lips; and I have sworn that they 
 never shall, save to warn or advantage you, 
 or should chance throw them in my way. Ven- 
 geance is no longer a sateless thirst — I have 
 striven with the tempter, I seek to shed no 
 blood ; but were that false friend before me, 
 I could not answer for my acts. You have 
 often deemed me cold and insensible : you 
 know not the fires that consume me, while 
 the brow is calm. You see not that this very 
 outward calmness is but the seeming lull of 
 the mind's storm. Your young blood riots in 
 your veins — you sigh for change — you would 
 have all feel as yourself; you know not yet 
 the tyranny of passion — you believe not in the 
 perfidy of man. I would school you to a 
 saner mood — would teach you to rely upon 
 yourself, and scorn mankind ; but my own sud- 
 den bursts ill second my desire. You only
 
 110 THE SQUIRE. 
 
 bind me still to life — earth holds no other in 
 whom my heart can feel an interest. Will 
 you, whom I have cherished with a father's 
 care, unclose the scarce seared wounds of by- 
 gone years, bringing fresh tortures to an un- 
 balmed heart ? Speak ! you have heard my 
 tale ; will you, too, prove ungrateful, and 
 betray ?'' 
 
 " Believe it not, my father," replied the 
 agitated son, pressing his hand affectionately 
 as he looked upon him with his glistening 
 eyes. " Think not I can forget the fostering 
 care of years." 
 
 " Then you stay with me, and lay my head 
 in the quiet grave. You will not forth among 
 the friends of earth. As I — so do you hate 
 and scorn your kind.'* 
 
 '* We will hope that all are not alike,"" replied 
 the young man hesitatingly, evading an answer 
 to his father's wild appeal. 
 
 " Hope it not ! All are alike ! the only 
 safeguard is self-interest. Love will not bind ! 
 and gratitude does not exist ! I have spoken — 
 can you dream of faith, of honour, still ? Then
 
 THE SQUIRE. Ill 
 
 have I told the history of my wrongs in vain 
 — in vain renewed the pangs of years long 
 past. You take no warning from my words 
 — you feel not for a parent's injuries.'^ 
 
 " You wrong me, sir,*' said his son warmly, 
 again taking the hand which had flung his 
 aside. " Most deeply do I feel your injuries; 
 and you must see I do. 1 will consecrate to 
 you the life you saved — I will wear my years 
 away in inactivity, if you so wish ; but do not 
 ask that I should hate and scorn my kind." 
 
 " And why not, boy .'* Have I not cause r 
 Have you not cause, if you feel my %vronas 
 as you would have me think you do ? Were 
 those wrongs petty wrongs V 
 
 " Not so indeed ! But though some did 
 evil, all are not guilty : one whom you liked 
 not proved your friend ; and one poor and 
 destitute, unbound by kindred, watched and 
 nursed you with untiring zeal.'* 
 
 " And, it may be, set tl^.e robber on mv 
 path, when she could win no further guerdon. 
 And that sudden and providing friend, might 
 he not, too, be working for his own good ." '
 
 1X2 THE SQUIRE. 
 
 replied his father fiercely. " And that false 
 wife and falser friend, and the cautious 
 debtor, have you no excuse for them ?" he 
 continued bitterly : " can you not pale their 
 guilt till it appear the hue of innocence ?" 
 
 " I wish to pale no guilt ; but my mother 
 — I would gladly, if I might, believe her other 
 than you say. How could she have so changed 
 in the short period of your absence ? Forgive 
 me, my dear father, — I would not pain you, 
 but I have pined for a mother*s love, a mo- 
 ther's fond caress, and envied those thus bless- 
 ed. And when, in answer to my simple ques- 
 tions, you said I had no mother, I thought 
 of her as an angel dwelling beyond the sky I 
 looked upon ; and I have seen her in my 
 dreams, my guardian and my guide. I can- 
 not bear to link her name with shame. May 
 you not have been deceived ?*" 
 
 " Deceived, boy! Would you madden me 
 by doubts of my own sanity ? Did I not hear 
 her fix the time of meeting, and connive to 
 lull my doubts ? Take you your father for 
 an idiot or a liar .?"
 
 THE SQUIRE. 118 
 
 " Ask me not such cruel questions ! I do but 
 wonder how, once loving you, she should have 
 changed. I do but wish that you had spoken 
 to her. — Do not look so sternly on me. I have 
 often wondered at your seeming coldness — been 
 vexed at your change of mood. Say you forgive 
 me — I little guessed what wrongs had wrought 
 these things. I will not seek communion with 
 my kind, since you desire it not : to hate and 
 scorn them all untried is beyond my power." 
 
 " You would not use the power if you 
 had it." 
 
 His son made no reply, and there was si- 
 lence for some minutes. The strong excite- 
 ment awakened by the recital of his early sor- 
 rows passed gradually away, and Mr. Elton's 
 features approached more nearly to their usual 
 calm expression, though the occasional lighten- 
 ing of his eye proved his passion but in part 
 subdued. He was the first to speak, after 
 gazing keenly on his son. 
 
 " I blame you not, Edward," he said kindly, 
 seeing that his son was sad at his reproof. *' In 
 my younger days, with every other blessing, I
 
 114 THE SQUIRE. 
 
 too sighed for a parents love — a mother's neck 
 whereon to weep — a mother's tones wherewith to 
 soothe. I blame you not. — But words are vain : 
 let us speak no more of the past — let us think 
 only of the future. Plead not for your mother 
 — my own heart has pleaded for her till I was 
 bowed with shame at that hearfs weakness. I 
 heard with my own ears the words that made 
 my paradise an arid waste. If the past cannot 
 be forgotten, let it be unnamed : I doubt not 
 your regard, and time has proved mine. I 
 am no hard taskmaster, requiring compliance 
 merely for my own will : I value not submis- 
 sive acts while the heart cherishes rebellious 
 thoughts. Let us speak as man to man, not 
 as a father to a son. I ask nothing from your 
 love : I would convince your reason. You 
 offer to remain. Do you say this because my 
 tale has worked as I would have it work ? 
 Have you learnt to see man as he is, tyrannous 
 in power — wily in his weakness.'* A life of 
 inactivity, as you have named it, say, would 
 it bring peace, or weariness .^"
 
 THE SQUIRE. 115 
 
 " I will remain — I pray you to let that 
 suffice." 
 
 " It does suffice," replied the father as he 
 turned away. 
 
 When he spoke again, his manner was as 
 it had been for months, ever since the young 
 man's first expressed desire for activity, — a 
 mingling of coldness, tenderness, and sarcasm. 
 
 " You shall not abide with me : the body 
 might be here — the spirit would be far away." 
 
 " You should hear no murmur, sir. You 
 said you blamed me not ; and in time I may 
 control my thoughts, though I cannot now." 
 
 " And never will, if you yield your wishes 
 and your passions sway till they have grown 
 to tyrants. You may check the stream, you 
 cannot bound the sea. One wish fulfilled, an- 
 other comes; and the wild wearying chase 
 is never done — the excited spirit knows no 
 rest. Peace is but irksome quietude; youth 
 knows no happiness but in the inebriating 
 whirl of action, — it will not see that the whirl- 
 pool overwhelms and wrecks. You must go
 
 116 THE SQUIRE. 
 
 forth, boy, to learn wisdom for yourself — you 
 will not learn its truths from others. You 
 will not take your father for your tutor : ex- 
 perience will prove a surer and a sterner 
 teacher. Do not deprecate ! do not seek to 
 change my will ! I was weak enough to hope 
 it might be otherwise : I now see ray folly, 
 and am resolved. I condemn you not, I would 
 rebuke myself. If with the strength and ex- 
 perience of manhood, I cannot tame the fiery 
 passions of my youth, — and that they are not 
 tamed, my sudden bursts have proved, — how 
 dare I to blame you.? I would warn as one 
 who has erred, and errs, rather than reprove 
 as one who offendeth not. You scarcely admit 
 it to yourself, you would not allow it to me, 
 but still the thought is in your heart, that 
 there was some defect in my judgment — some 
 want of wisdom in my acts — or my hearth 
 had not been desolate, my bosom wrung, and 
 that you could win a happier fate. Deny it 
 not — the thought is there! Marvel not that 
 I have read it in your changing features. Can 
 aught blind love ? They err who say it can-
 
 THE SQUIRE. 117 
 
 not see — it sees too clearly for its peace. You 
 will go into the world full of bright hopes, and 
 brighter fancies, and rich dreams of love to 
 all mankind ; you will return to seclusion a 
 withered and a blighted thing, despoiled of 
 all that gives to life its beauty and its laugh i 
 The butterfly sports in the bright summer 
 sun, flitting from flower on to flower; — what so 
 happy ? Ere evening comes, it is the spoiler's 
 prey — crushed — bruised, its beauty gone,-^r 
 tortured to delight some scientific Nero. And 
 yet, I say, go forth, for it must be so ! May 
 you learn a gentler lesson, and find gentler 
 teachers !" 
 
 " Send me not away in anger !" 
 
 " I send you not away in anger, but in 
 pity." 
 
 " Would that I could tempt you to go 
 with me, then !" 
 
 " Seek it not !" interrupted his father, with 
 something of his former wild excitement. " I 
 will not again hold communion with my kind, 
 unless you stand in peril : hate and scorn, 
 passive in seclusion, would become active
 
 118 THE SQUIRE. 
 
 in a crowd: I might seek to rend, as I was 
 rent. No ! leave me to brood in silence and 
 in solitude."" 
 
 " I have pined for action, — sighed for a 
 stirring life — some object for my rising ener- 
 gies ; and the passion grew the stronger from 
 your opposition : but now that you would 
 grant my wish, I shrink from its fulfilment. 
 I would not leave you lone and desolate, who 
 havp watched over me so tenderly. Let me 
 abide with you, and I will strive to lay this 
 spirit of unrest." 
 
 " Do you shrink from trial, misdoubting 
 your own powers.'^ Have you learnt to prize 
 a calm won without encountering the horrors 
 of the previous storm .?" demanded his father, 
 gazing eagerly into his son's face as he laid 
 his hand upon his arm. 
 
 " No, sir !'' replied the son with an energy 
 and flushing of the cheek that made the 
 questioner draw back with a dulled look ; 
 " I shrink from no trial — I doubt not my 
 power in any mortal struggle ; or, if 1 perish, 
 there would be one of little value gone, whose
 
 THE SQUIRE. 119 
 
 life had been worthless, actionless. I have no 
 sudden love for monotony, but I would not 
 leave you to your gloom : to win you back to 
 cheerfulness shall henceforward be my mo- 
 tive." 
 
 " It is ever thus with youth : daring, pre- 
 sumptuous, doubting neither others nor itself, 
 it judges actions by their glare. The patient 
 martyr, whose glories are not blazoned forth, 
 is, in its view, as nought. Eager reformer, 
 too, of others, you would check my gloom, 
 but leave untouched your own impatience. 
 Enough that I bid you go. Self-knowledge 
 is not learnt in solitude : where none oppose, 
 the will becomes a tyrant. You must learn 
 from suffering a wiser judgment of your 
 powers. Youth, presumption, and inexpe- 
 rience, fit you but ill to cope with man, much 
 less with heaven. You will not find yourself 
 the conqueror in every mortal struggle; you will 
 learn that you cannot rule your destiny as you 
 imagine : you are not alone, but a tiny link in 
 the great chain of society — a paltry item in the 
 plan of Providence. Why am I as I am 'f
 
 120 THE SQUIRE. 
 
 Why are thousands as they are, if our will 
 alone could rule our fate ? Was I weak and 
 indolent, when you are strong and active ? 
 You may launch the bark ; but will it speed 
 on its course in spite of wind and tide ? Can 
 man command the sky ? — the sea ? Or if he 
 could, shall each distinct one of the pigmy 
 millions rule without a thought of general 
 good ? If so, the earth would be a fiercer 
 field of tumult and of wrong than the wise 
 hold it now. You are a clear-seeing philan- 
 thropist, I doubt not; yet you might chance 
 to tangle the web of fate inextricably." 
 
 " I deserve your reproof, sir, and submit," 
 replied the young man more humbly, his cheek 
 crimsoned at the sarcastic rebuke. " My words 
 were rash — my acts might be the same ; but 
 if I only spoke of my own power in the sudden 
 flush of pride — if I appeared to trust in my 
 own arm alone, the boldness was but in my 
 words : I dare not the Eye that sees ! I defy 
 not the Arm that guides ! — I would but use 
 the energies I have, to bear or to avert, as 
 the Almighty wills. Though I would not
 
 THE SQUIRE. 121 
 
 submit with sluggish indolence to obstacles 
 that activity might overcome, I would act in 
 submission to the Bestower of those energies, 
 which I would not waste in idleness. I may 
 not control by my mere will ; but, by God's 
 grace, I may turn events, all adverse though 
 they seem, to work me good." 
 
 " Right, Edward, if your heart but felt its 
 weakness as deeply as you would fain have me 
 believe. — Nay, boy, start not at my words ! 
 That proud look ill suits your humble speech. 
 A loyal and submissive subject in your words, 
 there is rebelHon in your heart : / see it, though 
 you see it not ; and more, the blame is mine. 
 I have borne my fate in pride ; — I have sub- 
 mitted, feeling the impotence of weakness ;^ 
 I have bowed, and not always humbly, as be- 
 fore a tyrant, — not knelt as to a loving, though 
 rebuking father. And when the maddening 
 memories of the fearful past have rushed upon 
 my mind, I have rebelled, asking with haughty 
 mien, — ' Why am I thus tortured ? am I more 
 guilty than my fellows V We have much to 
 learn — it is my impatience which has partly 
 
 VOL. I. G
 
 122 THE SQUIRE. 
 
 made you what you are. Look that you, — 
 a rush, bending even to the summer breeze, 
 — presume not on your own power — and 
 say not to yourself, when far away, — ' My 
 father would have guided me — himself he 
 could not guide.* Take warning, and not li- 
 cence, from that father : you have not been 
 tried, as he was tried ; bereft of all at a single 
 stroke, when years of prosperous fortune had 
 ill fitted him for the reverse. Be warned by 
 the advice, and pity the adviser. Take heed 
 that you come not back with a seared and world- 
 ly heart, a bitter and a gloomy spirit, without 
 my suffering to explain — I will not say excuse 
 them. Talk no more of remaining here ; — it 
 shall not be ! I may perchance learn more 
 submission in your absence, for it frets me 
 when I see you chafing at seclusion. If I 
 have spoken harshly, heed not the outbreak- 
 ing of a tortured spirit, whose former agonies 
 have been renewed by their recital. Return 
 to me sobered and contented ; bring not upon 
 me fiercer suffering by your rashness. I would
 
 THE SQUIRE. 123 
 
 that you should lay me in my grave. — Now 
 tell me of your plans." 
 
 " I was to blame, my father, in this matter : 
 I was too proud, too daring : but do not think 
 I can forget your care and love. You are 
 agitated ; let us speak of my plans at some 
 future time.''' 
 
 '' No : arrange all now. I will retire for 
 a few minutes to regain that calmness which 
 I knew not could be thus disturbed ;" and 
 pressing his son's hand affectionately, he quit- 
 ted the apartment. 
 
 G 2
 
 124 THE SQUIRE. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 Impatient as the young man had been for 
 months — nay years, to enter on the life of 
 action now before him, he did not find his 
 father's absence long, so absorbed was he in 
 the history of his wrongs. Man though he 
 was, he would have thrown his arms around 
 him and wept for pity ; but there was that in 
 Mr. Elton's demeanour, even whilst depicting 
 his pangs, which had checked the impulse. 
 With all his regard for his son, (and it was 
 little short of dotage,) his heart, charactered 
 by its sudden shock, made stern by its cruel 
 wrongs, could not condescend to the tender- 
 ness of love ; it had all its power, but none of 
 its beautiful weakness, as the stern and the cold 
 might term those attaching nothings of affec- 
 tion which link hearts in bonds that time cannot
 
 THE SQUIRE. 125 
 
 sever. Awe and respect, if they did not chill 
 the love of his son, stayed its expression. It 
 was a lovely flower checked by a nipping 
 wind : the flower still lived, but it wanted 
 warmth and shine to make it bloom in all 
 its beauty — to give to its petals their colour 
 and their fragrance. It was this which had 
 caused him to sigh for a mother's fondness 
 as more gentle, more endearing — the loveliness 
 of love ! It was this, too, though scarcely 
 admitted, which made him, whilst indignant 
 at his father's wrongs, unwilling to allow his 
 mother's change, and he was still striving to 
 reconcile contending feelings, when Mr. Elton 
 re-entered the room, with a countenance paler 
 and calmer than usual, and wearing a softer 
 expression than his son had ever seen it wear 
 before. 
 
 " Now, Edward, for your plans : if I can- 
 not admire their wisdom, I will endeavour to 
 make clear their folly without bitterness, of 
 which I fear there has been too much of late. 
 The truth is, I have long foreseen to-day, and 
 fretted at a necessity which I could not avoid ;
 
 126 THE SQUIRE. 
 
 thus hastening what I might not prevent. 
 Your means can be but scanty, foreseeing, as 
 I do, that they will bring no return, and that 
 you will require from me food and raiment 
 hereafter. My name had become a by-word 
 and a jest before I retired to this seclusion, 
 as I learnt from the discourse of many who 
 knew me not in my disguise, and had I the 
 will, I have not the power to influence one 
 to serve you. You must depend on Heaven, 
 and on yourself. With health, strength, and 
 a knight-errant's spirit, you must go forth to 
 seek adventures, and win wealth, honours, and 
 your lady love, as in the olden time. I know 
 you expect all this, — now how do you set 
 about it ?" inquired Mr. Elton with a kind- 
 ness in his raillery he seldom showed. " What i 
 silent, Edward ?" he continued after a pause : 
 " are you frightened already ? I thought 
 you boasted months since of a well-ordered 
 plan." 
 
 " I am not alarmed at danger; but now, 
 when called on to declare my plan, I fear that 
 it may not meet your approbation — you will
 
 THE SQUIRE. 127 
 
 hardly think it wise — we see things so dif- 
 ferently/' replied his hesitating son in some 
 confusion. 
 
 " In plain words, you dread my raillery," 
 said his father mischievously ; " and this fear 
 promises but little wisdom. Out with it ! I 
 have engaged to be merciful, and you are 
 generally unchanged by ridicule ; indeed, with 
 a generous sympathy, you hug more closely 
 those hopes and ideas jested on by others. 
 Are you for a journey to the sun? — of course 
 you are no lunatic. Produce the chart, and 
 we will study all the routes, and decide upon 
 the best." 
 
 " Nay, sir, you promised to be merciful,'' 
 replied the young man, recovering from his 
 embarrassment. " You always had a cruel 
 pleasure in demolishing my airy castles." 
 
 " Fortunate for you that they were airy, 
 or you would have been long since crushed 
 beneath their ruins ! If not to the sun, whi- 
 ther would you ?" 
 " To London." 
 " To London ! Ay, Whittington went thi-
 
 1^8 THE SQUIRE. 
 
 ther. To court, of course : you will be prime 
 minister before a month. The office of court 
 fool has been abolished, I believe ?" 
 
 '' I fear it has, sir, or with your recom- 
 mendation I should hope to obtain it." 
 
 " Answered in a good spirit," replied his 
 father, joining in his smile. " If that light 
 heart could outlive the storms of life, sages 
 might envy you. But you think I am paying 
 little heed to my promise of mercy, so proceed 
 with your aerial structure, and I will refrain 
 from applying the battering-ram of ridicule 
 till the last story shall be raised. How do 
 you go to town .?" 
 
 " On foot. I heed no fatigue, desire to 
 see something of the country, and am not 
 in a hurry to reach my destination, as Cars- 
 well will not return from Ireland this month." 
 
 " Cars well ! So you go to him ! And what 
 may you purpose to achieve in London ? I 
 think he said his uncle was a merchant. You 
 will keep the ledger well, having a peculiar 
 talent for business of all sorts !" 
 
 " I do not intend to become a merchant.
 
 THE SQUIRE. 129 
 
 CarswelFs father is a solicitor, employs many 
 clerks, and, through his son's interest, I hope 
 to be received into his house, or enabled to 
 procure some other situation."' 
 
 " A lawyer's clerk ! A life of action, truly ! 
 A glorious field of enterprise I Perfect hap- 
 piness, to be chained to the desk all day, 
 digesting digests ! A far pleasanter life than 
 bounding over the hills at your own will and 
 pleasure ! A right sober plan this for taming 
 a wild spirit !" 
 
 " I have little choice, sir : I am too old for 
 the navy, and have neither means nor interest 
 for the army." 
 
 " True, boy ! so I must be contented to 
 see you chancellor, instead of admiral or ge- 
 neral. Ha ! I have touched you ! you strike 
 at no ignoble game." 
 
 " I hope to obtain an honourable independ- 
 ence and be of some advantage to my fellow 
 men, and to effect what steady perseverance 
 can effect," replied his son in some embarrass- 
 ment. 
 
 " Only an honourable independence, the 
 
 G 5
 
 130 THE SQUIRE. 
 
 fruit of steady perseverance ! Moderate ! But 
 I will not catechise too closely. So you go 
 to Carswell, trusting that he will advance 
 your views ? You will be a rich man within 
 the year, for you take all things on trust." 
 
 " You forget, sir, that I had a letter from 
 him not three weeks since, inviting me to 
 town, and offering his own and his father's 
 services.**' 
 
 " No ; I have not forgotten that he wrote 
 to request you to send him a setter, and to 
 free himself from the obligation, in a gentle- 
 manly way, said civil things, and made civil 
 offers. In your simplicity, you think the let- 
 ter an original ; it is but a copy : I have seen 
 a thousand such," 
 
 " Both profess gratitude for the slight ser- 
 vices I rendered them." 
 
 *' I cry your pardon ! that places the matter 
 beyond a doubt. A hot-headed boy takes of- 
 fence at a circus ; and one, little less rash on 
 most occasions, but better tempered then, turns 
 the riot with a jest, and saves the quarreller
 
 THE SQUIRE. 131 
 
 a drubbing : an equal degree of restlessness 
 produces a friendship, (lasting, of course ;) and, 
 as much of course, the father and son will 
 substantially prove the unbounded gratitude 
 they profess. A marvellous virtue gratitude ! — 
 with an equally marvellous memory ! The 
 other youth, calling himself Robert Forman, 
 whom you chose to defend against odds on 
 the highway, and afterwards supplied ^vdth 
 money, is a proof of this. The money, which 
 he would take only as a loan, has been re- 
 turned fourfold, has it not ? No wonder you 
 depend on the gratitude of Carswell and his 
 father !" 
 
 " This is too severe, sir ; you would have 
 done as I did, had you seen a stripling at- 
 tacked by two armed and mounted highway- 
 men." 
 
 " No proof of wdsdom, if I had,"" remarked 
 Mr. Elton sarcastically. 
 
 " As for the money," continued his son, with- 
 out heeding the observation, " I told him I 
 did not want it, and bade him keep it. I
 
 IS2 THE SQUIRE. 
 
 would stake my life on his honesty, and en- 
 trust greater sums to his charge, feeling certain 
 of repayment if in his power." 
 
 " It is to be hoped you have a cat-like 
 number of lives, Edward. Stake your life 
 on the truth of a stranger picked up on the 
 road, known for eight-and-forty hours; and 
 who was shy of speaking of his family ! You 
 do indeed take all things upon trust : but 
 follow my advice, for the future, and do not 
 lend on the same doubtful security." 
 
 " And this is the indulgence that you pro- 
 mised to my plan, sir," remarked the young 
 man warmly, annoyed by the sarcastic ob- 
 servations of his companion, though that sar- 
 casm was uttered in a less bitter tone than 
 ordinary. " You demolish my aerial castles, 
 as you term them, without the slightest pity. 
 I agree with the author who says, that those 
 who condemn and destroy, should prove their 
 skill by erecting a superior structure : it is 
 barbarous to leave me thus without a shelter- 
 ing roof." 
 
 " I would build you a substantial mansion ;
 
 THE SQUIRE. 133 
 
 but you disdain so common-place an abode, 
 and call the style monotonous !" 
 
 " I rather fear that you would build me a 
 palace of ice, cold and benumbing." 
 
 '* As the palace of truth would seem to 
 your deluded mind. I would but fit you for 
 the temperature of the world." 
 
 " I should be frozen to death, sir, before 
 I had become acclimated ; I could not exist 
 below zero. What other plan, sir, would you 
 propose .''" 
 
 " A shrewd question, and a little puzzling. 
 I have no other plan to propose ; he who 
 takes the journey should count the cost, since 
 he must pay the penalties." 
 
 " Then you do not disapprove of my plan, 
 notwithstanding all your raillery." 
 
 " I could not have framed a wiser to com- 
 pel you to admit the truth of all my warnings. 
 For gratitude " 
 
 '' Nay, sir." 
 
 " Well, well, Edward, I own I have been 
 hard upon you, and you have borne it with 
 better temper than I expected; so let the
 
 134 THE SQUIRE, 
 
 matter pass : I shall make no further objec- 
 tion. Depart this day week ; write to me, 
 — not all you feel — I cannot expect that, but 
 write to me as one who will grieve, not 
 triumph, should his warnings be fulfilled. 
 And now, good night : a father's blessing 
 rest upon you !'*
 
 THE SQUIRE. 135 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 It was a bright, happy-looking morning 
 when Edward Elton, declining the attendance 
 of young Rover, and shaking hands with the 
 fat old cook, the corner of whose apron was 
 held to her eyes, left the retired abode of his 
 childhood, and passed out into the world to 
 mingle in the busy scenes of life — to meet its 
 trials, and to bear its pangs. 
 
 From the night when his son's departure 
 had been resolved on, till that preceding its 
 accomplishment, Mr. Elton had never will- 
 ingly alluded to the subject ; but on that 
 night the parent and his child sat long in 
 solemn but affectionate talk, and after its 
 conclusion both remained in silence, hand 
 clasped in hand, till the former, mastering 
 his emotion, spoke of the folly of delaying
 
 136 THE SQUIRE. 
 
 a farewell which must be said, and abruptly 
 erabracing his son, and uttering a hurried 
 blessing with an unsteady voice, left the room, 
 having before arranged that they should not 
 meet again in the morning. 
 
 Mr. Elton had spoken that night as if the 
 truth had come upon him, that rebellion had 
 been raging in his heart whilst cold and unfelt 
 precepts of submission had issued from his lips. 
 His bursts of passion had shown little of Chris- 
 tian meekness — his dark opinion of mankind 
 little of Christian charity or forgiveness. His 
 sufferings had been great — his wrongs wrought 
 by those w^hom he most prized: — love and 
 friendship had proved delusions ; — and what 
 were life without those blessings, real or be- 
 lieved? Let him not be judged too harshly: 
 the time may come when he may judge him- 
 self more hardly than his greatest foe. Let 
 him who has borne such pangs, and borne 
 them with cheerful submission, say, " I am 
 better than thou." Such would not say it, 
 for such would know how hard the trial. His 
 dark opinions of mankind were scarcely lighten-
 
 THE SQUIRE. 137 
 
 ed ; but on that night, if he spoke not with 
 love of his fellow-men, he at least brought his 
 scorn less frequently and offensively forward. 
 Either the feeling had formerly been exagge- 
 rated in its expression to check his son's desire 
 to mingle with the world ; or, softened by 
 that son's departure, he was inclined to speak 
 more kindly of those beings with whom he 
 was so soon to mix : ceasing to declaim against 
 man, perhaps, with a vague fancy of thus pro- 
 pitiating his favour towards the inexperienced 
 youth so shortly to learn his real worth ; or, 
 more probably, too much absorbed in the pro- 
 spect of losing the idol of his heart, — the only 
 sunshine of his life, to bestow abuse on others. 
 His warnings against trusting to idle pro- 
 fessions, or being led by specious words, were 
 valuable and judicious, and more effective as 
 being so slightly tinged with his olden bitter- 
 ness. Alarmed at the perils which might as- 
 sail his son if launched upon the stream of 
 life with too great a reliance on his own powers 
 of withstanding evil, and ruling events by his 
 own will, the more so from feeling that such
 
 138 THE SQUIRE. 
 
 had been his own thoughts in youth, he strove 
 with all the eloquence of an anxious parent 
 to point out the danger of the young heart's 
 pride, and to enforce a real, humble dependence 
 upon his Maker. 
 
 " Teach the heart to feel, my son, what the 
 lips have, I fear, but idly spoken. Say not 
 to yourself, 'My father murmured — he rebelled, 
 and yet he preached submission :* the error of 
 my ways should furnish warning, and not 
 taunts. I will not plead to you my pangs : 
 there is pride in my heart in my desolation, as 
 in my splendour; — though I bent the head, 
 the haughty heart has not been bowed. I 
 have talked of Christian submission — I have 
 only acted this world's fortitude. I humble 
 myself before my child to save him from guilt 
 and sorrow — I admit to him what, as yet, I 
 have scarcely admitted to myself. Behold the 
 triumphs of a father's love ! the pride of 
 man is bowed before it ! Heed my words, 
 and bring not on my head the sin and shame 
 of having led you by example on to evil." 
 His son was greatly moved ; he passed from
 
 THE SQUIRE. 139 
 
 his father's presence with a more humble mind ; ' 
 the presumptuousness of youth was checked, 
 and his prayers that night were the sincere 
 outpouring of a rebuked and chastened 
 spirit. 
 
 It was long ere the sleep he courted came ; 
 and when it did come, it was dull, heavy, and 
 unrefreshing. Either he had not dreamt, or 
 the only portion of his dream that lingered 
 on his memory was a dim vision of his father 
 bending over him. Had he known how that 
 father had knelt beside his bed that night 
 with murmured prayers — his eyes fixed on 
 his sleeping son — the tears rolling unheeded 
 down his sunken cheeks; — had he heard his 
 but half-checked sobs, when, returned to his 
 apartment, he listened to that son's prepara- 
 tions for departure, stealthy as they were ; — 
 had he known as he crept on tip-toe to his 
 parent's door, that that parent slumbered not, 
 but stayed his grief lest the listener should 
 catch its sound; — had he guessed the might 
 of that love whose outward marks were so 
 sternly repressed : — the son had thrown him-
 
 140 THE SQUIRE. 
 
 self on his father's neck, and they had not 
 parted. But he knew nothing of all this — 
 guessed not how much his absence had been 
 deplored, and passed from his childhood's 
 home, and his childhood's guardian, in the 
 belief that after the first few days his absence 
 would be little heeded. He doubted not his 
 father's love, but he knew not its extent — how 
 often he had been watched for when he thought 
 his return but little wished. 
 
 The pang of leaving his home and his father 
 for many months once conquered, he went on 
 his way with a bold and buoyant spirit, blessed 
 with a heart naturally kind and generous, a 
 temper not easily provoked, uniting quickness 
 and perseverance ; and a mind humbled by 
 the tutoring of the night before. In no hurry 
 to reach London, he cared not diverging from 
 the direct road when lured to do so by any 
 interesting object. A ruin or a mountain, 
 a river or a stately mansion, a wooded dell 
 or a gentle stream, each won his admiration, 
 and turned his steps from the appointed way. 
 Of fatigue, save sufficient to ensure a good
 
 THE SQUIRE. 141 
 
 night's rest, he as yet knew nothing ; no re- 
 morse for the past, no cares for the future, 
 disturbed or prevented his slumbers ; petty 
 troubles troubled him not, and he had a smile 
 and a kind word for all he met. His port- 
 manteau had been sent on to Wexton to wait 
 his arrival, and the bundle slung at his back 
 did not prevent his aiding the loaded wayfarer 
 — the little child passed contentedly from its 
 wearied mother's arms into his temporary pro- 
 tection ; the aged grandmother thanked him 
 for bearing her pitcher from the well ; and his 
 frank and kindly manner won him a welcome 
 even from the churlish. His was one of those 
 happy minds which find or make a perpetual 
 sunshine around them. Wealth ! rank! genius! 
 what are they in comparison in the scale of 
 blessings ? Even health, if such a temper is 
 not the perfection of health, the harmony of 
 every organ, is not of equal price. The na- 
 tural sunshine of the mind is the highest 
 blessing — the greatest talent, for which man 
 has to be thankful and to account. 
 
 Some days had passed, yet his heart was
 
 142 THE SQUIRE. 
 
 as light, his step as bounding — his anticipations 
 of success, and his hopes of hereafter inducing 
 his father to quit his seclusion, as strong as 
 ever. The little difficulties he had encounter- 
 ed and overcome had excited, not depressed 
 him, and he was devising the best means of 
 clearing some inhospitable fences, and ap- 
 proaching a noble-looking, though evidently 
 uninhabited house, on which he had been gaz- 
 ing for some time from a lofty and partly 
 wooded hill, when a voice beside him startled 
 and made him turn. 
 
 " Perhaps, sir, you would like to walk in 
 the grounds, and see the old house .?" repeated 
 a pleasing-looking young man above the com- 
 mon class. 
 
 " Thank you, I should very much like to 
 do so," replied Edward Elton with the frank 
 good-humour so irresistible. *' To whom does 
 the place belong ?" he inquired as his com- 
 panion, unlocking a gate, admitted him into 
 the park. 
 
 " To Mr. Garnier, sir ; and my father has 
 the care of it."
 
 THE SQUIRE. 143 
 
 " It is the most beautiful spot I ever saw," 
 remarked Edward Elton, after frequent pauses 
 to look and to admire. " I have been wander- 
 ing round the outskirts for some time, think- 
 ing that if I had the privilege of the three 
 wishes, the possession of that residence with a 
 suitable fortune would be one. It is a scene of 
 such rich and varied beauty ; — that full broad 
 river flowing calmly on in its silent might ; 
 those rocky cliffs, sublime in their naked gran- 
 deur, or softened by the brushwood crowning 
 their summits or clinging to their sides ; that 
 ancient wood with its deep shade ; the verdant 
 lawn, and the stately mansion with its touch- 
 ing look, as if of a ripe old age : — yes, 1 should 
 certainly live here. In spite of being un- 
 tenanted, there is a happy look about the 
 house and grounds ; as an autumn day when 
 the storm has fallen, and the sun is going to 
 burst out from behind a cloud. 
 
 " It is very much admired by all the walking 
 gentlemen who come to draw it," remarked his 
 guide, a little proud of the praise, and glanc- 
 ing at the stranger's sketch-book as he spoke.
 
 144 THE SQUIRE. 
 
 " But, for my part, I find it very lonely. 
 It is a dull place, and I want to see the 
 world ; but my father and mother won't hear 
 of it." 
 
 Edward smiled at his poetical burst hav- 
 ing given rise to the idea of his being a wan- 
 dering artist, such as he had sometimes en- 
 countered in his long walks round his secluded 
 home, and then moralised that, even here, on this 
 spot so lavishly adorned by Nature, where he 
 had dreamed for an instant of fixing his abode, 
 content was not an abiding guest. The young 
 man pointed out in the grounds all he con- 
 sidered worthy of notice, and then offered to 
 show the stranger the interior of the mansion ; 
 an offer thankfully accepted by Edward, whose 
 interest was strongly excited by the ancient 
 building and beautiful scenery, as well as by 
 his young guide, whose longing for change and 
 an active life had created a sort of sympathy 
 between them. 
 
 " Always wanting the keys to show some one 
 over the house and grounds, instead of minding 
 your work ! — be sure your idleness will come
 
 THE SQUIRE. 145 
 
 to no good, James," replied a shrill female voice 
 loud enough to reach Edward, who was waiting 
 in the passage for his guldens return. 
 
 " Nonsense, Aunt Judith ! you have so often 
 told me I shall be hanged, that I believe you 
 wish it may come to pass, and prove you a 
 prophetess. Let me have the keys now : when 
 I am as old as you, I dare say I shall be con- 
 tented to sit in the chimney-corner, and never 
 stir out." 
 
 Aunt Judith was beginning a grumbling re- 
 ply, perhaps a refusal, when Edward stept into 
 the room with a gay — 
 
 *' Good morrow, dame ! I am so taken with 
 the outside of this old house, that you must not 
 refuse me a sight of its inside ; and if there is 
 work to be done, I will lend a helping hand. 
 Shall I begin by moving back that table for 
 you ?■''' laying hold of one lately displaced to 
 facilitate cleaning. 
 
 " Who are you ?" cried the old woman, in a 
 tone of mingled surprise and terror — (at least so 
 Edward thought,) — turning towards him, and 
 gazing on him ^vith eyes whose dimmed sight 
 
 VOL. I. H
 
 146 THE SQUIRE. 
 
 prevented her discerning more than the general 
 outline of his figure. " Who are you ? — and 
 why do you come here ?'' she demanded more 
 vehemently, impatient at the delay in answer- 
 ing occasioned by the young man's surprise. 
 
 '' Edward Elton — a stranger — never here 
 before, and on my way to London,*" he replied 
 good-naturedly. " And now tell me why you 
 asked so impatiently, and seemed so alarmed 
 at my entrance ?" 
 
 " Yes ; I might have known that it was not — 
 that it could not be." 
 
 " Who did you think it was ? — and what 
 could not be ?" demanded Edward eagerly, his 
 curiosity much excited. 
 
 *' The thief who robbed the hen-roost the 
 other night ! — but I might have guessed he 
 would not venture to come here," replied the 
 woman promptly, but in a tone of such exces- 
 sive ill-humour as left it doubtful whether she 
 spoke the truth, or invented a falsehood to 
 annoy him. 
 
 *' I certainly did not rob your hen-house the 
 other night, though half-tempted to do so just
 
 THE SQUIRE. 147 
 
 now — the fresh eggs looked so inviting," replied 
 Edward gaily, though disappointed at her re- 
 ply. '' I must coax you to dress me a couple 
 or so, whilst I look over the house." 
 
 " Begone !" said the woman harshly. " This 
 is no Public for wayfarers." 
 
 " But you wiU serve me for love, instead of 
 hire. Positively I depart not without stay- 
 ing my hunger," he added, encouraged by her 
 nephew's signs : '' nay, I have set my mind 
 on your telling me some stories of old times. 
 I like to hear of the past, and want to learn all 
 about the former owners of this house." 
 
 " And what should I know of the past, or 
 the former owners ? I have nothing to tell !" 
 replied the woman sharply, with a sudden 
 glancing round the room. 
 
 " Not tell of the past ! Oh, fie, aunt, to 
 say so, when you often talk of old times, and 
 look so awful that I am quite frightened !" 
 
 " Be still, boy ! — You will come to evil 
 yourself ; and then you too will have a past !" 
 
 The last words were spoken in a tone so 
 strange and hollow, that her hearers were silent, 
 
 h2
 
 148 THE SQUIRE. 
 
 only exchanging looks of surprise ; and, after 
 a pause, she spoke again : 
 
 " Why do you bring strangers here, James, 
 as idle as yourself ? Go !" 
 
 " Not till I have seen the house and tasted 
 your eggs," replied Edward good-humouredly, 
 resolved on carrying his point despite the wo- 
 man's churlishness. 
 
 " There, then, show him the house, and 
 make haste," throwing the keys towards her 
 nephew. 
 
 " I knew you would relent : — and the eggs 
 will be ready on my return ?"" 
 
 " If you will not go without. But mind, 
 boy, you bring in no more strangers : no good 
 will come of it." 
 
 " I hope no harm will happen this once," 
 remarked Edward, amused at her fears : " I 
 am neither thief nor highwayman !" 
 
 " Highwayman ! — who talks to me of high- 
 waymen ?" she demanded wildly, drawing up 
 her bent figure, and looking as keenly as she 
 could on the speaker. 
 
 " You had better come and see the house at
 
 THE SQUIRE. 149 
 
 once, sir, whilst the eggs are getting ready," 
 interposed her nephew ; and Edward, from 
 delicacy towards the young man, complied with 
 his wish, though interested by the woman's 
 manner. 
 
 " Your aunt appears a singular person,"" he 
 remarked to his young guide, who, after a mo- 
 ment's hesitation, answered frankly, 
 
 " That she is, sir ; and no pleasant temper 
 to deal with ! She never likes strangers, or to 
 be asked of the past, though sometimes she 
 will tell old stories by the hour together. She 
 is always odd ; but I never saw her so odd as 
 to-day." 
 
 *' Has she ever been stopped by a highway- 
 man ? — she seemed so alarmed at the mention." 
 
 " Not that I know of, sir ; but she can 
 never bear to hear the word. She is some 
 years older than my mother, though not so old 
 as she looks, having nearly lost her life in a 
 brain fever, and never quite recovered her eye- 
 sight. Some say that her husband, who died 
 years ago, was as bad as need to be ; but she 
 never speaks of him, and we were living many
 
 150 THE SQUIRE. 
 
 miles off then, in peace and plenty. My father 
 was a thriving farmer, and I was to have been 
 articled to an attorney, — but crops were bad, 
 rent high, prices low, my father was bound for 
 a friend who could not pay, all our goods were 
 seized, and we w^e beggars ! My father went 
 to Mr. Gamier, whose tenant he had once been ; 
 and that gentleman offered him to take charge 
 of this house and grounds, and see that the te- 
 nants did their best by the farms. So we all came 
 here ; and instead of being a clerk with Lawyer 
 Sims, I am obliged to keep the accounts, and 
 sometimes work in the farm." 
 
 '^ — And show gentlemen over the grounds^ 
 in spite of your aunt." 
 
 " Yes, sir ; and I am glad to talk with any 
 one, for it's sadly dull seeing nobody but father 
 and mother, and aunt, who is as cross-grained 
 as may be. I wonder that you coaxed her out 
 of the eggs : I never knew her so strange and 
 yet so obliging before." 
 
 *' Suppose I try to make her give me a night's 
 lodging besides ?" 
 
 " That you will never do, sir ; I wish you
 
 THE SQUIRE. 151 
 
 could; — but I will make you as comfortable 
 as I can without her— though I can''t promise 
 much, for she keeps all the keys. If my father 
 was at home, there would be no trouble in the 
 matter." 
 
 '* I will try my powers with your aunt. 
 Does Mr. Garnier never reside here .p" looking 
 round admiringly on a beautifully-proportioned 
 though unfurnished apartment, whose range of 
 windows commanded a fine prospect of the 
 extensive park and majestic river. 
 
 ** I don't think he ever has, sir, since the first 
 year he had it — before I was born." 
 
 " And how many years ago is that ?" 
 
 ** I am just seventeen, sir ; but I believe it 
 was some time before that." 
 
 " And what caused him to leave it and not 
 return ?" 
 
 " Some say it was haunted by the ghost of 
 the unfortunate gentleman who owned the 
 place before." 
 
 " Why haunted ? — tell me : I have a great 
 fancy for ghost-stories." 
 
 " I am afraid you will be disappointed, sir,
 
 152 THE SQUIRE. 
 
 for I know little worth telling, only what some 
 old people in the next village say ; and it was 
 so many years ago, some tell one thing, ana 
 some another. I have always thought that 
 Aunt Judith knew more than she chose to say, 
 for sometimes she lets out things as though she 
 had been here at the time ; but ask her a ques- 
 tion, and she is crosser-grained than usual, 
 pretending to know nothing." 
 
 " At least, tell me all you have heard." 
 " Readily, sir ; but it is a strange confused 
 story at the best. They say that the gentle- 
 man who lived here before was a fine generous 
 heart, kept open house, and never turned away 
 even a dog from the door without something to 
 eat. I don't know how he was ruined, but he 
 was, and his beautiful wife too, who doted on him, 
 and who, all the old people say, was an angel, 
 if ever there was one upon earth. The gentle- 
 man went to a distant part, and no one ever 
 saw him alive again. Most think that he made 
 away with himself, because he was ruined. 
 His beautiful lady left the country just after, 
 and died of a broken heart. Mr. Garnier took
 
 THE SQUIRE. 153 
 
 possession of the estate, and came down to live 
 here ; but he heard strange noises and met the 
 poor gentleman's ghost, so soon went away 
 again for good and all. Some say Mr. Gamier 
 did not come by it quite fairly, and once loved 
 the beautiful lady ; — but he has been a kind 
 friend to us, and I would not speak anything 
 against him." 
 
 " What was the gentleman's name ?" 
 " Beauchamp, sir ; all agree in that— almost 
 the only thing in which they do agree." 
 
 " And Mr. Gamier has never been here 
 since ?"" 
 
 " No, sir ; nor ever will, I think. He has 
 had all the handsome furniture removed to his 
 other house, where he lives in fine style ; but 
 he never looks happy, to my fancy, — and his 
 children all die off, one after the other." 
 
 " It is a sad pity that such a house as this 
 should be left unoccupied ! Are there any 
 more rooms ?" 
 
 "Only one, sir, — Mr. Beauchamp's own 
 room, where they say the ghost walked : and 
 there is a picture there — the only one to be 
 
 H 5
 
 154? THE SQUIRE. 
 
 seen, for Mr. Gamier had all the old family 
 paintings put into a garret, and the door nail- 
 ed up;' 
 
 " Why so ? — that seems strange !" 
 
 " I don't know why, sir ; but I have heard 
 that he did not like to see them." 
 
 " How beautiful !" was Edward Elton's sud- 
 den exclamation as his companion, throwing 
 open the door of a small room, gave to his view 
 the portrait of a female in early youth, the 
 light shining on it with a splendour of effect 
 that must have contented the artist, though 
 he had been the most fastidious of his race. 
 " What touching loveliness ! — the beauty of 
 the heart imprinting its magic power on the 
 perfect features ! One could love such a wo- 
 man at once and for ever ; she has a charm 
 above mere beauty !" 
 
 A but half-suppressed laugh from his com- 
 panion at this sudden burst of admiration re- 
 called the speaker to a sense of the want of 
 wisdom in his rhapsody ; and he joined in the 
 merriment at his own expense. 
 
 " I was sure you would admire it, sir ; all
 
 THE SQUIRE. 155 
 
 who see it do, — though they do not look and 
 speak like you. Mr. Gamier ordered that it 
 should be taken care of." 
 
 " Whose portrait is it .?" 
 
 " Mrs. Beauchamp's — the lady who died of 
 a broken heart.'*' 
 
 Young Elton was strangely annoyed at the 
 information. The portrait looked so full of 
 the spirit of life, that, at the first moment, it 
 seemed scarcely possible to believe that that 
 spirit had been destroyed, and that one whose 
 beauty appeared something more than earthly 
 should have already submitted to a mortal fate, 
 before the colours portraying her loveliness (a 
 loveliness that the heart would fain believe could 
 never wane) had faded, or grown dim from 
 age. — To die too of a broken heart ! Surely 
 it could not be ! — who would inflict pain on 
 her.? He cherished a sort of poetical belief 
 that she was still alive — that they should meet ; 
 and, with a folly which not even the poetry and 
 romance of one-and-twenty could excuse, he 
 expected to meet her as he saw her semblance 
 before him, unchanged through the course of
 
 156 THE SQUIRE. 
 
 seventeen years, and more besides, as his guide 
 assured him. Nay, he had the simplicity to 
 fancy that, by some chance, when they should 
 meet, there would be some link of sympathy 
 between them. Well might his father seek to 
 sober him ! 
 
 " How do you know that she died of a broken 
 heart ?" he asked abruptly. 
 
 " I have heard my father say so ; but I did 
 not go to the funeral — not being born," replied 
 his young guide gaily, amused at his eager- 
 ness. 
 
 Edward still continued to gaze on the pic- 
 ture, till compelled to descend to the hall, 
 where his eggs were prepared, by the woman's 
 violent ringing of an old cracked dinner-bell, 
 and the remonstrances of James, who knew his 
 aunt's temper would be soured by delay. 
 
 " You can look at it again, sir, after your 
 dinner," was the most efficacious argument in 
 inducing Edward's compliance. 
 
 Whilst eating the eggs, — which, to do aunt 
 Judith justice, she had dressed as might have 
 pleased a gourmet^ had such a being existed
 
 THE SQUIRE. 157 
 
 in those hospitable days, when the quantity 
 more than the quality of viands was considered, 
 — Edward sought by thanks and gracious words 
 to win his hostess to the furnishing of some 
 further particulars respecting the family of 
 Beauchamp ; but his endeavours were in vain. 
 Either she looked upon him with a sudden 
 and startling gaze, inquiring why he desired 
 to know, at the same time denying alh know- 
 ledge; or she turned from him in sullen si- 
 lence, which no questions, no thanks, would 
 induce her to break. The graces of his man- 
 ner, generally so irresistible from its warmth 
 and frankness — the showing of a kindly heart, 
 that as yet knew no guile and had nothing 
 to conceal, was here thrown away ; it neither 
 won nor softened her ; and when he expressed 
 a wish to spend a night at the house, offering 
 handsome payment, her ill-temper arose to 
 little short of fury, till, to save her nephew 
 from her wrath, and an act of disobedience, 
 — for he admitted that his parents had left strict 
 charge not to let any stranger sleep beneath 
 the roof during their absence, — he gave up the
 
 158 THE SQUIRE. 
 
 design, and promised to depart after taking 
 another look at the portrait which had excited 
 so deep an interest. To this also Aunt Judith 
 most strongly and strangely objected, demand- 
 ing sharply what the picture could be to him ? 
 and as she had possessed herself of the key of 
 the room whilst he had been discussing the 
 eggs, and would not yield it, save compelled 
 by absolute force, which neither of the young 
 men chose to employ, Edward found himself 
 obliged either to give up the point entirely, or 
 submit to a compromise. After some debate, 
 during which the woman's words and manner 
 confirmed her nephew's hint of derangement, 
 she consented to his having one quarter of an 
 hour's further look at the picture, on his po- 
 sitive promise that he would, at the expiration 
 of that time, quit the house and premises with- 
 out further parley. This was only accorded on 
 Edward's peremptory declaration that he would 
 not depart without another sight of the pic- 
 ture ; and Aunt Judith took her station 
 before the clock to minute his absence, and 
 ring the dinner-bell the instant the time should
 
 THE SQUIRE. 159 
 
 have expired, — and all without assigning any 
 more plausible reason for her churlishness 
 than the possibility of the stranger's proving 
 a thief, a suspicion which neither of her hearers 
 believed she really entertained. 
 
 " Very well, Judith," said Edward Elton 
 gaily, yet half petulantly ; " depend upon it, 
 I return in the night and carry you off for this 
 uncivil behaviour." 
 
 " I wish you would," muttered her dutiful 
 nephew ; whilst the dame herself took no no- 
 tice of the laughing speech. 
 
 " Could any man feel so oppressed, so crush- 
 ed by ruin or by wrong, as to throw away his 
 life whilst the love of such a woman was still 
 his.? That love should have been earthly good 
 enough. None but a selfish coward would 
 have left her thus to stand alone against mis- 
 fortune !" exclaimed Edward Elton when again 
 standing before the portrait. 
 
 " Blame not the dead ! Speak not of that 
 which you do not know ! Judge not as God, 
 while you but see as man !'' said a low, and 
 sweet, but solemn voice ; so sweet — so solemn.
 
 160 THE SQUIRE. 
 
 that it came upon the ear with spell-like 
 power. 
 
 He started at the voice, turning quickly 
 round, not aware till then that his guide had 
 left him. Beside him were two ladies, one 
 in black, standing a little in advance as though 
 she had just moved towards him, but so fully 
 cloaked and closely muffled, that to form an 
 idea of face or figure was beyond the power 
 of the keenest eye. Before he had recovered 
 his surprise — could ask a question or make a 
 defence, the lady, clasping her hands, uttered 
 an indistinct murmur, and would have fallen 
 to the ground, had not the young man sprung 
 forward and caught her in his arms. Bearing 
 her to the window, which he threw open, he 
 was on the point of unclosing her hood to 
 give her air, when her companion stayed his 
 hand, saying as she did so, 
 
 "May I request you to withdraw ? My 
 friend is subject to these attacks, and, leading 
 a secluded life, is always distressed at meeting 
 strangers. Leave her to my care, and she will
 
 THE SQUIRE. 161 
 
 Curiosity and humanity prompted him to 
 press his services ; but they were so peremp- 
 torily declined, with such evident impatience 
 at his presence, that he was obliged to leave 
 the room without a sio:ht of the fainting 
 stranger's face, whom, without sufficient rea- 
 son, he identified with the speaker. 
 
 " Will you be kind enough to send the 
 woman we saw below, with a glass of water ?'* 
 requested the lady who had urged his depar- 
 ture. 
 
 He promised acquiescence; and before he 
 had left the gallery into which the room 
 opened, he clearly distinguished the door 
 bolted behind him. 
 
 '* Is there a spell in the house that affects 
 all who enter.?"" thouorht Edward as he de- 
 
 o 
 
 scended the stairs ; — " all the females, at least, 
 for stranger ones I never met. Or has the 
 spell been cast on me, that I am suddenly be- 
 come so unprepossessing and terrific ?" 
 
 " I was just going to ring the bell," said 
 Aunt Judith as he entered her room. '* Now 
 begone !"
 
 162 THE SQUIRE. 
 
 " All in good time : but first, there is a 
 lady fainting in the picture-room, and you 
 must take her up a glass of water directly."*' 
 
 " Not I,'' replied the woman sulkily ; add- 
 ing instantly, " And what could she faint 
 for?" 
 
 " Because she could not help it, I con- 
 clude," replied the young man with a smile. 
 
 " People don't faint for nothing — and in 
 that room too !" muttered the woman with 
 a look of fear. 
 
 " What do you mean ? — Why should she 
 faint ? — Or what is there particular in that 
 room .''" 
 
 The strong interest expressed by the ques- 
 tioner's manner recalled the woman to her 
 former churlish answers. 
 
 " How should I know why she fainted, or 
 what is in the room .?" 
 
 " Who is the lady .?" 
 
 " How can I tell.? She came here in a 
 chaise, and paid money to see the house ; and 
 you might have looked at her as much as I 
 did."
 
 THE SQUIRE. 163 
 
 " I saw nothinor of the face of the faintinsr 
 lady ; and her companion would not let me 
 lift her hood. There is something strange in 
 this matter ; and it is odd, too, that you should 
 let them go over the house, when you are so 
 anxious to turn me out."" 
 
 " There is nothing small enough up there 
 for a woman to carry off." 
 
 " Thank you for your good opinion ! — but 
 I tell you what, Judith, you know more of 
 this matter — ay, and of others too — than you 
 choose to tell ; and that looks ill." 
 
 " I tell you I know nothing !" replied the 
 woman with passionate vehemence. " Get you 
 gone ! it is past your time." 
 
 " What will you take to let me stay an- 
 other hour .?" 
 
 " You shan't stay a minute ! — you promised 
 to go, and go you shall, if I call in the men 
 and dogs to turn you out !" exclaimed the 
 woman, excited to little short of frenzy by 
 his opposition. " Will you go, as you said 
 you would ?"*' approaching the window looking 
 out into the yard as she spoke.
 
 164 THE SQUIRE. 
 
 " I must keep my promise if you will not 
 be bribed to indulgence. Only let me stay 
 till you have returned from taking the glass 
 of water to the lady, that I may hear how 
 she is." 
 
 " No, — I will not take the water till you 
 are gone ;" seating herself in her arm-chair with 
 an air of dogged resolve that gave no hope of 
 change. 
 
 " If I must go, I must, — with few thanks 
 for your hospitality, and many wishes for your 
 better humour when next we meet." 
 
 " Which I hope will be never," she mut- 
 tered as he left the room. 
 
 She watched him and James, who had joined 
 him at the door, out of the court, and then 
 went for the glass of water. 
 
 In vain Edward Elton sought to satisfy his 
 curiosity concerning the strangers. James could 
 learn no more from the post-boy, than that 
 they had arrived in a chaise at the nearest 
 town, from which they had taken another to 
 bring them to Beauchamp Park ; and that 
 they paid handsomely, and asked no questions-
 
 THE SQUIRE. 165 
 
 They had come whilst Edward was contem- 
 plating the picture ; and the shortest — not the 
 one who had fainted — had offered so large a 
 bribe, that Aunt Judith had given them instant 
 permission to wander over house and grounds 
 alone and at their pleasure. To her nephew's 
 surprise, they instantly proceeded to the late 
 Mr. Beauchamp's room, as though they had 
 been there before ; and on remarking this to 
 his aunt, she had appeared uneasy. 
 
 Further information being beyond his reach, 
 Edward was fain to be contented with his igno- 
 rance, and after offering remuneration to James, 
 who declined it a little indignantly, the young 
 men parted with mutual good wishes, the former 
 expressing regret that he could not assist his 
 obliging guide in his desire for employment in 
 some gayer spot. 
 
 It was Edward's intention to proceed to the 
 town from whence the ladies had arrived, with 
 some idea of obtaining a sight of the fainting 
 stranger on her return ; but directions are 
 seldom clearly given or implicitly followed, and 
 Edward was surprised and annoyed when, at
 
 166 THE SQUIRE. 
 
 the close of the day, he found himself on 
 inquiry some seven miles from the place where 
 he had intended to pass the night. Before 
 he resumed his journey on the morrow, he 
 decided that Aunt JuditVs past would proba- 
 bly not bear the scrutiny of the present, and 
 that, as her nephew had hinted, misfortunes 
 had in some degree bewildered her ideas, as well 
 as soured her temper. Of the strange ladies 
 all he could determine was, that their conduct 
 was extraordinary ; and that by no means sa- 
 tisfied his curiosity, so strongly excited by 
 the rebuke of his hasty judgment, and their 
 evident desire of concealment. Were they old, 
 or young ? and what was their purpose in 
 coming ? He did not know, and he was more 
 vexed at his ignorance than was wise or 
 agreeable. But we can sympathise with his 
 vexation, hating a mystery undeveloped, or 
 a secret withheld, above most other things. 
 It is so very annoying not to know every- 
 thing ; and so very inexcusable now-a-days, 
 since the publication of the Penny Magazine.
 
 THE SQUIRE. 167 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 It was a day in March, — a beautiful day — 
 that is, for hunting. The sun was not so 
 bright as to dispel the scent or the mist: 
 the one lingered in the valleys, — the other hung 
 upon the hills, like gauzy curtains half with- 
 drawn. There was no blue in the heavens; 
 and the faint breeze from the south fell on 
 the brow as a soft and dreamy sigh. 
 
 A young man looked down from one of the 
 hills into the vale below. In the distance was 
 a long line of hunters, fading to the view as 
 they turned the base of an opposite hill, their 
 cheering hollos falling every moment fainter 
 on the ear. Between them and the young 
 man (the hollow fall of their horses* hoofs on 
 the smooth, hard down, sounding like the 
 rumbling of some subterranean stream,) were
 
 168 THE SQUIRE. 
 
 seen a few scattered horsemeiij headed by a 
 fine-looking man on a large and powerful horse, 
 needing neither whip nor spur to urge him in 
 pursuit of some two or three couple of hounds, 
 that ran the scent without check or stop, with 
 a speed that proved them true to their instinct, 
 and left little doubt of their ultimate success, 
 though their victim was not as yet within 
 their view. The young man looked eagerly 
 down from the height, and as the bold hunter 
 in the front, on his gallant bay, swept swiftly 
 past, he bounded down the hill, joining in the 
 chace with the eager impetuosity of an ardent 
 spirit. His slight but well-formed figure 
 seemed fitted for exertion ; every limb was 
 firmly set, every sinew strongly strung: in- 
 ured to exercise, he was as embodied action. 
 Never weary, scarcely slackening his pace, on 
 he ran by the side of the foremost hunter, 
 most of whose followers were lagging far be- 
 hind, their horses breathed by a deep fallow 
 field, that the young man had escaped by his 
 descent from the hill, which placed him be- 
 yond it.
 
 THE SQUIRE. 169 
 
 '' On my word, you are a gallant runner, 
 and deserve to be in at the death ! Cut across 
 that field, — you can burst through the hedge 
 by the old oak there, and you will save a 
 mile : I must go round," shouted the hunter. 
 
 An animated look towards his adviser spoke 
 the young man's thanks as he availed himself 
 of the direction. On swept the chase, and on 
 followed the young man cheering the hounds ; 
 for no one else was in sight, the stragglers 
 having given up the pursuit, whilst the bold 
 hunter had not yet reappeared. A slight 
 check gave the runner breathing-time, and a 
 view-hollo caused him to turn to the right. 
 There was the hunter wavino^ his hand im- 
 patiently, and shouting loudly. 
 
 " There — by that brake — lay the hounds on 
 the scent r 
 
 The runner did as he was directed, with the 
 promptness, if not the skill of a practised 
 sportsman ; and on again swept the hounds 
 and the youth, as though neither could tire ; 
 and on, too, swept the hunter, parallel to, but 
 separated from them by a bank and pales so 
 
 VOL. I- I
 
 170 THE SQUIRE. 
 
 high, and a ditch so deep, as to daunt even 
 that bold and fearless rider. A muttered oath 
 at the unexpected nailing up of a gate, with 
 other words of impatience, mingled with orders 
 how to manage the hounds till he could ride 
 round, showed the young man his dilemma. 
 
 " Stop, sir ; it is hard if between us we 
 cannot break down a ream of pales." 
 
 In an instant he was at the top of the bank ; 
 when, selecting a rail which bore the marks of 
 age, he seized it with a sudden spring, hanging 
 to it with all his weight till it broke down 
 with a crash, whilst he leapt lightly aside to 
 avoid its falling upon him. A few moments 
 more, and the hunter, on his practised and 
 powerful steed, was out in the open country 
 again, pursuing the hounds, and followed, at 
 scarce the distance of a stone'^s throw, by the 
 swift runner. Within ten minutes the fox was 
 seized and torn — the hounds rejoicing in the vic- 
 tory, but certainly not more than the bold hunter, 
 who had dismounted to secure the brush, which 
 he presented to the young stranger, as he came 
 up, with a warm eulogy on his activity, and
 
 THE SQUIRE. 171 
 
 a declaration that he had well earned the 
 trophy. The runner received the offered ho- 
 nour with a bow of acknowledgment, and then, 
 breathless and panting, threw himself on the 
 ground, with a passing thought of the real 
 worthlessness of that for which he had so 
 eagerly sought. The pursuit at an end — the 
 desired object obtained — the satiety of pos- 
 session succeeded. But he was too young and 
 inexperienced, too ardent and active, for such 
 a thought to linger long, and rising with re- 
 covered breath and strength, he looked ready 
 for another chase, had such come in his way ; 
 but none such crossing his path, he prepared 
 to regain the road from which he had been 
 tempted. 
 
 " You must be tired,'* said the hunter, 
 addressing the young stranger with friendly 
 warmth, for his eagerness in the chase and 
 swiftness of foot had won his favour. 
 
 " A little blown, sir, but not easily tired : 
 I am inured to exercise." 
 
 " Right : I hate your lazy loons. You 
 are swift of foot ; even Stay nought" (patting 
 
 i2
 
 172 THE SQUIRE. 
 
 his gallant bay) " could scarcely distance you : 
 for my part, I prefer riding." 
 
 '' So do I, sir, when I have the choice,'' 
 replied the young man with a smile. 
 
 " We shall be good friends, I see. I feared 
 at first you were one of the wandering gentle- 
 men beggars, who tease one to subscribe to 
 prints or poetry. Parcel of nonsense ! though 
 I did give something to have Staynought's 
 picture taken ; but then he deserves it. You 
 are not one of that sort — such fellows know 
 little of hunting."" 
 
 " No, indeed, sir ; I have not the happiness 
 to be a genius." 
 
 " Happiness I I see no happiness in it. A 
 genius, to my mind, is another name for a 
 beggar — next of kin to a fool : I never saw a 
 rich genius yet, or one who could hunt. Give 
 me the sight, and the cry of the hounds on a 
 good scenting morning, and all the pictures 
 and the poetry may be buried in the Red Sea 
 with Pharaoh's host. I never will have a 
 genius about my premises : he is sure to be 
 the most idle and worthless of the whole set, —
 
 THE SQUIRE. 173 
 
 and I fear I have a pretty many knaves and 
 idlers about me as it is ; but then, my father 
 had before me, and the rogues have a regard 
 for the family. — Here am I talking instead 
 of riding home, and all the time as hungry 
 as a hound. Come and dine with me : I owe 
 you a dinner, if only for breaking down the 
 pales; and a good dinner I will ensure its 
 being, with capital wine to wash it down. 
 Come along ! it is getting late. A fine laugh 
 I shall have against Barrett and his set ! I 
 told them they were after a fresh fox ; but 
 they only laughed, and away they went. Rat- 
 tler was brought up at the Grange, and I can 
 always depend on him ;" caressing a fine hound, 
 that, as if conscious of the praise bestowing 
 on him, fawned and jumped on his praiser. 
 " Good dog. — Rattler ! down ! down ! — Come 
 along, young man ; this is the way to the 
 Grange, and dinner must have been ready this 
 hour. I am sorry I have not another horse 
 to offer you; and I am not much of a walker 
 myself," hesitating to remount, and looking 
 embarrassed.
 
 174 THE SQUIRE. 
 
 " Pray mount, sir, without heeding me, — I 
 am not tired : but, as a stranger, I may be 
 intruding." 
 
 " Intruding ! pooh, nonsense ! Philip Con- 
 yers never says what he does not mean, and 
 would share his last meal with a keen hunter 
 like yourself: besides, remember the pales, 
 and make no excuses." 
 
 " I will make no more, sir, but accept your 
 hospitable oflPer as frankly as it was made." 
 
 " That is right — I am no niggard to grudge 
 a dinner. I keep up the old-fashioned hospita- 
 lity, as my fathers did before me : I hate your 
 French wines, and your French ways. What 
 have we to do with the French, but to drub 
 them when they get insolent ? I am an Eng- 
 lishman ; and one English hunter is worth all 
 the French counts that ever were, or ever will 
 be. I don't like anything French ; but give 
 my friends a good fat sirloin, and fine old 
 Port and Madeira. Phil Conyers would never 
 ask any one to dinner whom he did not wish 
 to see, and never stint a friend to a bottle."
 
 THE SQUIRE. 175 
 
 " I have no doubt of your kindness and 
 hospitality, sir," remarked his guest, repress- 
 ing a smile at the squire's harangue, who had 
 grown warm in his abuse of the French, whose 
 wines, cookery, and manners he most cordially 
 detested, without having by any means a suffi- 
 cient knowledge to fit him for the office of 
 judge. 
 
 " There is the Grange !"" exclaimed the 
 squire with honest pride, checking his horse 
 as abruptly as his discourse (a dissertation on 
 drawing covers), to point out the irregular man- 
 sion to his stranger guest, " The Conyerses have 
 held it these four hundred years, and more." 
 
 The young man's praise was sufficiently 
 warm to content the squire, who again put his 
 horse in motion, and would have recurred to 
 the skill required in a huntsman, had not his 
 guest inquired how many miles they were 
 from the town of Wexton. 
 
 ** Ten, at least, as the crow flies ; more by 
 the carriage-road." 
 
 " Indeed ! — that is unlucky ! Do you think,
 
 176 THE SQUIRE. 
 
 sir, I could hire a horse in the village ? for, 
 despite my boasting, I should not like to walk 
 so many miles to-night." 
 
 " Were you going to Wexton, then, when 
 you joined the chase ? It has taken you many 
 miles out of your way." 
 
 " I never considered that, and scarcely regret 
 it after such a glorious run." 
 
 " You shall have no cause to regret it,*' re- 
 plied the squire, delighted at the enthusiastic 
 praise of the run, of which he considered him- 
 self the hero. " You shall sleep at the Grange 
 to-night, and ride one of my horses to Wexton 
 to-morrow." 
 
 " Thank you, sir ; the offer is too delightful 
 to be willingly declined ; — but, unluckily, my 
 portmanteau is at Wexton." 
 
 " Never heed that : I can supply you." 
 
 The whole tribe of dogs came out, as usual, 
 to leap on the squire, and bark at the stranger. 
 By dint of using whip and voice, the former 
 reached the hall-door without falling over 
 any; and the latter, meeting their attacks 
 with boldness, and their fawning with encou-
 
 THE SQUIRE. 177 
 
 ragement, at once established himself as a 
 friend in their estimation, — a circumstance 
 which caused the squire to look with increasing 
 favour on his guest. 
 
 " I had better show you the way," said Mr. 
 Conyers, stamping with his thick boots up the 
 heavy oak staircase, and throwing open the 
 door of a large dark panelled room with a 
 force that would have annihilated a nervous 
 invalid. 
 
 " Well, Mabel, how is your headache ? 
 Take to hunting, child, and you would not 
 know the meaning of the words : — don't be 
 shy ; but come out of that comer, and welcome 
 the guest I have brought you home.*" 
 
 The gentle Mabel, half blushing, half smil- 
 ing at his address, for she had lost some of her • 
 timidity, came out from the recess of the win- 
 dow where she had been sitting at work, and 
 curtsied to the stranger, who — shame to his 
 manners ! — forgot to bow in return ; so sur- 
 prised was he at the sight of the lovely girl 
 before him (having taken for granted that his 
 host had no daughter,) and so annoyed as he 
 
 I 5
 
 17B THE SQUIRE. 
 
 glanced at his dirty boots, considering how ill 
 suited was the state of his apparel for a lady''s 
 drawing-room. 
 
 " I beg your pardon, sir ; but my dress ! — I 
 had no idea I was to be introduced to a lady !" 
 stammered out the stranger, who had all the 
 formal respect of that period for the female sex, 
 and was, for the first time in his life, presented 
 to a young and lovely girl of his own station in 
 society. 
 
 " Never mind your dress V replied the squire, 
 little caring for such things himself; " depend 
 upon it, she will not look enough to know 
 you a week hence, and will not heed how you 
 are dressed." 
 
 " Not in the least," replied Mabel with an 
 unflattering simplicity which her hearer would 
 have dispensed with. 
 
 *^ Besides, you shall have the choice of my 
 wardrobe — embroidered waistcoats, velvet coats, 
 sword, bag and wig." 
 
 " I fear your kind offer will little advan- 
 tage me," replied his guest with recovered 
 ease and gaiety, glancing with an arch smile
 
 THE SQUIRE. 179 
 
 at the tall and portly squire, nearly double 
 his size. 
 
 Mr. Conyers laughed a long, loud laugh at 
 the idea of the slight figure of his guest in his 
 full-sized apparel ; and even Mabel smiled at 
 the thought, won to look at the stranger by the 
 archness and sweetness of his tones, so differ- 
 ent from the rough, unmodulated voices that 
 usually met her ear. 
 
 " Then I do not know what is to be done," 
 said the squire, still laughing. '' The best I 
 can offer is, that James shall rub you down 
 to the most advantage, and put fresh powder 
 in your hair, whilst we will engage not to be 
 critical : — but make haste, for dinner waits.^' 
 
 " Oh, come ; you do very well," said the 
 kind-hearted host, as the stranger re-entered 
 the drawing-room but a few moments after 
 himself. 
 
 " Thank you for the verdict in my favour," 
 replied the young man with his wonted and 
 winning smile. 
 
 " I could not have said otherwise," remarked 
 the squire bluntly, really gazing with admira-
 
 180 THE SQUIRE. 
 
 tion on the graceful figure, bright hazel eye, 
 dark brown curling hair, and animated features 
 of his guest. — " By the way, Mabel has re- 
 minded me of a sad omission : I never intro- 
 duced you, seeming to take to you as if we had 
 met before. But it is rather awkward not to be 
 able to tell your name." 
 
 " Edward Elton, sir.'' 
 
 " And this is Mabel Conyers — my only 
 daughter — the most timid of the timid. I shall 
 marvel if she look at you enough to know if 
 you are old or young — simpleton as she is !" 
 
 " You told me, the other day, that I was 
 growing quite bold," said his blushing child. 
 
 " Did I .^ — then I fear I said what was not 
 quite the truth ; and it is not often Philip 
 Conyers can be accused of that. — But there is 
 dinner ; so march you down, Mabel, and I will 
 put oflp chiding till another time." 
 
 And down marched Mabel, the gentlemen 
 following, — handing the ladies not being the 
 fashion of those times in a retired country 
 neighbourhood. The dinner (delayed for the 
 squire) was concluded, having been done ample
 
 THE SQUIRE. 181 
 
 justice to by the hunters; and still Mabel sat 
 at the head of the table, doing its honours, 
 though the conversation turned much on 
 hunting, and she, as a gentle, generous woman, 
 bestowed her sympathy upon the hunted, not- 
 withstanding her father's remembrance that she 
 had but lately lost some favourite chicken 
 through Reynard's voracity, and that he had 
 seen even her cheek flush and her eye kindle 
 when the train of hounds and hunters swept 
 on before her. 
 
 " All looked so eager and so happy, I forgot 
 for the moment what the poor fox must suffer.'*' 
 
 *' Poor fox ! — why, my little Mabel, you 
 are too kind-hearted by half ! — who would 
 think of pitying a fox ? If we did not hunt 
 him, he would die in tortures in a trap, or pine 
 away in old age. Besides, he likes it. I am 
 sure he does !" he reiterated more loudly, as he 
 marked the half smile on the lips of his guest 
 and daughter. 
 
 " I never heard one say he did not," re- 
 marked Edward gaily, turning the conversa- 
 tion, which he fancied miglit weary his fair
 
 182 THE SQUIRE. 
 
 hostess, who still lingered on, unconscious of a 
 longer stay than usual, so well had the young 
 stranger's animated remarks beguiled the time. 
 But clocks were not then stayed from striking, 
 lest the flight of time thus frequently brought 
 before the mind should dull the thoughtless; 
 and Mabel started when she found, from the 
 warning tone of the old horologe, how long 
 she had lingered in the dining-room. 
 
 " Fill your glass !" said the squire to his 
 guest, pressing more wine upon him with the 
 hospitality of those olden times. 
 
 " Excuse me, sir,*" said the young man with 
 courteous firmness. '' I have mixed but little 
 with the world, and have neither the will nor 
 the power to drink deep." 
 
 " You shall have your way. If my friends 
 like to be carried to bed, instead of walking, I 
 am not the man to baulk them ; but I am no 
 drinker when by myself. Suppose we go to 
 the stable, then : I want to see how Staynought 
 is after his chase, and if the hounds have had 
 their dinner, and been sent to Barrett's, as I 
 ordered. After that, Mabel shall give us tea."
 
 THE SQUIRE. 183 
 
 Mabel did give them tea, and presided at the 
 supper-table : and so frank and animated was 
 the stranger's manner, yet withal so attentive 
 and respectful to father and daughter, that his 
 being unknown till that evening was forgotten. 
 The very dogs fawned upon him as on an old 
 acquaintance. The squire declared him to be a 
 fine young fellow ; and the timid Mabel would 
 have recognised him had she not seen him again 
 for months. 
 
 And what thought Edward Elton of his new 
 acquaintance ? We have seen that he was in- 
 clined to look on all things through a rose- 
 coloured medium : — no wonder then that the 
 warmth of the squire had won his heart ; whilst 
 the gentle Mabel, with her soft and touching 
 loveliness, seemed to him as one of the fairy 
 forms of which he had occasionally dreamt 
 when resting on the greensward in some shel- 
 tered glade, — a brighter being than had ever 
 yet crossed his path. 
 
 Female forms flitted before him in his slum- 
 bers. Aunt Judith came, with her harsh tones 
 and her keen look, waving her arm towards
 
 184 THE SQUIRE. 
 
 him with a Fury's wrath ; but one with a glid- 
 ing, graceful motion came between, and the 
 arm dropped weak and harmless ! The figure 
 was closely muffled, as hers who had fainted : 
 he knelt before it, praying to see her face ! The 
 hood was raised, and disclosed the dazzling 
 beauty of the portrait at Beauchamp Park, 
 and he thought the eyes were turned on him in 
 love. Even while he looked, her more than 
 earthly beauty faded to the hues of death — the 
 cloak became a shroud — and the dweller of the 
 dark grave stood before him ! She passed from 
 his sight as a wreath of mist, and Mabel stood 
 in her place, with a gentle and confiding look, 
 and a quiet, dove-like beauty, preferable, in his 
 eyes, to the brightness of the former vision ! 
 He held her hand in his — he whispered low 
 soft words, and listened for her answer ; — be- 
 fore it came, his father rushed between and 
 parted them ! Then succeeded a strange con- 
 fusion ; many figures passed — some looking on 
 him kindly, some in wrath ; — but he could dis- 
 tinguish no features, till Robert Forman, the 
 young man whom he had defended, and the
 
 THE SQUIRE. 185 
 
 highwayman from whom he had defended him, 
 stood before him. 
 
 So Slumber wove her mingled web, till, 
 roused by inharmonious voices beneath his win- 
 dow, he started up in his bed — gazed around 
 in wonder — rubbed his eyes, to be sure that he 
 no longer slept — and, after some moments of 
 consideration, comprehended where he was, 
 and how he had come thither !
 
 186 THE SQUIRE. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 Whilst dressing, the dream of the night 
 before recurred to his mind ; but, not able to 
 unravel its tangled web, he resolved to dismiss 
 it from his mind, and descended to the break- 
 fast-room, the dining apartment of the pre- 
 ceding day. The fatigue and excitement of 
 the chase had produced a slight degree of 
 fever, and sleep had brought before him, as 
 in a mental phantasmagoria, the scenes and the 
 persons he had encountered during his short 
 life ; but the machinery being out of order, 
 there had been a sad want of harmony in 
 distances, and lights, and shadows, — a crowd- 
 ing and mingling of all together, creating an 
 inextricable confusion. That Aunt Judith, 
 and the fainting lady, and the portrait, should 
 have been prominent figures in the visioned 
 confusion, was not strange, for there was mys-
 
 THE SQUIRE. 187 
 
 tery attaching to each ; but why the gentle 
 and single-minded Mabel should have formed 
 part and parcel of the vision, or appeared in 
 connexion with those singular personages, was 
 not so easily to be accounted for, till, on his 
 entering the breakfast-room, where she was 
 ministering at the tea-table, he was struck with 
 a real or fancied likeness to the admired por- 
 trait. So slight, however, was the resem- 
 blance (being only an occasional look, not a 
 general similarity) that he sometimes doubted 
 its reality, holding it but a fancy engendered 
 by his dream, and not worthy of further 
 thought. The portrait was beautiful and bril- 
 liant, with something of a lofty air; Mabel, 
 soft and lovely, — looking up, when she ven- 
 tured to look, with a touching sweetness that 
 asked for pity, and won regard. 
 
 " Plague take that colt I" exclaimed the 
 squire, starting up from the breakfast-table 
 towards the conclusion of the repast, and ap- 
 proaching the window. " He will never be 
 properly broken, fit for hunting, he is so hot 
 and restive."
 
 188 THE SQUIRE. 
 
 " It is a fine animal !"" remarked Edward, 
 having followed his host. 
 
 " Yes. I gave fifty guineas for him a year 
 ago ; but Dawkins cannot break him, though 
 famous for taming the wildest. I believe I 
 must let him have him to send down into 
 the West to his brother; for his name is up 
 here, and no one will mount him. Thirty 
 guineas is little ; but I could not recommend 
 him. No one but Dawkins dares ride him; 
 and he has been thrown twice, and cannot 
 manage him." 
 
 " I do not think his present rider goes the 
 right way to work," observed his guest. 
 
 " Indeed ! Dawkins is noted as the best 
 breaker-in for miles round," remarked the 
 squire rather peevishly. " Perhaps you have 
 horses of your own, and superior jockeys .^"" 
 
 " I have no horse, sir. I am sorry to say, 
 a gallant steed is still to me an object of desire, 
 instead of possession." 
 
 '' Poor fellow !'' said Mr. Conyers compas- 
 sionately, forgetting to feel offended at the 
 presumption of one who had no stud giving
 
 THE SQUIRE. 189 
 
 an opinion, in his pity at his being horseless ; 
 the which, as an inveterate hunter, unwilling, 
 and, from disuse, unable to walk, he considered 
 one of the mighty misfortunes of this life, 
 
 " He will be thrown !" exclaimed Mabel 
 in alarm, as the horse reared, kicked, and cur- 
 veted in no gentle manner. 
 
 " Be under no alarm, Miss Conyers ! I 
 am much mistaken if that rider will provoke 
 his horse to more than he can well endure." 
 
 The squire turned a quick and not well- 
 pleased glance at the speaker, remarking pet- 
 tishly, " Suppose you try him yourself, young 
 man." 
 
 " Readily, sir ! with your permission," re- 
 plied his guest, meeting his gaze with a steady 
 look, his cheek flushing at the tone still more 
 than the words. 
 
 " Do not try ! Pray do not try !" pleaded 
 Mabel earnestly, forgetting her shyness in her 
 fear of an accident. 
 
 " I thank you for your kindness. Miss 
 Conyers," he replied gently; then added a 
 little proudly, for his young blood was up.
 
 190 THE SQUIRE. 
 
 " I must prove to your father that I am not 
 the boaster he believes me." 
 
 ** Surely you will not let him go !" exclaimed 
 Mabel, clinging to her father's arm. " Think 
 if he should be hurt !" 
 
 " Pshaw ! Mabel, you are always frightened 
 about everything: I dare say he will think 
 better of it." 
 
 Edward Elton had lingered a moment to 
 catch those gentle tones, but he lingered not 
 with the hope of being recalled, and though 
 his eye flashed at the squire's answer, it made 
 no change in his resolution. 
 
 Choosing a whip as he passed through the 
 hall, he stepped out upon the lawn and walked 
 towards the still restive animal. 
 
 '' Stop, Mr. Elton," exclaimed the squire, 
 throwing up the window, and half shaking off" 
 his daughter, who was still clinging to his 
 arm. 
 
 Edward approached, but with a rather state- 
 ly air, uncertain if the Mr. Elton so formally 
 pronounced was meant in mockery or polite- 
 ness ; for, brief as had been their acquaintance,
 
 THE SQUIRE. 191 
 
 the squire, considering his age a warrant, had 
 before waved punctilio in his address. 
 
 " What is your wish, sir ?" inquired Ed- 
 ward proudly. 
 
 Mr. Conyers paused for a moment. 
 
 " Wish ? — oh, to have the past five minutes 
 forgotten," he answered frankly, having re- 
 covered his good-humour, and not liking to 
 expose the young man to danger. " It would 
 be a strange piece of hospitality to condemn 
 my guest to ride a restive horse, with plenty 
 of others in the stable." 
 
 " In plain words, sir, you had rather that I 
 would not mount your colt.'' 
 
 " In plain words, yes." 
 
 " One more question, if you please, sir ; 
 and pardon me if I request a candid answer. 
 Do you fear for your horse, or your guest ?" 
 
 " Since you will have a candid answer — for 
 my guest. The horse is of little value now, 
 and would be worth something if broken of 
 his tricks. Come back ! Mabel will lose her 
 wits with fright if you mount." 
 
 " I am much honoured by Miss Conyers's
 
 19^ THE SQUIRE. 
 
 humane anxiety ; but she must feel, after what 
 has passed, that it is necessary I should prove 
 I made no boast of what I dared not at least 
 attempt. — I have no doubt as to the result."" 
 
 " Then you have ridden, though you have 
 no horses of your own ?*' inquired the squire, 
 who was vexed at his own petulance, and 
 could not but admire the respectful firmness 
 of the young man. 
 
 " Constantly, sir. I have frequently as- 
 sisted a famous breaker (a singular character 
 living near us) in taming the wildest colts; 
 besides having practised in a wandering circus 
 to whose owner I had rendered some little 
 service." 
 
 ^' Why did you not say so before ?" asked 
 Mr. Conyers bluntly. 
 
 " You gave me no opportunity, sir, and 
 might have thought it boasting." 
 
 " Ay, ay, hot young blood takes offence 
 at trifles : I was young myself once. I am 
 sorry for what I said ; and now, come in : — or 
 mount, an' you will,'' seeing that the young 
 man's heart was set upon it.
 
 THE SQUIRE. 19o 
 
 " Thank you, sir/' replied Edward with 
 his usual open expression of countenance. 
 " May I choose a bridle as well as a whip ?" 
 
 " Anything you please. Old Ned will show 
 you where they are kept." 
 
 In a few minutes Edward returned, fol- 
 lowed by the grey-headed groom, bearing the 
 chosen bridle. 
 
 *' You had better put it on yourself, sir, 
 if you understands them things : but if you 
 bean't used to vicious horses, don't ye mount ; 
 Fury has larnt a thing or two." 
 
 " Thank you ! I understand ; but I am used 
 to all sorts of horses ;" and his smile won the 
 old man^s heart, who, truth to tell, had been 
 thrown by Fury, (as the horse had been named 
 by general acclamation,) and entertained some 
 jealousy of Dawkins. 
 
 " Indeed, sir, you had better not try : I can 
 scarcely sit un ; and as to managing un, it 's 
 next to nothing !" said Dawkins with consider- 
 able earnestness, as Edward prepared to put 
 on the bridle, with the assistance of Ned. 
 
 " I know the worth of your advice, but 
 
 VOL. I. K
 
 194 THE SQUIRE. 
 
 am not frightened. There are several ways of 
 conquering the vicious." 
 
 " If you choose to try, sir — " muttered Daw- 
 kins, shrinking back from the keen gaze of 
 the speaker, and oflPering no further oppo- 
 sition. 
 
 The animal submitted to his new equipment 
 with a quietude which he rarely accorded to a 
 stranger, and received his patting with tolera- 
 ble graciousness ; but Edward was not render- 
 ed less wary by this courteous conduct. As he 
 was ready to mount, a servant brought him 
 out a hunting-cap. 
 
 " You had better put it on,'' said the squire 
 kindly. 
 
 " Thank you, sir : I had quite forgotten my 
 head was uncovered." Then, seeing Mabel 
 still by her father's side, half looking, and 
 half turned away, he added, " I assure you. 
 Miss Conyers, there is not the slightest danger 
 to be anticipated ; but, as the animal will not 
 be subdued without a struggle, had you not 
 better retire ? By Fury's eye, I see that hi^ 
 present courtesy will not last long."
 
 THE SQUIRE. 195 
 
 " You are sure there is no danger ?" 
 
 " None, I feel convinced ; but you will 
 imagine some." 
 
 " Do try and be a heroine for once, Mabel, 
 and look without blenching on a prancing steed, 
 as they say in the Seven Champions," observed 
 her father. 
 
 Mabel shook her head, but she did not quit 
 the window; and her anxiety became too in- 
 tense to allow her to withdraw her gaze, though 
 the clasped hands and pallid cheeks gave 
 little promise of her ever becoming a heroine. 
 The young man, gathering up the reins, placed 
 his hand on the animaPs shoulder and sprang 
 into his seat before any present were aware of 
 the attempt. No sooner did the horse feel 
 his weight, than he reared so high, that the 
 crowd (for the whole household had assembled) 
 feared he would fall backwards. A murmur 
 of apprehension rose, which grew in strength 
 as the animal increased his violence ; sometimes 
 leaping off the ground with fierce and fiery 
 bounds ; then standing on his hind legs, and 
 pawing with his fore feet, or plunging and 
 
 K 2
 
 196 THE SQUIRE. 
 
 kicking, till the general opinion among the 
 domestics that he was possessed by the Evil 
 One, and more than mortal horse, scarcely 
 seemed an idle jest Even the florid cheek 
 of the bold squire lost some of its strong co- 
 louring, and Mabel's grew paler still, though 
 she uttered neither scream nor question ; but 
 the rider kept a firm and fearless seat. His 
 temper was unruffled — his whip unused ; and, 
 for a time, he rather bore with the creature's 
 rage than opposed it, merely keeping a steady 
 hold on the rein, bending, or sitting erect, as 
 best enabled him to defeat the endeavours to 
 throw him : but when he had sufficiently 
 proved to the horse himself, which began to 
 weary with his exertions, the vanity of such 
 a hope, his knees pressed him closer and 
 closer, till the animal trembled beneath the 
 pressure ; whilst the flashing eye grew dull — 
 the neck less proudly arched — and he stood 
 quiet as a lamb, with quivering nostrils and 
 a smoking coat. A shout of admiration rose 
 from the crowd, above which was heard the
 
 THE SQUIRE. 197 
 
 squire's loud view-hollo, followed by an al- 
 most equally loud " Bravely done !" 
 
 The rider, slightly relaxing his pressure, was 
 patting the animal's neck, and, as some assert, 
 looking towards a fair pale face, when the 
 horse, startled by the hollo, bounded away at 
 full speed. For an instant the rider wavered 
 in his seat at this unexpected change ; — the 
 next showed him as firmly fixed — as much 
 master as before. Not that he slackened the 
 animal's speed, but, on the contrary, urged 
 him on up a sharp hill, till he would gladly 
 have paused for breathing-time, an indulgence 
 denied, till, checked and tamed, at least for a 
 time, the young man brought the horse back 
 to its owner in a mood so gentle, that he 
 shrank not at noise or caressing, and exhibited 
 no further symptom of rebellion. 
 
 " Bravely done indeed !" exclaimed the 
 squire, coming out on the lawn, and shaking 
 Edward's hand with an almost painful warmth, 
 — " Bravely done indeed ! and you scarcely 
 used the whip."
 
 198 THE SQUIRE. 
 
 " No, sir. I believe there would be little 
 call for force on most occasions, would we 
 subdue our own tempers first: firmness will 
 ever effect more than passion." 
 
 " Very likely : only some cannot help being 
 a little warm on occasion — it is their nature, 
 — but then it is over in a minute,*' replied the 
 squire with a slight self-consciousness. *' I 
 was wrong to doubt your powers." 
 
 " Never think of that, sir : I believe I spoke 
 more freely than I should have done. Your 
 whole conduct had been so kind, that I forgot 
 we had met but yesterday, and were not old 
 friends."" 
 
 " Old friends !— and so we are — or will be. 
 You shall not go to-day, as you proposed, but 
 stay at the Grange as long as you can find it 
 agreeable ; and I will mount you till the end 
 of the season. It would be a shame such a rider 
 should be obliged to walk — leave that to book- 
 worms and milksops ; you will do credit to my 
 hunters, and bring my stud into still greater 
 repute. No refusal, — or I shall be affronted, 
 and think you have not forgiven my doubts. —
 
 THE SQUIRE. 199 
 
 Jack !** turning to one of the numerous doers 
 of nothing, " go to Wexton for this gentle- 
 man's portmanteau : he will give you direc- 
 tions." 
 
 " But, my dear sir " began Edward. 
 
 " No ' dear sir ' to me, if you refuse my in- 
 vitation," replied the warm-hearted, but some- 
 times fiery squire. " If you don't like the 
 Grange and its master, go ! — if you do, stay !" 
 
 " Then I shall stay, most certainly," replied 
 the young man with an animation that proved 
 how much his own wishes were gratified by 
 the decision. " I only meant to say, that as 
 yet you knew nothing of me or my father." 
 
 " Hang your father ! I don't care whether 
 you had one or not," exclaimed the squire 
 pettishly. " Such a runner and rider, with 
 such eagerness in hunting, can neither be 
 rogue nor coward. I would back you as a 
 gentleman for a thousand; and what care I 
 where you live, or where you were born ? or 
 whether you had a title in your family, or 
 not ? Say no more ! but stay here quietly 
 till tired of us."
 
 SOO THE SQUIRE. 
 
 " I might chance to become a fixture, then, 
 sir." 
 
 " With all my heart : Mabel and I find it 
 dull sometimes ; for she takes no interest in 
 hunting, and I can't read and work. I owe 
 you much for taming Fury ; — but do you think 
 this gentleness will last ?'" 
 
 " With care, sir, I hope it may. I judge 
 him to have a high, but not vicious spirit, that 
 kindness and firmness will subdue. I should 
 recommend no one''s mounting him for some 
 days but myself, and his being groomed by 
 a person who has not groomed him before, 
 that he may forget his old tricks and win 
 himself a new character: — ^it would be better 
 even if his former attendant did not go near 
 him. I have little doubt that he will prove 
 worth many thirty guineas." 
 
 " Then suppose we give the charge of him 
 to old Ned," remarked the squire. 
 
 " Just as you please, sir ; I am sure I don't 
 want the care of un," replied Dawkins sul- 
 lenly ; muttering, *' The young gentleman 
 may find himself mistaken ;" but turning
 
 THE SQUIRE. 201 
 
 away, as he spoke, from that young gentle- 
 man's look. 
 
 " I understand what I am saying," remark- 
 ed Edward calmly : " keep you away from 
 him, and I do not fear a relapse." 
 
 " Mind that, Dawkins ! I will not have you 
 interfere," observed Mr. Conyers in a peremp- 
 tory tone that ensured obedience. 
 
 The man turned away without reply ; but 
 there was wrath in his heart against Edward 
 from that day. 
 
 " I do not know what you will think of my 
 forwardness. Miss Conyers, but I have ac- 
 cepted your father's kind invitation to remain 
 some days at the Grange," said Edward, after 
 expressing his hopes that she had not been 
 much alarmed. 
 
 " I am glad of it, for I fear my father finds 
 me but a dull companion," she replied frankly 
 and simply. 
 
 " Mending, Mabel ! mending, I hope !" ob- 
 served her father. " You did not squall as some 
 silly women would have done, though even I 
 feared for the rider. To be sure, you looked 
 
 K 5
 
 ^02 THE SQUIRE. 
 
 like a corpse; but if women will only hold 
 their tongues, we must let them turn pale ; 
 and you had the sense to think of the cap." 
 
 " Then I owe that kindness to Miss Con- 
 yers ?"* 
 
 " That you do ! and you look so grateful, 
 I wish you would repay it by persuading her 
 to mount the mare I bought for her especial 
 use. That would be doing her a real ser- 
 vice !" 
 
 Mabel by no means considered the service 
 so essential, but, to her father's delight, she 
 really did mount it, though with many mis- 
 givings ; but, either thanks to young Elton's 
 carefulness, who kept close by her side — or 
 that the animal was, as the squire asserted, 
 the most gentle of the gentle, she acquitted 
 herself so well, that her father, as he kissed 
 her cheek on lifting her from the saddle, pro- 
 nounced her " a good girl,*" predicting that 
 she would in time become an accomplished 
 horsewoman, if Elton would but take her 
 in hand. Her only reply was a smile, and 
 playfully expressed doubt that that would
 
 THE SQUIRE. 203 
 
 prove beyond even Mr. Elton's powers. 
 Strange to say, she did not blush at his reply, 
 or turn away from his animated smile ; so com- 
 pletely had his frank and graceful manner won 
 her confidence. 
 
 The evening seemed but short to all. The 
 subduing Fury had firmly established Edward 
 in the good opinion of his host, who, in his 
 enthusiastic admiration of his horsemanship, 
 would have vouched for his possessing every 
 possible virtue ; and each would have been a 
 little annoyed had any kind, officious friend 
 thought it a duty to point out the shortness 
 of their acquaintance. 
 
 What then ? Likings and dislikings have 
 clocks of their own, which keep time by other 
 than the common-place rules that content the 
 herd of mankind. They are ruled by the 
 dials of the heart — the shine or the shadow of 
 the sun of aflPection. Yet, truth to say, the sun 
 of affection is a capricious sun : it will lengthen 
 a day to a year, make a year seem but as 
 one fleeting day ; and I would not advise a 
 gourmand to regulate his meals by such a
 
 204< THE SQUIRE. 
 
 dial: — he could not read the riddle of its 
 marks. 
 
 The squire at least could not be termed ro- 
 mantic; and, with all due deference to the 
 young gentleman'^s vanity, he was a greater 
 favourite with the father than the daughter.
 
 THE SQUIRE. 205 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 " We must ride hard, or we shall be late," 
 said Mr. Conyers the next morning to his 
 young guest, whom he had mounted on one 
 of his hacks, having sent a favourite hunter 
 on to cover for his use. 
 
 " A fine scenting-day ! We shall have a 
 capital run : feel no delicacy, but maintain the 
 character of Dasher," he said, as he was, some 
 time after, exchanging the hack for the hunter, 
 and looking to the tightening of the girths. " I 
 feel like a boy at his first field this morning. 
 Let the youngsters look to their laurels, for I 
 intend to be in at the death again ! There 
 are ten years of life in the winding of that 
 horn and the carolling of those hounds." 
 
 It is not for man to look into futurity : 
 well for him that it is not ! But he should not
 
 206 THE SQUIRE. 
 
 hold all as certain, of which his bounded vision 
 cannot behold the uncertainty. Who shall 
 say what a day may bring forth? Not long 
 past the prime of life, the squire counted 
 upon length of days; — in the pride of his 
 strength, he thought to lead the chase : — he 
 never led the chase again ! 
 
 The hunters had met at the appointed place ; 
 — the weather and the scent — the relative va- 
 lue of various horses and hounds — the last 
 run, and the last piece of scandal — the flirta- 
 tions, births, deaths, and marriages of the 
 whole county, (for there is no gossip like that 
 of hunters on a hunting morning ;) all these, 
 and a thousand other matters, had been dis- 
 cussed : — the squire had boasted of his triumph 
 two days before, and laughed at the majority, 
 who, by not following him, had lost a capital 
 run, and gained nothing but vexation : — Sir 
 Thomas Barrett (the most heavy of heavy 
 baronets, and master of the hounds) had asked 
 after Miss Conyers's health with praiseworthy 
 soberness of tone ; — the brake had been drawn 
 — the fox had broken cover — the proper num-
 
 THE SQUIRE. 207 
 
 ber of view-hollos had been given — the hounds 
 were close on the scent — and on swept the 
 chase in gallant show ; the early morning air 
 (for hunters were no lie-a-beds in those days) 
 loaded with the fragrance of the bright gorse, 
 on whose prickly boughs hung the dew-beaded 
 gossamer, glistening in the March sun as a 
 silver net-work strung with diamonds. 
 
 The gentle and odorous breeze was refresh- 
 ing, and on swept the hunt, as we have said, 
 in gallant show, passing over many a mile, 
 leaving many a straggler far behind (for the 
 first burst had breathed unpractised steeds) — yet 
 still on swept the chase over bank, and wild, 
 and field ; and of the few whose horses had 
 not tired, Philip Conyers and Edward Elton 
 were the foremost. The light weight of the 
 latter would have enabled him to outstrip his 
 host ; but a feeling of courtesy checked his 
 speed, and he rode side by side with the honest 
 squire. Had a painter desired models for a 
 hunting-piece, here they were ! — bold riders, 
 and eager sportsmen — their handsome features 
 animated with the spirit of pursuit.
 
 208 THE SQUIRE. 
 
 " I said I should lead the chase for many 
 a day yet !" shouted the squire to his brother 
 hunters just behind. 
 
 A rough broken hedge on a steep bank, 
 with a deep ditch on the other side, was before 
 them. 
 
 " Over r shouted the squire to Elton. 
 '* Have no care for Dasher ! he could clear 
 twice as much ; and I know you can keep 
 your seat.*' 
 
 The order was obeyed, as soon as given ; the 
 young man having only hesitated because he 
 was riding another's horse, for the fine animal, 
 accustomed to such a much greater weight, was 
 scarcely blown, and steed and rider stood in 
 safety on the other side, Edward having taken 
 the precaution to select a low part of the 
 hedge, and, uncertain of the extent of leap, to 
 make allowance for any probable distance. 
 
 " Take care, sir,~-the ditch is very broad 
 and deep," said Edward, pausing a moment to 
 look back at the squire, whose horse was by 
 no means as fresh as his own. 
 
 " The squire craning !"* shouted a voice 
 from beliind.
 
 THE SQUIRE. 209 
 
 " Dareall blown !" exclaimed another, as 
 the gallant horse made a slight stumble. 
 
 " Philip Conyers baulked !" cried a third, 
 coming rapidly up. 
 
 " Let me lead him over and change horses ; 
 mine is still fresh," said Edward. 
 
 " Nonsense, boy ! — stand aside ! — Philip 
 Conyers was never baulked yet !" he shouted, 
 looking back at the advancing taunters for an 
 instant, ere, striking his spurs into his panting 
 horse, he forced him to the leap. 
 
 The noble animal stumbled again ; — still his 
 master urged him on. He rose to the rein, 
 exerting all his remaining strength ; but his 
 fore feet struck the top of the hedge, which 
 crashed at his touch, and down came horse 
 and rider into the deep ditch below, the whole 
 weight of the powerful animal resting on the 
 right arm and shoulder of the squire. 
 
 " Stained the scarlet !" shouted one of the 
 foremost hunters, clearing the leap at a less 
 perilous spot. 
 
 " Who leads the field now ?" shouted an- 
 other equally fortunate.
 
 210 THE SQUIRE. 
 
 " Hope you are not hurt," said Sir Thomas 
 Barrett, riding on without waiting for a 
 reply. 
 
 " I said his horse was blown,'* remarked 
 another ; while some passed on without a 
 knowledge of the accident. 
 
 " For Heaven's sake, assist me to raise the 
 horse, or Mr. Conyers will be crushed !" ex- 
 claimed Edward, appealing to the last of the 
 party, a sober-looking person, who had led 
 his horse over bank and ditch, and was re- 
 mounting. 
 
 " I will send the first man I meet," he re- 
 plied deliberately, riding on as he spoke. 
 
 There lay the kind-hearted squire, who never 
 refused a favour, if in his power to grant 
 it, lying in a ditch — the horse which he had 
 urged to the leap to appease his pride, know- 
 ing him to be distressed, resting on him — 
 tended only by a stranger, whilst the friends 
 of years passed on unheeding. 
 
 " Never mind me ! Let Dasher head the 
 hunt, since Dareall cannot," exclaimed Mr. 
 Conyers, as Edward, who had dismounted
 
 THE SQUIRE. 211 
 
 on perceiving the accident, came to his as- 
 sistance. 
 
 " Pardon me, sir : I cannot leave you thus.'* 
 
 " Why not ? My friends have passed on ; 
 and you are but a stranger," said the squire 
 with a slight tinge of bitterness. 
 
 " I would not quit you, sir, were you really 
 a stranger ; much less one from whom I have 
 received such kindness. I hope you are not 
 hurt." 
 
 " I hope not ; but I cannot stir, with Dare- 
 all on me." 
 
 " Do not attempt it, lest he should strug- 
 gle. I will try to remove him gently ; — hap- 
 pily he has not yet stirred." 
 
 He said truly — he had not yet stirred — he 
 never stirred again. The heart of the gallant 
 horse had broken in the endeavour to redeem 
 his master's fame — to gratify his master's pride. 
 
 "Is Dareall hurt ?'* inquired Mr. Conyers : 
 " he does not try to rise." 
 
 " I see a labourer in the field yonder, and 
 will call him to assist in raising the poor ani- 
 mal."
 
 212 THE SQUIRE. 
 
 " You do not say if he is hurt,"''' remarked 
 the sq uire, looking anxiously up into the young 
 man's face. 
 
 " He is in no pain, sir — never will be again." 
 
 "Dead?" 
 
 " I fear so. Yet it is a providential thing ; 
 for had he struggled, lying beneath him as you 
 do, your life would have been in danger." 
 
 " Dead !" murmured the squire. " Poor 
 Dareall dead ! — All my doing ! — I should have 
 spared him." And the kind squire closed his 
 eyes with a groan, which his own sufferings 
 had not extorted. 
 
 By the aid of the labourer, Mr. Conyers was 
 extricated from the weight of the dead horse, 
 but, faint and giddy, could not stand. A late 
 straggler rode for medical assistance and a 
 carriage, at the request of Edward, who 
 thought of everything best for the occasion ; 
 and returned in a much shorter time than could 
 have been hoped, having met the surgeon re- 
 turning in a chaise from a distant and urgent 
 call. After assisting to place the squire in the 
 chaise, Edward remounted his horse to precede
 
 THE SQUIRE. 213 
 
 the sufferer and get all ready against his arrival 
 at the Grange. 
 
 " Break it gently to Mabel," said Mr. Con- 
 yers in a low tone : " she is so gentle — so 
 affectionate : — say she must bear up to nurse me. 
 And poor Dareall ! — tell Ned to send for him, 
 and see that not a hair of his skin is touched ! 
 — he died to save my honour, and shall have 
 honourable burial !" 
 
 " All shall be done as you would wish," re- 
 plied the young man. 
 
 " Thank you !" and the bold, strong squire 
 again sank fainting into the corner. 
 
 " I hope you have had a capital run : — is not 
 that what I am to say ?"" asked Mabel Conyers 
 of Edward Elton, as he took his seat beside her 
 in silence. 
 
 " Not very capital !" 
 
 She looked up at his tone, her fears taking 
 the alarm on the instant. 
 
 '' Is my kind father come home ?*' 
 
 " He will be here shortly." 
 
 " You look very, very pale ! Have you 
 been thrown ?"
 
 214 THE SQUIRE. 
 
 " No.'' 
 
 *' Are you ill ?" she inquired anxiously, ever 
 ready to sympathise with suffering. 
 
 " Not in body ; — but pray do not alarm 
 yourself !" 
 
 " Something dreadful has happened, Mr. 
 Elton, or you would not look upon me so pity- 
 ingly, and then turn away ! Do not deceive 
 me! Tell me — tell me all! I am not so 
 weak as some think !"" 
 
 " I will tell you all. Miss Conyers ; but you 
 must strive for firmness — you must not let your 
 love imagine danger where there is none !" 
 
 " My father ! — it is of him you would tell 
 me; yet you said he would come shortly — did 
 you not?" looking wildly into his face. 
 
 " I expect him every moment, to tell you 
 with his own lips that you have no cause for 
 fear. I speak but the truth," — (seeing her 
 doubtful) — " on my word, I would not deceive 
 you : there has been an accident, and your 
 kind father may require some of your gentle 
 nursing; but I have Mr. Horton^s assurance 
 there is no danger I"
 
 THE SQUIRE. 215 
 
 " I do not think you would deceive me," she 
 said, looking less wildly. 
 
 " You do me but justice. Your father bade 
 me break it gently to his Mabel, and tell her 
 that she must bear up to be his nurse. Do not 
 check your tears for my presence ; but rather 
 look upon me for a time as a kind brother, griev- 
 ing as you grieve. I would rather see tears 
 than that look of wild alarm !'' 
 
 " Tell me all, then !" 
 
 He did tell her all, so gently and so kindly, 
 that she feared no longer, though she sorrowed 
 still. Her tears flowed freely ; and, for a time, 
 she did not seek to check them, weeping on as 
 though he had been really the brother that he 
 had begged her to consider him, till, soothed 
 by his kindness, she joined with him in mak- 
 ing the necessary arrangements for the com- 
 fort of the sufferer. 
 
 " You shall see how calm I can be, — looking 
 my hopes rather than my fears ! Coward in 
 general, I will play the heroine now, not to add 
 pain to pain !''
 
 216 THE SQUIRE. 
 
 " I will not doubt you/' he replied, as she 
 tried to smile through her tears. 
 
 But he did doubt her firmness, when she 
 should first see her father. It is so fearful, 
 even to the firmest, to see a large, strong man 
 with the hue of death upon his cheek — his 
 powers gone— his strength departed ! If such 
 the feelings of a stranger — what those of a 
 child? He would have spared her the sight 
 till his injuries had been examined and the 
 surgeon's duties over ; but the father asked for 
 his child, and the child would not be withheld. 
 
 " Now be calm, for your father's sake, still 
 more than your own," said Edward gently, 
 as he supported her into the hall, where the 
 squire was resting in an arm-chair till he 
 should have recovered sufficient strength to 
 reach his room. 
 
 Stifling a groan, he spoke in a cheerful voice 
 as his child entered the hall. 
 
 " Don't be frightened, Mabel ! — there are 
 years of life in me yet, and I shall be hunting 
 again before the end of the season. You had 
 better not touch me," he added, as she would
 
 THE SQUIRE. 2111 
 
 have thrown her arms round his neck. " Be 
 a good child, and don't cry ; for I shall want 
 you to nurse me, and I cannot bear tears. Give 
 me one kiss, and then go ; for Horton, I see, is 
 impatient to make me worse, and afterwards 
 boast a cure."" 
 
 Her lips clung to his, as though the pressure 
 ensured his safety ; but, at a sign from her fa- 
 ther, Edward drew her gently away, and led 
 her back to the sitting-room : — then, and not 
 till then, did her sobs break forth. 
 
 " You promised to tell me the truth," she 
 said, advancing eagerly to meet him as he re- 
 turned to her more than an hour afterwards. 
 
 " I did ; and you promised to be calm, for 
 your father's sake." 
 
 The report was distressing to those interested 
 in the sufferer. His collar-bone was broken, 
 and -his shoulder slightly injured ; besides va- 
 rious bruises, and a wound in the leg, which 
 would prevent his using it for some time to 
 come. None of the injuries were dangerous 
 in themselves ; but the squire's full habit — the 
 life he had led for m.any years, his time having 
 
 VOL. I. L
 
 218 THE SQUIRE. 
 
 been principally passed between hard drinking 
 and hard exercise — and his avowed determi- 
 nation not to submit patiently to the neces- 
 sary regimen, excited reasonable fears of fever 
 and inflammation. 
 
 ^' Now that I have spoken of your father, I 
 must speak a little of myself. As an acquaint- 
 ance — may I say a friend ? — of so short a stand- 
 ing, perhaps my remaining may appear an in- 
 trusion ; yet it seems unfeeling to leave you 
 at this moment, and Mr. Conyers has strongly 
 urged my stay. Will you decide for me ?"" 
 
 " Oh, do stay ! — do not go now ! — you 
 think of everything; and you may persuade 
 my father to attend to Mr. Horton's orders, — 
 he is so fond of ycu : — yet it is selfish to ask 
 you to remain." 
 
 " It is my own wish, and I only wanted your 
 sanction to what I so much desired." 
 
 And he did stay — day after day, week after 
 week — till that stay was considered a matter 
 of course, whilst a departure would have been 
 looked on as a strange proceeding. The con- 
 finement of a sick-room, to one of the squire's
 
 THE SQUIRE. 219 
 
 habits, who appeared, like the Indians on the 
 first discovery of the New World, to consider 
 that man and horse were inseparable, was a 
 hard trial ; the more hard from happening 
 in the beginning of March, instead of the 
 end. 
 
 " If it had been the last day of the season, 
 I should not so much have minded ; but the 
 scent has lain so well ever since my fall.'' 
 
 Thus murmured the squire in his impatient 
 moods : but those moods were, considering his 
 character and pursuits, less frequent than might 
 have been expected, and his recovery more 
 rapid than his child had dared to hope. Yet 
 he sometimes raged at his doctor, declaring he 
 wanted to exhibit him as a skeleton — some- 
 times at the indifference and carelessness of 
 his brother hunters, who after the first few 
 days called but rarely, finding that Mr. Hor- 
 ton was peremptory in his orders of non-ad- 
 mittance : — but never did he rage at his kind 
 and gentle nurses. His child and his guest 
 were ever with him, together or apart ; sooth- 
 ing his sufferings, or administering to his wants, 
 
 l2
 
 220 THE SQUIRE. 
 
 till he of himself remarked that the cheeks of 
 both were pale, and, much as he valued their 
 presence, insisted that they should ride or 
 walk every day. This injunction was enforced 
 by the skilful surgeon, and, after a little re- 
 monstrance, submitted to by both, — the more 
 readily when the squire, mending daily, ob- 
 tained permission to admit old Ned, the 
 grey-headed groom, who gave full reports of 
 the state of stable and kennel, occasionally 
 smuggling in an inhabitant of the latter, re- 
 gretting that he could not do the like by one of 
 the former ; besides, rendering all the histo- 
 ries of each day's hunt, generally riding over 
 to Sir Thomas Barrett's in the morning for 
 the purpose, as well as repeating all the kind 
 things which the villagers and others said of 
 the squire. In short, he was found a valuable 
 auxiliary in the task of amusing the invalid, 
 and became a great favourite with Master 
 Elton and Miss Mabel, as he termed them ; 
 and, as is usual, the regard was mutual. 
 
 To do justice to the squire's hunting friends, 
 we must state that his accident was universally
 
 THE SQUIRE. 2^1 
 
 regretted, even by those who were too eager 
 in the chase to stay and assist him ; and many 
 would have visited him on ihe blank days, 
 but for the surgeon's prohibition, and the dis- 
 tance — Sir Thomas Barrett's, ten miles off, be- 
 ing almost the nearest residence. Then, when 
 April came, and the season was over, and the 
 dull time of the year began, some were forced 
 to town by the entreaties of wives and daugh- 
 ters — some by parliamentary duties; — some 
 started for the round of races — and some, 
 having turned their horses out to grass, found 
 no means of riding over to see a man for- 
 bidden to play the hospitable host. Another 
 source of vexation to the squire was, his hun- 
 ters being idle : but this he partly remedied 
 by insisting on Elton's riding them for the 
 last few days of the season. 
 
 " Ride them, as I would ride them,""* he 
 said, " and don't think of Dareall. Poor Dare- 
 all ! thank you for seeing him buried de- 
 cently." 
 
 This, and once to old Ned, were the only 
 times he ever mentioned his lost favourite ;
 
 222 THE SQUIRE. 
 
 a proof to those who knew him how much he 
 was regretted. 
 
 To Edward Elton, ever eager for action, 
 the chase was delightful ; it was to him a men- 
 tal excitement, not a mere bodily exertion, for 
 to him it imaged the race of life ; but he would 
 have declined the offer, had not the squire staked 
 his favour on the acceptance, speaking sharply 
 to Mabel, for the first time since his accident, 
 on her turning pale at the mention, and plead- 
 ing his fancied danger and her fears. Ed- 
 ward promised the terrified girl to be care- 
 ful ; and when she saw him return unharmed, 
 and marked her father's pleasure whilst listen- 
 ing to his animated description of a famous 
 burst, she half blushed at her fright, and con- 
 sented as a penance to ride with him, as her 
 father wished, only stipulating that he and 
 the attendant groom should be mounted on 
 very quiet horses. 
 
 When the squire was well enough to sit in 
 an easy chair at the window, and look on the 
 horses and dogs led forth beneath for his 
 especial gratification, and listen to the village
 
 THE SQUIRE. 22S 
 
 gossips with the bailiff at their head, who on 
 various pretences found their way into his pre- 
 sence, he insisted that his daughter's rides should 
 be prolonged, forgetting, in his sportsman- 
 like anxiety that she should become a capital 
 horsewoman, the probable consequences of such 
 constant and encouraged intercourse between 
 two young persons, neither frights, fools, nor 
 cynics. His own partiality for his young guest 
 increased every day ; and he never considered 
 whether his daughter's might not do the same. 
 He never asked him of his family or fortune. 
 What did either matter to him ? — he was not 
 going to marry him. But he was so fond of 
 his society — in short, it became so completely 
 a habit, — and with him habit was almost des- 
 potic, — that he considered a mention of depar- 
 ture as little short of an affront. 
 
 Edward Elton, on his part, sunning himself 
 in the smiles of father and daughter, forgot 
 his pining after action — his desire to win an 
 independence, and quietly lingered on at the 
 Grange, instead of proceeding to town ; and 
 this so naturally, that the only consciousness
 
 224 THE SQUIRE, 
 
 he showed of this being a change from his ori- 
 ginal plan, was an embarrassing debate, whe- 
 ther, having engaged to write to his father on 
 his arrival in London, which should have been 
 long since, he ought to act up to the letter, or 
 the spirit of his engagement ; — a debate con- 
 tinued so long, and adjourned so often, that 
 the letter was not written till after the squire 
 had pronounced himself a perfect cure. It 
 certainly required some skill and practice in 
 diplomatic correspondence to explain why he, 
 who had sighed and pined for action, now lin- 
 gered contentedly in inactivity ; a task the more 
 difficult since the writer could not, or would 
 not, account for this sudden indolence. 
 
 Mr. Conyers had insisted on his acceptance of 
 Fury ; and the young man had been compelled 
 to consent, rather than offend the generous do- 
 nor : but neither had considered how the means 
 of its subsistence were to be provided. What 
 did it matter ! The stable, the hay-stack, and 
 the corn-bin were open to him as long as his 
 master should remain at the Grange — and 
 was not he a fixture ? Did not honest old
 
 THE SQUIRE. 225 
 
 Ned tend him with the greatest care, and de- 
 clare, " that Master Elton desarved un, for 
 making un so gentle, and Miss Mabel like — 
 without using the whip too ?" 
 
 Miss Mabel felt no peculiar gratification in 
 hearing Fury likened to her, as she always 
 watched the pricking up of his ears, and the 
 flashing of his eye, with the laudable desire 
 of penetrating his intentions : but her father 
 was exceedingly entertained by the comparison, 
 and even Edward smiled, — so she smiled too ; 
 and after she had, by great persuasion, allowed 
 his master to ride him, whilst escorting her, and 
 had found him quiet and tractable, she ceased 
 to speak in his disfavour, and even occasionally 
 patted him — when Edward stood beside her. 
 
 L 5
 
 226 THE SQUIRE. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 " I NEVER saw a handsomer couple, or better 
 riders," exclaimed the delighted squire, as Ma- 
 bel and Edward rode beneath his window, 
 greeting him with playful bows as they passed. 
 " Take a long ride ! I shall not walk till after 
 dinner." 
 
 " Miss Conyers fears it may rain late in the 
 day, and wishes to return early for your 
 walk," replied Edward, checking his horse. 
 
 " Pshaw ! rain ? — no such thing !" looking up 
 at the sky. " The little gipsy is afraid of her 
 head-gear ; the hat and feathers would not 
 like a wetting. Never heed, Mabel ; you ride 
 so well, only now and then looking frightened, 
 that I must present you with new woman's 
 furniture. She really does you credit, Ed- 
 ward : — I believe now that you may teach her
 
 THE SQUIRE. 2g7 
 
 anything.'* Then beckoning him to come 
 nearer, he added in a lower tone, " Don't 
 let her get wet : her poor mother died of con- 
 sumption, some say ; and Horton thinks her 
 delicate." 
 
 " Do not fear, sir ; I would guard her with 
 my life. But if you think rain likely, we had 
 better not go far, — habitations not being as 
 plentiful as corn-fields hereabouts." 
 
 " It will not rain these four hours : so be 
 off!" 
 
 " You have brought me a new road, and I 
 do not know where I am, or in what direction 
 lies the Grange," remarked Edward, looking 
 up, and round, instead of into the face of his 
 companion, which had been his occupation for 
 some time past. 
 
 " Lost ! quite lost ! — so you must submit to 
 my guidance, for once, instead of my always 
 submitting to yours. We are going to enter 
 Astell Park, and you must look round and 
 admire, as all do, and have done for centuries." 
 
 " And the Grange, where is that ?"" he in- 
 quired, looking up, rather than round.
 
 2^8 THE SQUIRE, 
 
 " The Grange ! — oh, that is a good seven 
 miles off! Are you weary of your horse, or 
 your companion, that you look so troubled at 
 my answer ?'* 
 
 " Fury is in high favour still ; — and need' 
 I plead to the last charge ?"" 
 
 " Oh no ! certainly not, since you do not 
 wish it," she said a little hurriedly, stooping 
 to adjust her habit. 
 
 " Then you acquit me of wearying, or being 
 weary ?" 
 
 " Old Ned says you are always asking odd 
 questions about everything,"" she replied, with- 
 out raising her head. 
 
 " Old Ned says a great many strange things ; 
 remember, he compared you to Fury : but I 
 must ask another question, in despite of him. 
 Are we pursuing the nearest road to the 
 Grange ?" 
 
 " I believe so." 
 
 " Then what think you of a canter on this 
 rare piece of level road ?''^ 
 
 " Certainly !'' striking her horse with the 
 whip.
 
 THE SQUIRE. ^29 
 
 A few minutes brought them to a handsome 
 lodge, with everything about it in the most 
 perfect order ; the old woman who opened 
 the gate looking like some venerable domestic 
 of a kind master who had thus provided for 
 her comfort. 
 
 " You think my conduct strange ; but the 
 riddle is soon read : I anticipate a thunder- 
 storm. Had you not better rest in the lodge 
 till it shall have passed ? There is a shed for 
 the horses." 
 
 " Then you really beHeve that I have an 
 overweening care for my feathers/' she replied, 
 a little reproachfully. 
 
 " Indeed, I do not ! It is I who fear lest 
 you should get wet," 
 
 " Let us ride on, then ; it will scarcely rain 
 yet; and there is a farm-house outside the 
 other lodge, where it would better please my 
 father that we should rest." 
 
 " Why so .?" he inquired, as they rode on 
 through the park. 
 
 " Because my father and Mr. Astell are not 
 on visiting terms/'
 
 S30 THE SQUIRE. 
 
 " Yet you ride through his park.*' 
 
 " It is a public road." 
 
 " That is a pity, and a detriment to such a 
 beautiful place, where art seems to have com- 
 bined with nature to produce perfection. But 
 perhaps it does not pass near the house." 
 
 " Very close, I am sorry to say." 
 
 " Why sorry ?'* 
 
 " I scarcely know, for I like to look upon 
 the old house ; but I believe I am sorry lest 
 it should annoy Mr. Astell." 
 
 " Then you know him ?" 
 
 " I have never even seen him." 
 
 " You are very philanthropic, to grieve for 
 the annoyance of one whom you have never 
 seen. If you feel thus for a stranger, what 
 may not your friends hope ?" 
 
 " I have not seen Mr. Astell, certainly ; but 
 I have heard many speak of him. The poor 
 seldom name him without a blessing ; and the 
 village of Astell is a striking contrast to that 
 of Ranford. At the first, order rules ; at the 
 last, disorder." 
 
 " Why not visit then ? He must be your 
 nearest neighbour."
 
 THE SQUIRE. 231 
 
 " I know no other reason than disinclina- 
 tion. Mr. Astell is the only person, except- 
 ing poachers or fox-killers, of whom ray fa- 
 ther thinks or speaks with unfriendly feelings ; 
 and I have heard that he assisted those who 
 contended for a right of way through Astell 
 Park : but this happened before I was born." 
 
 *' That is the reason, then, that you would 
 not enter the lodge : but you do not mind 
 riding through the park."" 
 
 " I would not turn from the public road, 
 and should have felt some delicacy in riding 
 there, considering the share my father had had 
 in throwing it open to the public, had Mr. 
 Astell not sent a polite message begging none 
 of the family to refrain on that account. I 
 pass through but seldom, and my father never ; 
 though, I believe, in return he grants Mr. 
 Astell permission to send carts through some 
 of his fields. I once heard that there had been 
 other disputed points which had increased the 
 unfriendly feeling between them." 
 
 " You do not know what first caused dis-
 
 232 THE SQUIRE. 
 
 " I do not ; unless the tale of an old woman 
 in the village is correct, that he too had 
 loved my mother, before he became possessed 
 of Asteil Court/' 
 
 " Was your mother very beautiful ?'"' 
 
 " So I have always heard." 
 
 " And you are like her?" inquired Edward 
 eagerly, thinking of the portrait at Beauchamp, 
 to which he still sometimes fancied she bore a 
 resemblance. 
 
 " What a many questions you ask ! as I 
 was told the other day, when, with more zeal, 
 I fear, than wisdom, I was trying to settle a 
 dispute concerning the rightful possession of 
 a top." 
 
 " I admit the charge ; but bear with me 
 this once. Do you resemble your mother ?'* 
 
 " Some say so." 
 
 " Have you no portrait of Mrs. Conyers ?'"' 
 
 " None. She never had her likeness taken. 
 — But why do you question me so eagerly ? 
 You could not have known my mother, who 
 died a few months after my birth." 
 
 " You may fairly ask ; but my answer will
 
 THE SQUIRE. 2SS 
 
 scarcely assure you of my sanity. I was once 
 so fascinated with a mere portrait, as to have 
 it ever before me, sleeping or awake. Even 
 now I cannot banish the belief that the ori- 
 ginal did not die broken-hearted, as they said, 
 but that she will, influence my future fate. 
 You resemble the portrait when animated ; but 
 when silent, the expression is so different, that 
 I scarcely remark a similitude of feature: it 
 was this resemblance which induced my ques- 
 tions. Will you not pardon the impertinence, 
 connected, as you are in my mind, with that 
 beautiful portrait ?" 
 
 " You wish to enlist my vanity on the 
 side of your imagination," she said with a 
 heightened colour. " It could not have been 
 my mother ; and I know nothing but your 
 roaming the world like the knights errant of 
 the olden times in search of the original, — some 
 captive princess, doubtless." 
 
 " Do not send me from you for my folly ! 
 Rather let me believe you the original — the 
 lovely one who is to influence my destiny." 
 
 A vivid flash of lightning startled her horse
 
 2B4f THE SQUIRE. 
 
 before Mabel could reply — the thunder rolled 
 in the distance, and a large rain-drop fell on 
 the upturned brow of the young man as he 
 gazed on the heavy sky. 
 
 " There is no time to lose — the clouds will 
 pour down their torrents in less than five mi- 
 nutes ;" and Edward, seizing the rein of her 
 horse, which was curveting at the lightning, 
 forced it into a gallop. " Keep your hand 
 down, and a firm seat. Now to show your 
 horsemanship !" he added as the lightning flash- 
 ed before her face, and the thunder rolled above 
 her head with a thousand echoes, her steed 
 bounding and starting at every flash and 
 roll. 
 
 " Had I not been so interested in our sub- 
 ject, I should have marked the clouds, and 
 better provided for your safety. Do not 
 slacken your speed or raise your hand; the 
 rain will be here in a few moments, and with 
 this lightning you must not shelter under a 
 tree. — And this owing to my folly !" he mut- 
 tered, as he rode on by her side, keeping his 
 eye on her starting horse, ready to seize the
 
 THE SQUIRE. 235 
 
 rein again, should he see the slightest oc- 
 casion, though the former character of Fury 
 made him loath to do so without absolute 
 need. 
 
 Mabel seemed much less alarmed than he 
 could have expected ; and though she was very 
 pale, her sweet voice reassured him. 
 
 " Do not fear for me ; I do not fear for my- 
 self when you are near." 
 
 He felt that she confided in him : — he would 
 not have yielded that conviction for all the 
 world could give. 
 
 The lightning flashed more brightly — the 
 thunder, with its quick sudden crashes and 
 hollow rolling, followed more closely, and her 
 horse every moment became less manageable ; 
 whilst Fury, who had hitherto conducted him- 
 self admirably, showed symptoms of rebeUion 
 as the vivid light shot across his eye-balls. 
 Still Edward Elton kept up the speed of both, 
 and an exclamation of thankfulness burst from 
 his lips, as a sudden turn in the road placed 
 Astell Court before him, in all the grandeur of 
 the past, and the order of the present.
 
 ^i6 THE SQUIRE. 
 
 It was a beautiful specimen of the architec- 
 ture of the time of James the First ; but 
 though the hue of the grey stone was softened 
 and harmonised by age, there was not one 
 symptom of decay ; — nor, like the Grange, did 
 it show how families had increased, and wealth 
 diminished. There were no ill- proportioned 
 excrescences to shock the critical : if the house 
 had been added to since its erection, — which, 
 from its arrangement, appeared improbable, — 
 those additions had been in the same style, 
 and formed no dissight. The park, the lawn, 
 the house, were in perfect keeping. An ele- 
 gant iron railing defended the beautiful shrubs 
 on the lawn (some in their full spring bloom 
 and loveliness, flinging their fragrance far 
 around,) from the incursion of the deer ; whilst 
 superb bronze gates at each extremity ad- 
 mitted visitors. 
 
 Edward's quick glance saw much of this in 
 an instant, and, ever ready for action and 
 prompt in his measures, he decided at once 
 on placing Mabel in safety beneath the pro- 
 jecting porch, urged to greater decision by
 
 THE SQUIRE. 237 
 
 the increasing unruliness of her horse, and the 
 large drops that began to fall. One of the 
 bronze gates stood open as though to invite 
 their entrance : and he did not consider the 
 standing of a gentleman, probably Mr. Astell, 
 at a window, as any bar to his project. 
 
 " Be not alarmed ! another minute will place 
 you in safety within the porch," he said, 
 springing from his own horse, seizing the rein 
 of hers, which was now plunging violently, and 
 dragging him on by main force towards the 
 house. 
 
 " Not there ! — my father may not like 
 it." 
 
 *' Let the fault be mine — this is no time to 
 hesitate ;" and before she could reply, he had 
 lifted her from the saddle and borne her 
 within the porch. 
 
 A flash — so full, so vivid, that it gleamed 
 as the fl.aring of torches into the dark porch, 
 showing the pale face of Mabel to her pre- 
 server, and dazzling the sight, lit up the hea- 
 vens for a moment, making the sky like a 
 vault of flame. There was a strange and
 
 238 THE SQUIRE. 
 
 rushing sound, as of a mighty rocket passing 
 through the air — a cry of pain — and then a 
 heavy fall, whilst the thunder crashed and 
 rolled. Ere the light had died away, the 
 clouds poured down their torrents, as though 
 the bounds of nature had been burst, and 
 some airy sea was dashing down upon the 
 earth. The smoke rose up from the ground 
 like a mist ; but through it could be seen, 
 stretched on the velvet lawn, torn with its 
 struggles in the death-pang, the horse from 
 which Mabel had been snatched — the lately 
 flashing eye now glazed, the lately bounding 
 limb now motionless. 
 
 Mabel's head sank unconsciously on the 
 shoulder of her preserver as she understood 
 her deliverance, and murmured her gratitude 
 to him and to her God ; whilst earth held not 
 happier heart than Edward Elton's, as he 
 pressed the cold hand placed in his to tell her 
 thanks, better than her faltering words. 
 
 " Pray come into the house," urged some 
 one beside them, whose first address had been • 
 unheeded.
 
 THE SQUIRE. 2S9 
 
 " I shall be obliged to you, for I fear Miss 
 Conyers is fainting," replied Edward to the 
 kind entreaty of the owner of the mansion, a 
 tall thin man, slightly bowed, with a high fore- 
 head, and features impressed with intellect and 
 benevolence. 
 
 " I am better now — not faint,'' said Mabel, 
 withdrawing from the support of her pre- 
 server with a conscious blush, though her fal- 
 tering step was a proof that the support had 
 not been unrequired. 
 
 The porch had been so dark, and Mabel's 
 face so completely turned away, that Mr. 
 Astell had no idea to whom he was giving 
 shelter, till she entered the library, when his 
 sudden start and changing cheek proved his 
 instant recognition : — years had not effaced the 
 sufferings of his youth. 
 
 " Miss Conyers ! I cannot be mistaken ; — 
 there are your mother's brow and eye, and 
 her angel smile."' 
 
 Tears dimmed his eyes as he looked into 
 her pale face, and his hand shook as he led her 
 to her seat. For a few moments neither spoke ;
 
 240 THE SQUIRE. 
 
 — a cloud came over the gazer's brow — his 
 features wore a saddened expression — the past 
 came up before him. His guests respected 
 his sorrow and were silent ; and, after a time, 
 recovering from his reverie, he ruled himself 
 to play the host. 
 
 " Pardon me, Miss Conyers, for this inat- 
 tention — this forgetfulness ; it should not have 
 been, but I had never hoped to see her child 
 beneath my roof, looking so like her too when 
 we first met. I fear I may not believe that 
 you came voluntarily to cheer an old man's 
 desolation; but if I must thank the storm for 
 your presence, I will still bid you welcome. 
 May I not hope that Mabel Duncombe's child 
 will regard me as a friend ?"" taking her hand 
 kindly within his. " You are silent ! Do 
 not think I am at enmity with Philip Conyers : 
 that has long since passed away. I would have 
 you look upon me as a second father : 1 loved 
 your mother — will not her child regard me as 
 a friend ? Will she not sometimes come and 
 see me ?" 
 
 The tears stood in MabeFs eyes ; for she
 
 THE SQUIRE. 241 
 
 thought how hard it was to be parted from 
 those we love — and harder still to love, and 
 not be loved again. 
 
 " I will — I do regard you as a friend ; and, 
 with my father's leave, will see you often.'' 
 
 " Your father !'' he exclaimed abruptly ; 
 then checking himself, added more calmly : 
 "yes: he has a right to your love and duty. 
 Tell him that he who loved Mabel Duncombe, 
 and saw her given to another, pleads to him 
 for the visits of her child. He cannot — ^nll 
 not refuse.*^ 
 
 '' I hope not," she said ; but she spoke 
 doubtingly. 
 
 " And you will plead for my wishes .^" 
 " Indeed I will ; they are my own." 
 " Thank you ! your mother, were she Jiving, 
 would wish it should be so. I am but a neg- 
 lectful host, or I should have ordered refresh- 
 ments, and welcomed your companion, to whom 
 vou are so much indebted. It was a fearful 
 sight, that falling bolt ! Will you introduce 
 me. Miss Conyers ? We are old friends al- 
 ready," he added with a smile. 
 
 VOL. I. M
 
 242 THE SQUIRE. 
 
 " Mr. Elton," said Mabel, blushing as she 
 named him. 
 
 The young man advanced from the window 
 to which he had delicately turned during the 
 late conversation. 
 
 Mr. Astell started back in greater agitation 
 than when he had looked on Mabel. 
 
 " The very same ! though years have passed 
 — and yet not quite the same," he murmured, 
 whilst his guests looked on him in surprise. 
 
 " Who are you that stand before me, as of 
 old, young and full of strength, whilst I am 
 worn and weary ? Tell me quickly !" he ex- 
 claimed, going close up to Edward, and look- 
 ing keenly into his face. 
 
 " My name is Edward Elton, sir." 
 Mr. Astell shook his head with a mournful 
 look, and turned away. 
 
 " I knew not that the past could have so un- 
 manned me, as to make me think the grave had 
 given up its dead. No ! no ! all I loved are 
 in the tomb — they live but in my memory !" 
 Then mastering his emotion, he again ad- 
 vanced to the young man with an extended
 
 THE SQUIRE. 243 
 
 hand. " I beg your pardon for this strange re- 
 ception. Your likeness to one I highly regard- 
 ed, now long since dead, must plead as my ex- 
 cuse ; and were it only for that likeness, and the 
 service you have this day done to Mabel Con- 
 yers, you must look upon me as a friend ; and 
 tax my friendship, should you want its aid.*'' 
 
 Edward thanked him warmly, though with 
 no idea of ever availing himself of his offer ; 
 and refreshments being ordered, Mr. Astell 
 played the polite and hospitable host. 
 
 The storm having ceased, Edward proposed 
 sending to the Grange for the carriage to con- 
 vey Miss Conyers home, but Mr. Astell's had 
 long since been ordered to be in readiness ; and 
 though Mabel, with some of her former awe 
 of her father, feared his disapproval, she could 
 not bring herself to decline an offer so kindly 
 made. In her embarrassment she looked to 
 Edward, who settled the point at once, by 
 accepting the proffered carriage, saying, that 
 as Mr. Conyers had committed her to his care, 
 he was bound to arrange for her safe return. 
 „ Mr. Astell smiled as he saw her appealing 
 
 M 2
 
 244 THE SQUIRE. 
 
 look, and heard his reply ; and the young man 
 coloured at the smile, sad as it was. 
 
 " Remember your promise to plead my 
 wishes to your father,"" said Mr. Astell, as he 
 handed his fair guest to the carriage. 
 
 " I will not forget;' 
 
 " Then I shall see you again soon.*" 
 
 '' I hope so ;"" and the carriage drove on, 
 leaving Edward to mount Fury, who, when 
 deserted by his master, had with laudable sa- 
 gacity discovered the way to the stables, where 
 he had been well taken care of. 
 
 '' The young fancy life perpetual sunshine. 
 Not so! there are storms — destroying — de- 
 vastating — as that which has passed. There are 
 faithless friends, and other perils in our paths. 
 You tread on flowers now — should these fade, 
 or your path become rough, apply to me ; I 
 may bid the flowers rebloom — may smooth the 
 rugged path. Come boldly. Now farewell !'' 
 
 Before Edward could reply to this singular 
 address, Mr. Astell had re-entered the house ; 
 and the young man, mounting his impatiet t 
 horse, was in a few minutes riding by the side
 
 THE SQUIRE. 245 
 
 of the carriage, and talking to Mabel, each 
 vying with the other in praise of Mr. Astell, 
 lauding his kindness, his talents, his elegant 
 manners, his varied information, shown in his 
 remarks on the treasures of his library. 
 
 The squire had been very anxious and fid- 
 getty for his daughter's safe return, (the light- 
 ning having shivered a tree in the park,) 
 though the remembrance that Edward was 
 with her had checked his alarm ; and, in his 
 joy at her providential escape, he was far less 
 annoyed than Mabel had expected on learn- 
 ing where she had taken shelter ; nay, he ap- 
 proved of the whole of young Elton's conduct, 
 who took the blame upon himself: and on 
 hearing Mr. Astell's message, promised that 
 she should call upon him occasionally. The 
 strongest symptoms of his former unfriendly 
 feelings not being quite subdued, were the 
 greatness of his donation to the servants ac- 
 companying the carriage, and his sudden order 
 to Mabel during the evening to send Mr. As- 
 stell some rare Indian sweatmeats, the pre- 
 sent of a distant relative, whom he had once
 
 24f6 THE SQUIRE. 
 
 assisted. From those he liked, the squire took 
 as frankly as he gave ; from those he did not 
 like, he could ill endure accepting a favour ; 
 or, if compelled to do so, his first thought was 
 to repay it fourfold. 
 
 " What service will you do me next ?" said 
 Mr. Conyers grasping the young man's hand. 
 "Think if I had lost Mabel! I should 
 have been a blighted tree indeed ! — no one to 
 smile on me — no one to nurse me, for I may 
 not have another child alive;" and the squire 
 grew sad at the thought, for he had learnt, 
 during his illness, the value of the tender 
 cares of love ; the touching beauty of the smile 
 of affection. He had felt there are words, and 
 looks, too precious for the mines of earth to 
 purchase; he had begun to feel the spell of 
 home, how its gentle ties can be as bonds 
 upon the soul — as fetters on the heart, too 
 soft to gall, too strong to burst. He felt 
 as he had never felt since his wife''s death, 
 and scarcely then ; for, though not of keen 
 penetration, he had understood there was 
 little sympathy between them — a mist be-
 
 THE SQUIRE. 247 
 
 fore the sunshine of her love. He loaded 
 her with gifts — he would have yielded her his 
 favourite hunter (what he prized most, next 
 to herself,) had she desired it : he absolutely 
 sent to Paris to procure her ornaments, though 
 blaming himself the while as a bad patriot, 
 and she received all with smiles and gentle 
 thanks ; and yet he had a fancy, though he 
 knew not on what grounded, that she was not 
 happy, and that she loved him not as he loved 
 her. She never thwarted him — he sometimes 
 wished she had — his will was ever her law : 
 but then she was so silent, and so quiet ; and, 
 except with regard to her children, appeared to 
 have no desire — to take no interest — and her 
 smile was sad, even when she looked on them. 
 He did not comprehend the symptoms of a 
 breaking heart — of a gentle, loving being sink- 
 ing unresistingly beneath its sorrow — withering 
 —dying — as the tender woodbine torn from the 
 trunk to which it clung. 
 
 The squire was a man ruled by habits ra- 
 ther than impressions — little subject to sud- 
 den impulses ; and, though one of the kindest
 
 248 THE SQUIRE. 
 
 of human beings, not formed to be the vic- 
 tim of a lasting sorrow. He disliked new 
 things, unless they harmonised with his old 
 customs ; but these new things once become 
 old, were firmly established in his favour. He 
 felt much more for the loss of his wife than 
 many had imagined possible, but habit and 
 hunting soon reconciled him to the change. 
 Many years had elapsed since his home had 
 been endeared to him by the smiles of affection ; 
 but it still possessed powerful attractions in 
 his eyes, from having been the abode of his 
 ancestors for centuries, and his own since his 
 birth, to say nothing of its excellent cellar, 
 stables, and kennel. Shunning female society 
 since the death of Mrs. Conyers ; having no 
 relatives residing near ; holding book-learning 
 in no great repute ; with an active body and 
 indolent mind, hunting became a habit — a 
 necessary excitement ; and, yielding to the opi- 
 nions of his time amongst country squires, he 
 rated a man's strength, wisdom, and good fel- 
 lowship, according to the quantity of wine he 
 could drink without dropping from his chair.
 
 THE SQUIRE. 249 
 
 This yielding was, particularly in the first in- 
 stance, rather what he considered a good-na- 
 tured compliance with the wishes of others, 
 or from the necessity of showing his hospita- 
 lity as host, than from inclination ; but a short 
 time inured him to the sight of an immortal 
 being depriving himself of reason — his noblest 
 gift, his highest distinction — with a want of 
 self-control not equalled by the brute with 
 only instinct for his guidance. He not only 
 learned to look on this sinking to a level with 
 the brute, in others, without disgust, but to 
 practise the same himself, when tempted by a 
 carouse ; and to speak of it with a levity 
 which, in the present day, wDuld shock even 
 those who shun not the debasing sin as they 
 should; but his late accident, and long con- 
 finement, had awakened more serious and de- 
 sirable thoughts. Withdrawn from the vortex 
 of evil habit ; not subject to the solicitations of 
 his riotous companions ; tended and watched 
 over by his gentle child, who had been taught 
 to know the corruption of man's natural heart, 
 (though only judging severely of herself,) and 
 
 M 5
 
 250 THE SQUIRE. 
 
 conversing with Edward Elton, for whom his 
 affection and esteem continued to increase, and 
 who, however the pride and presumption of 
 youth and a high spirit might sometimes lead 
 him into error, usually judged acts by the 
 word of God — not by the wills erf men ; the 
 squire began to acquire a better knowledge 
 of his duties to his Creator and his brother 
 man ; and when sufficiently recovered to kneel 
 beside his child and his young guest in the 
 simple village church, his prayers were cha- 
 ractered by a fervour and humility which they 
 had not before possessed. No longer a form 
 of words carelessly uttered, they were the out- 
 pouring of a heart that, brought to consider the 
 error of its ways by a providential escape from 
 sudden death, and subdued by suffering, turned 
 to its Maker and its Saviour with a faith and 
 lowliness which it had never felt before. Kind, 
 generous, and honourable, the squire had long 
 received the praise of man ; but in self-know- 
 ledge, and self-denial, he had been lamentably 
 deficient. His had been hitherto a darkened 
 mind, but a better light was dawning on it :
 
 THE SQUIRE. 251 
 
 time was to show if the Sun of Righteousness 
 would shine upon him in his noonday glory. 
 He began to think with regret and disgust of 
 the riotous revels in which he had once borne 
 a part ; and to more than suspect that as the 
 master of a household, and the possessor of 
 property, it was his duty to look to the morals 
 and the comforts of his dependants. These 
 convictions were, as yet, but faintly imprinted 
 on his mind ; for, as we have said, he was not 
 a man of sudden impulses : but they were 
 deepening as time rolled on. He was becoming 
 an altered person ; changed in his principle of 
 action — unchanged in many of his tastes. The 
 days were not long in the society of Mabel 
 and Edward, though the hunting was over — 
 the shooting not commenced ; and when a let- 
 tor arrived from Mr. Durnsford announcing a 
 speedy visit, he received the intelligence, and 
 repeated it to his daughter, with an indifference 
 strongly opposed to the pleasure with which 
 such an announcement had hitherto been heard. 
 His home did not now require Mr. Durnsford' «! 
 presence to make it pleasant.
 
 ^52 THE SQUIRE. 
 
 And how did Mabel receive the news ? 
 With the remark : " Mr. Durnsford was very 
 kind, and cured me of some of my fears." 
 
 How did Edward Elton hear of the visit? 
 With a slight start — and the question : " Who 
 is Mr. Durnsford ?'' 
 
 " An old friend of mine, who gave Mabel 
 good advice about ruling horses and dogs. I 
 have no doubt you will like him," replied the 
 squire. 
 
 " As the friend of yourself, and Miss Con- 
 yers, I shall be sure to do so," said the young 
 man with a cleared-up brow.
 
 THE SQUIRE. ^53 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 It was a lovely day in June when Mr. Con- 
 yers, now quite recovered, entered the draw- 
 ing-room where Mabel sat at her embroidery, 
 with Edward at a little distance, sometimes 
 reading Milton, sometimes pointing out the 
 beauties of the author to his attentive listener, 
 sometimes looking at the fair girl in silence, 
 and bending towards her to catch the tones of 
 her low, sweet voice. 
 
 " I have been consulting the mason about 
 repairing the lodge as you suggested, and he 
 thinks it will answer admirably. You are a 
 treasure, Edward ! I wonder how we got on 
 without you ! Indeed, I can scarcely fancy 
 there was a time when you were not here, I 
 am so accustomed to regard you as a fixture. 
 Would that you were my son !"
 
 S54 THE SQUIRE. 
 
 " Would that I were !" replied the young 
 man with a start of pleasure. 
 
 " Thank you for the wish, my boy ; you 
 must consider me as a parent^ then !"' exclaimed 
 the gratified squire, laying his hand on his 
 shoulder; in semblance, or in reality, per- 
 fectly unconscious of any plan by which this 
 might be accomplished. " Poor Philip !" con- 
 tinued the squire with a sigh, " I wish he 
 had never left me, or that he would return like 
 you. He is long in coming, and I pine now 
 as I never pined before to hold him in my 
 arms — to lay my blessing on his head. I used 
 to think the blame all his ; but lately I have 
 feared that I was quick, and rash ; I should 
 have been more indulgent to bis youth, the 
 wilfulness of a mere boy, whom, it may be, 
 I had let run too wild. I fear that I have 
 neither ruled myself, nor others, as I should 
 have done ; but the bold and the strong do 
 not think how soon death may come — do not 
 like to own themselves weak and erring. They 
 are hardened when they should be grateful, 
 you must teach me better, Mabel : speak to
 
 THE SQUIRE. '255 
 
 me of my good sister, who would fain have 
 made me as herself. I used to laugh at her 
 fancies, as I called them ; but a sick bed teaches 
 other lessons. Bless you, Mabel !'* kissing his 
 daughter's brow, who had risen and passed her 
 arm round his neck. " Oh that my boy were 
 here to share the blesssing ! Sometimes the 
 thought will cross me that he will come, but 
 not till I am gone If so, tell him I bless — I 
 pardon him ! and, if I have erred, he must 
 forgive me. I have my misgivings, though 
 Durnsford would not say I had been harsh. I 
 never guessed he would have taken me at my 
 word. Mind, Mabel, that I leave my blessing 
 for him." 
 
 " Leave it ? Oh no, give it !'" 
 
 " I pray it may be so ! but I have no right 
 to expect it, and have strong forebodings.'* 
 
 '' The lingering effects of your late illness,"' 
 said Edward, taking his hand. 
 
 " It may be so," replied the squire more 
 gaily, recovering from a mood so unusual to 
 him. " Away with you, girl ! you will choke 
 me," he continued, putting the clinging Mabel
 
 ^56 THE SQUIRE. 
 
 gently from him. '* Away with you, I say, 
 I promised Martha Wilford that you should 
 go and see her/' 
 
 " Martha Wilford ! If you have been talk- 
 ing with her, no wonder at forebodings ! But 
 surely she has no wish for my presence : 1 am 
 no favourite of hers." 
 
 " She came out as I passed her gate, re- 
 marking in her usual ungracious tone, that she 
 had been ill — as she had heard I had been, 
 and bade me take care, for death came when 
 none thought of his coming ; and then she 
 added, with her awful manner, that you must 
 go down to see her, for that she had vowed 
 never to sit down within the Grange, till my 
 boy came back." 
 
 " I hope you did not promise I should go," 
 observed Mabel discomposed. 
 
 " As an old servant, I did not like to deny 
 her; and she is an awful person to gainsay. 
 You are not afraid, Mabel .''" 
 
 " Not afraid," said Mabel with a heightened 
 colour ; " but there is a something so strange 
 about her, and the villagers tell such wild
 
 THE SQUIRE. 2j7 
 
 tales, and she frowned so on me the only time 
 I ever saw her, that I would gladly avoid the 
 visit." 
 
 " Strange manners, and wild tales indeed !" 
 repeated her father musingly, recurring to the 
 past. " I could never understand — and did 
 not like her. Not that I believe what the 
 silly people say about a dark figure in the 
 churchyard at night, and the ground disturb- 
 ed in the morning, and strange sights and 
 sounds about her dwelling. All nonsense !'' 
 Yet the squire did not look as if he thought 
 it all nonsense ; and his voice was not as loud 
 as usual. " This is nothing : she nursed 
 Philip well — doted on him, and has never 
 been the same since he went, though I think 
 she fostered his bold spirit. You should go, 
 were it only for her love to him ; and you 
 need not be afraid, for she desired that Ed- 
 ward should accompany you." 
 
 " I, sir .?"' asked Edward in surprise. 
 
 " Why, I thought she would not see 
 strangers," remarked Mabel, her terror gone 
 at this announcement.
 
 258 THE SQUIRE. 
 
 " Yes : you, Edward ; she says you saw her 
 once, and promised to go again, I think she 
 muttered something about her cat." 
 
 " I saved her cat from some dogs ; and 
 got scratched for my gallantry, and rated into 
 the bargain, for she thought at first I had set 
 the animals on ; but when I denied the cruelty, 
 she stared in my face as if I had been some 
 marvellous monster, insisted on my going into 
 her cottage, washed my scratches, and per- 
 sisted in arranging my hair, all which cour- 
 tesies I would fain have declined, for, though 
 professing the most friendly feelings, there 
 was a something so grim and awful in her 
 attentions, that I could not prize them as I 
 should. I hope she is not going to claim me 
 as an old acquaintance, or I shall take to a 
 mask. Ever since I began my wanderings, 
 I have encountered persons who appeared to 
 know me ; even you, I fancied, looked keenly 
 at me when first we met." 
 
 ''So I do now, sometimes. Your face 
 never seemed strange to me — yet I cannot 
 make out whom you are like : but then, to
 
 THE SQUIRE. 259 
 
 be sure, I never did remember people's names, 
 and not always their features." 
 
 " I am half afraid to encounter strangers, 
 these recognitions are so awkward ; and no 
 one ever tells me whom I resemble," observed 
 Edward, a little provoked. " If I must go 
 to the old woman, I will compel her to tell the 
 name of my shadow." 
 
 " I do not think the Evil One himself could 
 compel her to what she did not like,'* remarked 
 the squire drily. " They say she can read 
 fortunes — you had better get her to tell yours 
 and Mabers— and you can ask of Philip's," 
 he added with assumed indifference, but real 
 earnestness, thereby proving that however un- 
 imaginative was his general character, there 
 was a little superstition in its composition. 
 
 '* I will try what knowledge I can acquire,*' 
 replied Edward gaily ; and in a few minutes 
 he and Mabel were on their way to Nurse 
 Wilford's cottage. 
 
 " Have you a brother, then ?" inquired Ed- 
 ward of his companion. " I never but once 
 before heard such a relative alluded to ; and
 
 260 THE SQUIRE. 
 
 then so vaguely, that, concluding he had died, 
 I asked no questions." 
 
 " I hope I have a brother, though I have 
 never seen him ; and the subject is so painful to 
 my father that I rarely name it. I have heard 
 from others, that he was a fine, high-spirited 
 boy, indulged by his nurse, who doted on him, 
 as did my father once. I do not know how 
 that love was lessened, though I believe my 
 brother did not always show a child's obedi- 
 ence ; but spoke proudly, (requiring what could 
 not be granted,) and on refusal threatened to 
 run away. In the heat of the moment, my 
 father dared him to the act : — the next morning 
 he was gone, and only a few lines left to say 
 that he would not return till he had acquired 
 an independance ; but that, should he die in 
 the endeavour, his death should be duly no- 
 tified. He was quite a boy then. From that 
 time, notwithstanding every inquiry, nothing 
 was heard of him for years, till he wrote to my 
 father asking forgiveness, and requesting per- 
 mission to visit the Grange on returning from 
 a voyage which he was on the point of under-
 
 THE SQUIRE. 261 
 
 taking. The permission and forgiveness were 
 readily granted, and for some time he was daily 
 expected ; but many months have passed since 
 then, and he is still away. I heard most of this 
 from Mr. Durnsford, who is anxious for his re- 
 turn, seeing how much my father's heart is set 
 upon it. Martha Wilford was his nurse, and dis- 
 liked me from the idea that I might rival him 
 in the aflFections of my parents : it is strange, 
 therefore, that she should send for me.'' 
 
 " She cannot dislike you now," remarked 
 Edward, looking at the lovely face set off by 
 its becoming chip hat — the white bodice tight 
 to the delicate shape, with the full flounced 
 skirt — and the little feet in their pointed 
 shoes, that trod the turf as lightly and as 
 noiselessly as though a spirit moved beside 
 him. 
 
 Edward was right : Martha Wilford did not 
 dislike her now, whatever she might have done 
 in former times. She came out of her cottage 
 to meet her guests; and if her manner was 
 strange, wayward, and at times awful, it was 
 still evident that her views towards both were
 
 262 THE SQUIRE. 
 
 friendly. She ushered them into her little par- 
 lour with a greeting and demeanour far above 
 her station ; and if there was a something chil- 
 ling even in her kindness, it appeared the con- 
 sequence of her long habit of seclusion, or pe- 
 culiar turn of mind, not any deficiency in good 
 will. Mabel would have preferred taking a seat 
 on the bench in the garden, the flowers glowed 
 so brightly beneath the summer sun, the birds 
 sang so sweetly from the verdant boughs, and 
 the bees flitted from sweet to sweet, with such 
 a soothing, happy hum ; but her hostess would 
 not permit it, and, as Mr. Conyers had said, 
 there was that in Martha Wilford which made 
 no one anxious to gainsay her. She seldom 
 left her rather lonely abode, except from ne- 
 cessity ; she received no suspicious-looking vi- 
 sitors — no evil deed was proved against her ; 
 if any had the boldness to consult her, she 
 gave good, if not palatable advice, for mind or 
 body ; she interfered — she quarrelled — with 
 none, and yet rarely was being more dreaded, 
 or more censured ; but the latter always under 
 the breath, with a sharp glance over the shoulder
 
 THE SQUIRE. 263 
 
 to make sure that the black dame, as the chil- 
 dren had named her from her dress, was be- 
 yond hearing; for though none could clearly 
 explain on what the idea was grounded, the 
 existence of the idea was certain — not a vil- 
 lager but believed that the dame was possessed 
 of powers beyond ordinary women — in plain 
 language, most thought her leagued with the 
 Wicked One ; and her constant attendant, the 
 large tabby cat, (the one saved by Edward,) 
 was looked on with dread as a familiar spirit. 
 #uch fancies among ignorant villagers were 
 almost universal at the time of this tale ; and 
 witches and cats, the latter generally black, 
 were considered inseparable. The black dame 
 was too keen not to know the estimation in 
 which she was held ; but, either as a matter 
 of indifference, or pleasure, since it saved her- 
 self and cat from molestation and the visits of 
 the village gossips, she took no pains to dispel 
 the evil opinion. The birds built unmolested 
 in her garden, for no boy Avas bold enough to 
 enter her domains even to rob a nest; if she 
 met any in her rare walks, the curtsies could
 
 264 THE SQUIRE. 
 
 not have been lower had she been the lady 
 that, in good truth, she looked ; and if a frown 
 came on her brow as she marked the terror of 
 the children, or overheard the mother hush 
 their infantas cries by the horror of her name, 
 it made no change in her mode of life, and 
 the muttered words : '' Fools ! they make bug- 
 bears to frighten themselves, as well as their 
 children," had more of scorn than of wrath. 
 If none could prove that she committed an evil 
 deed, all could tell that she omitted a good one. 
 The black dame had not been seen at church 
 since the departure of her nursling; he seemed 
 the only link that had bound her to society, 
 and when he went she stood alone — apart from 
 her kind — like some solitary tree scathed by 
 the lightning. 
 
 Such was the woman, who, with a stately 
 air more befitting a queen than an ex-nurse- 
 maid, insisted on her young guests entering 
 her parlour, instead of lingering in the garden. 
 
 '* No f' she said, in a decided tone, " leave 
 the flowers to the bees, and the sunshine to 
 the birds, and all bright things to the young
 
 THE SQUIRE. 265 
 
 who have known neither sin nor sorrow ; but 
 the darkness and the shadow suit the black 
 dame, and she must have her way. Thwart 
 her not ! she seeks your good, but she will 
 not be crossed. She is lonely and stricken, 
 but she has not yet fallen. Let those beware 
 who dare her power ! Enter !" 
 
 Mabel did as commanded, but drew closer 
 to Edward, as she did so. Martha Wilford 
 saw the motion, and read its meaning. 
 
 " Why do you fear me, Mabel Conyers ? 
 I served your mother — I would serve you, 
 and I can serve you, though you think it 
 not. If I smiled not on you as a babe, what 
 of that? I am changed since then, and war 
 not with the gentle. And you, Edward El- 
 ton, why do you look as though you, too, 
 feared ^ 
 
 " Fear ! and a woman !" replied the young 
 man indignantly. " I fear you not." 
 
 For some moments each gazed keenFy into 
 the face of the other, and then the woman 
 turned away. 
 
 " True ! You fear me not, and you need 
 
 VOL. I. N
 
 266 THE SQUIRE. 
 
 not fear me, for I would serve you both. You 
 fear none, for you come of a bold and daring 
 race — ay, and a proud one too, though a cour- 
 teous : but look that your pride come not 
 before a fall. Ask your father if such things 
 cannot be ? If one shock of the earthquake 
 may not level all .p" 
 
 " What do you know of me or my father ?**' 
 he inquired eagerly. 
 
 " That one flies from men — the other to 
 them. That the one trusts none, and the other 
 trusts all, and each deems himself the wisest ;" 
 replied the woman calmly, and as though 
 smiling at the folly of both. 
 
 " Where learnt you this ?" he demanded, 
 starting at the knowledge which she dis- 
 played. 
 
 " Where learnt I this.?" she replied with 
 a scornful smile. " Is this such wondrous 
 knowledge ? An idiot could have read it in 
 that bold, open brow, and frank address.*" 
 
 " Pshaw ! But how know you of my father P*" 
 
 " How know I many things ? Ask the cot- 
 tagers who hush their babies with my name."
 
 THE SQUIRE. 267 
 
 "This is folly," replied the young man 
 quickly, though involuntarily influenced by 
 her mysterious manner. " I am neither idiot 
 nor coward, that I should believe in your su- 
 pernatural powers." 
 
 " Believe as you please. The idiot lingers 
 on his way — the coward fears to ask his own 
 heart— Why ?'' 
 
 Edward Elton started, and his cheek flushed 
 the deeper as he caught her triumphant smile. 
 
 " Woman ! who are you ?" 
 
 " The decider of your fate, and the fate of 
 others."" 
 
 ^' It is false ? Under heaven, I decide my 
 fate myself." 
 
 The woman laughed a scornful laugh. 
 
 " Why, the toils will be round you ere 
 you know them set, — the destroyer on you 
 ere you guess him for a foe. I know you, 
 boy : there is no heart more easily ensnared. 
 Such as your father was, such are you." 
 
 " Again I ask what know you of my father 
 or of me? Have we met before.?" looking 
 at her. 
 
 N 2
 
 ^i68 THE SQUIRE. 
 
 " Well ! what say you ? Have we met 
 before ?" she demanded coldly, meeting his 
 scrutiny. 
 
 " No !" he replied, after vainly endeavour- 
 ing to recall her features to his mind. 
 
 " Wrong ! we have met before,"** laying her 
 hand on his arm. 
 
 " Where ? where ?'' 
 
 " No matter — ask not where?" she said in 
 a tone from which all bitterness had vanished, 
 whilst her features lost their stern expression, 
 and the hand upon his arm trembled as she 
 looked upon him. " Ask not !— enough that 
 we have met. I am not as callous as men 
 deem me ; the heart, though seared by wrongs, 
 has still some kindly feelings left ; and as 
 I look on you the visions of my younger days 
 come back upon me. Younger and happier 
 days; ere I listened to the charmer — ere I 
 yielded to the tempter. Boy ! boy !" and she 
 grasped his arm with iron force, whilst her 
 glance was wild, and her frame convulsed — 
 " look you to your steps, if you would keep 
 light heart and open brow ! Tread not the
 
 THE SQUIRE. 269 
 
 ways of crime ! — the guilty know no rest ! 
 Slaves — bondsmen to their sin — there is no 
 peace by day or night. The sun but shines to 
 mock — the midnight stillness is rebuke !'' 
 Then, marking his surprise, she continued 
 more calmly, " I have said that I would serve 
 you, but not yet : there is another dearer still 
 who must be righted first ; and there is one I 
 would still spare. Be patient, and be wary !'" 
 
 " How may I trust you, if I know you not .'' 
 and how can you serve me ?" he demanded, 
 feeling the power of her strange and command- 
 ing manner, and yet unwilling to admit that he 
 did so ; — " Give me some sign !" She bent to- 
 wards him, and her low whisper came distinctly 
 on his ear. 
 
 " That portrait at Beauchamp Park ! — You 
 shall stand in her presence — her arms around 
 your neck — her lips upon your brow !" 
 *' When ? — where .'^" he demanded eagerly. 
 But the woman turned away in silence ; and 
 a little malice mingled in her quiet smile as 
 she placed chairs for her guests, and motioned 
 them to be seated.
 
 270 THE SQUIRE. 
 
 " Tell me," he demanded still more eagerly, 
 " whose is that portrait, and when shall we 
 meet ?" 
 
 She was still silent, looking as though she 
 saw him not. 
 
 " At least tell me how you know of my visit 
 to Beauchamp ? Strange, that all know me 
 and I know none!" 
 
 " How I know ?" she repeated in an elevated 
 tone. " Have I not said that I have means of 
 knowledge which you know not of? There 
 are tidings come on the night-wind to the 
 lonely listener ; there are signs and tokens in 
 the summer sky to her who reads them rightly. 
 Be ruled by her who sees and hears what the 
 dull and the blind see not, hear not." 
 
 " This is worse than folly, woman : I believe 
 not such things. I am not to be ruled by 
 aught but reason." 
 
 " By reason or by interest will I rule you, 
 then," she replied, after a brief scrutiny. " You 
 are not quite as unbelieving as you would 
 seem ; yet I cannot rule you as I would the 
 multitude. I will stand your friend the more
 
 THE SQUIRE. 271 
 
 for this very boldness, but I will not be 
 crossed, or hurried on." 
 
 " Then you will tell me of that portrait ?" 
 " No ; I have said of the past all I will say 
 now ! Vex me not by further questions !" 
 waving her hand with a haughty motion to 
 enforce his silence. 
 
 It was a splendid picture ! that low dark 
 room, with its raftered ceiling — its black oak 
 mantel-piece — its small casement, partly shaded 
 by ivy and dark creepers ; and the noon-day 
 sun shining in through the leafy screen, with 
 strong and garish light upon the bold open 
 brow and glowing cheek of the youth ; on the 
 gentle and touching beauty of the timid maid- 
 en ; and on that awful woman, in her black dress 
 and snow-white cap, seated in a high-backed 
 ehair opposite to her young guests, — the re- 
 mains of her haughty beauty still to be seen — 
 her keen dark eye flashing with the consciousness 
 of power — the seeming humility with which 
 her hands were crossed on her bosom belied by 
 her proud bearing ! It was a study for a Rem- 
 brandt, with its deep shadows and its strong
 
 272 THE SQUIRE. 
 
 gleaming lights — the passion and pride of the 
 old, and the frankness and gentle beauty of the 
 young ! 
 
 And she, — the hostess ! — that stern and 
 haughty woman — but a menial ? How could 
 she sit there as a queen, commanding, receiv- 
 ing the homage of her vassals? — as a judge, 
 pronouncing doom ? 
 
 After a brief silence, she spoke abruptly, 
 her searching gaze fixed on the timid Mabel, 
 who half started from her seat at the sharp 
 question, 
 
 " Why is not Philip Conyers returned to his 
 father'^s house ?" 
 
 " I know not," replied Mabel, timidly. 
 
 " You know not ! — and who should know 
 but a sister ?** 
 
 " I have never seen — I have never heard 
 from my brother." 
 
 " But your father — he has heard ?" 
 
 " Not for months : not since he wrote to 
 promise him a welcome." 
 
 There was a change of expression in the dark 
 darnels features ; but her guests could not read
 
 THE SQUIRE. 273 
 
 its meaning. Neither made a comment ; and 
 she continued more impressively, bending as 
 though not to lose one single tone — one chan- 
 ging look. 
 
 " Speak, Mabel Conyers ! and speak truly ! 
 Do you wish that brother to return ?" 
 
 " So much — so very much ! If you know 
 where he is, implore him to return. My father 
 pines for his presence!'* 
 
 The keenness of her scrutiny relaxed, for it 
 was impossible to doubt the speaker''s sincerity ; 
 and a gleam of satisfaction lit up her care-worn 
 features. 
 
 " Enough ! he shall return ! I see — I know 
 it. He shall stand in his father's halls — he 
 shall rule on his father's lands ! — but neither I 
 nor Philip Conyers shall behold it !" 
 
 Her exultation died away as she concluded, 
 and the raised arm sank by her side. " A dark 
 web has been woven ! — there was fraud in the 
 warp, and wrong in the woof ! Wrong ! — foul 
 wrong ! and blood may flow ere the web be un- 
 ravelled ; — but it shall be unravelled, though 
 that blood should be mine, or dearer than mine ! 
 
 N 5
 
 274 THE SQUIRE, 
 
 Away, away ! — I will be weak no more," sinking 
 back in her chair with a shudder, her eyes glar- 
 ing as though she had seen some fearful sight. 
 
 " I know not why you called us hither ; but 
 if only to listen to dark denunciations, it would 
 have been better had I come alone," remarked 
 Edward Elton, seeing Mabel's dread. " If 
 you have been wronged, tell me at some other 
 time, and I will right you, if in my power."" 
 
 " If I have been wronged !" she exclaimed, 
 with startling vehemence : — " If I have been 
 wronged ! And have I not ? — You right me ! 
 What can that arm do ? — did I ask its aid ? 
 Whilst Martha Wilford lives, she can right 
 herself! Yet you meant it kindly, and I 
 thank you,'' she added in a softer tone. " Fear 
 me not, Mabel Conyers ; I loved your mo- 
 ther — I will seek your good ; but I would 
 not that you became an heiress by your bro- 
 ther's death !" 
 
 '* Heaven forbid !" exclaimed Mabel, fer- 
 vently. 
 
 " You are a good child !" said the black 
 dame, in a tone of endearment that sounded
 
 THE SQUIRE. 275 
 
 strangely from her lips. " I will tell your 
 fortune : there are who say that I know all 
 things,""* — and rising abruptly, she took from a 
 cupboard some singularly-marked cards. 
 
 " But, stay ; it must not be said that Martha 
 Wilford is inhospitable; — you shall eat and 
 drink under my roof. Mabel Conyers and 
 Edward Elton — her daughter and his son ; and 
 that they should meet beneath the roof of 
 Martha Wilford ! — that she should hold the 
 balance of their fate ! Strange ! — yet stranger 
 things may come to pass ! Eat — drink !" and 
 she placed plain cake and currant wine before 
 them. " Pledge me ! — ' May the house of 
 Conyers never be without male heir !' " 
 
 She marked her guests as they repeated her 
 words, and was satisfied. 
 
 " We thank you, and wish you good morn- 
 ing," said Edward, seeing that his hostess was 
 arranging her cards, and that Mabel by no 
 means liked the proceeding. 
 
 " Stay P exclaimed the woman, in a com- 
 manding tone, without looking up ; ''I will 
 read your fates !"
 
 276 THE SQUIRE. 
 
 " Thank you ; but we are contented to act 
 them." 
 
 " It is false ! you object not to the reading, 
 only to the reader; and but for the maiden, 
 you would linger to hear of that portrait. For 
 your own sakes, I bid you remain ; I can work 
 my own will without heeding your good. 
 Draw !" she said to Mabel, advancing towards 
 her with the sorted cards. 
 
 Mabel mechanically obeyed, acting under the 
 influence of that wild dark eye, till she had 
 chosen nine, which her hostess arranged on 
 the table, and then bade her, in the same com- 
 manding tone, draw near and listen to her 
 fate. 
 
 " Mark my words ! — mine are not the flat- 
 tering tales of the bribed soothsayer ! Look ! 
 there are few marks here for your childhood, 
 for it was scanty in events. That dark line 
 is your aunt's death ; she liked me not, and I 
 liked her not, for I could not rule her. She 
 judged me as she saw men — either as gently nor 
 as harshly as she might ; but I would give this 
 right hand, and that too,'' (extending both,)
 
 THE SQUIRE. 277 
 
 " to have her thoughts on my dying bed — to 
 trust as she trusted : — but it cannot be.'' 
 
 She paused a moment, and then resumed. 
 
 " Now come cross marks and tangled lines. 
 You will love, and the long summer day be but 
 as an hour in his presence — the young, the 
 frank, and the light-hearted ! — but this will not 
 last. Fraud will cross your path — deceit will 
 twine around you ; a ruder lover will propose, 
 favoured by one who can command ! You will 
 seek advice from the deceiver : — take care that 
 he tangle you not in his toils, with his fair 
 words, whilst he whom you love is afar ! See ! 
 here is a large space, wherein are many figures 
 indistinctly marked — signs of trouble and 
 crossing plans ; — beyond two courses — one 
 fair, and straight, and happy — the other, dark 
 and crooked. It means, that the tracing of your 
 fate is in your own hands. Your mother loved 
 one, but wedded another : she yielded to threats 
 and entreaties, and died of a broken heart ! 
 Let Mabel Conyers look to it, that she tread 
 not the same path ! that she suffer not the 
 same doom ! Let her believe no evil report.
 
 278 THE SQUIRE. 
 
 yield to no threat, bend to no pleading. Let 
 her not waver ! — let her not doubt ! — and the 
 summer day of love, though clouds may mar 
 its glory for a while, shall neither end in sor- 
 row nor in death ! Be warned ! your doom is 
 read !" and, shuffling the selected cards with the 
 others, she turned from the trembling Mabel, 
 and held the pack to Edward, bidding him 
 draw. 
 
 " Why not advise without this mummery ? 
 I doubt not your wisdom ; and the pretended 
 reading of unmeaning marks will not increase 
 its value in my eyes." 
 
 " Draw !" she repeated with a haughty ges- 
 ture : " or I read not your fate." 
 
 He drew — and, as he felt her keen gaze 
 fascinating him to the choice she desired, his 
 heart beat less regularly. 
 
 That she was sincere in her belief that what 
 she said would come to pass, he could not 
 doubt, and it was to this sincerity that she 
 owed her influence ; but that she won wisdom 
 from the cards, he did not credit, though 
 whence her knowledge came, he could not
 
 THE SQUIRE. 279 
 
 gu€ss. The cards were again chosen, the 
 same mystic number — nine, and arranged as 
 before. 
 
 For some moments she bent over them, as 
 though the uncouth marks, (unintelligible to 
 others,) had for her a secret meaning; then 
 pointing to them with her long thin finger, 
 and alternately glancing from them to Ed- 
 ward, she began to tell his fortunes, past and 
 to come ; her tone every moment becoming 
 more elevated, and her eyes gleaming with 
 wilder light, whilst the listener held his breath 
 to catch every tone of the awful being before 
 him ; who looked like some inspired Pythoness 
 of old. 
 
 " There is joy, and rejoicing ! an heir is 
 born ! one of a proud line — the mother smiles 
 in love — the father glows with pride. There 
 is wealth and grandeur round him : the cares 
 of many, and the love of two, who love him 
 with that love which doth not die — with the 
 same love wherewith they have loved each 
 other. Joy lingers not — it has wings, and 
 flies away. Riches abide not with the careless
 
 ^80 THE SQUIRE. 
 
 and the wasteful, who give to each and all, con- 
 tent, as interest, to receive the shouts and flat- 
 teries of the crowd. The rich man has become 
 poor — the spendthrift is a beggar ; the loving 
 husband flies the loving wife; the friend shuns 
 the friend — misjudging, he yields to the guid- 
 ance of a deceiver. The babe, welcomed with 
 shouts, cradled in splendour, hushed in a 
 mother's arms, is branded with shame, rocked 
 in a hut, stilled by a stranger, borne away 
 at night as a felon"'s child. Dark and lonely 
 are the days of childhood, yet the youth's 
 spirit is not crushed ; the young gay heart 
 is buoyant still, pining to go forth into the 
 field of life, unknowing of the thorns which 
 he shall gather. He saves a stranger on the 
 high road from hired murderers — he shall 
 be repaid ! the good rendered to another shall 
 be returned unto himself. 
 
 " Age grows indolent, and would sit in the 
 chimney-nook ; youth is active and impatient, 
 and would range the world. The father, de- 
 ceived more and less than he believes, has 
 learnt to hate ; the youth, unwronged, loves
 
 THE SQUIRE. 281 
 
 all. Both lack wisdom. The lonely father 
 abides at home, the youth departs — he would 
 seek his fortune in the crowded city ; but he 
 wanders from his road, he stands — where he 
 dreams not of — before whom he does not know. 
 A fair face — a pictured beauty stamps its 
 image on his heart : he heeds not the tale he 
 hears — let him not, it is false ! 
 
 " He goes on his way, but is won to linger 
 by friendly words; he Avatches by the sick bed, 
 he lives on gentle smiles ; he who would have 
 rushed to the crowded city abides in the hum- 
 ble village ; he who would win fortune is con- 
 tent to receive it at a maiden's hands."" 
 
 The young man's eyes flashed at the charge, 
 and he made a movement of dissent : the 
 speaker paused not, but her succeeding words 
 proved that she understood him. 
 
 " He knows not as yet the value of wealth — 
 how the high and the low bow to a golden 
 idol ; he thinks only of the heart's priceless 
 jewel — love ! the love of the lovely, and the 
 gentle, and the true. Let him take heed that 
 he lose it not ! that another wears not the
 
 ^S2 THE SQUIRE. 
 
 pearl he covets ! Let him not draw back for 
 the lack of gold — gold shall be his in the time 
 of need ! One bowed with sorrow more than 
 years, has proffered friendship, let him claim 
 it frankly— boldly ; it will not be withheld; 
 and the time is coming when he will require 
 it. There are dangers in the young man's 
 path : one is blind who he thinks sees and 
 approves, let him pause ere he opens his eyes 
 — ere he ask what may be denied. A rude 
 rival may be balanced by increasing regard ; 
 or withdraw his suit, for the pearl will not 
 be set in gold, as some believe. But another 
 rival comes ! sparkling as the dancing stream ! 
 deep, dark as the stagnant pool! Let the 
 youth be wise — be wary : now comes the trial 
 of his life. He trusts to kindly words, and 
 open smiles — they may not mean what he 
 imagines. Smiles may give place to frowns — 
 regard change to suspicion — suspicion into 
 wrath. The words of the wily may cause this. 
 Let the youth be cautious — let him trust no 
 stranger — let him hint not his wishes for awhile. 
 If esteem should seem to cool, let him heed
 
 THE SQUIRE. 283 
 
 it not ; it shall grow warm again. Let him 
 govern his temper as his acts, for he is quick 
 of mood; let him linger on, still living on 
 sunny smiles, which, if he be not rash, shall 
 beam upon him for long years. As to the 
 maiden, so to the youth — there are two paths 
 before him. Will he choose as rashness shall 
 impel him ? Then will come parting from the 
 maiden of his love — the triumph of deceit and 
 wrong : woe to him ! and woe to her ! and woe 
 to all. Will he choose as prudence shall ad- 
 vise ? — will he hearken to the wise ? Then 
 shall a brilliant destiny be his. The deceiver 
 thwarted; the maiden of his love his own — 
 the arms of that pictured beauty clinging 
 round him ; a father's blessing and a father's 
 smile ; firm friends, a noble name, and the 
 wealth which brings the homage of the lips, 
 but, more, dries up the mourner's tears. Will 
 the youth pause ? Will he mar all by rashness ? 
 Will he not wait and bear awhile ? His fate 
 is in his own hands : let him decide. 
 
 The lines are read ! the doom is said ! 
 The issue rests on his head I"
 
 2Si THE SQUIRE. 
 
 She pushed the cards from before her. 
 
 " The words of knowledge have been spoken, 
 woe to him who will not heed them. Tell not 
 Philip Conyers what the black dame hath 
 said. You hesitate ! — say to him such is my 
 wish : and add — let him come, and I will read 
 his fate as I have read yours : my ban rests 
 on all who repeat. Will he ask further, think 
 you ? Come not near me till I call you ; 
 neither young man nor maiden. Ponder on 
 my words — and now begone ! I would be 
 alone ; there is a trial coming on, and the heart 
 must commune with itself, and learn to bear 
 it. Justice and revenge demand the sacrifice ; 
 but love pauses still. Love ! can love linger 
 yet ? Begone, I say ! Why stay you here ? 
 Would you read the secret of the outraged 
 heart, and mock its pangs ? Begone ! be- 
 gone !" stamping in passion, whilst her arm 
 waved them away. 
 
 " One question," said Edward, recovering 
 from the effect of her impassioned speech. 
 " That portrait, was it " 
 
 " It was none connected with the name of
 
 THE SQUIRE. 285 
 
 Elton," replied his hostess, with a mocking 
 smile. 
 
 " Who then ? And who is the stranger I 
 should fear ?" 
 
 " I will say no more. Begone ! if you 
 would not have me blight you with a curse — 
 if you would still have me for a friend. I 
 would be alone, for the spirits of the present 
 and the past are coming round me, and none 
 must see the conflict. Away! away! there 
 is no peace for guilt !" again waving her arm 
 for their departure. 
 
 " May we not soothe ? There is peace for 
 the sorrower for sin," said Mabel in a low 
 sweet voice, though stilFclinging to Edward^s 
 arm for protection. 
 
 " You soothe !" exclaimed the haughty wo- 
 man, with a fierceness which softened as she 
 gazed on the gentle speaker. " No, no ; not 
 even Mabel Conyers can do that. There is no 
 peace for the hardened sinner — for the haughty 
 heart that will not bend. Go I'*"' she continued 
 with a gentleness, of which none believed her 
 capable, taking Mabel's hand. " Go ! may the
 
 286 THE SQUIRE. 
 
 blessing of your God be on you both ; I dare 
 not give you mine. Go ! go !" gently putting 
 them out, and closing the door behind them. 
 
 As they glanced in at the casement in pass- 
 ing, they saw Martha Wilfred rocking to and 
 fro in her arm-chair, as though the frame was 
 stirred by the strong passions of the mind. 
 They passed out of the garden in silence, and 
 up to the house, each heart busy with its own 
 thoughts ; and Edward's whispered, " Fear 
 not ; I will protect you !" as the still trembling 
 Mabel relinquished his arm, to which she had 
 clung till they reached the hall, was the only 
 speech between them. 
 
 The black dame was a good judge of cha- 
 racter. The squire asked no questions on 
 hearing her message, and the laugh with which 
 he declined consulting the oracle was not as 
 joyous as usual. 
 
 END OF THE FIRST VOLUME. 
 
 LOKDON : PRIKTED BY SAMUEL BENTLEY, 
 
 Dorset Street, Fleec Street.
 
 (V