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diff --git a/59094-0.txt b/59094-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..b665a77 --- /dev/null +++ b/59094-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,12169 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 59094 *** + + + + + + + + + + + + + HALF BROTHERS + + + BY + + HESBA STRETTON + + AUTHOR OF "COBWEBS AND CABLES," "CAROLA," "JESSICA'S + FIRST PRAYER," ETC. + + + + NEW YORK + CASSELL PUBLISHING COMPANY + 104 & 106 FOURTH AVENUE + + + + + COPYRIGHT, 1892, BY + CASSELL PUBLISHING COMPANY. + + _All rights reserved._ + + THE MERSHON COMPANY PRESS, + RAHWAY, N. J. + + + + + CONTENTS. + + CHAPTER + + I. In a Strange Land + II. At Innsbruck + III. A Forsaken Child + IV. A Reprieve + V. Winning the World + VI. Colonel Cleveland + VII. Margaret + VIII. Friends Not Lovers + IX. Is Sophy Alive? + X. Chiara + XI. At Cortina + XII. A Half Confession + XIII. Rachel Goldsmith + XIV. Apley Hall + XV. Life and Death + XVI. Andrew Goldsmith Saddler + XVII. Andrew's Friend + XVIII. Laura's Scheme + XIX. The Son and Heir + XX. Brackenburn + XXI. Sidney's Ward + XXII. Dorothy's New Home + XXIII. A Wife for Philip + XXIV. The Rector's Trouble + XXV. Coming Of Age + XXVI. At Cross Purposes + XXVII. Who Will Give Way? + XXVIII. Homesickness + XXIX. In Venice + XXX. A Mystery + XXXI. Martino + XXXII. An Old Letter + XXXIII. A Village "Festa" + XXXIV. A Forced Confession + XXXV. Beginning to Reap + XXXVI. In the Pine Woods + XXXVII. Remorse + XXXVIII. Chiara's Hut + XXXIX. At Bay + XL. Phyllis and Dorothy + XLI. Margaret's Conflict + XLII. Captured + XLIII. A Poor Man + XLIV. Sophy's Son + XLV. Bitter Disappointment + XLVI. Public Opinion + XLVII. Andrew's Prayer + XLVIII. A Lost Love + XLIX. Winter Gloom + L. Father and Son + LI. The Growth of a Soul + LII. Laura's Doubts + LIII. Andrew's Hope + LIV. Failures + LV. A New Plan + LVI. On the Moors + LVII. Expiation + LVIII. Night and Morning + LIX. Found + LX. Martin's Fate + + + + +HALF BROTHERS. + + + +CHAPTER I. + +IN A STRANGE LAND. + +It will be a terrible thing to be ill here, among strangers, to have my +little child born, and no one with me, if Sidney does not come back. I +have been looking for him every day for the last three weeks. Every +morning I feel sure he will come, and every night I lie listening for +any sound out of doors which might mean he is come. Out on the clock +tower the watchmen strike the time on the bell every quarter of an +hour, and I know how the night is slipping away. Sometimes I get up +and look through the window at the stars sparkling brighter than they +ever sparkle on frosty nights in England, and the keen, keen air makes +me shiver; but I never see him in the village street, never hear him +calling softly, so as not to wake other people, "Sophy!" + +And I wonder what Aunt Rachel is thinking of me in England. I know she +is troubled about me; yes, and father will be half crazy about me. How +dreadful it must be for those you love to disappear! I did not think +of that when I stole away, and left them. And now, O God! what would I +give to have Aunt Rachel with me!--especially if he does not come back +in time. + +It is so lonely here, and I am growing frightened and homesick. I wish +I was at home in my little room, in the bed with white curtains round +it, and the window darkened to keep the sun out, as it used to be when +Aunt Rachel nursed me through the fever. But this room! why, it is as +large as a house almost, and my little oil lamp is no better than a +glowworm in it. The far corners of the room are as black as a pit, and +there are four doors into it, and I cannot fasten any of them. I did +not care much when he was with me; but now I am frightened. I never +knew before what it was to be afraid. Then there is no landlady in +this inn--only Chiara, the old servant, whom I do not like. The +landlord is a widower, a rough, good man, I dare say; but I wish there +had been a good mistress. Surely, surely, he will come back to me +to-morrow. + +And now, because I have nothing else to do, and because I want to keep +my mind off from worrying about his return, which is certain to be in +time, I will write quite fairly and honestly how we came to quarrel, +and why he left me, disappearing from me almost as I disappeared from +Aunt Rachel and father, only I left them in their own home, and he has +left me all alone in a rough inn, in a strange country; and if he does +not come back, what will become of me? + +Aunt Rachel and father, I am writing all this for you. + +We were married quite secretly, for fear of his rich uncle, who would +never, never have consented to him marrying a poor saddler's daughter +like me. And we left England directly under another name, and went +down into Italy and wandered about; I shall have strange things to tell +of when I reach home again. And he was so kind, so fond of me; only I +vexed him often, because I did not care about the pictures and the +music, and the old ruins, and all the things he delighted in. I wish I +had pretended to care for them; but he only laughed at first, and +called me an odd name--a "pretty Philistine," and took me to look in at +the shop windows. So I did not guess that he cared so much, till he +got tired, and used to leave me by myself while he went to picture +galleries and concerts, and exploring ancient buildings. In Venice he +left me all day, time after time, and I used to wander about the +Piazza, and in and out of the little narrow streets, until I lost +myself; and I knew nothing of Italian, and very little French, and +often and often I walked up and down for hours before I found the +Piazza again, and then I knew where to go. From Venice we came up +here, among the mountains, and now I am in Austria. When I was a girl +at school I never thought I should go to Austria. It is a very narrow +valley, just wide enough to hold a village with one street, and all +that is on the slope. There are fields all along the valley--fields +without any hedgerows, and only rough cart tracks through them, and +wherever the tracks cross one another there is a crucifix. Yes, there +are crucifixes everywhere, and most of them are so ugly I cannot bear +to look at them. I like better the little shrines, where Mary sits +with the child Jesus in her arms. + +It is strange when I look out of the window to see the great high rocks +rising up like walls far into the sky; thousands of feet, Sidney said +they are. They are so steep that snow cannot rest on them, and it only +lies in the niches and on the ledges and the sharp points, which shine +like silver in the sun. The sky looks almost like a flat roof lying +over the valley on the tops of these rocky walls. There is not a tree, +or a shrub, or a blade of grass growing on them; and how bleak it looks! + +I do not like to begin about our quarrel. We had fallen into a way of +quarreling, and I did not think much of it. You know, Aunt Rachel, I +am always ready to kiss and be friends again, and it will be so again. +When he comes back I will do everything he wishes, and I'll pretend to +like what he likes. I'll not be the foolish, silly girl I was again. + +Nearly a mile from the village there is an old ruin, not a pretty +place, only a fortress, built to guard the valley from the Italians, if +they sent their soldiers this way. An ugly old place. There is a +church built out of the stone, and a long flight of stone steps up to +it. I felt very ill and wretched and out of spirits that day; three +weeks to-morrow it will be, and Sidney was worrying me about the ruins. + +"I wish you would learn to take some interest in anything besides +yourself," he said at last. + +I was sitting on the church steps, and he stood over me, with a gloomy +face, and looked at me as if he despised me. + +"I wish I'd never seen you!" I cried out suddenly, as if I was beside +myself. "I hate the day I ever saw you. I wish I'd been struck blind +or dead that day. We're going to be miserable for ever and ever, and I +was happy enough till I knew you." + +Those were bitter words; how could I say them to Sidney? + +"If you say that again," he answered, "I'll leave you. I've borne your +temper as long as I can bear it. Do you think you are the only one to +be miserable? I curse the day when I met you. It has spoiled all my +future life, fool that I was!" + +"Fool! yes, that's true," I said in my passion, "and I'm married to a +fool! And they used to think me so clever at home, poor Aunt Rachel +and father did. Me! I'm married to a fool, you know," and I looked +up, and looked round, as if there were people to hear me beside him. +But there was nobody. He ground the pebbles under his foot, and raised +himself up and stood as if he were going away the next moment. + +"Go on one minute longer, Sophy," he said, "and I'm off. You may +follow me if you please, and be the ruin of my life, as you're likely +to be the plague of it. Oh, fool, fool that I was! But I'll get a few +days' peace. Another word from you, and I go." + +"Go! go! go!" I cried, quite beside myself; "I shall only be too glad +to see you go. Only I wish Aunt Rachel was here." + +"Sophy, will you be reasonable?" he asked, and I thought he was going +to give way again, as he always did before. + +"No, I won't be reasonable; I can't be reasonable," I said; "how can I +be reasonable when I'm married to a fool? If you're going, go; and if +you're staying, stay. I'm so miserable, I don't care which." + +I covered my face with my hands and rocked myself to and fro, hearing +nothing but my own sobs. I expected to feel his hand on my head every +moment, and to hear him say how he adored me. For we had quarreled +many a time before, and he had even gone away, and sulked all day with +me. But he never failed to beg me to forgive him and be friends again. +I did not want to look up into his face, lest I should give way, and be +friends before he said he was sorry. But he did not touch me, nor +speak, though I sobbed louder and louder. + +"Sidney!" I said at last, with my face still hidden from him. + +But even then he did not speak; and by and by I lifted up my head, and +could not see him anywhere. There seemed to be no one near me; but +there were plenty of corners in the ruins where he could hide himself +and watch me. I sat still for a long time to tire him out. Then I got +up, and strolled very slowly down toward the village. There is a +crucifix by the side of the narrow fort-road, larger than most of the +others, and there on the cross hangs a wooden figure of Jesus Christ, +so worn and weather-beaten that it looks almost a skeleton, and all +bleached and pale as if it had been hanging there through thousands of +years. It seemed very desolate and sad that evening, and I stood +looking at it, with the tears in my eyes, making it all dim and misty. +The sun was going down, and just then it passed behind the peak of one +of the precipices, and a long stream of light fell across a pine forest +more than a mile away, and into that forest a lonely man was passing, +and he looked like Sidney. My heart sank suddenly; it is a strange +thing to feel one's heart sinking, and I felt all at once as desolate +and forsaken as the image on the cross above me. + +"Sidney!" I called in as clear and loud a tone as I could. "Sidney!" + +But if that man, lost now in the pine forest, was Sidney, he was too +far off to hear me, wasn't he? Still I could not give up the hope that +he was hiding among the ruins, and I called and called again, louder +and louder, for I began to be terrified. It was all in vain. The sun +set, and the air grew chilly, and they rang the Angelus in the +clock-tower. The long twilight began, and the flowers shut up their +pretty leaves. The cold was very sharp and biting, and made me shiver. +So I called him once again in a despairing voice. + +"Oh!" I said, looking up to the worn, white face of the Christ upon the +cross, as if the wooden image could hear me, "I'm so miserable, and I +am so wicked." + +That really made me feel better, and my passion went away in a moment. +Yes, I would be good, I said to myself, and never vex him again. I +knew I ought to be good to him, for he was so much above me, and ran +such risks to marry me. Perhaps I ought to be more obedient to him +than if I had married a man who kept a shop, like father. Sometimes I +think I should have been happier if I had; but that is nonsense, you +know. And Sidney has never been rough or rude to me, as many men would +be, if I went into such tempers with them. He is always a gentleman; +always. + +"I told him I was passionate," I said, half-aloud, I think; "and he +ought to have believed me. And oh! to think how anxious Aunt Rachel is +about me, never knowing where I am or what has happened to me for +nearly nine months! It is that makes me so miserable and cross; I +can't help flying out at him; but he says I must not tell or write for +his sake. Oh! I will be better, I will be good. And he's so fond of +me; I know he can't be gone far away. I expect he's gone back to the +inn, and will be waiting for his supper, and I'd better make haste." + +But I could not walk quickly, for I felt faint and giddy. Once or +twice I stumbled against a stone, and Sidney was not there to help me. +When I reached the inn I looked into the room where we had our meals; +but he was not there. And he was nowhere in our great barn of a +bedroom. His portmanteau was there, and all his things, so I knew he +could not stay long away. I made signs to Chiara, the maid, for I +cannot speak Italian or German; but she did not understand me. So I +went to bed and cried myself to sleep. + +Now I have told exactly how it happened. It is nearly three weeks ago; +and every hour I have expected to see Sidney come back. He has left +most of his money behind in my care; there are nearly eighty pounds in +foreign money that I do not understand. Quite plenty; I'm not vexed +about that. But I want him to be here taking care of me. What am I to +do if he is not here in time? Chiara is kind enough; only we cannot +understand one another, and what will become of me? Oh! if Aunt Rachel +could only be here! + +It is a very rough place, this inn. My bedroom is paved with red tiles +like our kitchen at home; and there is no fire-place, only an immense +white stove in one corner, which looks like a ghost at night, when +there is any moonlight. There is a big deal table, and a kind of sofa, +as large as a bed, placed on one side of it. The bed itself is so high +I have to climb into it by a chair. There are four windows; and when I +look out at them there is little else to be seen but the great high, +awful rocks, shutting out the sky from my sight; they frighten me. +Downstairs, the room below mine is the kitchen. It is like a barn, +too; paved with rough slabs of stone. There is an enormous table, with +benches on each side. At one end of the kitchen is a sort of little +room, with six sides, almost round; and in the middle of it is a kind +of platform, built of brick, about two feet high; and this is their +fire-place, where all the cooking is done. There is always a huge fire +of logs burning, and there are tall chairs standing round it, tall +enough for people to put their feet on the high hearth. I've sat there +myself, with my cold feet on the hot bricks, and very comfortable it is +on a frosty night. And above it hangs an enormous, enormous +extinguisher, which serves as a chimney, but which can be lowered by +chains. At nights all the rough men in the village come and sit round +this queer fire-place; and oh! the noises there are make me shiver with +terror. + +Chiara is very careful of me; too careful. She makes me go out a +little every day, when I would rather stay in, and watch for Sidney. I +always go as far as the old crucifix, for it seems to comfort me. I +always say to it, "Oh, he must come back to-day, I can't bear it any +longer. And oh! I'll never, never vex him any more." And the sad +face seems to understand, and the head bows down lower as if to listen +to me. It seems to heed me, and to be very sorry for me. I wonder if +it can be wicked to feel in this way. But in England I should not want +any crucifix, I should have Aunt Rachel. + +I am afraid Sidney forgot that I should want him near me. Suppose he +does not come back till I am well and strong again, and can put my baby +into his arms myself. There is a pretty shrine on the other road to +the village, not the road where he left me, and in it is Mary with a +sweet little child lying across her knees asleep. Suppose he should +come and find us like that, and I could not wake the baby, and he knelt +down before us, and put his arms round us both. Oh, I should never be +in a passion again. + +I have not written all this at once. Oh, no! Chiara takes the pen and +ink away, and shakes her funny old head at me. She makes me laugh +sometimes, even now. Whenever I hear the tramp, tramp of her wooden +shoes, I fancy she is coming to say Sidney is here, and afraid to +startle me; but it would not startle me, for I expect him all the time. + +Some day he will drive me in a carriage and pair, along the streets at +home, and all the neighbors will see, and say, "Why, there's Sophy +Goldsmith come back, riding in her own carriage!" And I shall take my +baby, and show him to my aunts and father, and ask them if it was not +worth while to be sorry and anxious for a time to have an ending like +this. + +This moment I have made up my mind that they shall not be sorry nor +anxious any longer. I will send this long story I have written to Aunt +Rachel; and I will send our portraits which Sidney had taken in +Florence. Oh, how handsome he is! And I, don't you think I am very +pretty? I did not know I looked like that. Good-by, Sidney and +myself. I must make Chiara buy me ever so many postage stamps +to-morrow morning. + +Dearest father and Aunt Rachel, come and take care of me and my little +baby. Forgive me, forgive me, for being a grief to you! + +SOPHY. + + + + +CHAPTER II. + +AT INNSBRUCK. + +When Sidney Martin turned away from his petulant young wife, and strode +with long hasty strides up the mountain track which lay nearest to him, +he did so simply from the impulse of passion. He was little more than +a boy himself; just as she was little more than a wayward girl. It was +scarcely a year since he left Oxford; and he was now spending a few +months in traveling abroad as a holiday, before settling down to the +serious business of life. His uncle was the head of the great firm of +Martin, Swansea & Co., shipping agents, whose business lay like a vast +net over the whole commercial world, bringing in golden gains from the +farthest and least known of foreign markets. Sir John Martin, for he +had already been knighted, and looked forward to a baronetcy, was a +born Londoner, at home only in the streets of London, and unable to +find pleasure or recreation elsewhere. But he was desirous that his +nephew and heir should be a man of the world, finding himself +unembarrassed and at home in any sphere of society; especially those +above the original position of his family. To this end he had sent +Sidney to Eton and Oxford; and had now given him a year's holiday to +see those foreign sights presumed to be necessary to the full +completion of his education. + +The misfortune was, as Sidney had long since owned to himself, that he +had not been content to take this holiday alone. He was in love, with +a boy's passion, with Sophy Goldsmith; and he knew his uncle would +rather follow him to the grave than see him married to a girl so far +beneath him in position. It was impossible to leave Sophy behind; he +had no difficulty in persuading her to consent to a secret marriage. +She was a girl of the same age as himself, whose sole literary +education had consisted in the reading of third-rate novels, where none +of the heroines would have hesitated for a moment from stealing away, +as she did, from her very commonplace home; to which she expected some +day to return in great state and glory. + +But the stolen happiness had been very brief. Sidney, boy as he was, +found out too soon how ignorant and empty-headed his pretty, uneducated +wife was. She was in no sense a companion for him. Traveling about +from place to place, with all the somewhat pedantic book-learning of +his university career fresh upon him, and with enthusiastic +associations for many of the spots they visited, especially in Italy +and Greece, he was appalled to find that what interested him beyond +words was inexpressibly wearisome to her. What was the Palace of the +Cæsars to one who knew only as much of Roman history as she had learned +in Mangnall's Questions at the poor day-school she had gone to? Or +Horace's farm; who was Horace? Or Pliny's villa; she knew nothing of +Pliny. Why did he want to go to Tusculum? And why did he care about +the Etruscan tombs? She did not want to learn. She had not married to +go to school again, she declared one day, with a burst of tears; and if +he had not loved her as she was he ought to have left her. There were +those who would have loved her if she had not known a great A from a +chest of drawers. She would not bother herself with any such things. + +Sidney discovered, too, that she cared equally little for painting or +music. A brass band playing dance-music in the streets and a strongly +tinted oleograph was as far as her native taste in music and art would +carry her; and she resented the most delicately hinted instruction on +these points also. The wild and magnificent scenery which delighted +him immeasurably, was dreary and unintelligible to her. She loved +streets and shops, and driving amid throngs of other carriages, and +going to theaters, though even there she yawned and moped because she +could not understand a word the actors spoke. It was in vain he urged +her to try and acquire a knowledge of the language. She was going to +live in England, she argued; and it was not worth while to spend her +time in learning Italian or French. + +Before six months had passed, the inward conviction had eaten into +Sidney's mind that his marriage was a fatal mistake. He brooded +silently over this thought until it affected strongly his temper, kind +and sanguine when untried, but now falling into a somber despair. He +had been guilty of a folly which his uncle would never overlook. If +Sophy had been as intellectual as she was beautiful, he could have +educated her, and so made a companion of her; and possibly his uncle +might in time be won over to forgiveness. A brilliant, beautiful +woman, able to hold her own in society, one of whom Sir John could be +proud, might have conquered him; but never an ignorant, empty-headed, +low-born dunce, like Sophy. A dunce and a fool, the young husband +called her in the bitter intolerance of youth; for youth demands +perfection in every person save self. + +This inward disgust and weariness of his silly little wife had been +smouldering and increasing for months. Once before he had given way to +it so far as to leave her for a few days, and to wander about in what +seemed a blissful and restful solitude. But he had written to her, and +kept her informed of his movements, and had returned after a short +absence. Now he felt he could not take up the heavy burden again; not +voluntarily. + +He made his way through the darkening shadows of great pine forests and +narrow valleys, to Toblach, a village about twenty miles distant, at +the entrance of the Ampezzo valley, through which Sophy must pass, if +she continued her journey without retracing alone the route by which +they had come. And there he remained for three or four days, expecting +to see her arrival hour after hour. Then he grew nettled. She was +waiting for him to go back penitent, like the prodigal son. Not he! +She was quite able to manage a journey alone; and he had left her +plenty of money--indeed, nearly all he possessed. It was not as if she +was some high-born young lady, who had never ventured out of doors +unattended. Sophy had the hardy independence of a girl who had earned +her own living, and had expected to manage for herself all her life. +This had become one of her offenses in his eyes. She was as sharp as a +needle in avoiding imposition, and taking care of money; and her +generalship at the many hotels they had stayed in had at first amused, +and then enraged him. She could take very good care of herself. + +Still, when he went on his way, he left word with the landlord of the +hotel that he was gone to the Kaiserkrone at Botzen; and at Botzen he +stayed another three days, and left the same instructions as to her +following him to the Goldne Sonne, at Innsbruck. Each journey made the +distance between them greater, and gave to him a feeling of stronger +relief at being free from her presence. There was no return of his +boyish passion for her; not a spark revived in the ashes of the old +flame. + +He was sauntering through the Hofkirche at Innsbruck, gazing somewhat +wearily at the grotesque bronze figures surrounding the tomb of +Maximilian, and thinking how Sophy would have screamed with laughter, +and talked in the shrill key that had so often made him look round +ashamed, in other famous churches; for he was at an age when shame is +an overpowering vexation. + +"Thank Heaven, she is not here," he said half aloud, when suddenly a +hand was laid on his shoulder, and a familiar voice exclaimed: + +"What, Sidney! you are here--and alone!" + +"Alone!" he repeated; "who did you expect to find with me, George?" he +asked irritably. + +It was the last word that struck him, and over-balanced the +astonishment he felt at hearing his cousin's voice. George Martin +shrugged his shoulders. + +"Come out of this church," he said, in a voice toned down to quietness, +"and I'll tell you straight. I never could manage anything, you know; +there's no diplomacy in me, and so I told Uncle John. Come; I can't +talk about it here." + +They went out into the open air, and strolled down to the river in +silence. George Martin was in no hurry to tell his message, and Sidney +shrank from receiving it. He had often dreaded that some rumor might +reach his uncle; for Sophy had not been prudent enough in effacing +herself on their travels. So the two young men stood on the bridge, +gazing down at the rapid rushing of the waters below them, and for some +time neither of them spoke a word. + +"Old fellow," said George at last, laying his hand affectionately on +Sidney's shoulder, "I'm so glad to see you alone. There isn't anybody +at the hotel, is there?" + +"What do you mean?" asked Sidney with a parched throat. + +"Anyone you would be ashamed of, you know," he continued. "Uncle John +heard somehow there was a girl traveling about with you--I don't like +to say it, Sid--and he sent me off at a moment's notice after you. +There, now the murder's out! Uncle John said, 'Don't be bluff and +outspoken; but find out quietly.' But I never could be diplomatic. +You are alone, Sidney, aren't you?" + +"Quite alone," answered Sidney, looking frankly and steadily into his +cousin's face. There was always a winning straightforwardness and +clearness in his gray eyes, as if the soul of honor dwelt behind them, +which went right to the hearts of those who met their gaze; and George +Martin's clouded face brightened at once. + +"I'm so glad, so thankful, old fellow!" he exclaimed. "I don't mind +now telling you, uncle was in an awful rage, swore he would disinherit +you, and cut you off without even a shilling, you know; and sent me to +find you out, because I was to be the heir in your place, if it was +true. Perhaps he thought that would make me keen to find it true. But +oh, how thankful I am to find it false? We are more like brothers than +cousins, Sidney; and I'd rather lose a dozen fortunes that lose you." + +Sidney grasped his hand with a firm, strong clasp, but said nothing. +For the moment he was dumb; his pulses beat too strongly for him to +speak in a natural tone. Disinherited! He who had not a penny of his +own. George Martin attributed his silence and agitation to the +indignation he must be feeling. + +"Come home at once with me," he said, "and make it all right with Uncle +John. It was a vile scandal, and just the thing to exasperate him. +It's only giving up a few weeks of your holiday; and it's worth while, +I tell you, Sid. He said he had it on good authority; but if you go +back with me, he'll be satisfied." + +"I don't know," answered Sidney, with some hesitation; "it's like +owning I am afraid of being disinherited. Leave me to think it over; +it is not a thing to be decided in a moment." + +Yet he knew at the bottom of his heart that he had already decided. It +seemed to him as if he had been saved from a fatal exposure by the +drift of circumstances. But for Sophy's violent temper she would +either have been with him when his cousin met him at Innsbruck, or +George would have pursued his journey to the Ampezzo valley, and found +them there. Then it would have been impossible to conceal the +truth--the hateful truth--any longer. That would have been utter ruin +for them both. He could do nothing to maintain a wife or, indeed, +himself, if his uncle disinherited him. So far he had never earned a +six-pence in his life. If he acknowledged Sophy just now, it would +only be to bring her to destitution; or to make himself dependent upon +her exertions. + +He went back to his hotel, and wrote a long letter to his young wife, +carefully worded, lest it should fall into wrong hands. He told her to +make her way as directly as possible to England to her father's house; +and to let him know immediately of her return there. She could reach +it by tolerably easy railway journeys in about a week; and he carefully +traced out her route, entering the moment of departure for each train +she must take, and telling her at what hotels she must stay. It was +now a week since he had left her, and he had no doubt she was on her +way after him. It seemed to him as though he was taking an almost +tender care for her safety and comfort, more than she deserved; and +thought she ought to be very grateful to him for it. He urged the +utmost prudence upon her in regard to their secret. + +He left this letter with the landlord of the Goldne Sonne, doing so +with considerable caution, very well concealed. It was addressed to S. +Martin only, and might have been either for a man or a woman. If no +person claimed it, it was to be forwarded to him intact at the end of +three months, when he would send a handsome acknowledgment for it. But +it would probably be asked for in the course of a few days; for Sidney +reminded himself, with self-gratulation, that at both of the hotels he +had quitted lately he had left instructions for Sophy; with a careful +description of her appearance, that no wrong person should receive them. + +These steps set his conscience at rest; and he returned to England with +no heavier burden on his spirits than the dread of discovery, which +must be borne as long as he was absolutely dependent upon his uncle's +favor. + + + + +CHAPTER III. + +A FORSAKEN CHILD. + +Sophy finished her letter, the letter which was to be posted the next +day. But before the morning came her child was born, and the young +mother lay speechless and motionless, unconsciously floating down the +silent sea of death. There was no one with her but Chiara, the working +housekeeper of the inn; but there was no sign that the girl felt +troubled or lonely. Chiara laid the baby across her chilling, heaving +breast, and for a moment there flickered a smile about her pale lips, +as she made a feeble effort to clasp her new-born babe in her arms. +But these signs of life were gone in a moment like the passing of a +fitful breeze; and her rough nurse, stooping down to look more closely +at her white face, saw that the young foreigner was dead. + +For some minutes Chiara stood gazing at the dead girl, and the living +child on her bosom, without moving. She had dispatched a boy to fetch +the nearest doctor, but he was gone to a patient some miles away, and +it would be two or three hours before he could reach the inn. All the +house and all the village were asleep, except the watchman in the +bell-tower, who struck the deep-toned bell every quarter. It had not +occurred to her to summon any helper; she had known what was coming, +and had made all necessary preparations. But she had not counted on +any risk to the life of the young mother; and this made all the +difference in the world. + +Chiara believed she perfectly understood the position of affairs. The +young Englishman who had disappeared three weeks ago had grown weary of +his whim, pretty as the girl was; and would not care if he never heard +of her again. That was as plain as the day. + +Was there nothing to Chiara's advantage in the turn affairs had taken? +The pretty Englishwoman had left boxes enough and goods enough of many +kinds, and Chiara was well acquainted with their value, for Sophy was +careless with her keys, excepting the key of a strong jewel-case, which +the inn servant had never seen open. It was not difficult now to find +the key. In a little while she opened the case, and her eyes glistened +as they fell upon a roll of bank-notes and a quantity of ducats and +gulden, how many she had not time to count. There were a few jewels, +too; and the jewel-case was an easy thing to take away and hide. +Chiara was a woman of prompt measures. Yes, she could adopt the child, +and take care of this fortune for him herself. If it fell into the +hands of the landlord, or the _padre_, or the mayor, there would be +nothing left by the time the boy grew up. It was the best thing she +could do for him; and the Englishman would be glad enough to be rid of +the burden of the child, even if he ever returned to make inquiries +after the girl he had deserted. He had left all this money behind him +to make amends to her for his desertion, and was sure not to come back. +That was as clear as day. + +She left the baby lying across its dead mother, and stole away softly +to her own garret to hide her treasure securely. The dawn was breaking +in a soft twilight which would strengthen into the full day long before +the sun could climb the high barrier of the rocks. Very soon the cocks +began to crow, and the few birds under the eaves to twitter. The +doctor was not yet come when Chiara thundered at her master's door, and +called out in a loud voice: + +"Signore, a boy is born, and the little signora is dead." + +The landlord was a man who cared for nothing if his dinner was to his +liking and his wines good. Chiara had managed all domestic affairs so +well for so many years that he was willing she should manage this +little difficulty. The trusty woman produced enough money to defray +all the expenses incurred by the English people, who had honored his +hotel with their custom. No one questioned the claim of Chiara to the +clothes and the few jewels left by the English lady, especially as she +took upon herself the entire charge of the child. The dead mother was +buried without rite or ceremony in a solitary corner of the village +cemetery, for everybody knew she was not entitled to a Christian +burial, being an accursed heretic; but the child was baptized into the +Catholic Church. + +It was not possible for Chiara to keep the baby herself in the bustling +life of the village inn; and she had no wish to do so. She had a +sister, with children of her own, living up on the mountains, in a +small group of huts where a few shepherds and goatherds lived near one +another for safety and companionship during the bitter winter months, +when the wolves prowled around the hovels, under whose roofs the goats +and sheep were folded, as well as the men, women, and children. The +children received almost less care and attention than the sheep and +goats, which were worth money. The whole community led a savage and +uncivilized life. Behind their little hamlet rose the huge escarpment +of gray rocks, which hid the sun from them until it was high in the +heavens, and in whose clefts the snow and ice lay unmelted ten months +in the year. Far below them was the valley, with its church and +clock-tower, from which the chiming of bells came up to their ears +plainly enough; but the distance was too great for any but the +strongest among them to go down, unless it was a great festival of the +church, when their eternal salvation depended upon assisting at it. +Now and then a priest made his way up to this far-off corner of his +parish, but it was only when one of its few inhabitants was dying. No +one had the courage to undertake the task of civilizing this little +plot of almost savage barbarism. + +The name of the young Englishman, the father of the little waif thrust +back in this manner to a state of original savagery, had been entered +in the register of the village inn as S. Martin. The child was +christened Martino. Chiara agreed to pay 150 kreutzers a month for his +maintenance, an enormous sum it seemed, but her sister knew how to +drive a good bargain, and had a shrewd suspicion that Chiara could very +well afford to pay more. + + + + +CHAPTER IV. + +A REPRIEVE. + +Three months passed by, and found Sidney Martin fairly at work in his +uncle's office. It had been a busy and exciting time with him, and he +had had little leisure to brood over his private difficulties. It was +impossible that he could forget Sophy, but he felt more willing to +forget her than to rack his brains over the silence and mystery that +surrounded her absence. Inherited instinct awoke within him a love of +finance and commerce. The world-wide business carried on in the busy +offices of his uncle's shipping agency firm in the City of London had +taken possession of his mind, appealing curiously enough to his +imagination, and he was throwing himself into its affairs with an ardor +very satisfactory to Sir John Martin. + +There was something fascinating to Sidney in the piles of letters +coming in day after day bearing the postmarks of every country under +the sun, and the foreign letters were generally allotted to him. But +one morning, as they passed through his hands, a letter bearing the +name of the Groldne Sonne, Innsbruck, lay among them, bringing his +heart to his mouth as his eye fell upon it. He glanced around at his +uncle, as if he could not fail to observe it and suspect him of some +secret, but Sir John was absorbed with his own share of the +correspondence. The Innsbruck letter was slipped away into Sidney's +pocket, and he went on opening the rest; but his brain was in a whirl, +and refused to take in the import of any of them. "I've a miserable +headache to-day," he said at last, with a half groan; "I cannot make +anything out of these." + +"Go home, my boy," answered his uncle, "and take a holiday. We can do +very well without you." + +Sidney was glad to get away. This unopened letter--which he had not +dared to open in his uncle's presence--seemed of burning importance. +Yet he felt sure it was nothing but the letter of directions he had +left for Sophy when he quitted Innsbruck. All these months her fate +had been a mystery to him. She had disappeared so completely out of +his life, that sometimes it seemed to him positively that his marriage +had been only a dream. From the moment of his return to England, he +had been incessantly worried by the dread of her arrival, either at his +uncle's house or at the offices in the City. More than once he had +been on the point of telling his uncle all about his fatal mistake, but +his courage always failed him at the right moment. Sometimes he felt +angry at Sophy's obstinate silence, but more often he was glad of it. +He felt so free without her. His understanding and intellect, his very +soul, seemed to have thrown off some stifling incubus. He could enjoy +art and music again. There was no silly girl to be jealous of his +books. The brief, boyish passion he had felt was dead, and there could +be no resurrection of it. It appeared monstrous to him that his whole +life should be blighted for one foolish and mad act. If he only knew +once for all what had become of her, and that she would never trouble +him again, no regret would burden his emancipated spirit. + +Instead of going home this morning, he took the train for Apley, a +small town lying between London and Oxford, where he had first seen +Sophy. On the way down he read his own letter to her, giving her +minute directions for her journey. Yes, he had been very thoughtful, +very considerate for her; if she had obeyed him, she would now have +been awaiting his visit to Apley. He felt a great throb of gladness, +however, that it was not so; and then the thought crossed his mind, +like a thunderbolt, that possibly she had acted in the very manner he +had suggested in the letter he held in his hand, all but his final +instruction of letting him know of her safe arrival. If so, his wife +and his child were now dwelling in the country town which he had just +entered. + +This idea opened up to him a great gulf, in which all his future life +would be swallowed up. He did not feel any yearning toward his unknown +child; it seemed but yesterday since he was a child himself--and yet +what ages since! He walked slowly down the almost deserted High +Street, and past the shop where he had first seen her. It was a small +saddler's shop, with a man at work in the bow-window, and a show of +bridles and reins festooned about the panes of glass. There were three +steps up to the door; and he recollected well how Sophy looked as she +stood, smiling and blushing, to receive his orders about the saddle he +wanted repaired. He was staying then with Colonel Cleveland at Apley +Hall, his uncle's oldest friend. How long ago it seemed--yet it was +not three years! Oh! what a fool he had been! + +He opened the closed door, and set a little bell tinkling loudly. The +workman in the window took no notice of him, but a woman came forward +from a back room. She was of middle age, and her face bore a strong +resemblance to Sophy's. She looked at him with a faint, pleasant +smile, though her eyes were sad, and her face pale. There was a +gentleness and sweetness about her manner that made him feel +uncomfortable and guilty. + +"Can you tell me if any of the Clevelands are at home?" he inquired. +He knew they were not, or he would not have ventured down to Apley. + +"No, sir," answered Rachel Goldsmith, in a clear though low voice; +"Colonel Cleveland is in Germany, I believe, with Miss Cleveland." + +"I almost fancy," continued Sidney, "that I owe you a few shillings. I +ought to pay interest if I do, for the debt has run on for three years +or so. I was staying at Apley Hall, and had my saddle mended here. Do +you know if it was paid for?" + +"What date was it, sir?" she asked, opening a ledger that lay on a desk +on the counter. + +"Nearly three years ago," he replied, "as near as I can guess. A young +lady took my orders; perhaps she may remember the date." + +His voice trembled somewhat, but Rachel Goldsmith did not notice it. +Her hands were shaking so much she could hardly turn over the leaves. + +"Is she at home? Cannot you ask her?" he inquired; and his pulse +seemed to stand still as he waited for her reply. + +"Sir," she said, closing the ledger, "we have lost my niece." + +"Lost her!" he repeated, and the blood bounded through his veins again, +and the color came back to his pallid face. Sophy, then, was not here! + +"Yes," she said, with quivering lips, "but not by death. I could bear +that and be thankful. But when those you love disappear, oh! nobody +knows what the misery is. We do not know if she is dead or alive. I +loved her as if she had been my own child; but she did not feel as if +she owed me the duty of a child; and, when I thwarted her, she went +away, and left a letter saying she was gone to London. We have never, +never heard of her since, and it is now over a year ago. She is lost +in London." + +Rachel Goldsmith's voice was broken with sobs. But before Sidney spoke +again, for he was slow in answering, she went on, with a glimmer of a +smile at herself. + +"You'll excuse me, sir," she said. "I tell everybody, for when you +have lost anything no one knows who may come across it, or hear of it. +Not that a young gentleman like you could have any chance; and my +trouble cannot interest you." + +"Oh! I am more interested than you think," he answered; "I cannot say +how much." + +"I have her photo here," she continued, "and it might chance that you +should see her in London some day. And whatever she has been doing, +oh! we'll welcome her home like a lost lamb. She's only a young, giddy +girl, sir, and she'll make a good woman by and by. Not that I'm +certain she's in London. For I've got a little scrap of writing from +her three months after she went away, and it was posted in Rome. But +she said she was only traveling, and when she came back she would live +in London. I'm sorely afraid she has been deceived and led astray. +But here is her likeness, sir, if you'd please to see it, and the note +she wrote." + +With a hand that shook visibly, she drew from her pocket a worn and +soiled envelope and handed it to Sidney. He turned his back upon her, +and went to the half-glass door to look at the contents. There was a +fading photograph of Sophy, her pretty features set in a simper, and +her slight figure posed in an affected attitude. But it was Sophy's +face; and a pang of remorse, and almost of a love not quite dead, shot +through his heart. He would have given half the fortune he was heir to +never to have seen that face. + +"Please read the note, sir," persisted Rachel Goldsmith. + +It was an untidy scrawl, and there was a mistake or two in spelling; +but Sidney felt the tears smart under his eyelids as he read the words. + +"Dear father," wrote Sophy, "don't go to be fretting after me. I'm as +happy as a queen all day, and living grander than you could ever think +of. It has been a strange time since I saw you, but I shall come and +tell you all about it as soon as ever I can. We are going to live in +London when we come back; and my husband is a gentleman you never saw, +nor never knew. You'll be as glad as I am when you know all.--Your +loving Sophy." + +"And that is all you know about her?" he asked, after a long pause, +when he could control himself enough to speak with no more sympathy +than should be shown by a kind-hearted stranger. + +"All, sir, every word." she answered, wiping the tears from her eyes. +"Of course, I shall never give up hope; and if prayers will bring her +back, my prayers shall. Her father is my brother, and has his name +over the shop, 'James Goldsmith'; and sometimes he's nearly mad about +it, and sometimes he says she's married to surprise us all, and will +come back a grand lady. Well! thank you kindly, sir, for listening to +me: but I tell everybody, for who knows who may come across her some +day?" + +Sidney bade her good-by, and went his way. There was no trace here of +Sophy; and as he traveled back to town he came to the conclusion that +it was best to let the matter rest, and wait for any chance that time +might bring. He had ruined his life; but, until the fatal moment of +discovery came, he might still act as if he were not a married man. A +reprieve had been granted to him, and he would live as if he were not a +criminal. + + + + +CHAPTER V. + +WINNING THE WORLD. + +Sidney Martin kept his resolve. He blotted out that fatal mistake he +had made. Above it he built a fair edifice of energy, integrity, and +honor. His uncle's heart delighted in him, and he won golden opinions +from all his uncle's old friends. When John Martin died, he left +Sidney not only his share as head of the firm, but landed estates in +Yorkshire bringing in some thousands a year--all entailed upon his next +heir male. + +It was a brilliant position for a man under thirty, but no one could +have stepped into it with more dignity and grace than did Sidney +Martin. His co-executor was his uncle's old friend, Colonel Cleveland, +who had lived chiefly abroad for the last ten years, and who naturally +left everything in his hands. There were a few complimentary legacies, +and some pensions left to old servants. Sidney was munificent in his +payment of these bequests, adding gifts of his own to them as he paid +them to his uncle's poorer legatees. On his cousin, George Martin, he +settled at once the sum of £10,000, and gave £5000 each to George's +married sisters. Their gratitude was very moderately expressed, but +George's feeling of obligation to his cousin was sincere and deep. +This provision would enable him to marry without longer waiting for a +living. At present he was a curate in the East of London, with the +modest stipend of £100 a year. + +By this time Sophy, and that boyish error of his, had almost slipped +out of his memory. His life had been very full since then, and he had +passed from boyhood into manhood. He had devoted himself with keen +interest to his uncle's business; and, in the close emulation of a +vast-reaching commerce, stretching out its hands to the farthest region +of the habitable globe, he had ceased to be conscious of the peril ever +hanging over his head as long as his uncle lived. Now his uncle's +death altered his position, and it would no longer be ruin to him for +his disastrous marriage to be discovered. But he was in no way +inclined to confess his early blunder. + +Sidney possessed an unusual degree of energy and ardor, and these had +found ample scope in the affairs of his firm. He had traveled almost +all over the known world, except in the interior of the great +continents, and he had greatly enjoyed his travels. He was not merely +a fortune-hunter; he was a close and interested observer both of man +and nature. He lived very much outside of himself, filling his mind +with impressions from without, rather than seeking to understand and +deepen the principles of his own nature. There had been a +consciousness of a hidden sin waiting to be dragged out and repented +of, which prevented him from looking too closely at himself. At eight +and twenty he was a very different being from the boy, fresh from +college, who had flung away his future in a rash marriage. Yet, with +an instinct working almost unconsciously within him, he avoided all +intimacy and close acquaintance with the women with whom he came in +contact. His uncle had never married, and the establishment had been a +bachelor one, but there were families and houses enough where Sidney +was made effusively welcome. He gained the reputation of being a +cynical woman-hater. In fact, their society was too full of peril for +him to enjoy it with an ordinary degree of pleasure. That buried +secret of his, over which the grass was growing, must be dug up and +brought to light if he thought of marrying; and with an intuitive dread +of the necessary investigations, he shrank from forming any fresh +attachment. At the same time, his life hitherto had been too full of +other interests for him to feel the loss of home ties. + +"All the world tells me you are not a marrying man, Sidney," said +Colonel Cleveland, one evening, when they stood for a minute on the +steps for their club, before parting for the night. Colonel Cleveland +had come back to England soon after hearing of his old friend's death, +and several interviews had taken place between him and Sidney, but he +had never invited Sidney to his home. + +"Yes; I shall remain a bachelor, like my uncle," said Sidney, with a +pleasant smile, "and adopt one of George Martin's boys, as Sir John +adopted me. There's less responsibility than with sons of one's own." + +"If that's true, you may come and see my daughter Margaret," replied +Colonel Cleveland, "and I put you on your honor. She is all I have, is +Margaret, and I want to keep her to myself as long as I can. The child +knows hardly anybody but me, and she is as happy as the day. All the +women I know pester me to let her come out, as they call it. But I say +women are best at home, and I'm not going to have my one girl made into +a fashionable fool." + +"Is there any risk of that?" asked Sidney, laughing. + +"Not at present," he answered; "but there's no knowing what a girl of +twenty might become. Leave her in my hands till she's thirty, and I'll +turn her out a sensible woman. She was fond of your uncle, Sidney, and +he was very fond of her. I declare, we might have done you an ill turn +if we have been more worldly wise. But they had not met for years when +he died." + +"You have kept her too much at home," said Sidney. + +"No woman can be kept too much at home," he continued. "I would have +more Eastern customs in England if I could, and not suffer women to go +gadding about in public, blocking up the streets, and hindering +business in the shops, and sowing seeds of mischief wherever they go. +Busy bodies, gossips, tattlers! 'Speaking things which they ought +not,' as Paul says, in his wisdom. Margaret is none of them, I can +tell you. I should keep women back--back. That is their place, well +in the background, you know. Kindly treated, of course, and their +rights secured, only secured by men. Come and see how my plan has +worked with Margaret." + +"Certainly, with pleasure," replied Sidney. + +But he was in no hurry to go. There were many things to be done a +hundredfold more interesting to him than an interview with an eccentric +man's childish daughter. He scarcely gave Colonel Cleveland's +invitation a second thought. Day after day slipped by, and the idea of +going did not cross his preoccupied mind. Nor did Colonel Cleveland +recur to the subject of his daughter when they met in the city to +transact necessary business. Possibly he had been alarmed at his own +rashness. + +But one afternoon a note reached Sidney by post. It was written in a +hand as clear and legible as a clerk's and was quite as brief, and to +the point. He read it with a smile. + + +SIR: My father, Colonel Cleveland, has met with an accident. He bids +me ask you if you can come to-night and see him at his house? MARGARET +CLEVELAND. + + +"No superfluous words here," he thought; "no empty compliments; no +conventional forms. If every woman wrote notes like this, a good deal +of time would be saved. It is like a telegram." + + + + +CHAPTER VI. + +COLONEL CLEVELAND. + +The house where Colonel Cleveland was for the present living stood +alone on Wimbledon Common, surrounded by a large garden, which was +completely walled in on every side. Sidney rode toward it in the +twilight of an autumn evening. A yellow light in the western sky shone +through the delicate net-work of silver beech trees, where a few leaves +were still clinging to the slender branches. All around him there were +the forewarnings of the coming winter, and the lingering traces of the +dead summer. The pale gray of the low sky overhead was sad; and sad +was the fluttering of the brown leaves as they floated to the ground. +A robin was singing its mournful little song, as if all the other birds +had forsaken the land, and left it to bear alone the burden of song +through the winter. A few solitary ramblers, looking as if they had +lost their way in the gathering mist, were passing to and fro along the +sodden paths. The scent of dying fern filled the air. + +Sidney was the more open to all the impressions of nature because of +his busy life in the city. This almost deserted, open common, looking +like a stretch of distant moorland, was all the more touching and +pathetic to him because an hour ago he had been threading his way +through the crowded labyrinths of London. The yellow light shining +through the beech stems was more lovely, because for half the day his +eyes had seen nothing but gaslights burning amid the fog. + +He let his horse's pace fall into a slow walk, and lingered to watch +the evening star grow brighter as the golden glow died out in the west. +There was little anxiety in his mind about Colonel Cleveland's +accident. At any rate, for this moment he would enjoy the calm and +silence of nature after the noise and hurry of the day. It was a +wonderful thing, this stillness of the broad heath, and of the quiet +heavens above him, throbbing with life and appealing to his inmost soul +with a strange and delicate appeal. It seemed to him as if a voice +were speaking, and speaking to him from the sky, and the blue mists, +and the vague shadows, and the silent stars overhead; but what the +voice said he did not know. + +"A little more, and I should be as fanciful as a poet," he said to +himself, with a laugh. There had been a time when he had thought +himself a poet, or at least a lover of poetry. But that was when he +was a boy, before the spell of the world had been cast over him; and +before he had yielded to a selfish passion which he could not +altogether forget. + +It was in a very softened mood that he turned from the Common into +Colonel Cleveland's grounds. He felt almost like a boy again. The +life led in the city, the keen competition and cruel strife for +fortune, seemed to him, as it had once seemed, to be ignoble, sordid, +and barbarous. There were better things than money; things which money +could never buy. There was something almost pleasant to him in this +vague disdain he felt for the cares and trammels of business. He was +inwardly glad that he was not a slave to Mammon. "Not yet," said +conscience, entering an unheeded protest. + +He was shown into a library, where a lamp, with a shade over it, filled +the room with strong lights and deep shadows. It was unoccupied; but +in a minute or two the door opened, and a girl entered with a quiet +step. She approached him with her hand stretched out, as if he were a +well-known friend, and spoke eagerly with a frank, sweet voice, the +sweetest voice, he thought at the first sound of it, that he had ever +heard. + +"My father wants you so much," she said. "Oh! he is so dreadfully +hurt." + +Her face was in shadow, but he could see that it was pale and troubled; +her eyelids were a little red with weeping, and her mouth quivered. It +was a lovely face, he felt; and the eyes she lifted up to him seemed, +like her voice, to be more beautiful than any he had ever known. She +was a tall, slender girl; and the soft white dress she wore hung about +her in long and graceful folds. He held her hand for a moment or two +in a firm grasp. + +"Tell me what I can do for you," he said in a low tone, as if afraid of +startling her. + +She met his gaze with an expression on her face full of relief and +trust. + +"I am so glad you are come," she said frankly, "my father has been +asking for you so often. He was thrown on the Common this morning, and +his back is injured, and he suffers, oh! so much pain. Will you come +upstairs and see him at once?" + +She led the way, running on before him with light and eager footsteps, +and, when she had reached the last step on the staircase, looking back +upon him with the simplicity of a child, she opened the door of her +father's room softly, and beckoned to him to follow her. + +"He is longing to see you," she said in a low voice. + +It seemed to Sidney, when he thought of it afterward, that he had been +so occupied in watching Margaret's movements, and listening to her +voice, that he had hardly seen her father. He had an indistinct +impression of seeing the gray head lying on a pillow, and the face +drawn with pain as the injured man tried to stretch out his hand to +welcome him. It was not till Margaret had gone away, after kissing her +father's cheek fondly, that he came to himself, and could attend +intelligently to what Colonel Cleveland was saying. + +"The doctors are gone now, but they've a poor opinion of me, Sidney, a +very poor opinion. Time, they say, may work wonders. 'How much time?' +I asked. 'Three or four years, perhaps,' they said. And I'm to lie +like a log for years! Good Heavens! is life worth living when it is +like that?" + +"But they do not always know," answered Sidney, in a voice full of +sympathy. "How can they know in so short a time? This morning you +were as strong as I am; and in a few weeks you may be nearly as strong +as ever, in spite of the doctors." + +"To lie like a log for years," repeated Colonel Cleveland, with a +groan, "and to chain Margaret to me! Though she would not mind it, +poor child. She'd nurse me, without a murmur or a sigh, till she was +worn out and gray herself. I know what sort of a daughter she would +be, and I am as sorry for her as I am for myself. I'd have let her +have some pleasure in her life if I'd known it was coming to this." + +"You must not begin to despair so soon," said Sidney; "it is not +possible that anyone can judge so quickly of your state. Wait a few +days, or weeks even, before you give up hope." + +"But I cannot move," he answered, with a hopeless expression on his +face, "I cannot stir myself by a hair's breadth. I feel as if I had +been turned into stone; only there's such dreadful pain. Sidney, what +shall I do? what can I do?" + +He broke down into a passionate burst of tears, turning his head from +side to side, as if seeking to hide his face from sight, but unable to +lift his hand or to move. Sidney knelt down by the side of the bed, +and with; as gentle a touch as a woman's wiped the tears away, +whispering comforting words into his ear. + +"It is too soon to despair," he repeated, "much too soon. And if it +should be partly true, I will do all I can for you, as if I were your +son. But it cannot be true. It is only for a little while. You are +bruised and stiff now, but that will wear off by degrees. Hold fast to +the hope of getting over it, for your own sake and Margaret's." + +He lingered over Margaret's name as if it were a pleasure to utter it. +But he was thinking chiefly of her father at this moment. It was a +pitiful thing to witness a strong man suddenly stretched as helpless as +a child. Sidney's heart was wrung for him, as he listened to his +deep-drawn sobs, which gradually ceased, yet left heavy sighs, which +were as disturbing as the sobs. Margaret came in noiselessly and stood +by the fire at the other end of the room, her face turned wistfully +toward her father. But she did not come nearer to him, and she neither +spoke nor stirred until he opened his eyes and saw her. + +"Come here, Margaret," he said. + +She was beside him in a moment, gazing down at him with eyes full of +tenderness and devotion, as if she were ready to give her life for his. +He looked up at her with something like a smile upon his face. + +"Margaret," he said, "I love you more than anything else in the world." + +"Yes, father," she answered with clasped hands and fervent voice, "and +I love you more than anything in the world." + +"This is my old friend's adopted son," he went on, glancing from her to +Sidney. "John Martin trusted him; so we can trust him. I wish you to +look upon him as a friend, a trustworthy, straightforward, honorable +friend. If you should ever want advice or help, go to him for it. +There's no telling what may happen to me, Margaret, and I want you to +know what to do. I shan't die any sooner for saying this to you, and I +shall feel more content." + +"If it will make you any happier," said Sidney, "I swear solemnly +before Almighty God to help your daughter at all times, and to shield +her from all possible harm, with my own life, if needful." + +To himself, even more than to his listeners, there sounded an unusual +solemnity in the oath he had so involuntarily taken. It seemed a +pledge to enter upon some high and chivalrous vocation for the sake of +this unknown girl. It imposed upon him an obligation, a bounden duty, +from which he could never free himself. He felt glad of it. A glow of +self-approbation suffused itself through his soul. He thought of the +strong vows of allegiance and devotion taken by the knights of +chivalry, at which it was the modern fashion to smile, and he felt +astonished at his own earnestness and warmth. Would Margaret and her +father see anything absurd in this conduct of his? + +No; they were as grave as himself. They were in deep trouble, and +Sidney's words did not sound too serious. They looked at him +steadfastly; Margaret's dark eyes turning from her father to him with +unaffected and unconscious earnestness. She held out her hand to him, +and he took it reverentially. + +"Yes, father," she said, "I will go to him whenever I want advice or +help; I will think of him always as my friend." + +"Go away now, Margaret," he said. She obeyed simply, and without +appeal, turning round with a half smile upon her wistful face as Sidney +opened the door for her. "I have brought her up on military +discipline," said Colonel Cleveland; "I've taught her to do as she's +told, and she will obey me even in my grave. It's happier for women +so; they cannot guide themselves in this wilderness of a world. She'll +look to you in the same way now, if anything happens to me. I thought +I was dying six hours ago; and the bitterest thought was leaving my +little girl with no counselor. She has got female cousins enough, but +no trustworthy man belonging to her. Now that's all right, and you'll +see to her as if you were her brother." + +"As long as I live," answered Sidney with fervor. + +It was after midnight when he rode away over the now dark and deserted +Common. He was conscious that during the last few hours a crisis had +come into his life; a difficulty which he had long foreseen and +carefully avoided. He already loved this girl. But had he any right +to love her? Was he free to win her heart? It was more than six years +since he had last seen Sophy, and not a syllable of news from her had +reached him. He shrank from letting down a sounding-line into the +depths of these past years; it had been better to let them lie +undisturbed. But why had he been such a fool as to marry Sophy +Goldsmith? + +The night was dark, but the sky was full of stars. Along the high +roads crossing the Common lamps glimmered here and there, just tracing +out the route, but leaving the open stretch of moorland as dark as if +it had been hundreds of miles from any artificial light. The bushes +and brushwood were black; and here and there lay small sinister-looking +pools, lurking in treacherous hollows, and catching some gleam of light +on their surface, which alone revealed them to the passers-by. A red +gloom hung over London, throbbing as if it beat with the pulsations of +the life underneath it. There were but few country sounds breaking the +stillness, as there would have been on distant moorlands: but now and +then the shriek of an engine and the rattling of a train jarred upon +the silence; and to Sidney, when he reined in his horse and listened to +it, a low roar, unlike any other sound, came from the busy and crowded +streets stretching for many miles eastward. It was past midnight; and +yet London was not asleep. + + + + +CHAPTER VII. + +MARGARET. + +Margaret Cleveland watched Sidney ride away until the darkness hid him +from sight. He was to be her friend. But what perils were there in a +country like England which could so fill her father's heart with +dismay, and induce him to commit her welfare so solemnly to a man who +was an absolute stranger to her? She was glad to have Sidney Martin as +a friend; there was an attraction to her in his frank, steadfast face, +which gave her great pleasure, and inspired a perfect confidence in +him, the confidence of a child. But what was her father afraid of for +her? To-day had been the most eventful day of her life; a crowd of +emotions, mostly painful ones, had invaded the calm of her girlhood. +This morning she had still been a child; to-night she was a woman. + +Now that trouble had come she felt how utterly imperfect her training +had been to prepare her to meet it. She knew nothing of the world. +Her father had stood between her and it so completely, that when he had +been brought home apparently dying, she had been unable to do anything, +or to summon anyone to his aid. She did not know the name of any of +his friends whom he was in the habit of meeting at his club; and if he +had not recovered sufficiently to give her Sidney Martin's name and +address, she would have known no one to whom she could have looked for +help in any contingency. + +True, they had been living abroad for some years since her mother's +death, and she had felt no wish to oppose her father's plan of keeping +her aloof from his somewhat distant relations, and of excluding her +from all companionship except his own. She had been quite satisfied +with his companionship; and her faithful and loyal nature had accorded +a willing obedience to his slightest wish. He chose to treat her as a +child, and she was glad to remain a child. + +But to-night she did not feel sure that this mode of life had been a +wise one, either for herself or him. Suddenly there had come upon her +a demand for prompt decision and action, which she was unable to meet. +She had been obliged to stand by and let the servants act for her. It +was painful to her to feel how helpless she must have been if her +father had not gained consciousness enough to whisper to her, "Write at +once to Sidney Martin and ask him to come." + +The doctors assured her there was no immediate danger for her father's +life. Her mind, therefore, was at rest upon that point; and these +other thoughts crowded irresistibly upon her serious consideration. It +did not occur to her that her father purposely guarded her from making +any outer use of her life; reserving all her sweetness, freshness, and +girlish charm for his own pleasure merely. She had never felt herself +a prisoner. Yet she knew well she did not live as other girls did; and +the balls, concerts, and pleasure parties, of which her father spoke +with so much scorn, probably would have had no attraction for her. But +there were duties undertaken by other girls in which she had longed to +share. There were children to teach, the poor to visit. "Doing good," +Margaret called it, simply and vaguely. "He went about doing good," +she murmured, turning away from the window, where she had lingered long +after Sidney was out of sight, and looking up at a picture of our Lord, +surrounded by the sick and poor. "He went about doing good," she +repeated. + +Her own loneliness and the immense claims of human brotherhood suddenly +presented themselves to her aroused mind. Her face lit up with a +strange enthusiasm. She could not be alone while there were so many +millions of fellow-creatures close by, with natures like her own, whom +she could help, and who could help her. She remembered how her mother +had spent her life in manifold ministrations to those who were in +sorrow or trouble of any kind; and now she was herself twenty years of +age, and knew nobody to help or comfort--except her father. + +She stole softly downstairs to his room, and crept across the floor to +his bedside. He was sleeping, fitfully, the slumber due to a narcotic. +The trained nurse sent in by the doctor sat by watching him, and lifted +up her hand to enjoin silence. Margaret was not one to break down in a +useless display of grief, though her heart sank heavily as she looked +on his beloved face, already pallid with pain, and drawn into lines +that spoke of intense suffering. How old he looked compared with this +morning, when they had started off for their morning's ride across the +Common! He was not really old, she thought, not yet fifty; many, many +years younger than his friend, Sir John Martin, who had died only a few +months ago. Her father had neither the gray hair nor failing strength +of an old man. Only a few hours ago he had been as full of health and +vigor as herself. And now he looked utterly prostrate and shattered. +He moaned in his sleep, and the moan went to her very soul. A great +rush of tenderness to him, almost as if he were a child, overflowed her +heart. She did not dare to touch him lest she should arouse him, but +she bent down and kissed the pillow on which his head lay. Margaret +did not sleep that night, literally; though girls of her age rarely +pass a whole night sleeplessly. Her soul was too wide awake. It had +been slumbering hitherto, in the calm uneventfulness of monotonous +days, and in her isolation from companions. She lay in motionless +tranquillity on her little white bed, not tossing to and fro as if +seeking sleep, but more vividly awake than she had ever felt before. +She found herself suddenly called upon to live her own life, to take +upon herself the burden of her own duties. The careless unconcern of +childhood was over for her, she must learn the duties of a woman. + + + + +CHAPTER VIII. + +FRIENDS, NOT LOVERS. + +Colonel Cleveland had the best surgical aid and counsel that could be +had in London. A consultation was held over his case by the most +eminent surgeons; his recovery pronounced absolutely hopeless. The +injury to the spine was fatal; and life could be sustained by the +utmost care and for only a few years. + +The house on Wimbledon Common, which he had rented for a few months, +was taken for a term of years, as it was thought impossible to remove +Colonel Cleveland to his house in the country, even if he had wished +it. But he did not wish to banish himself from the near neighborhood +of London, and of his friends who were able to visit him when only a +few miles distant. Sidney Martin, who transacted all his business, was +obliged to see him almost daily. Never before had Sidney come so near +the feeling of having a home. When he saw the lights shining through +the uncurtained windows of Colonel Cleveland's suite of rooms on the +first floor, his pace always quickened, and his heart beat faster. +Margaret would be sure to start up at the first sound of his horse's +hoofs on the gravel, and run downstairs to open the hall-door to him. +The pleasant picture of her face looking out through the half-open door +often flashed vividly across his brain as he sat in his dark office, +with the myriad threads of business passing swiftly through his +skillful hands. Margaret's little hand stretched out to be enfolded in +his own; Margaret's voice bidding him welcome; he would think of these +as his eye mechanically read his business letters, till they brought a +glow and a brightness into his heart which he had never known before. + +They were friendly only; so he said. He ought not to wish for more +than her friendship, as matters stood. "That woman," as he called +Sophy in his hours of unwelcome reminiscence, had never shown any sign +of existence. He could only hope, with all the strength of a great +desire, that she was dead; though to attempt to prove it might bring an +avalanche of troubles on his head. But there was no need to take any +step, so long as he had no thought of marrying. He would ask for +nothing from Margaret but friendship. + +His manner to her was that of an elder brother toward a favorite +sister. He never sought to see her alone, or to have any private +intercourse with her. The frank cordiality of his behavior at once won +her confidence and made her altogether at home with him. She knew no +other young man; and had no idea that it was the fashion of the world +to sneer at any simple friendship existing between a young man and a +young woman. Her intercourse with him was as simple and as open as +with her father. + +Margaret soon confided to Sidney her wish to know more of her +fellow-men, especially those who were unfortunate and unhappy. She +knew she could not herself neglect her father, now wholly dependent +upon her, for any of the work she might once have undertaken. But to +please her Sidney placed his name on the committees of sundry +charities, and brought reports of them that were both interesting and +entertaining to her in her seclusion. He was astonished himself to +find how full of interest these philanthropic missions were; and he +threw himself into them with a great deal of energy. This new phase of +his life brought him into closer contact with his cousin, George +Martin, who was an East End curate, and was working diligently among +the lowest classes of the London poor. Sidney brought George to visit +Margaret and her father, and a warm friendship sprang up among them. +When Sidney was out of the way, George could not extol him too highly. + +"He is better to me than most brothers are to each other," he said one +evening, his eyes growing bright and his voice more animated than +usual. "The best fellow in the world, is Sidney. He does not make any +profession of religion, and I'm sorry for it, for his life is a +Christian life. You know his immense business might well make him a +little careless of the poor; but it does not. He is one of our best +workers and helpers. Do you know, Colonel Cleveland, he spends one +night a week with me, seeking outcasts sleeping in the streets? And he +has such wonderful tact with them; he speaks to them really like a +brother. He has the soul of a missionary; and yet he is as shrewd a +man of business as anyone in the City. So I hear." + +When Margaret was alone with him, George added still further praises. + +"I am engaged to one of the dearest girls," he said, "but there was no +chance of our marrying for years; not till I got a living. But as soon +as our uncle died, Sidney settled £10,000 upon me; settled it, you +know, for fear of my dropping it into the gulf at the East End; and +Laura's parents have consented to our being married as soon as I get my +holiday. There never was anyone like Sidney." + +Margaret listened with shining eyes and a smiling face. It seemed +wonderful to her that such a man as Sidney should have been brought to +her to be her friend. He looked to her like one who went about being +good and doing good, lifting into a higher region every pursuit in +which he was engaged; even the details of his business assumed an +aspect of romance and dignity when he spoke of them. It was a full +life, this one of Sidney's; fuller than that of George, who was only a +curate, and could never be more than the rector of a parish. And as +far as a girl could share the fullness of his life, he was making her +share his. She could hardly realize now how her days had passed away +before she knew him. + +Now and then Colonel Cleveland spared Margaret to accompany Sidney to +some gathering of the poor in George Martin's parish in the East End. +She could sing well; and she sang for them simple English songs, which +the most ignorant could understand, and which went home to the saddest +hearts. There was an inexpressible charm to Sidney in the unaffected, +single-hearted, almost childish grace of the girl, as she stood facing +these poor brothers and sisters of hers, and singing with her clear, +pure voice words that she would have found it difficult to speak. She +was accustomed to dress plainly, and after a fashion of her own; and +there was nothing incongruous about her, nothing to excite the envy of +the poorest. She might have been one of themselves, but for the simple +refinement and unconscious dignity of her bearing. + +Sidney was a good speaker, and could hit upon the exact words with +which to address any kind of audience, without offending the most +critical taste. His speeches were naturally less religious, and more +secular, than George Martin's; but there was a kindly, almost +brotherly, tone running through them which never failed to tell. He +loved to hear the plaudits that interrupted and followed his short +addresses; and to watch the color mounting in Margaret's face, and the +light kindling in her eyes. There were moments of supreme pleasure to +him in those dingy and crowded lecture-halls and school-rooms. + +"How fond they are of you!" she exclaimed one evening, "and how good +you are to them!" + +He had been offering a number of small prizes for competition, the sum +total of which was less than what he would have spent in one evening's +entertainment in society; and a tumult of applause had followed. He +felt himself that he was walking in a good path. He enjoyed seeing the +strange sights that were to be found in unexplored London as much as he +had enjoyed the strange scenes in foreign lands. How the poor lived +presented to him an interesting problem, to which the usual gatherings +of ordinary society were flat and dull. George and he went to and fro +in the slums, doing their utmost to lift here and there one victim out +of the miry depths. It was a pleasure to him to give aid liberally; a +pleasure to feel that these poor people were fond of him; but a far +greater pleasure yet to stand in Margaret's eyes as the champion of the +sorrowful and neglected. + + + + +CHAPTER IX. + +IS SOPHY ALIVE? + +"Leave Sidney alone with me to-night, Margaret; I have business to talk +about," said Colonel Cleveland one evening, about a year after his +accident. He had never been able to set his foot upon the ground since +his fatal fall; and when Martin entered his room, and looked at the +wasted frame and pallid face of the man who had once been so strong and +full of life, tears of sympathy and pity stood in his eyes; and he +grasped his thin and meager hand in silence. + +"I want a long talk with you alone," said Colonel Cleveland in a +mournful voice. "Sit down, Sidney. Good Heavens! to think what a +wreck I am! And not yet fifty! I was just your age when my Margaret +was born; and I never guessed what she would grow to be for me. +Margaret will be one-and-twenty next month. She is all the world to +me." + +"And to me!" said Sidney to himself. + +"There must be some kind of settlement of affairs when she comes of +age," continued her father, "and I'm afraid to let her know them. I've +been a bad manager for her. What we are living on now is the interest +of her mother's money, and the rent of Apley Hall, which I let six +years ago for seven years. I could not afford to live in it any +longer. My speculations always turned out badly, and Apley is heavily +mortgaged. Margaret is not the great heiress the world thinks her. Do +you think she will care, Sidney?" + +"Not a straw," he answered; "you need not be afraid of Margaret." + +"God bless her!" said Colonel Cleveland sadly. "I fancied I could +double her fortune; but Margaret doesn't care about money, or what +money brings; and she'll never think she has anything to forgive me. +Ought I to tell her all, Sidney?" + +"Why?" he asked. "Women do not understand about money; and you could +make a general statement that would satisfy her." + +"I might," said Colonel Cleveland, sighing and falling into a silence +which lasted some minutes. "Sidney!" he exclaimed at last, sharply and +hotly, "is it possible you don't see what a treasure my Margaret is? I +know you have the reputation of not being a marrying man; and that was +why I first ventured to ask you to come to see us. But I did not want +to lose my girl then. Now I want to find somebody to take care of my +darling when I'm gone. For I'm going, going; every day brings the end +nearer. In another year I shall be lying in the vault at Apley beside +her mother, and Margaret will be very lonely. Sidney, I thought you +were in love with my girl." + +Sidney shaded his eyes with his hands, and little of his face could be +seen. In love with her! The phrase seemed poor and commonplace. Why! +she was dearer to him than all the world besides; he counted all he had +as nothing in comparison with her love, if he could win it. But the +memory of his great mistake stood between her and him. The mention of +Apley, where he had first seen Sophy, brought vividly to his mind the +narrow street, and the little shop, and Sophy's pretty face as it was +when he first looked upon it. Oh, what a fool he had been! + +"I fancied you loved her," said Colonel Cleveland in an accent of +bitter disappointment as Sidney remained silent; "and she is fit to be +the wife of a prince. It is not the money you care about, Sidney? And +such a marriage would have pleased your uncle; he spoke of it more than +once, for he was very fond of Margaret; only I could not bear to think +of such a thing then. Surely I can see what she is, though I am her +father." + +"She is more than all you think her," answered Sidney vehemently. "You +cannot value her more than I do. It is I who am unworthy. God knows I +could not put my life beside her life--so pure and good and noble." + +"Is that all?" asked her father. "Of course a man's life cannot be as +unsullied as a girl's. One must sow one's wild oats. Margaret will +not think you unworthy; not she. She knows nothing of the world, +absolutely nothing. It is a pure heart and a true one; and it is +yours, if I'm not an old blunderhead. She loves you, and she has never +given a thought to any other man. Think of that, Sidney! If you marry +her I shall die happy." + +But once more a silence fell between them like a cloud. For a minute +or two Sidney felt an unutterable joy in the thought that Margaret +loved him. All at once the utter loneliness of all his future years, +if he must give her up, flashed across him. For when Colonel Cleveland +died this friendly and intimate intercourse between them must cease; +and Margaret would in time become the wife of some other man. The +mingled sweetness and bitterness of this moment were almost more than +he could bear. Margaret loved him, and it was an exquisite happiness +to know it; but behind her beloved image stood another forbidding his +happiness. It was more than seven years since he had deserted Sophy; +and he had been content to let the time slip away, uncertain of her +fate, and dreading to learn that she was still alive. Why had he been +such a coward? What could he now say to Margaret's father? To have +that which he most longed for pressed upon him, and yet be unable to +accept it, was torture to him. No path seemed open to him; it seemed +impossible to confess the truth. For in the clear light shining upon +his conduct at this moment he saw how dastardly and selfish it had +been. He had forsaken a young and friendless girl in a moment of +passion, and had left her in a strange land, far from her own people, +when the hour of woman's sharpest peril was at hand. It was a horrible +thing to have done; one which no true woman could forgive. And how +would Margaret look upon him if she ever knew the truth? + +"I love Margaret," he said at last in a faltering voice, "but I cannot +speak of it yet; and I cannot think of marriage for a while. Trust me, +Colonel Cleveland. Margaret shall always find a friend in me; and if +ever I can ask her to be my wife, it will be the happiest day in my +life to me." + +"I regret I mentioned it to you," answered Colonel Cleveland stiffly. + +Sidney left him sooner than usual, and rode slowly back over the +Common, as he had done last autumn, on the night when he first saw +Margaret. But it was a month earlier in the year; and the leaves still +hung thick upon the trees, which looked black and dense against the +sky. The birds had not yet forsaken the Common in search after winter +quarters, and a drowsy twitter from the low bushes answered the sound +of his horse's hoofs as he rode along. A soft, westerly wind was +blowing, and bringing with it the fresh air from all the open lands +lying west of London. As he looked round at the house he saw Margaret +standing on the balcony belonging to her window, a tall, slim, graceful +figure, dressed in white, with the pale moonlight falling on her. His +heart ached with a deep and heavy pain. + +"God bless her and keep her from sorrow," he said to himself. + +If it was true that Margaret loved him, a bitter sorrow lay before her, +one of his making. He had done wrong in going so frequently to see +her, and in making so much of her friendship. It had been an +unconfessed pleasure to them both; but he ought to have foreseen for +her, as well as for himself, what danger lay in its indulgence. +Margaret was not brought into contact with any other men, excepting +George, who was just married; and Sidney was obliged to own to himself +that he had done all he could to win her affection. But he repented it +now. Margaret's love could only bring her sorrow. + +He could have gone back and confessed to her his boyish folly, if it +had been mere folly. Had Sophy died, he could have told Margaret all +about it. But what he could not own was that for seven years he had +left himself in absolute ignorance of her fate. No true woman could +forgive a crime like that. It was a dastardly crime, he said to +himself. He repented of it bitterly; but for some sins there seems no +place of repentance, though it is sought carefully, with tears. + +Sidney passed the night in close and troubled thought. At last the +time had come when he must turn back to the moment when he abandoned +his young wife to her fate; and he must trace out what that fate had +been. He must at least ascertain whether she was living or dead. What +he would do if she was living he need not yet decide. It was +impossible for him to undertake this search himself; a search which +ought to have been made years before, and without which it was hopeless +to think of Margaret as his wife. But he had an agent at hand to whom +he could intrust this difficult and delicate mission. There was a +clerk in his office who had been in his uncle's employ for over +thirty-five years, to whom had been intrusted several important +investigations, and who had given many proofs of his ability and +probity. He would send Trevor to the Ampezzo Valley, where he had left +Sophy seven years ago; giving to him such directions and indications as +were in his power for tracing her movements after his desertion of her. + +He arranged and wrote some notes for Trevor's guidance, with shrewd and +clear-sighted skill, careful not to incriminate himself more than was +absolutely necessary; and yet finding himself compelled to admit more +than it was wise for any man save himself to know. He was conscious +that he was placing too close a confidence in his clerk's hands, and +might have to pay heavily for it in years to come. But he must run the +risk; there was no alternative. He could not carry through these +investigations in person; and the time had come when he must learn the +fate of his young wife. + +"Take the next train to Paris, Trevor," he said, the following morning, +giving to him a sealed letter; "those are your instructions, and you +can study them on your way." + + + + +CHAPTER X. + +CHIARA. + +Trevor was thirteen years of age when he entered the office of Martin, +Swansea & Co., and occupied one of the lowest places in the house. But +luckily for him Sir John Martin had taken a fancy to the sharp-looking +lad, and had given him a good commercial education. He had a special +faculty for learning languages; and from time to time had been sent to +most of the foreign branches of the shipping agency, thus acquiring a +practical knowledge of many of the European dialects; an acquirement +exceedingly useful to him. He had risen to the position almost of a +confidential clerk, and received a good salary, but he had not been +promoted to any post of authority in the house. His ambition had +always been to be at the head of one of the branches of the business; +but the attainment of this end seemed farther away from him now Sir +John Martin was dead, and Sidney had succeeded him. Trevor was not +attached to Sidney as he had been to his early patron. He had a son +about the same age as Sidney; and from their earliest years he had +compared his boy's lot with that of his master's nephew, always +grudging the brilliant and successful career of the latter, and +secretly hoping that his uncle might marry and have an heir of his own. +There was something painfully dazzling to him in Sidney's present +position; while his son was nothing more than the underpaid usher of a +boys' school. Almost unconsciously to himself a deep jealousy and +hatred of his young master filled his heart; though he never +contemplated the idea of quitting his employment, the salary he drew +being higher than he could have obtained elsewhere. + +Trevor studied his instructions with profound interest and a growing +suspicion. He remembered with perfect distinctness the time that +Sidney was away for a year's sojourn on the Continent before settling +down to business. It was the year that his boy had entered upon his +very different walk in life. He recollected, too, that Sidney had come +back unexpectedly a month or two before his time had expired. It was +seven years ago; and these instructions bade him take up an event that +had occurred seven years ago in this remote region, and to follow any +clew he could find whereby to trace the movements of an English girl +left alone there. Who was it that had left her alone? + +Trevor was in no wise inclined to be unfaithful to the trust reposed in +him; he would not betray his master. But he was quite ready to take +advantage of any circumstance that would tend to promote his own +interest. Commercial life in the City does not usually foster the +highest principles of honor. Here was plainly a secret, which had been +lying dormant for some years, and which he was commissioned to take up +from its long slumber. Where there is a secret there is generally a +profit to be made by the discoverer of it. He pushed on toward the +Ampezzo Valley, and drove through the wondrous beauty and grandeur of +it with no thought beyond that of getting as quickly as possible to +Cortina, and setting to work on Sidney's instructions. He was, if +possible, to ascertain what had become of Sophy without referring to +any of the authorities of the village, such as the parish priest or +mayor, who might be inclined to ask some inconvenient questions. All +that he had to discover was to what place Sophy had gone after leaving +Cortina, and then to trace her steps from town to town as far as +possible, without bringing too much notice to bear upon his search. + +The little one-horse carriage that he had hired at Toblach set him down +at the hotel to which Sidney's note had directed him; and he turned at +once into the rough and comfortless kitchen on the ground floor, glad +to seat himself on one of the high chairs, with his feet on the raised +hearth. For the cold was keen at this time of the year after the sun +was down, and it had been lost to sight for some hours behind the high +rocks which hem in the valley on each side. The great logs lying on +the hearth burnt brightly, and the copper pans resting in front of them +emitted an appetizing fragrance to those who had been long in the sharp +and frosty air. Trevor would not hear of going upstairs to the +solitary dining room, where there was neither fire nor company. A few +peasants were sitting patiently at a huge oak table; and a brisk, +elderly woman, in a short petticoat, and with white sleeves rolled up +above the elbows, was bustling to and fro, looking into the copper +cooking-pans, and from time to time exchanging a word or two with the +foreigner who made himself so much at home. + +At length the landlord came in, and unlocking an old fashioned desk +elaborately carved, produced a large volume, strongly bound in leather. +It was the Register, in which all travelers were required to enter +their names and nationalities, the places from whence they came and +those to which they were going, with sundry other particulars possibly +interesting to the Austrian police. Trevor in a leisurely manner +entered the necessary records, and then turned over the past leaves of +the great book. At that time there were not many foreigners passing +through the Ampezzo Valley; and he had no difficulty in finding the +entries of seven years ago. There lay before him, in Sidney's own +handwriting, the words in Italian, "Sidney Martin, with his wife." + +"With his wife!" muttered Trevor, half aloud. + +Chiara was an unlearned woman, and could not read; but she watched +every movement of the stranger with sharp and suspicious eyes. She +knew the page on which the young English signore had inscribed his name +seven years ago; and now she saw the flash of mingled surprise and +triumph which crossed the face of Trevor as he uttered the words, "With +his wife." It was necessary to do something; but it behooved her to +act cautiously. She drew near to him as he bent over the Register, and +laid her hand on his shoulders, with a touch of homely familiarity in +no way displeasing. + +"You are English?" she asked. + +"Yes," he answered. + +"We have not many English here," she said. "Germans, yes, and +Italians, yes; but few, few English; two or three in the summer, but +not every summer." + +"English ladies?" he inquired. + +"Sometimes," she answered cautiously. + +"Do you remember a young English gentleman staying here with his wife +seven years ago last June?" he asked. + +Chiara paused. Very swiftly she calculated the chances of this +Englishman, who could speak Italian easily enough to enter into +conversation with anyone he came across, making more inquiries than +from herself alone; and she came to the rapid conclusion that it was +necessary to tell him everything that her neighbors knew. Other +English foreigners had passed through Cortina, but no question had ever +been asked about these young people before. She must tell her tale +cautiously, and with reserve. + +"Ah," she said, with a sigh of recollection, "the young English +gentleman, Signore Martino! He was a fine, handsome gentleman; and the +young lady was as pretty as a butterfly. Did they belong to you, +Signore? Perhaps she was your daughter?" + +"No," he answered, "the young lady was no daughter of mine." + +"Is it not possible that the young signore was your son?" she said, +looking doubtfully at Trevor, who did not seem to her grand enough to +be the father of the rich young Englishman. + +"No," he replied curtly. + +It was a perplexing moment for Chiara. Upstairs, in her box secured +with two locks, lay the ducats and gulden, stamped with the Austrian +eagle, which she had found in Sophy's jewel-case. She had not parted +with one of them, and she was adding more gulden to them every month +from her wages. There was scarcely a richer woman than herself in all +the Ampezzo Valley, and the thought of it was an ever springing +fountain of satisfaction. But if this foreigner had come to claim her +treasure! Her heart sank at the mere suspicion of such a calamity; she +could not believe that the Englishman had traveled all the way from +England for anything less than to demand the inheritance of the dead +woman. It would not be possible to pretend that she had spent much of +the money upon the child; for every person in the village could reckon +up how much his maintenance had cost her, ever since his birth. There +was no reason why she should not be made to restore every one of those +beloved coins, which from time to time she counted over with such +fervent affection and delight. It was a very bitter moment to Chiara. + +"Come," said Trevor, with a smile, showing to her a Napoleon lying in +the palm of his hand, "I see you know all about them. Sit down, and +tell me simply what you know, and this is yours. I am not come here to +give you trouble." + +She sat down with her feet on the raised hearth, and in a low tone told +him the story exactly as he would have heard it from any other person +in the village. It was short and simple. Signore Martino had traveled +hither with a girl whom he called his wife; but had deserted her about +three weeks before the birth of their child, leaving no trace behind +him, and never returning to inquire after those whom he had forsaken. +The unhappy girl had died in giving birth to her infant, and was buried +in the village cemetery. He might see the grave in the morning, and +the priest or the mayor would answer any questions he might choose to +ask. + +"And what became of the child?" Trevor inquired. + +Then Chiara put her apron to her eyes, and replied that she herself had +taken charge of the poor child, and put him out to nurse with her +sister, who lived on the mountain, and had children of her own. He was +growing a big boy now; but she did not complain of the expense, for +after the costs of the funeral were paid, the mayor had permitted her +to keep the clothing of the young lady, which she had sold to +advantage. There was still a small sum left; but only a few florins. +But now an inquiry was being made, would the boy be taken off her hands? + +"I can make no promises," answered Trevor, "for neither the father nor +the mother is related to me. But were there no papers left by the +young lady? They are of the utmost importance to me; and if you give +them up you shall be no loser." + +"There were no papers," replied Chiara promptly. "The night before the +Signora died she made a great fire in the stove and burned bundles of +papers. That made me think that she was no married wife, poor thing! +There was only just money enough to pay the bill of the house here and +the doctor's fees and the grave in the cemetery. I don't know what +would have become of her if she had not died." + +"Have you nothing that belonged to her?" he asked. + +"Just a few little things left," she answered; "I will bring them to +you--not down here, where everybody can see, but in your +bedroom--presently." + +She went away, up to her own attic, as soon as supper was laid on the +table. There she opened her strong box, and, kneeling beside it, held +for some time in her hand the thick packet which Sophy had sealed up +and directed the night before she died. Which would profit her most? +To give up these concealed papers, which most likely contained an +account of all the money and goods the Signora had had in her +possession, or to keep them secret still, and retain this wealth in her +own hands? Unless the stranger gave her very much more than she was +already sure of, it was not worth while to expose herself to the +indignation and contumely of her neighbors, if ever they should come to +know that she had laid hands upon wealth that ought by rights to have +been placed in the custody of the mayor. No, it was safer to keep +quiet; it would be safer to destroy these papers, as she had often +thought of doing. But there was no fire in her room, and it was +difficult to make away with them unobserved. She put it off again, as +she had done many times, and dropped the packet back into the box, +fastening it securely. Then she went down to the great back bedchamber +of the inn, where Sophy had died, and laid her handful of ornaments on +the table before Trevor. He picked them up one by one, and looked at +them with careful curiosity. They were not valuable trinkets--a cameo +or two from Rome, and some small mosaics from Florence and glass beads +from Venice. Chiara had known their value years ago, and had +considered it worth-while to keep them for her own adornment when she +went to a _festa_. The back of one of the cameo brooches opened, and +Trevor found an inscription written on a slip of paper: "For my dear +little wife, from Sidney." Chiara looked at it almost in a panic; but +Trevor translated it to her. + +"Is it possible that he was married?" said Trevor to himself, when +Chiara carried away all the other trinkets, leaving this brooch in his +hands, after having received double its value in money. He sat long +beside the heated stove, weighing the probabilities. It was not an +unheard-of thing for a youth of one-and-twenty, with plenty of money +and no one to look after him, to travel about these remote and +unfrequented regions with a girl who was not by law his wife. He did +not know enough of Sidney's college career to decide whether or not he +would be likely to fall into such a crime. But the fact that he had +deserted this girl, a base and cowardly action, implied that she had no +legal claim upon his protection. On the other hand, there crossed his +mind Sidney's constant avoidance of ordinary social intercourse and +avowed disinclination to marriage, which might be accounted for by this +girl being already his wedded wife. Moreover, his anxiety now to learn +her fate was greater than it would have been if no binding tie was +involved in it. He was no longer dependent upon his uncle, and ran no +risk of disinheritance by the discovery of any illicit attachment. If +Sidney wished to marry now, the necessity of ascertaining what had +become of the woman he had forsaken and lost sight of had become of +primary importance, supposing her to be legally his wife, and the +mother of his heir. But who could this girl have been? + + + + +CHAPTER XI. + +AT CORTINA. + +Early in the morning Trevor found his way to the cemetery, and the +gravedigger, who was digging a grave in the dreary and neglected +quadrangle, pointed out to him a desolate corner, where the young +Englishwoman lay alone. It was strewn over with broken pots and sherds +among which a few nettles were growing, and only a little mound, hardly +visible, marked the spot where she had been laid in the earth. Even +Trevor felt his heart stirred a little at the thought of this unnamed +and uncared-for grave. The sexton told him precisely the same story as +Chiara had done, and was more than satisfied with the few kreutzers the +foreigner gave to him. + +Following the gravedigger's directions, Trevor took a narrow, winding +path, plentifully bestrewn with stones, which led up the mountain. His +brain was too busy with his absorbing discovery to allow him to see the +magnificent views opening up to him at almost every turn. He might as +well have been threading his way through the crooked streets of the +city, so blind and intent was he. The great peaks hanging over the +valley were still burning with the bright colors painted on them by the +summer sun, before the rains and snows of winter washed them away, and +the pine woods through which he passed were full of the pungent scent +of the resinous cones hanging in rich clusters on every branch. The +channels of the mountain torrents were almost dry, and the huge +bowlders in them were bleached nearly as white as ivory. Higher up the +air grew very keen; but the sun was hot, until he passed under the +shadow of a precipitous wall of rock, into a long, lateral valley, or +hollow, in the slope of the mountains, which the sun had ceased to +visit, and would shine upon no more that year. Then he shivered, and +looked about him curiously for any human habitation. + +He walked for about half a mile in the depressing chill of this +unbroken shadow before he came suddenly upon a group of hovels, with +neither windows nor chimneys, which were hardly to be discerned as not +forming part of the barren scene about them. The low wooden roofs were +loaded with heavy stones, telling of the tempestuous winds which swept +the mountain slopes up here. But amid the rocks were little patches of +sward, where a few sheep were browsing, and some goats were climbing +the higher points to nibble any tuft of grass found growing there. A +dozen children or so were loitering about listlessly until they caught +sight of the extraordinary apparition of a visitor, and then they ran +toward him with a savage howl that brought some half-clad, red-eyed +women to the doors of the huts. He made haste to fight his way through +the clamorous crew of children, and to address the nearest of them. + +"I come from Cortina," he cried in a loud voice, "from Chiara Lello, +who says her sister lives up here." + +"That's Chiara's sister," answered the woman, pointing to another who +stood in a doorway amid a cloud of wood smoke. + +Trevor approached her, catching a glimpse of the dark and filthy +interior of the hut, in which a goat and a kid were lying beside the +wood fire. But he shrank from putting his foot inside it, and beckoned +to the woman to come forward to him. + +"Send these howling children away," he said. + +She caught up a thong of leather and lashed it about them as if there +was no other mode of dispersing them, and they scattered out of the +way, yelping like dogs. Trevor looked on, wondering if any one of +these almost naked and wholly filthy brood could be Sidney Martin's son. + +"Tell me," he said, "which is the English boy." + +Without a word the woman turned into the hut, and dragged out a child, +with no clothing on but a ragged shirt scarcely reaching to his knees. +The child's eyes were dazzled with the light, but they were red and +weak; his skin was grimy with thick dirt, and his uncombed hair hung in +matted tufts about his face and neck. No sooner did the other children +see him than they began to howl and yell again; and the boy, tearing +himself away from the woman's grasp, sprang like a monkey up the rocks, +and having reached a safe height, looked down with a savage, uncouth +grin upon those below him. The other children tried in vain to +dislodge him by throwing stones at him; he had them at an advantage, +and hit so many of them with the larger stones he hurled from above +that they gave up the attack and went back to their sheep and goats. + +"Good Heavens!" cried Trevor, with a sudden emotion of pity flooding +his cold nature, "is it possible that this can be Sidney Martin's son?" + +He sat down on a rock and looked around him. Here almost all traces of +civilization were absent. These hovels were not fit for human +habitation--hardly fit for pigs, he said to himself. Certainly there +was a hideous crucifix erected in a conspicuous spot; but it was only a +brutal and distorted representation of the central fact of +Christianity, and appeared to partake of the savagery of its +surroundings. There was nothing to be seen from this point but a +gloomy circle of rocks, barren and hard and cold, upon which neither +tree nor flower grew, and as his eye glanced round them it fell upon +the nearly naked but vigorous form of Sidney's child, standing erect on +a peak, and jabbering in some unknown and barbarous dialect. Chiara's +sister shook her clenched fist at him, and screamed out some rough +menace. + +"What do you call the boy?" he asked. + +"Martino," she said; "that was his father's name." + +"Does he know anything? Does he learn anything?" Trevor inquired. + +"He knows as much as the rest," she answered sullenly; "there's no +schoolmaster up here. Besides, he is the child of heathen parents, +though our good _padre_ did baptize him. His mother was buried like a +dog in the cemetery; only Chiara and the gravedigger went to her +funeral, and no masses were said for her. Martino isn't like the child +of Christian people. His mother is in hell, and his father will go +there when he dies. It was very good of our _padre_ to have him +baptized." + +"What does he do all day?" he asked. + +"He lies by the fire or sits up there out of the way on the rock," she +replied; "the other children will not play with him, and they are +right. He's not a little true Christian like them." + +"Poor little fellow!" cried Trevor passionately. He had had children +of his own, whom he loved, and to whom he was a beloved father. It +appeared monstrous to him that Sidney Martin's son should be here, +among these barbarians, the object of their tyranny and persecution. +If he had been any other boy Trevor would have borne him away at once, +resolved not to leave an English-born child to such a fate. But if +Sidney had actually been married this was his son and heir; heir to the +large estates entailed by Sir John Martin on Sidney's eldest son. It +was a secret of incalculable value to him. What was he to do? + +This was a question not to be decided in a hurry. He must first see +clearly how to turn it most fully to his own advantage. He was not +altogether a bad man; but he had had a city training. Such an avenue +to prosperity and power had never been open to him before, and he must +be careful how he took his first step along it. + +"Be kind to the little lad," he said, giving a gulden to the woman, +"and when I come back you shall have ten of them before I take him +away." + +Ten gulden! The thought of so magnificent a sum had never entered into +the head of Chiara's sister. She thought a good deal of the hundred +and fifty kreutzers paid every month by Chiara; but ten gulden all at +once! These English, heathen as they were, must be made of money. + +She watched the foreigner as he retraced his way along the rocky path +until he was quite lost to sight. She would indeed be kind to the +child of people so rich and generous. + +So for a few weeks Martino had the richest draught of goat's milk and +the sweetest morsels of black bread, and the warmest corner by the +fire. But she grew weary of indulgence as the months passed by, and +the Englishman failed to return and redeem his promise. + + + + +CHAPTER XII. + +A HALF CONFESSION. + +Sidney Martin was suffering greatly under his fresh burden of anxiety. +It seemed to him that all his future happiness or misery depended +absolutely upon the result of Trevor's mission. He kept away from the +house on Wimbledon Common, for he dared not trust himself in +conversation with Margaret. That he loved her, and loved her with the +profound, mature passion of manhood--how different from his boyish +fancy!--made it impossible for him to approach her with calm +friendliness, as he had done before her father's private talk with him, +and his avowal that Margaret herself was far from being indifferent to +him. + +But now he had placed his secret in the hands of another, and must be +prepared to acknowledge his boyish error. He must lose Margaret, if +Sophy was alive. His imagination was busy in painting to him two +lives, either of which might be his in the immediate future. + +If Sophy was found he must own her as his wife, and make her the +mistress of his house. He pictured her to himself as his wife, with +her silly, affected, low-bred manners. His inward disgust at his own +conduct exaggerated her faults, and painted her in the most repulsive +colors. Her relations and friends would certainly flock about her; +and, though he did not know them, he could not think of them as +anything but ignorant and vulgar; for they were nothing but poor +shopkeepers in a little market-town. He knew himself too well to +resolve upon carrying on a continual conflict with the woman he had +made his wife. He would leave her to follow her own way, while he took +his; but her way could not fail to intersect his at some points; and he +must be brought into contact with a vulgarity and folly which he +loathed. His lot must be that bitter one of being linked indissolubly +to a companion always at variance with him. + +But possibly Sophy's long, persistent silence meant the silence of +death. If so, his future promised to be bright and happy far beyond +his deserts; for he frankly acknowledged to his own heart that he was +unworthy of the prosperous happiness Sophy's death would insure for +him. With Margaret as his wife, he might push his ambition to its +farthest goal, and meet with no check or shock from her. If she had a +fault, it was the transparent simplicity which made her almost too good +for this work-a-day world. She had a charm which no other woman he +knew possessed--a charm altogether apart from her personal loveliness. +He could fancy her an old woman with white hair, and dim eyes, and +faded-face, and yet retaining an indescribable attraction. She would +be as beautiful in his eyes when she was seventy as she was now. He +felt he could be a good man indeed if she was always at his side. + +Day after day he went up to the City and transacted his business, +keeping the threads of his world-wide enterprises in his own hand, and +directing them with a clear, shrewd head. But he was waiting through +all the long hours for the letter which would contain his doom. Trevor +was to write to him the first certain information he gathered, and to +keep him acquainted with his progress from day to day. At last the +letter with the Austrian postmark came, and he fastened the door of his +office, giving orders that he was to be interrupted for no one. + +It was but a few lines, but it told him that Trevor had seen the grave +where Sophy had lain for more than seven years. Sidney had prepared +himself, as he believed, for any news that might reach him, and yet it +came upon him like a thunderbolt. Poor Sophy! Still, what a relief it +was to know she would never trouble him again! And she had been dead +all these years, during which he had lived in deadly suspense and +terror, as of one over whom a sword was hanging. How foolish he had +been! If he had only had the courage to make this simple investigation +before how free and joyous the years he had lost would have been. But +he had lost these seven years of his youth as a penalty for his early +error, and now the punishment was over. + +He had intended at first to spend this evening alone, in memory of +Sophy and her sad fate. But, before an hour had passed he grew +accustomed to the knowledge that she was dead, and felt as if he had +known it all these years. It had the dimness of an old sorrow. Seven +years in the grave! He did not feel that it would be any shock to +himself, or slight to Sophy's memory, if he yielded to his passionate +longing to hurry away to Margaret. + +It was already evening when he rode swiftly across Wimbledon Common, +but it was an hour or two before his usual time, and Margaret was not +waiting for him at the open door. He was shown into the library, where +he had awaited her first appearance to him, now nearly a year ago. He +had loved her from the first moment he saw her, he said to himself; and +every day had increased his love. Would to God he was more worthy of +her! From the height of his love to her he looked down on the low and +foolish infatuation he had felt for Sophy. How could it be possible +that, even as a boy, he could have wasted his affections in such a way? +When Margaret opened the door, and came in softly, with a pale face, +and eyelids a little red with weeping, looking as she did when he first +saw her, he felt that she was even dearer to him than he had been +fancying. + +"Sidney!" she said, meeting him with both hands outstretched, "we have +missed you more than I can tell. Why have you stayed away so long? My +father is so ill!" + +"Margaret!" he cried stammering. He could not utter a word of all that +was in his heart, for he had resolved that, if possible, she should +never know of Sophy's existence. There would be no need for the world +to know, and he could make it worth while to Trevor to keep the secret. +For, after all, it was not a secret involving any important issues; and +if the worst came to the worst, he could tell Margaret when she was his +wife, and it did not signify to any other person, excepting Margaret's +father. He held her hands fast in a strong grasp as he looked at her; +and the color came and went on her face, and her eyes fell before his +gaze. + +"I love you," he said, at length, with parched lips. He had always +thought it would be a moment of too great happiness when he could say +these words to Margaret, but it was one of heaviness and confusion of +soul. He wished now that he had waited a little longer, until he could +get rid of the haunting memory of Sophy. + +"Yes," answered Margaret, in a very low, sweet tone, "and I love you, +Sidney!" + +She spoke with the open simplicity of a child, but her lips quivered, +and the tears stood in her eyes. He folded her in his arms, and for a +minute or two they were both silent. The heaviness and bewilderment of +his soul passed away in the sense of present gladness. All the trouble +of his old folly was over; there was no harvest of bitterness to reap. +He was as free as if he had never fallen into any unworthy +entanglement. And the pure, sweet, true heart of this girl was as much +his own as if he had never known any other love. He declared to +himself he never had. + +"I have never loved any woman but you," he exclaimed aloud, as if he +challenged his dead wife to contradict him. + +"And I," she said, looking up into his face with a smile, "never +thought of loving any man but you." + +He stooped down and kissed her. It was impossible to echo her words. + +"Let us go and tell my father," she said, after a few minutes had +passed by; "he is ill, and we must not leave him too long alone. He is +very fond of you, Sidney." + +He followed Margaret to the door of her father's room, but she passed +on, beckoning to him to go in alone. Colonel Cleveland lay on his +invalid couch, looking more worn than he had done the week before. + +"Welcome back again, Sidney," he cried out, with a faint smile. "I was +afraid I had scared you away by my imprudence. And I cannot get along +without you, my friend." + +"No, no," he answered; "I stayed away because I could not trust myself +with Margaret, after what you said." + +"Not trust yourself with Margaret!" repeated Colonel Cleveland. + +"You told me she loved me," he replied joyously, "and I love her as my +own soul. But I could not feel worthy of her. I will confess all to +you, but I do not wish her to know. While I was yet a mere lad, I +contracted a secret and most unsuitable marriage; but the girl died +seven years ago. I could not all at once ask Margaret to become my +wife after that." + +"Are there any children?" inquired Colonel Cleveland. + +"No; oh, no!" he answered. "How could such a matter be kept secret if +there had been any child?" + +But, as he spoke, a dread flashed across his mind. Was it not possible +that Sophy had died in giving birth to her child, and the child be +still alive? But, if so, Trevor must have heard of it when he heard of +her death, and he would have added this most important item of +information in his letter. No, Sophy and her child lay together in the +lonely grave of the Ampezzo cemetery. He felt a strange, confused +sense of sadness in the thought, mingling with the gladness of being +sure that Margaret loved him. + +"And you have lived with this secret all these years," said Colonel +Cleveland with a grave face. "It would have made a difference with my +old friend if he had known it." + +"Yes," said Sidney frankly; "he would probably have disinherited me." + +Colonel Cleveland looked keenly into the grave, but ingenuous face of +the young man, and Sidney bore his gaze with an air of honest regret. +He felt penitent, and his penitence sat well upon him. If a past wrong +could be blotted out forever, Sidney was ready to perform any penance +that would free himself from its consequences. He looked imploringly +at Colonel Cleveland. + +"Don't let Margaret know," he entreated. "I want her to be happier +with me than any woman ever was with any husband. Only one man knows +it, and he will keep the secret faithfully. What good would it do for +her to be told of my boyish infatuation? If it was an important +matter, I would not keep it from her. But, just now, she looked into +my face and said: 'I never thought of loving any man but you.' I would +have given half my worldly goods to be able to say the same." + +"Then you have spoken to Margaret?" said her father. + +"The moment before I came to you," he answered. + +"And she loves you?" he continued. + +"Yes," said Sidney. + +"God bless my Margaret!" cried Colonel Cleveland, in tremulous tones. + +"Amen!" said Sidney. "God make me worthy of her love!" + +There was a slight pause before Colonel Cleveland spoke again. + +"I think it may be as you wish," he said. "Most young men have some +folly to confess; and this, though it seems more serious, was only a +folly, not a crime. The worst part of it is keeping it a secret all +these years. Seven years, did you say? But it is all over now, and +Margaret, dear child, need never know." + + + + +CHAPTER XIII. + +RACHEL GOLDSMITH. + +It was still with some anxiety and a lurking dread that Trevor might +bring ill news to mar his happiness, that Sidney awaited his return, +and could not account for the delay, as one day passed after another, +and he did not come with further details of Sophy's unhappy end. There +was a morbid curiosity in his mind to hear all the particulars Trevor +had gained about the fate of his young wife and first-born child; and, +until this curiosity was satisfied, Margaret's love was not enough to +content him. But, by and by there came news of an accident to a +diligence crossing the Arlberg Pass, which, meeting with an early fall +of snow, had missed the road and been upset over a low precipice. Only +one passenger was killed: his luggage and the papers found upon him +were forwarded, according to an address inside his portmanteau, to the +offices of Sidney Martin, Swansea, & Co. They came direct into +Sidney's own hands. + +The papers conveyed no further information to Sidney than Trevor's +letter had done. There were only a few lines in a cipher which he did +not understand, and which he considered it prudent to burn before +passing on the papers, which had nothing to do with his business, to +Trevor's family. There was a disappointment to his curiosity in not +learning more particulars; but there was a curious sense of deliverance +in the fact of poor Trevor's death, which more than counterbalanced +this disappointment. The whole affair was ended now; completely ended. +He had no one to fear. The only man who could have made use of his +secret was gone, and out of the way. There could be neither an +imprudent speech, nor a threat of disclosure, uttered by Trevor. +Sidney acted with his usual liberality to the widow and children of his +unfortunate clerk, but he could not grieve over an unforeseen death so +convenient for his own peace of mind. + +There was nothing now to hinder his marriage with Margaret. There were +settlements to make, of course--Apley being settled on Margaret and her +second son. The eldest son would inherit the estates and the large +fortune entailed by Sir John Martin's will. On Colonel Cleveland's +death Margaret herself would become possessor of her mother's dowry. + +The feeling of freedom with which Sidney could now live was too new and +too unfamiliar to be altogether a happy one. He had scarcely realized +how oppressive had been the burden of Sophy's possible claim upon him. +It had weighed down his spirit with a constant, yet almost unconscious, +repression. He was like a man who had worn fetters until he drags his +foot along the ground, unable to believe that he can walk like other +men. + +But he was free now; and he resolved to live such a life as would atone +for all his early delinquencies. There should be nothing underhand or +contemptible in all his future. His ambition could have free course, +and he would prove himself worthy of high fortune. With a wife and +companion like Margaret there would be nothing to hinder him from +making his way into the foremost ranks of the men of his time. + +On the eve of his marriage he brought Margaret a splendid set of +diamonds, expecting to see her delight in ornaments so magnificent. +She took the case from him with a pleased and happy smile, and looked +at them closely for a few minutes, but she shut the case and laid it +aside, almost indifferently, he thought. + +"You do not care for them?" he said, in some disappointment. + +"I care for anything you give to me," she answered softly, "but I do +not much value ornaments for themselves. I never can care for them." + +"That is because you do not see other girls who wear them," he replied. +"When you go out into society as my wife you will see women sparkling +with jewelry, and then you will learn to care for it." + +"Shall I?" she asked doubtfully; "but it seems to me childish. You men +do not adorn yourselves with jewels, and we should despise you if you +did. It seems like a relic of barbarism, akin to the love of savages +for glass beads. What man could strut about in diamonds and not look +ridiculous?" + +"But you are a woman," he said, laughing. + +"Though surely not more childish than a man," she answered, rising from +her low seat, and standing beside him with her serious eyes shining +into his. "O Sidney, I wish we were poorer people. I should like to +work for you, as Laura does for George, because they are not rich. I +shall never have any real work to do for you; that would be my idea of +happiness. I will wear your diamonds. Oh, yes! But you must not make +a child of me." + +"You are not a child, but an angel," he said. + +"Ah! if you think me an angel," she replied gayly, "it will be very +bitter to find out your mistake. But still angels are ministering +spirits. Don't you think I would rather use my hands in sewing for you +than have you load them with rings? And my feet would be less weary +moving up and down on errands for you, than dancing through tedious +dances with some other man. I am sure poor people have ways of +happiness that we know nothing of." + +"Margaret," he said, "you have grown up too much alone. You have +missed the wholesome companionship of girls of your own rank." + +"Ah!" she cried, "I'm no longer an angel." + +She turned away from him rather shyly and sadly, he thought, and +touched the bell. + +"If you had been a poorer man," she said, "you would have bought me a +beautiful flower, and I should have worn it now, at once; and perhaps, +I might have kissed it when it was faded, and put it away as something +sacred. But now my maid must take charge of these costly things, and I +cannot keep them for no one else to see." + +"Margaret," he cried, "I would have brought you the loveliest flower in +England, if I had known!" + +As she stood a little way apart from him, with downcast eyes, he +noticed for the first time that she was wearing no flowers. Was it for +this reason? Had she waited for him to bring one that she might carry +in her bosom this memorable evening, and put it away as something +sacred, which no one should see but herself? And it would have been so +if he had been a poor man. For a moment he caught a glimpse, through +Margaret's eyes, of a happiness simpler, more natural, and nobler in +the married life than that which lay before him and her. He could +almost have wished himself as poor a man as his cousin George, for the +sake of it. + +But the door opened in answer to Margaret's ring, and a middle-aged +woman entered, whom he fancied he knew by sight. Her face was +pleasant, with traces of prettiness, which had become refined by +thought and by some sadness. Margaret put her hand affectionately on +her arm. + +"I can never tell you how much I owe to this dear friend of mine," she +said, looking up into Sidney's face, "and I want you to be a friend to +Rachel Goldsmith." + +Rachel Goldsmith! The shock was utterly unexpected; but his nature +possessed an instinctive kindly consideration for his inferiors which +impelled him to stretch out his hand and shake hands with Margaret's +favorite maid. + +"Since my mother died she has been almost a mother to me," said +Margaret. + +"I love my young lady as much as I could love a child of my own, sir," +said Rachel, looking at him with eyes so much like Sophy's he felt that +she must read the secret so jealously guarded in his heart. There was +a keen reproach to him in her gaze, and in the air of sadness which +rested on her face. She took up the case of diamonds and left them +again alone. + +"I must tell you something about Rachel," said Margaret, as soon as she +was gone. "Her people live at Apley; and her brother is my father's +saddler. He had one daughter, about six years older than me; a very +pretty girl; quite a lovely face she had. But you may some time have +seen her when you were a boy, and came to Apley." + +"No," he answered, hardly knowing what he said. + +"Everybody admired her," Margaret went on, "and her two aunts doted on +her. They sent her to a boarding-school; and then she went out as a +nursery governess. But just after she was twenty she disappeared." + +Margaret paused, but Sidney said nothing. + +"They never found her; they have not found her yet," she continued. "O +Sidney! think how dreadful it is to lose anyone you love in such a way! +A thousand times worse than dying, for then we lay the body in the +quiet grave, and the soul is in the hands of God; but what misery and +degradation she may be suffering." + +"It is a sad history for you to know, my darling," said Sidney. + +"Sad for me to know!" she repeated. "I suppose so; it has often made +me sad. But what must it be to those who love her as much as my father +loves me? Since we came to London, Rachel has spent many hours in the +streets, with a faint, very faint hope of coming across her. And +Rachel is such a good woman; so wise and upright. She could not be a +better woman if she was a queen." + +"Do you take her with us to-morrow?" he asked; for he felt as if her +presence would cloud all his happiness, and become an insupportable +burden to him. Yet it was too late to make any change in the +arrangements for their journey. + +"No," she answered, "I could not leave my father without Rachel. Since +his accident she has been his nurse; and I do not want a maid. Rachel +has taught me to be independent of her in almost every way. Didn't I +say she was a wise woman?" + +"Very wise!" he agreed absently. + + + + +CHAPTER XIV. + +APLEY HALL. + +At first it seemed almost impossible to Sidney that he could bear the +constant presence of Rachel Goldsmith, and the intimate relationship +that existed between her and his wife. There were tones in her voice +which startled him by recalling Sophy's; and now and then she used +local terms and provincialisms which he had never heard anyone utter +but Sophy. There was a strong resemblance, too, between them; for +Rachel's face was what Sophy's might have grown to be in middle life. +It shocked him afresh when he caught sight of it unexpectedly. But it +had been agreed before their marriage that Margaret must not be +separated from her father; and for the present they were all living +together in the house Colonel Cleveland rented on Wimbledon Common. +Rachel Goldsmith was even more essential to the comfort and +tranquillity of Colonel Cleveland as his nurse, than she was to +Margaret's happiness as her maid. It would be impossible to displace +her; it might be easier to remove Margaret to a dwelling place of their +own. + +But as time passed by he grew more accustomed to her presence, and it +ceased to chafe him. + +Rachel opened her heart to her young lady's husband, and her manner +toward him was one of admiration and deference. Her somewhat sad face +brightened when he spoke to her; and her smile was a sweet one, more in +the eyes than on the lips. Now and then the thought occurred to +him--that if Sophy had lived this woman would have come under his roof +as a near relation. But Sidney possessed an affectionate nature, +capable of taking a very real interest in many persons; even if +insignificant persons. This woman, Margaret's maid and Sophy's aunt, +had a claim upon him which he could not ignore. Besides, he had +resolved before his second marriage that his future life should be a +noble one; worthy of Margaret's love and faith in him. It would be a +most unworthy act to add to the unknown injury he had inflicted on +Rachel Goldsmith--the further sorrow of separating her from Margaret, +whom she loved as her own child. + +It was part of the penance he had to pay for his boyish fault; that +fault of which he had repented, he told himself, so bitterly. It was +not a heavy penance. There was nothing else to mar his happiness. + +And Margaret's happiness would have been perfect if her father had not +been slowly but surely treading the path which led only to the grave. +Her marriage had opened the world to her, and she saw the brightest +side of it; for Sidney was careful that she should know only the best +people. His uncle had made but few friends, and he himself had lived +in a narrow circle. But now, for Margaret's sake, and the gladdening +sense of deliverance from a damaging secret, he enlarged the number of +his acquaintances, and used his wealth to gain a position in the world +which Margaret could enjoy. + +Sir John Martin, though he had made but few personal friends, had +occupied a prominent place in London as a religious and philanthropic +man. It was not difficult to Sidney to regain this position. As long +as he had lain under the chance of a discovery that would bring him +pain, if it did not bring him disgrace, he had avoided filling the +position his uncle had held. But now his past life was buried. +Margaret's wishes all lay in the direction of active, personal service +of her fellow-men; and Sidney's own nature responded to their claims. +It made him feel satisfied that the past was both past and forgotten, +when he found himself recognized as a leader among Christian men. And +was he not a Christian? Had any man more bitterly repented of his sin? + +As for Margaret, no question existed in her mind about her husband's +right to call himself a Christian. It had never been her habit to sit +in judgment upon others. Religion did not consist in the observance of +forms, and the keeping of times and seasons; and she had no ready test +to apply for detection. She knew her father made no formal profession +of religion; but she could not know how deep and true his love of God +might be. Sidney went with her regularly to church; but the secret +intercourse of his soul with God was hidden, could not but be hidden +from all other souls. No spirit can be so near another spirit as God +is to each. God had given to her that which was his greatest earthly +gift--the love of a good man. + +On the Michaelmas-day after their marriage the tenancy of the present +occupier of Apley Hall expired; and a few weeks afterward the rector of +Apley was promoted to a more lucrative benefice, and the living, which +was in Colonel Cleveland's gift, was vacant. Margaret had this last +piece of news to tell Sidney when he returned from the city. + +"My father wishes to offer the living to your cousin George," she +added, "and, Sidney, he wishes more than words can tell--to go home to +Apley before he dies." Margaret's voice faltered, and the tears +glistened in her eyes. + +"And would you like to go?" he asked, laying his hand fondly on her +head. She drew his hand down and laid her lips upon it before +answering. + +"I was born there," she said, "and all our happy days, before my mother +died, were spent there. But I would not wish to go if it separated me +at all from you." + +Margaret expressed so few desires that Sidney could not feel content to +oppose her slightest wish. Apley Hall was a beautiful old Elizabethan +mansion, and was in every way a desirable and suitable country house +for them. It was probable that if he adopted this position which +opened to him as a country squire, he might be elected a member for one +of the neighboring boroughs, or even for the county. To go into +Parliament had always been a part of his scheme for the future. Yet, +inwardly, he shrank a little from living so near to the home of his +dead wife, and in the midst of her plebeian relations, whom he could +not altogether avoid in so small a country town. They must remind him +of a past which ought to be not only dead, but buried and forgotten. +He sat silently weighing this question in the balance, unable to come +to a decision. + +"It is my birthplace," said Margaret, in a low voice, "and I should +like it to be the birthplace of our child." + +"It shall be so," he answered, kissing her with passionate tenderness. + + + + +CHAPTER XV. + +LIFE AND DEATH. + +It was early in November when Apley Hall was ready for their return, +after seven years' absence. George Martin, with his wife and child, +had already taken possession of the Rectory, which stood beside the +church, just beyond the boundary of the park, and at a short distance +from the Hall. Both houses were built of stone, and were fine +specimens of Elizabethan architecture. The walls were toned down to a +soft, low gray, on which the golden and silvery lichen lay in +harmonious coloring. Here and there some finely trained ivy climbed to +the roof, or twined about the mullioned windows. The park was richly +wooded, chiefly with beech trees, which at the moment of their return +were almost as thick in foliage as during the summer, but with every +shade of brown and yellow on their leaves. On one side of the Hall +there stretched a long pool, nearly large enough to be called a lake, +where water lilies grew in profusion; and in whose tranquil surface the +bronzed beech trees were clearly reflected. Margaret breathed a sigh +of perfect contentment as she found herself once more at home; and her +father lifted up his feeble head and smiled sadly as he gave her a +welcome back to it. + +The tenantry had wished to give them a noisy "welcome home," but this +Sidney had decisively negatived, both on Colonel Cleveland's account +and Margaret's. For in a few weeks after their return a son and heir +was born. The sight of the child seemed to give new life to Colonel +Cleveland, and the following day he insisted on being carried on his +invalid couch into Margaret's room, to see how well she was for himself. + +"My darling!" he said, in a loud, excited voice, "I saw you in the +first hour of your existence, and you have been my treasure ever since; +and this little lad will be your treasure." + +"Yes," she answered, "I never thought there was such happiness as this. +I wish every woman in the world were as happy as I am." + +"Take me away," he said suddenly, in a low voice, to those who had +carried him to his daughter's side, "I am dying." + +We come here upon the most singular part of Margaret's inward life; the +most difficult to narrate; the least likely to be understood. + +For the last twenty-four hours she had been passing through a series of +the most agitating emotions, which penetrated the deepest recesses of +her nature. The birth of her child had touched the very spring and +fountain of love and joy. There was an overwhelming sense of rapture +to her in the consciousness of being a mother, of feeling the helpless, +breathing, moving baby lying in her arms. There was a blending of +pitifullness and tenderness, and an exquisite sense of ownership, in +her feelings toward the little creature, such as had never entered into +her heart to dream of. To die for this child would be nothing; she +felt she could endure long ages of deepest sorrow if it could bring him +any good in the end. Her own personality was gone; it had entered into +her child. Henceforth it seemed as if she would live and breathe in +him; and his life would be far nearer and dearer to her than her own. + +Upon this extraordinary exaltation and happiness there came the sudden +shock of her father's death. She recollected too keenly the sense of +loss and separation that had fallen upon her when her mother died; when +all the old, beloved, familiar duties were ended forever; the voice +silent, the eyes closed. It was so with her father; he was gone from +all the conditions of life known to her. They told her he was dead. + +A curtain fell, thick and impenetrable, between her and the outer +world. Her senses no longer brought information of what was going on +about her to her brain; but her brain did not feel bewildered, or her +memory failing. Rather both were preternaturally clear and active. +Her own life, and the lives of others as far as they had been in +contact with hers, lay before her in strange distinctness; and her +judgment, held till now in abeyance, was acting keenly and quickly, +discriminating and condemning or approving, as scene after scene passed +rapidly in review. The child's little life of twenty-four hours was +clear to her; and all her exquisite joy in having given birth to a son. + +Then it seemed to her--but with what words to describe it Margaret +could never tell--that she entered into a light, a glory, a radiance +far beyond the brightest sun; and felt an embrace in which her soul +lay, as her little child had lain upon her bosom; and there was a throb +through all her being, as if she felt the beating of God's heart toward +her, and it was of an infinite pitifulness and tenderness and sense of +ownership in her, as she had felt toward her newborn babe. And she +knew that she was born into another world; and that this was the first +moment of life in the knowledge of the infinite love of God. She was +immeasurably dearer to him than her earth-born son was to her; and her +joy over him was but the faintest symbol of God's eternal joy over her. + +"Can this be death?" she cried aloud, joyously and wonderingly; and +Sidney, kneeling beside her, felt that the sting of death was in his +own soul. + +But Margaret did not know that she had spoken. The trance, if it was a +trance, continued. And now the rapture that possessed her soul changed +a little; neither failing nor chilling, but giving her strength to +remember things that were full of sorrow. She felt herself present at +the crucifixion of our Lord. She made her way through the crowd to the +very foot of the Cross, and stood leaning against it, her uplifted +hands just touching the chilled and bleeding feet. She shivered and +wept as she touched them. Him she could not see; but all about her +were the faces of those who were crucifying Him; malignant, curious, +stupid, careless, and afar off a few mournful ones. All whom she had +ever known were there; and Sidney stood among the most bitter enemies +of our Lord. Her heart felt breaking with its burden of grief and +anguish, and she was saying to herself, "Was there ever sorrow like +this sorrow?" when, suddenly, like a flash of lightning, yet as softly +as the dawn of the morning, there came upon her the conviction that He +loved every one of this innumerable crowd with the same love that she +had just felt was the love of God for her. He was their brother, their +Saviour. Deeper and stronger than pain and anguish, infinitely deeper +and stronger was His love; and this love was the foundation of that joy +which no man, however great a sinner, could take from him. + +But Margaret could never tell all she then knew and felt; for it seemed +to grow dim as she returned to earth. There were no words by which she +could utter it, only tears and sobs of surpassing gladness, which no +one could understand. And it was but once or twice in her lifetime +that she tried to tell it; and then it was to those who were afraid of +dying. She came back at last to this life, as weak and helpless as the +child she had just borne. Her eyes could hardly bear the light, and +the faintest sounds seemed loud and jarring to her. But she regained +her former strength day by day, and she was content to take up her old +life. Only when they spoke cautiously and mournfully to her again of +her father's death a smile came across her thin, white face. + +"You do not know what it is," she said, and they thought she was +delirious again. + + + + +CHAPTER XVI. + +ANDREW GOLDSMITH, SADDLER. + +The little town of Apley consisted mainly of one long, narrow, +straggling street of old-fashioned houses, called the High Street, +which was silent and deserted on every day except market-days and +Sundays. It was out of the direct line of any railway, and there was +not business enough to make a branch line pay. In the small +old-fashioned shops the tradespeople conducted their own business, +requiring little aid from paid assistants. There were none rich enough +to live away from their shops, and their intercourse with one another +was primitive and unconventional. The population of the immediate +neighborhood consisted of the gentry and the townsfolk, with no +connecting links. + +About the middle of the High Street stood Andrew Goldsmith's little +shop, which Sidney passed every time he drove to and from the railway +station two miles off. Three stone steps, hollowed by the tread of +feet through many years, led up to the shop; and a small bow window +hung over the pavement, behind which there sat a paid workman pursuing +his work fitfully at his own pleasure. Before Sophy's mysterious +disappearance Andrew had always occupied the post himself, seldom +glancing away from the work in hand to notice what was going on in the +street; but he never sat there now. He had, almost unintentionally, +hidden himself from his neighbors' gossiping curiosity, until his love +of seclusion had grown morbid. + +Margaret could not recollect the time when this shop had not been a +favorite haunt of hers. Andrew had made the first saddle for the first +pony her father gave to her; and her mother's affection for and trust +in Andrew's sister Rachel had brought all the household into close +connection with her. The romance and mystery of Sophy's fate had been +the deepest interest of Margaret's girlhood, and was still occasionally +the subject of perplexed conjecture. Rachel's almost hopeless searches +and inquiries, made whenever they were in London, kept this interest +alive, though it naturally lost its intensity. Still there was no +household in Apley to which she felt so many ties of mutual cares and +memories. + +As soon then as she was allowed to take so long a drive, she felt that +Andrew's house was the first to which she must carry her little boy, +for the sad and sorrow-stricken father to see. She had not seen him +herself yet, since her return to Apley a few weeks ago; she had never +seen him since Sophy was lost. There would be pain for him in their +meeting; but Rachel said it would be well to get the pain over. + +A large kitchen lay behind the shop with a floor of rich, deep-red +tiles, spotlessly clean. The big grate, with brass knobs about it +shining like gold, was filled with gleeds of burning coal from the +lowest bar to the highest; and the old oak chairs with leathern seats, +standing in the full glow and warmth of the hearth, were polished to an +extraordinary degree of brightness. Beyond the kitchen was a small, +dark parlor, with all the chairs and the one sofa carefully swathed in +white covers; but there was no fire in it, and Rachel would not let her +sister Mary take Margaret into it. + +Margaret leaned back in one of the comfortable old chairs, with a happy +light in her dark eyes, as she listened to the two older women admiring +her child. It was in this exquisitely clean and pretty kitchen that +she had caught her first glimpse of the happiness of a life far below +the level of her own. As a child she had sometimes watched Mary +Goldsmith busy herself in getting ready a meal for her brother, giving +thought and affection to her work, while he sat at his saddler's bench +in the shop, humming some tune to himself in great peace of heart. It +seemed to Margaret as she sat now on the cozy hearth, and glanced round +at the willow-pattern plates shining on the dresser-shelves, and the +polished surface of the copper warming-pan hanging against the wall, +and the tall old Chippendale clock in the corner, and the little +collection of well-read books lying on the broad window-sill, that she +could make life very dear and pleasant to Sidney with no other +materials than those about her. + +But under all the chatter of Rachel and Mary Goldsmith her ear caught +the sound of a voice half-hushed, yet lamenting with sobs and muffled +cries of pain, as of one who was passing through some sharp access of +suffering. It was quite close at hand; not in the little parlor, the +door of which was close to her seat, and for some time she said +nothing. But as the cries and moans grew more distinct to her ear she +could bear to listen no longer in silence. + +"It's my poor brother," answered Rachel sadly, "he's away in his room, +mourning and crying for Sophy. His heart's broken, if one may say so, +and him alive and strong. He has never smiled since Sophy went away." + +"I'd forgotten," said Margaret, with a rash of compassion in her heart +toward the unhappy father. "O, Rachel, tell him I am here, and want to +see him so much. You know I have not seen him since we left Apley +eight years ago." + +"Just before Sophy was lost," remarked Mary. + +In a few minutes Andrew Goldsmith came slowly down the stairs. He was +a tall, spare man with a vigorous frame and almost a military bearing; +for he had belonged to the cavalry of the county from his earliest +manhood. He was not over fifty years of age, but his hair was white, +and his shoulders bowed like those of a man of seventy. So changed he +was, and wore such expression of intense and bitter suffering, that +Margaret would not have recognized him if he had not been in his own +house. + +"Andrew," she said, rising hastily and taking her baby into her arms +with a young mother's instinctive feeling that the child will interest +and comfort everyone, "see, I have brought my boy to make friends with +you, as I did when I was a little girl." + +A gleam of light came into the man's dull, sad eyes, as he laid his +fingers gently on the baby's sleeping face. + +"He favors you, Miss Margaret," he said, "ay! and your father, the +colonel." + +"We call him Philip, after my father," replied Margaret, with a +sorrowful inflection of her sweet voice. + +"May God Almighty bless him and keep him from bringing you to sorrow!" +said Andrew. + +"I am willing to bear sorrow for him," answered Margaret. + +"But not from him," he said. + +"Yes; from him if that must be so," she replied, "he will grieve me +sometimes, just as we also grieve God. But if God bears with us, we +must bear with one another's faults, however hard it may be." + +The stern, grave face of Andrew Goldsmith unbent a little and quivered, +and his strong frame trembled as if shaken by some invisible force. He +sank down on a chair, looking up into the pitying faces of the three +women, whose eyes were so gently bent upon him. + +"I haven't seen you since I lost my daughter," he said with a groan, +"and oh! my God, she might have been standing as you are, come home to +show me her baby." + +It was true. If any stranger could have looked in on the little +circle, he would have taken Margaret, in her plain black dress, with +her child in her arms, for a young mother come back to the old fireside +to + + ... tell them all they would have told, + And bring her babe, and make her boast, + Till even those that miss'd her most + Shall count new things as dear as old. + + +Margaret felt the sadness of it herself, with a profound and keen +sympathy. She hastened to give the child back to Rachel, and laid her +hand, with a gentle and friendly pressure, on Andrew's shoulder. + +"You know I was fond of Sophy," she said, "and how could I help but +grieve over her, when I saw Rachel so often troubled? But why do you +give up hope? She may yet come home any day; and perhaps bring a dear +child with her. God may have given to her a child to be a comfort to +her. Only God knows." + +"Ay! He knows," answered Andrew, "if He didn't know it otherwise, I +tell Him every day; every hour of every day, for the cry after her is +always in my heart. But it could never be the same again. If it was +all right with her, would she have kept silence over eight years? I +had only one daughter, like your father; and she has brought me to +grief and shame." + +"But in one sense it must be right with her," said Margaret, "for God +is with her. He has not lost sight of her; and though it may possibly +be that she has sinned, and is still sinning, yet that way also leads +to God, when sin is repented of." + +"But to think that God sees her in all her degradation!" he cried +passionately. "Oh, if I could only find her, and hide her away from +all the world! hide her away from God Himself. No, no, Miss Margaret; +it's no comfort to think that God Almighty sees my daughter in her sin +and shame. And that man who robbed me of my only child--O Lord, set +Thou a wicked man over him, and let Satan stand at his right hand. +When he shall be judged, let him be condemned; and let his prayer be +turned into sin. Let his children be fatherless, and his wife a widow. +Let his children be continually vagabonds. Let the iniquity of his +fathers be remembered by the Lord, and let not the sin of his mother be +blotted out. As he loved cursing, let it come----" + +"Oh, hush, hush!" cried Margaret, breaking in upon his rapid and +vehement utterance with difficulty, while the tears streamed down her +face, "oh, be silent! It is a terrible thing to utter these words as a +prayer to God. For God loves us all; even him whom you are cursing. +Some day you will say, 'Father, forgive him; he did not know what he +was doing.'" + +"Never!" he exclaimed, lifting up his haggard face, and fastening his +bloodshot eyes upon her; "but I oughtn't to trouble you. It was only +because the sight of you made me think so keen of her that's lost. All +the town is glad to have you back again, Miss Margaret, for your own +sake and the colonel's sake. But it will be different from the old +days." + +"You'll be as fond of my boy as you were of me?" she asked. + +"Ay, may be," he answered. + +"And my husband?" she added. + +"Andrew's never seen Mr. Martin," put in Mary Goldsmith; "he's never +crossed the church door since Sophy ran away; and he never sits in the +shop now, where folks can see him at his work. He spends his time +mostly seeking after her, anywhere that he can find a clew; and he sits +up half his nights with the sick and dying." + +"Because my nights are sleepless, or full of terror," he interrupted, +"and my heart is sorer by night than by day. And poor folks that +cannot pay for nurses are glad to have me near at hand; and the dying +know I'm not afraid of death, but seek it as one seeks after hidden +treasure, so they hold my hand in theirs till they step into the outer +darkness, knowing I would gladly take that step for them. I tell them +it is better to die than to live; and they half believe me. They take +messages for me into the next world!" + +"Messages!" repeated Margaret. + +"Ay," he continued, "to tell Sophy, if she's there, to send me some +sign; but no sign comes. So she must be living still; and I shall know +what has become of her, and where she is, some day." + +Margaret did not feel it possible to combat this notion of Andrew's, +though she looked anxiously from him to his sisters. George Martin had +recently settled in at the Rectory, and begun his pastoral care of his +country parish; and she wondered if he could not in any way turn the +deep current of this man's grief, which was threatening him, she +feared, with insanity. + +"Has our cousin, the new rector, been to see you yet?" she inquired of +Mary. + +"Yes," she answered; "and Andrew's promised to go to church again next +Sunday." + +"I shall be there," said Margaret gladly, "and I shall look to see you +in your pew, Andrew. I shall miss you if you are not there." + +"I will be there, Miss Margaret," he answered. + +The parish church of Apley was a small Norman edifice built near the +park gates. A square pew in the chancel belonged to the Hall, and a +long narrow aisle with small pews on each side led down to the western +door. When Sidney took his place, with Margaret, in the Hall pew on +the following Monday, he saw, just beyond the reading desk, a +white-headed man, who was evidently still in the prime of manhood, with +a strong and muscular frame, but with a face expressive of heart-broken +sadness. It was an ominous face, dark and despondent, with a fire +burning in the deep-set eyes that seemed almost like the glow of +madness. So striking was this man's appearance that, before the +service began, Sidney whispered to Margaret: + +"Who is that man in the pew by the reading-desk?" + +"Rachel's brother," she answered, "the father of the girl that is lost." + +It was the 22d day of the month; and Sidney, whose thoughts were +wandering, suddenly found himself reading, with mechanical exactness, +the terrible curses of the Psalms for the day, which Andrew Goldsmith +was uttering with intense earnestness, as if the sacredness of the +place added force to their vindictiveness. Margaret's head was bent, +and the tears were dropping slowly on her open book; but Sidney +scarcely noticed her emotion. There was an indescribable horror to him +in this sight of the despairing face of Sophy's father; and in the +penetrating distinctness of his deep voice, as he called upon God to +pour down curses upon his enemy. + + + + +CHAPTER XVII. + +ANDREW'S FRIEND. + +The little town soon felt the difference between having the Hall +occupied by its owners and tenanted by persons who had no interest in +the place. Margaret knew most of the families living in Apley, for +there had not been many changes during her absence; and as a child she +had been allowed free intercourse with the respectable householders of +the town. Now she had returned among them, she and the rector had many +schemes for their social as well as religious improvement. Sidney was +liberal, and eager to further any wish of Margaret's. He was even +willing to take a share in her plans, as far as his business gave him +time to do so; and nobody could make himself more genial and popular +than he did. + +The rector's wife, Laura Martin, who had seemed willing to marry George +as a poor curate, had been very well aware that he was one of the two +nephews of the wealthy City man, Sir John Martin, to whom all his +accumulated riches must be left. Her chagrin at his being left in +poverty by his uncle had been extreme; and she was on the point of +breaking off her engagement with George Martin, when Sidney, who felt +the injustice of his uncle's will, settled £10,000 on his cousin. It +was a mere pittance, Laura felt; but it was sufficient to decide her to +marry George. With the living at Apley their yearly income was now +nearly £1200; and as she was a clever woman in household management, +she contrived to make a good appearance, and was generally more +expensively dressed than Margaret. She made, on the whole, a good +country parson's wife, looking well after the affairs of the parish; +especially in Margaret's absence, when she reigned lady paramount. It +was a sore and bitter vexation to her to suffer eclipse when Margaret +was at Apley; but the intercourse between the Hall and the Rectory was +too intimate, and too beneficial for herself and her children, for her +to show any sense of mortification. She always spoke of Margaret as +her dearest friend. + +There were already two children at the Rectory, Sidney and Richard; and +soon after Philip's birth a girl was born, who was called Phyllis by +Laura. Already there was a little scheme in Laura's brain, an organ +scarcely ever used for any other function than scheming. Why should +not this little girl of hers become the wife of Sidney's son and heir? +It was a pleasant pastime to build castles in the air, on the +foundation of this unspoken wish. + +Something of the gloom which was threatening Andrew Goldsmith's reason +was removed by Margaret's return to Apley, and the interest taken in +him and his sorrow by her and the rector. They frequently called upon +him to render some service; and little by little he regained the +position of importance he had once held among the townspeople, though +his influence was now exercised more on religious than political +subjects. He was superior to his neighbors in intellect; and he had +the gift of speech, being able to address them with a somewhat +uncultured eloquence, but in a manner that went home to their hearts +and understandings. His life ran in more healthy currents, and there +were times when Rachel hoped he would overcome the deep depression +which had followed upon Sophy's mysterious disappearance. + +The person to whom of all others Andrew Goldsmith attached himself, in +this partial revival of his old life, was Sidney Martin. Sidney, +unconsciously perhaps, addressed the sorrow-stricken man, who was +bearing the burden of the sin he had been guilty of, in a tone and +manner of the deepest sympathy; as if he knew all his burden, and would +help him to bear it, though he would never speak of it. The sad secret +lay between them, and both were thinking of it in their deepest hearts. +There was a strange, inexplicable subtlety in this silent sympathy. +The moment their eyes met each man saw, as if standing between them, +Sophy's girlish figure and pretty face; and Andrew Goldsmith felt, with +vague and confused instinct, that Sidney looked at his grief and loss +with different eyes from other onlookers. Sidney fathomed his woe with +a deeper and truer plummet than that with which other men could sound +it; and there was a dim sense of satisfaction in the feeling that he, +who had all that earth could give, shared the pain that was gnawing his +own heart. + +It grew into a habit with Andrew Goldsmith to listen for the sound of +Sidney's horse or carriage, and hasten to his shop door in time to lift +his hat to him as he went by, and to catch the subtle gleam of +melancholy comprehension in Sidney's passing salutation. There was +such a link between them as did not exist between any other two souls, +among all the souls they were in contact with; and it was a dark day +with Andrew in which he did not see the recognition of it in Sidney's +face. + +Sidney would unhesitatingly have called himself the happiest man on +earth but for this singular and ominous devotion toward him of the man +he had so deeply injured. His life was all that he had ever hoped for; +Margaret a dearer wife and better companion than he had even dreamed +she might be; his child a sweetness and delight to him beyond all +words. There was no flaw in his prosperity. His sky was clear of all +but one almost invisible speck. At his gates dwelt this man whose mere +existence was a perpetual reminder of his early blunder; for Sidney +would not own it to be a sin. The friendship of this man, he said to +himself, was the bitterest penance that could be inflicted on him. But +for this he could have forgotten Sophy altogether. And why should he +not forget her? He had done her very little wrong; not the wrong +ninety-nine men out of a hundred in his position would have been guilty +of. If he could but escape the sight of this unfortunate father of +hers, his wrong-doing would soon cease to trouble him. + +But Sidney could find no easy way of escape. He might have insisted on +living in or near London; but Margaret was strongly attached to her old +home, and it happened that all his attempts to buy an estate nearer to +London fell through. The estate bought by his uncle was in Yorkshire; +and consequently was too far away for him to dwell upon it; and +Margaret's place answered all their requirements perfectly. It was not +much more than an hour's journey by train from his place of business in +the City; and Margaret's position, as the last descendant of an old +county family, gave them a standing in the county which they could not +have elsewhere. It had always been a part of his ambition for the +future to become a member of the House of Commons, and he was already +recognized as the most eligible candidate of his party for a place as +member for the county at the next general election. A number of minute +threads, gathering in number and vigor as each month passed by, wove +themselves into a rope which it needed the strength of a Samson to +break through. + +It was not possible, on the other hand, to dislodge Andrew Goldsmith; +nor did Sidney seriously think of it. He would not add to the harm he +had already done him the cruel injury of turning him out of his old +home, and sending him adrift among strangers. He was not in any way of +a hard and pitiless nature, and his heart was full of compunction and +kindliness toward Andrew Goldsmith. More than once he debated with +himself whether it would not be wise to confide the whole story to the +rector, and take his counsel as to the question of telling Andrew, or +of still keeping the fate of Sophy a secret. But he could not risk the +chance of Margaret knowing it; and he resolved upon keeping silence and +bearing his penalty as best he could. + +His eldest boy, Philip, was three years of age; and the second son, +Hugh, his mother's heir and the future owner of Apley, was about twelve +months old, when a vacancy in the representation of the county +occurred, which gave to Sidney a fair chance of being elected, though +not without a close contest. The influence on both sides was stretched +to the utmost, and party spirit ran high. It was like the sound of a +trumpet to an old war-horse for Andrew Goldsmith. For the time being +his heavy burden seemed to slip off his shoulders, and he became again, +as in former times, the active and energetic leader of the voters in +the neighborhood. His shop and the pleasant kitchen behind it were +filled from morning to night with groups of his neighbors, eagerly +discussing the question of the coming election. Occasionally Sidney +himself dropped in, with Margaret beside him; and was thus brought into +closer contact than before with her tenants. For Sidney, busy as he +was with a multiplicity of affairs, left the management of the Apley +estate almost wholly in his wife's hands. + +Life was very full to Margaret. She had her husband, her children, and +her tenants to live for, and her desire to serve them was very ardent, +to minister to their lowest as well as to their highest needs. She had +the true Christian instinct of help-giving. There was one incident of +her Lord's life over which her soul brooded, more frequently, perhaps, +than any other. She saw him sitting at the feast with his disciples, +Judas the traitor being one of them, and all of them being on the point +of forsaking him. He, who was King of kings and Lord of lords, who, +being in the form of God, thought it not robbery to be equal with God, +yet took upon himself the form of a servant, and came, not to be +ministered unto, but to minister. She saw this Jesus rise from the +table, and lay aside the white robe he was wearing for the feast, and +pour water into a basin, and stoop to wash his disciples' feet, soiled +with the dust of the street. It was a symbol, but it was also a real +action of her Lord's. What service ought she to shrink from, then, if +Christ washed his disciples' feet? + +Margaret was very much in earnest about her husband's election, and +threw herself with all her heart into the efforts made to secure it. +She believed him to be so good and true a man that it must be for the +welfare of the country for him to sit in Parliament. If he was +returned it would compel them to live more in London; but that was a +sacrifice she could make, and she did not flinch from the sacrifice. +She was in the habit of visiting freely and familiarly among all her +neighbors, the poor as well as the rich; and she had not failed in +winning their esteem and regard. Her canvassing for her husband was +everywhere successful. + +But the chief factor in the election was Andrew Goldsmith, who labored +night and day for Sidney Martin's return. When the poll was declared +Sidney was elected by a small majority only, and everyone said this +majority was due to Andrew Goldsmith's influence in his own district, +where the voters had given their votes as one man. Sidney had reached +the goal of his ambition, or rather he had passed one winning-post to +enter upon a new path; and his heart beat high with exaltation. He was +a young man yet, and he would win such a name as should reflect glory +upon his two boys and lay the foundation of an illustrious family. He +had no long line of ancestry to boast of; his uncle had been a +self-raised man, and he was still almost unknown. But Margaret's +lineage was old enough to compensate for the newness of his own, and +his boys should have such a position in the world as few others had. +Hugh, the youngest, would succeed Margaret, and take the name of +Cleveland; but Philip would be his heir and nothing should be lacking +in his career. He would make his name illustrious for his boy's sake +as well as his own. + +These thoughts were flitting through his brain as he drove homeward +with Margaret and his friends, after the declaration of the poll at the +county town. It was a very bright hour for him. But within a few +miles of Apley they were met by a procession of his wife's tenants +coming out to congratulate him, with Andrew Goldsmith on horseback at +their head. There was something very striking in the appearance of the +vigorous, soldierly, white-headed man, as he came up to the side of the +carriage to act as spokesman for the crowd behind. He sat his horse +well, as a member of the cavalry troop must do; and his deep-set eyes +glowed with pride and affection. His pale, sad face was transfigured +for the time; for this was the happiest moment he had known for years. +Sidney practically owed his election to him; and it was some return, he +thought, for all the kindness he had received from him and Margaret. + +It was a singular and bitter trial to Sidney to stretch out his hand +and clasp the hand of his father-in-law. If this crowd only knew the +relationship that existed between him and the man they had chosen for +their spokesman, their cheers would turn into execrations. He had +never shaken hands with him before; for though he had visited Andrew's +house frequently during the last few weeks, the latter knew his place +too well to push himself forward so as to compel Sidney to such a +friendly greeting. But now, at this juncture, nothing was more natural +than that these two men, forgetting the differences of rank, should +clasp each other's hands in token of a victory won by both. + +It was a strong grip that the saddler gave to his friend Sidney Martin, +and spoke of all the subtle, indefinable sympathy that existed between +them. Margaret's eyes filled with happy tears. So long had she felt +the gloom of this man's deep sorrow that her heart was filled with +gladness to see him escaping from its chain. + +"It's you I have to thank for my election, Goldsmith," said Sidney, +glad to get his hand released from his painful grasp. + +"We've all done our best, sir," he answered, "and we are come to meet +you, and say not one of us has known a prouder day than this; a proud +day and a joyful day it is. And we pray Almighty God, every man among +us, that he will bless you with all the blessings of this life, and +preserve your precious life for many, many years. And that you may +live to be Prime Minister," he added with a tone of humor in his grave +voice. There was a tremendous chorus of "Hurrahs!" and a great deal of +laughter. Prime Minister! Yes; that was what they would all like. On +Andrew Goldsmith's face there came a quiver, as if his features so long +set in sad despair were attempting to smile, and might succeed if many +more such joyous occasions came. + +Sidney answered shortly and pleasantly, and the procession fell behind +the carriages. It was only as they passed along the High Street that +Andrew Goldsmith, looking at his little shop, and seeing its doorway +and windows empty, while every other house was filled with women and +children, remembered too vividly the mystery surrounding the fate of +his own daughter. He dropped behind in the procession as it passed on +to Apley Hall; and when Sidney looked for him in vain, he felt a keen +sense of relief in Andrew's absence. + + + + +CHAPTER XVIII. + +LAURA'S SCHEME. + +The rector and Margaret continued to be fast friends, and the +intercourse between the Hall and the Rectory was of the most intimate +kind. The children of either house scarcely knew which was their home. +The rector was a high-minded, unworldly man, altogether untouched by +ambition or the love of money; there was perhaps a shade of indolence +in his temperament, which made him less likely to feel the spur of +ambition. Margaret and he understood one another better than any +others understood them. Moreover, his genuine admiration, and his +strong affection for her husband, added much to her happiness. For now +and then, with the persistent recurrence of doubt, a misgiving crossed +Margaret's mind that Sidney was not exactly a Christian in the sense +she was. Not that he was in any degree negligent in observing the +outward duties of religion. He was a constant attendant at church +services; and a more regular communicant than she was herself. Day by +day his life appeared to be one of conscientious continuance in +well-doing. He was foremost in all philanthropic and religious +schemes, and worked energetically at them. But now and then, at rare +intervals, a false note jarred upon the harmonious and sensitive chords +of Margaret's inmost soul; and then there was no man's praise of her +husband so precious to her as that of his cousin George, who had been +brought up with him as a brother, and who never doubted that he was one +of the best men living. + +As for Sidney, he was well content with himself and his career; and, as +the years passed by, he was no longer troubled by qualms of conscience. +He was spreading himself like a green bay tree; and his "inward thought +was to found a house that should continue forever, a dwelling-place to +all generations." He was increasing the glory of his house; and men +praised him because he was doing well for himself. He blessed his own +soul, and fell into the mistake that God was blessing him. + +For Sidney almost fully persuaded himself that he was a Christian. He +accepted what he imagined were the doctrines of Christianity. He would +have signed the thirty-nine Articles of the Christian faith as readily +as any candidate for orders. He had no doubts, or rather he had not +time to trouble himself with inconvenient questions, so he believed +that he was a believer. Often when he was listening with deep +attention to some eloquent or touching sermon, he felt a thrill of +emotion, which he mistook for devotion to Christ as his Master. The +sins of his youth had been repented of and cast behind him; and if one +repents is he not forgiven? He gave largely to the cause of religion, +both in time and money. He was in no open way self-indulgent. If he +was not a Christian man, as well as a rich man, who then could be +saved? The camel had gone through the needle's eye. + +The training of his sons he left almost entirely to Margaret; and she +had them brought up as simply and hardily as their first cousins at the +Rectory, boys not born to inherit wealth. No differences were made +between them; no extra indulgences were allowed to her own children +because some day they would be rich men. They had the same tutor and +the same lessons. When Philip was old enough to go to Eton, his +cousins, Sidney and Dick, were sent with him; when Hugh went, the two +younger accompanied him. As they grew up to young manhood they were +sent in the same manner to Oxford. It was no wonder that the rector +believed, what he was always ready to assert, that Sidney was better +than a brother to him. But if the rector was more than content with +his lot, and grateful beyond words for Sidney's generous friendship and +munificent liberality in the education of his four sons, Laura was very +far from feeling the same satisfaction. She had been willing to marry +George for love when he was a poor curate, especially after Sidney had +settled £10,000 upon him; but she could never forget the inequality +existing between her income and position and Margaret's. Both of them +belonged to better families than the Martins; but Margaret was an only +child, and Laura was one of a family of eleven children, with so small +a dowry that the interest of it only found her in dress. She could not +help feeling that she and Margaret were in each other's places; +Margaret would have been perfectly happy as a poor rector's wife, and +she would have been perfectly happy as the owner of Apley Hall and the +wife of a wealthy merchant. She was fond of pre-eminence, but she +always found herself occupying the second place. Margaret's splendid +generosity, and almost lavish expenditure on objects which she +considered worthy of her time and her money, aroused in Laura merely a +spirit of envious criticism. The economical management of household +expenses at the Hall, where Margaret would brook no wasteful customs, +however time-honored, Laura pronounced mean. The bountiful hand, which +gave largely if a gift could be helpful, she called ostentatious. +George Martin's sisters, who paid annual visits to the Rectory, never +failed to fan the smoldering fire of her discontent into a flame. They +always lamented over the small share they and their brother had +received of their uncle's wealth. + +"Every penny was left to Sidney," the rector would say in grieved +remonstrance. + +"Then he ought to have halved it," persisted Laura, "at the very least; +half for himself, and half for you and your sisters. And he only gave +you a paltry £10,000! It makes one quite mad to think of dividing such +a mean sum among our five children. Two thousand apiece! The portion +of a farmer's daughter, or a tradesman's son! Andrew Goldsmith +possesses as much as that. And think of what Philip and Hugh will +inherit." + +"Oh, hush! hush!" answered the rector, "we are rich; as rich as anyone +need be. God knows I am ashamed of having all we have, while so many +of his people have scarcely the necessaries of life. And, my dear +Laura, it seems to me that you have all that Margaret allows herself. +Tell me what indulgence she has that you lack. If she and Sidney have +money, they are not spending it on themselves; they are making it a +blessing to all about them." + +"So should we," replied Laura sulkily. + +But Laura took care to keep on excellent terms with Margaret. Indeed +it would have been difficult for her to quarrel with her. Margaret's +affection for the rector gathered into its wide embrace all belonging +to him; and his children were only a degree less dear to her than her +own. Phyllis was scarcely a degree less dear, as she had no daughter; +and this little girl almost filled the place of one. All of them were +as much at home at the Hall as at the Rectory; and the rector took +hardly less interest in Philip and Hugh than in his own sons. + +Laura's scheme with respect to Phyllis grew deeper and stronger as the +years went on. If she could never be more than Mrs. Martin of the +Rectory, her daughter should be Mrs. Martin of Brackenburn; or if not +that, Mrs. Cleveland of Apley Hall. One of the two brothers she must +marry. But Hugh was nearly two years younger than Phyllis; if possible +she must become the wife of Philip. + +She began very early to mold the children to her wishes. She made much +of Philip, lavishing upon him praises and indulgences which he seldom +received from his mother. She left Phyllis almost constantly at the +Hall, before Philip went to Eton, to share his nursery games and +childish pursuits. Philip was grave and serious; what the townfolk of +Apley called "an old-fashioned child"; but Phyllis was like a little +bird flattering joyously about the quiet nursery, and filling it with +childish chatter. She could rouse Philip to play and laughter out of +his gravest moods; and Margaret was thankful to Laura for sparing the +child to her. + +"Mother!" said Philip, coming one day into Margaret's sitting room, +holding Phyllis by the hand, while both children looked up to her with +large and solemn eyes, "mother, may I marry Phyllis when I grow up to +be a man? Cousin Laura says yes. Will you say yes too?" + +"My boy," answered Margaret gravely, yet almost unable to conceal a +smile, "you cannot understand what marriage means. You are only a +child of seven yet: and marriage is more solemn and more important even +than death is. You know that death is very solemn?" + +"Yes," said the boy, "it is too high for me to understand yet." + +"And marriage is still higher," continued Margaret; "you will +understand something of death first. Some day, when you are years +older, I will talk to you about marriage, but not now. And, Philip, do +not talk foolishly about a thing that is too high for you to +understand." + +"No, mother," he said gravely. + +"Phyllis is not your little sister," she said, "but she will be like a +sister to you for many years to come; and she will always be your +friend, if you are good children." + +It was in keeping with Philip's thoughtful and steadfast nature never +again to speak of Phyllis as his little wife, or to allow anyone about +him to do so. But constantly, by a word dropped now and again, Laura +kept alive in his mind the idea that Phyllis would some day be his +wife. To Phyllis she spoke as if her whole life was to be fitted to +meet Philip's wishes. It was skillfully and subtly done; never being +so definite as to excite opposition in the nature of either of them. +Year after year Phyllis was taught that the one person in the world +whom she was bound to please was her cousin Philip. + +But when Phyllis was fourteen, and Philip, a few months older, was an +Eton schoolboy, Laura thought it wisest to put some little check upon +their intimacy, which was too much like that of brother and sister. +Phyllis was at an age when a country girl is apt to be something of a +hoyden. She rode after the hounds with as much spirit as her brothers; +could play at cricket as well as any of them; and was an adept at +climbing trees. She could shoot and fish fairly well, and tramped +about the country with the boys, never owning to fatigue. But her +mother shrewdly suspected that none of these accomplishments would +retain their charm for Philip, when he entered upon that romantic and +sentimental era of a young man's life during which she hoped to +successfully attach him to Phyllis. If she was to be the accomplished +and cultivated girl likely to attract him then, she must be sent away +for some years. + +So Phyllis was sent away, coming home for her holidays generally when +Philip was absent; only meeting for a few days at Christmas just to +keep them in mind of one another. So well and wisely did Laura manage +that Margaret did not notice that virtually Phyllis was separated both +from her brothers and her cousins. She only felt that the girl, whom +she loved very tenderly, was undergoing a change which was distasteful +to her. + +The night before Phyllis left home for the first time, her mother went +into the little room opening out of her own bedroom, where the girl had +slept ever since she was a child. Laura held the shaded lamp up to see +if she was sleeping, and thought with exultation how pretty the face +was on which the light fell. She put the lamp away into the other +room, and sat down in the dusk by her young daughter. + +"Phyllis," she said, with her hand resting fondly on the girl's head, +"there's one thing I must say to you before you go away to school; but +it must be between you and me, a secret. You must not speak of it to +anybody else; not even to Dick, or your father. You love Philip, my +darling?" + +"Oh, yes, mother!" she answered, "I have always loved him." + +"More than anyone else?" suggested her mother. + +"I think so," she said, "unless, perhaps, it is Dick." + +"Oh! you must love Philip more than Dick," replied her mother; "never +think of loving anybody as much as Philip. By and by, when he is old +enough, he will ask you to be his wife; and then your father and I +would be happier than words can tell." + +"That was settled a long while ago," said Phyllis, "as soon as I was +born, and you called me by a name something like his." + +"But it was to be kept a profound secret," urged her mother, "and +nobody has ever spoken of it since, except me, to you. Of course if +you and Philip did not like it, no one could force you to marry one +another." + +"Nobody could do that in England," said Phyllis, with a wise little +laugh, "but don't you be worried, mother; I do love Philip; and I will +marry him." + +"Then you must do all you can to fit yourself for him," pursued Laura +anxiously; "he will go to Oxford, and when he has been there he will +not want a romp and a tom-boy about him. You must make a lady of +yourself. When you are his wife, you will be very rich, not a simple +country parson's daughter; and by and by you will be Mrs. Martin of +Brackenburn. You must learn how to fill such a position." + +"I must learn to do my duty in that state of life into which it may +please God to call me," said Phyllis, laughing again. "Oh, mother, you +shall see what a fine lady I can make of myself. I will say to myself +every morning, 'Remember you are to be Mrs. Martin of Brackenburn!' and +I will act up to it. I have quite made up my mind to marry Philip." + + + + +CHAPTER XIX. + +THE SON AND HEIR. + +It was four years before Phyllis came to live at home again; and the +transformation was complete. The tom-boy of fourteen, with her excess +of animal spirits, had developed into a bright and dainty girl of +eighteen, with a grace and bloom about her like that of a flower just +opening to the light. Her face was prettier, and her figure more +graceful than even her mother had expected them to be. She could sing +well, with a sweet, clear voice, that suggested the spontaneous +joyousness of a song-bird. She seemed fond of reading; but she was +still fonder of active pursuits. Sidney, who had taken little notice +of her as a child, felt the charm of this bright, companionable young +girl, who made Apley so much more lively when he came down from his +busy London life. Hugh was now at Eton, and Philip was at Oxford with +his cousin Dick. There was nothing to suggest caution or anxiety; and +Phyllis spent more time at the Hall than she did at the Rectory. She +owned frankly that she felt more at home there than in her father's +house; and she fell into the position of a daughter quite naturally. +She was introduced to London society under Margaret's wing; and +received there the finishing touches to her education. + +When Philip came home, he fancied he saw in his cousin Phyllis +precisely the woman he would choose to make his wife. + +She had grown up for him. The idea that this bright, lovely young girl +had been destined for him from her birth, gave to him a feeling of +perfect, undisturbed possession, precluding the necessity of claiming +her, any more than the necessity of claiming his mother. Their lives +were so blended and interwoven that it seemed impossible for them to be +separated. There was no need of speech between them. They knew they +loved one another; and that when the right hour came they would marry +amid the general satisfaction and gladness of all their friends. Until +then they lived for one another in the simplest and purest happiness. +So Philip felt; and Laura was quite content that he should say nothing +about his love, while he was still under age. + +There was no actual concealment, however. Phyllis was seldom alone +with him, for Hugh and her own brothers were constantly with them. +When they wished for quiet converse, they sought it usually in +Margaret's presence. She saw them reading together, singing together, +walking arm in arm about the gardens and park; but then Phyllis read, +and sang, and walked with all of the other young men, when any of them +claimed her companionship. Margaret saw no difference in her manner or +ways; if there was any difference, she was a shade more serious with +Philip than the rest; but then Philip himself was the most thoughtful +of all the youthful band. + +In the training of her sons, Margaret had done her utmost to make them +understand her views of life. Wealth and position, she pointed out to +them, were among the poorest and smallest of the gifts of God; +sometimes, seeing that wicked men can gain them by evil means, not the +gift of God at all. Birth was not a much higher thing, though that, +indeed, must be the gift of God, since they had no choice as to the +circumstances, or the family, into which they were born. Better than +these were the gifts of intellect; and Dick, who had a genius for +mathematics, and Stephen, with an equally strong bent for science, +possessed nobler powers than they did. Any great talent was better +than silver and gold, or rank. Good temper alone was worth more than +all the riches they could possess; and Phyllis's brightness and +sweetness placed her higher than a duke's daughter who did not possess +the same qualities. + +"You will find the richest men among the poorest," she told them. "If +a man is brave, true, unselfish, serviceable to his fellow-men, he is +higher in the sight of God, though he may not own a penny, than the +wealthiest man in the world. God cannot regard gold and land as +riches." + +"You pride yourselves on your birth?" she asked them; "you forget that +you did not choose it--God gave it to you. It is a poor gift in +itself, and perhaps you are the servants to whom the Lord could only +intrust one or two pounds instead of ten. But do not lay it aside, and +hide it in a napkin; use it worthily, and in the next life, or perhaps +in this life, God will give you more and better gifts." + +"The best gifts are those we get directly from God," she taught them, +"and you must ask him for them yourselves--for no man can ask or seek +these blessings for you--no other hand can knock at the gate till it is +opened to you--and, what your spirit asks, the spirit of God gives. +You are nearer to God than to me. You are dearer to his heart than to +mine." + +Sometimes Sidney, sitting by, while Margaret was teaching her boys, +would smile to himself at her want of worldly wisdom. When she told +them the loss of money was the smallest loss they could suffer, and +asked them whether they would rather lose their sight, and never more +see the faces of those they loved; or their hearing, and never again +listen to dear voices and the glad and solemn sounds of music; or lose +their friends by death, her and their father; and the boys would +declare with eagerness that they would a thousand times rather face the +world penniless than be bereft of any of these great gifts--then Sidney +would say to himself how much greater would be the pity of rich men +toward himself if he lost his large fortune, than if he lost sight, or +hearing, or sons, or even this dear wife of his, with her unworldly +spirit, who was in truth more precious to him than all gold and lands! +It was sweet to hear Margaret talk in this way, but she spoke a +language that had no meaning in the City. + +Philip took a fairly good place at Oxford, but Dick far surpassed him. +There had been no emulation between the young men, and Philip felt no +grudge against Dick for his triumph and the distinction he earned. +Dick's success had been very great, and both the Hall and the Rectory +celebrated it with much rejoicing. Sidney, who had borne all the cost +of the education of George's sons, was greatly pleased. But he was not +less pleased that Philip had not distinguished himself in the same way. +There was no need for his son and heir to win high honors at the +university; he did not wish to see him a great mathematician or a fine +classical scholar. That was all very well for Dick and Stephen, and +the other boys, who had to earn their own living by sheer force of +brain. For Philip it was more essential that he should be an all-round +man. + +In this Sidney was satisfied. Philip could do all things customary to +young men of his station and prospects, but he did not specially excel +in any of them. In his father's eyes there was in him a slight touch +of listlessness, the listlessness of certainty. There was a lack of +something to strive for, which had been no characteristic of his own. +Sidney could still recall the strain of anxiety to retain his uncle's +favor, and the sacrifices he had made, and was ready to make, to secure +his vast fortune falling to himself. It could not be the same with his +son. The large estate in Yorkshire, which was entailed upon him, +secured his future, and deprived him at the same time of the stimulus +of uncertainty. It was the same with his younger boy, Hugh. Their +mother had taught them so to value wealth and position that they had no +ambition to increase either, while their ancestors had taken care they +should not be compelled to work for their living. It was a knot in the +silken thread of their lives which Sidney could not untie, and was +equally powerless to cut through. + + + + +CHAPTER XX. + +BRACKENBURN. + +The large estate in Yorkshire to which Philip was heir had been seldom +visited by Sidney. It was much too far from London to be a place of +residence for him while he remained in business, and Margaret's house +at Apley exactly met all their requirements as a country place within a +short distance from town. The Yorkshire estate had been left to an +agent, and the house had been let for a term of twenty-one years soon +after his settling upon Apley as their home. Hitherto, therefore, it +had been little more to them than a source of income. The tenant of +Brackenburn was reported to be an eccentric man, who greatly resented +the occasional visits of the agent, and neither Sidney nor Philip had +cared to intrude upon him. The house was small, and Sir John Martin +had left the sum of £50,000 for building one more suitable for his +heirs. Now that Philip was so nearly of age it became a question of +some importance when and how the new hall should be built. Architects +were consulted and plans drawn up, bringing more forcibly to Philip's +mind that he, too, like Hugh, to whom Apley would come, was heir to a +large property in land. The love of land awoke within him. He threw +himself with ardor into the questions of building and planting. The +tenant's lease would expire shortly after he came of age, and it was +then proposed that Philip should take up his abode in the old Manor +House, and superintend the erection of the new mansion. When thinking +of it, he always thought of Phyllis as being there beside him. + +But some months before Philip's coming of age Sidney received a letter +from a firm of solicitors in York informing him that his tenant, Mr. +Churchill, was dead, and that he was left sole executor of his will, +and the guardian of his only child; "having no friend whom I can trust +in the whole world," was added. Sidney had seen his tenant only a few +times, and nothing had been said to him of the service thus thrust upon +him by Mr. Churchill's will. It was a surprise and an annoyance to +him; but the words, "no friend whom I can trust in the whole world," +appealed to his and to Margaret's sympathy, and, telegraphing that he +was starting immediately, he set out on his northward journey. + +"It is odd," he said to Margaret before leaving her, "that we have no +idea whether the only child is a son or daughter, or what the amount of +property left may be. But in any case we can befriend Mr. Churchill's +only child." + +It was early morning when Sidney reached the little road-side station +nearest to Brackenburn, and a walk of four miles lay between it and the +old Manor House. His temperament was still alive to all the simple +pleasures of a solitary walk like this, at an unwonted hour and in the +very heart of the country. London lay very far away from him. His +love of nature had no touch of age upon it, and as he sauntered along +the lanes, with the joyous caroling of little songbirds all around him, +and the bracing air of the dawn caressing his face, he felt almost like +a boy again. If Margaret had but come with him, his enjoyment would +have been perfect. The fever of city life always running in his veins +cooled down into an unusual calm and tranquillity, and for once he +asked himself if his satisfied ambition was worth the sacrifice he had +made for it. + +The old Manor House of Brackenburn stood at the head of a long dale, +with wide stretches of heather-clad moor rising behind it and lying in +long curves against the distant horizon. It was an old timber house, +the heavy beams black with age, and the interstices, which had once +been kept white with frequent lime-washing, were now weather-stained +and discolored. But the front of the old house was hidden under a +thick mantle of ivy, which had never been touched or trained, and which +grew in long, luxuriant sprays that waved to and fro restlessly in the +breeze. A stone wall, ten feet high, surrounded the house and +concealed the lower story, and Sidney found it difficult to push open +the heavy iron gates, which admitted him to the forecourt. The windows +were still closed with outer wooden shutters, and the only sign of life +was a thin line of smoke rising from one of the great stacks of +chimneys, and floating softly across the blue of the morning sky. +Sidney rang gently, in order not to disturb the household at so early +an hour, and the door was presently opened by an old woman, who +appeared with a candle in her hand, and led him into a darkened room. +He told her briefly who he was. + +"I'll call Dorothy to you," she said as she shut the door upon him. + +There was something about being left in this way to wait for some +unknown person which brought back very vividly to his memory his first +meeting with Margaret. He could see her coming in, and drawing near to +him, with her simple, unconscious grace, and hear her addressing him as +frankly as if she had been a little child. He had loved her with all +his heart from that moment. Was it possible that it was more than +twenty-two years ago? It might have been but yesterday; only she was +dearer to him now, and her love was more necessary and more precious to +him. How foolish he was to waste so much time in business, which might +be spent in companionship with her. Well, as soon as Philip, or Hugh, +was ready to take his place, he would himself relax his pursuit of +wealth and power. + +He was pacing to and fro in the dark room when the door was opened +timidly, and a young, slight girl entered, and stood just within the +doorway, gazing at him. The dim light of the single candle hardly +reached her, and he could only see large dark eyes, looking black in +the wan pallor of her face, which were fastened upon him, partly in +terror, and partly in appeal to him, like the pathetic gaze of some +dumb creature doubtful of the reception it will receive. She seemed +almost to be shrinking away in dread of some unkindness, when he +approached her as she stood trembling just inside the door. + +"I'm Dorothy," she said, looking up at him with pale anxiety. + +"Dorothy Churchill?" he asked. + +"Yes," she answered, nodding, the tears gathering slowly in her eyes. + +"And you have no brothers or sisters?" he said. + +"No," she whispered. + +He took her hand tenderly in his, and led her to a chair, and sat down +beside her, keeping hold of the little brown hand, which trembled in +his clasp. She looked like a forlorn, neglected child. The big tears +rolled one by one down her cheeks; but she did not dare to move or wipe +them away. She seemed as if her spirit was crushed by long and +constant unkindness. Sidney drew her near to him as he would have done +a little child. His heart was troubled for her, and he wished Margaret +could be with him to comfort this lonely and sorrow-stricken girl. + +"You loved your father!" he said, after a pause. + +"Not much," she answered; "he frightened me." + +"Didn't he love you?" he asked. + +"He loved his dogs most of all," said Dorothy, sobbing. "Oh, come +upstairs, please. You are the master now; and oh, I want you to come +to his room. They said I must not give any orders about anything." + +She led the way up the broad old staircase, where the morning sun was +shining in gleams of light through chinks in the shutters, and, pausing +for a moment or two before a door till he was close beside her, she +opened it very cautiously. The room was low and dark, wainscoted with +almost black oak, which reflected no light from the candles that were +burning in honor of the dead. A heavy four-post bedstead held the +corpse of the dead man, laid out in the terrible rigidness of death; +eyes closed, lips locked, head and hands motionless for ever. The head +and face were uncovered, and the weird, indescribable seal of death was +on them. No light would ever reach those closed eyes again, no sound +would ever enter those deafened ears. + +If that had been possible, the uproar that followed Sidney's entrance +into the darkened room would have aroused the dead man. For to each of +the four posts of the great bed was chained a huge mastiff, which, as +he stepped across the threshold, sprang forward as far as the chain +would allow him, as if to attack the intruder, with a wild chorus of +furious howling and baying. + +"Good Heavens!" he exclaimed, starting back in horror, "what is the +meaning of this?" + +"He would have it so," answered Dorothy, as she clung with both hands +to his arm; "he would have them here all the time he was ill, because +he said no one else loved him. And John and Betsy said they must stay +here till you came, because you are the master now. But, oh! they were +howling and wailing all night, and the night before, and it is +dreadful. Oh! be quiet, Juno and Di; he cannot hear you now. Yes, you +loved him, I know. But he is gone, and can never come back to you. +Poor dogs! lie down, lie down. I will be kind to you, and take care of +you; but you must not stay here, now the master is come. Poor dogs, +poor dogs!" + +Her voice fell into tones of pity, and she loosed Sidney's arm, and +ventured up to the mastiff nearest to her, laying her hand gently on +its great rough head and speaking caressing words, until all four +crouched down moaning, as if they understood her. After the furious +barking it seemed as if a sorrowful silence had fallen into the +death-chamber, though the dogs still whined and whimpered, but quietly, +as if they were growing exhausted with their grief. + +"He loved them very much," said Dorothy, looking across to Sidney as he +stood at some distance, afraid of provoking the mastiffs to a fresh +outbreak if he attempted to draw nearer. "Oh, yes! he loved them ever +so much more than he did me. He always said I should live to be a +sorrow and a curse to him; and it was no use wasting his love upon a +girl. I am almost grown up now; but I've never been a sorrow and a +curse to him. And I never would have been, father," she added, turning +and speaking to the corpse, as if it could hear her; "perhaps you know +now that I would always have been a good girl to you." + +"Come away, my poor child," said Sidney, with a feeling of deep pity +and tenderness for the desolate girl, "you belong to me now. Come +away, and these poor dogs shall be taken out of this room. I cannot +come to you, lest they should begin their fierce uproar again." + +She was shivering with excitement when she reached his side; and he put +his arm round her, and almost carried her away from the gloomy room and +terrible assemblage of mourners. The light was stronger outside the +door, and he could see her small, pale face quivering, and her dark +eyes gleaming with terror and grief. He stooped down and kissed the +pale face. + +"Now, Dorothy," he said, "listen to me. I have no daughter, and from +this moment I take you as mine; and my wife will be as a mother to you. +It is a new life you are about to begin; quite different from this old +one. Which is your room, my child? Go, and rest now till afternoon. +And remember that I am master here, and I will take every care of you." + +Though owner of the old house he hardly knew it. It was twenty years +since he had let it to Mr. Churchill, and he had not seen it since. He +filled up his time, while waiting for the solicitor from York, in +wandering through the rambling old rooms. Most of them were low and +dimly lighted, with heavy mullioned windows and wainscoted walls; but +there was a charm about them which no modern mansion can possess. All +of them were poorly and barely furnished with the mere necessaries of +household life. There were no curtains to the windows, and no carpets +on the floors, which looked as if they had been seldom cleaned. His +footsteps echoed loudly through the nearly empty rooms; and he found +nowhere any trace of wealth or refinement, except in the library, which +was well furnished with books. There were only two servants--an +elderly man and his wife. The large garden surrounding the house had +become a wilderness, where the old gravel walks were scarcely to be +traced. + +"The little girl will be poor," Sidney said to himself, "but Margaret +will care the more for her if she has nothing." + +As the morning passed on the solicitor arrived, eager to get through +his business and catch a return train, which would take him back that +evening. He ran rapidly through the will, which left everything in +Sidney's hands. + +"You see you have absolute power," he said; "it is the simplest will in +the world. His only daughter sole heiress, and you sole executor. No +relations, no legacies, no conditions." + +"He must have been an odd man," remarked Sidney. + +"Very odd indeed," he replied, "very odd! Has not spent £200 a year +over and above his rent since he came to this place. No, I'm wrong! +since his wife left him, when their child was about two years of age. +Ran away, you understand, and providentially died a few months +afterward. The girl has grown up quite untaught and uncared for. She +will be eighteen soon, and looks and acts like a child of twelve. A +serious thing that, with her fortune." + +"Fortune!" repeated Sidney. "I judged them to be poor." + +"About a quarter of a million, more or less," said the solicitor; "and +she has never been trusted to spend a sixpence in her life. Poor +Churchill professed to hate her, as being like her mother; but you see +he could not disinherit her. Curious instinct that in human nature to +leave one's possessions to one's own flesh and blood. We seldom find +it contravened." + +"But there is no trace of wealth about the house," suggested Sidney. + +"Churchill sold off all his wife's knickknacks when she ran away," he +replied, "and kept nothing but necessaries. He has lived here with two +servants and a host of dogs. By the way, the dogs are to attend the +funeral as far as the churchyard gates; the rector will not allow them +inside. We fixed the funeral for to-morrow, and I will run over to it; +and then we can arrange any further matters of business." + + + + +CHAPTER XXI. + +SIDNEY'S WARD. + +Sidney passed the rest of the day in seeing a few of his tenants +renting the farms in the immediate neighborhood of Brackenburn Manor, +and hearing from them gossiping reports of the oddities of the late +occupier of the Manor House. By all accounts, the life led by his +young ward had been dreary and lonely indeed. She had not been +suffered to hold any intercourse with her neighbors, even to the extent +of attending the little parish church, which stood in a village about a +mile and a half away. The prevalent idea about her was that she was +not quite in her right mind; that she was at the least an "innocent," +as they called her, and for this reason her father had never sent her +to school or engaged a teacher for her. That she had spent the greater +part of her time in wandering alone about the moor was told to him +again and again as a proof that she differed from ordinary girls. +Sidney went back to the Manor, after strolling about some hours, and +found Dorothy sitting in the wide old porch, evidently awaiting his +return. The evening sun shone full into the porch, and fell upon a +white, wistful little face, which was lifted up shyly to him as he drew +near, with a faint flush of color coming to the pale cheeks. It was a +sad face, yet the face of a child. He took her hand gently into his +own as he sat down on the bench beside her. + +"So you have been sleeping well," he said in his pleasant voice. + +"Yes; they've taken the dogs away from his bed," she answered +gratefully, "and the house was very quiet. His room is the quietest of +all. When he was ill he let me read to him sometimes; the dogs could +not do that, and he seemed to like it. So this afternoon I've read to +him all the burial service." + +"Aloud!" asked Sidney. + +"Yes, aloud," she answered: "it was not wrong, was it?" + +"No, no," he replied, looking down pitifully into her anxious, wistful +eyes. She was a very slight, small creature, he thought, easily hurt, +and very easily neglected, for she would not assert her own claims. +There was a great attraction to him in the simplicity and quaintness of +her ways. + +"I know," she said, fastening her dark eyes earnestly upon him and +speaking with a quivering mouth, "I know that his body is dead, and he +could not hear me with those ears, but I felt as if his spirit was near +me; and when I finished I almost heard his voice saying: 'After all, I +did love you a little, Dorothy.' I wish I could be sure he thought it." + +"I feel sure he loved you," said Sidney, "though he would not show it." + +"I am glad you say that," she answered in a trembling voice. + +They sat in silence for a few minutes; the pleasant country sounds only +falling peacefully on their ears. Then the girl spoke again in slow +and measured tones. + +"I do so wish you would take me away with you," she said. "I would do +everything you like, and work at any kind of work; and I should want +nothing but food and clothes. My clothes do not cost much," she added, +looking down on the coarse merino dress she was wearing. "Betsy buys +my frocks for me, and she says they cost less than her own. If you +could afford to let me live with you I would try not to be an expense +to you." + +"Then you would like to live with me?" asked Sidney with a smile. + +"You are more like a father to me than he was," she replied wistfully. +"Oh, yes! I should love to live with you. I love you." + +"That is well," he said, "because your father has left you to my +care--you and your money." + +"Have I any money?" she inquired. + +"A great deal," he replied; "you will be very rich." + +"Oh!" she cried with a sigh, "I always thought we were poor. And Jesus +Christ says, 'How hardly shall they that have riches enter into the +kingdom of God.'" + +The tone, and the look, and the words were so like Margaret's that they +startled him. This young girl might have been Margaret's daughter. + +"But, perhaps, you want money," she went on, after a pause; "perhaps +you can use it. I only want a little; and I could not use much. Take +it; I do not care for it. It shall all be yours. It is not impossible +to enter the kingdom of God, even if you are rich." + +"I trust not," he answered gravely, "for I, too, am a rich man, and my +wife is a rich woman, yet she is truly in the kingdom of heaven +already. My wife will teach you how to use your riches well." + +"I thought we were very poor," pursued Dorothy. "My father gave me a +shilling once, the day he let Betsy take me to York with her, to see +the Minster. If I am to be a rich woman, I ought to have learned how +to spend money. Will it take me long to learn it?" + +"Very likely not," he replied, smiling at her anxious glance; "it is +easy enough to spend money." + +"If you leave me here," she went on, "I should like to keep the dogs +with me, for his sake, you know. They would miss me so, and I should +miss them; and this place is too lonely to live in without plenty of +fierce dogs. John and Betsy want to get rid of them," she said, +cautiously lowering her voice; "but please let me keep them if I stay +here." + +"But you cannot stay here," he answered. "The day after to-morrow I +must take you away, and you will live in my house, under my wife's +care, until you are of age. You have a great deal to learn, my child." + +"I do not know anything!" she cried clasping her hands. "Do you think +she will like me? I never spoke to a lady in my life; and I am so +ignorant. I can only read, and write, and sew. Only I can work in a +garden and make flowers grow, and take care of dogs, and walk miles and +miles on the moors. I know all the birds, and all the wild creatures +that live there, and they will come to me when I am all alone and I +stand quite still and call to them. After the funeral to-morrow I must +go and bid them good-by. Because, if I ever come back here, I shall be +different. Oh! how different I shall be; and perhaps they will not +know me again." + +She turned her head away, looking out pensively across the moors, where +the sun was setting behind the low curves of the horizon. There was a +quaint grace about this girlish outpouring of her full heart which +touched Sidney deeply, accustomed as he was to nothing less +conventional than Phyllis, with her pretty manners and highly +cultivated accomplishments. He felt sure the girl had never spoken so +freely to anyone before. What would Margaret think of her? But he +smiled as he thought how warmly Margaret would welcome this desolate +young girl who had so quickly won her way to his heart. She was in no +degree imbecile, he told himself as he looked at the low, broad +forehead and the thoughtful eyes, and the firm yet sweet mouth of the +girl who sat so motionless at his side watching the western sky. This +was a fresh, simple, unfettered nature which had grown up alone, with +its own thoughts and feelings, and Margaret was the very person to mold +it into true womanly strength and sweetness. + +They went into the house as soon as the sun was set and the chill air +of the moors swept across the neglected garden. A supper of oatcakes, +brown bread and cheese, with a large jug of buttermilk, had been laid +on a bare table in the large hall; and Dorothy invited him hospitably +to partake of it. It was the meal of a workingman. A fire of peat and +wood was smoldering on the hearth, which, when she stirred it, gave a +fitful blaze, and this, with one candle, was all the light they had +during the evening. But Dorothy made no comment on the frugal meal or +the dim light; it was evidently all she was used to, and she did not +think her guest would find it strange. + +The next morning Sidney and the lawyer alone followed the dead man to +the grave. Dorothy said nothing about going, and Sidney thought it +best that she should be spared the excitement. As they drove somewhat +slowly among the lanes, followed by John and the four mastiffs, the +solicitor gave to Sidney all the necessary information concerning the +property of the deceased, and took his instructions as to the +management of Dorothy's inheritance. He did not return to the Manor +after the funeral, bidding Sidney good-by at the churchyard gate. So, +with no mourners, they laid Dorothy's father in the grave. + +Sidney took care to dine at the village inn, where the fare was better +than at the Manor, and it was late in the afternoon before he returned. +Dorothy had gone out on the moors, and the dogs were yelping and baying +in the stable-yard, making their cries resound far and near, as if they +resented being left behind. John pointed out the path Dorothy had +taken, and he followed it till it became a scarcely perceptible track +among the heather. It was an intense enjoyment to him to be up here in +the bracing air, with miles upon miles of uplands stretching on every +hand as far as he could see, with little lonely tarns lying in the +hollows, and gray rocks, half covered with moss, scattered among the +purple heather. He regretted that he had ever let Brackenburn Manor, +and had not kept it as a summer resort for Margaret and the boys. How +they would have enjoyed its wildness and solitude! but now their +boyhood was over. Still he would bring Margaret here next summer, and +they would have long rambles together, such as they had never had +before. + +He caught sight of Dorothy at last, her slight girlish figure standing +out clearly against the sky, as she stood on a ridge of rising ground. +As his footsteps drew nearer to her, the dried heather crackling under +his tread, there was a flutter of birds all around her, flying away +hither and thither, and he fancied he heard the scuttering of little +wild creatures through the ling and brushwood. He saw her face was +bathed in tears as he came up to her. + +"I have bid them all good-by," she said, "and I think they understand. +And I'm saying good-by to the moors all the time in my heart. It can +never be the same again; for they die soon--the poor little birds and +the wild things--and their young ones will not know me if I go away; +and they'll be afraid of me and fancy I mean to hurt them or catch +them. I'm very glad to go and live with you anywhere, but I love the +moors and the sky, and the living creatures; and I cannot go away from +them without crying." + +"But we shall come again," he said; "the Manor is mine; and we are +coming next winter to fix on a site for building a new house for my son +Philip. You shall help to choose it, Dorothy. Who could choose it +better?" + +As he spoke the thought flashed across his brain, why should not Philip +marry this charming girl with her large fortune? After three years' +companionship with Margaret she would be all he could wish in his +future daughter-in-law. She had won his heart already, and she would +make his and Margaret's old age as happy as their middle life had been. +Nothing could be better than that Dorothy should marry Philip and live +here, in the birthplace she loved so much, for the best part of every +year. + +"Who is Philip!" asked Dorothy. + +"One of my boys," he answered. "I have two of them, Philip and Hugh." + +"I never spoke to any boys," she said in a troubled tone. + +"It is time you did," he replied, laughing heartily. "What sort of a +world have you lived in? Philip is heir to this estate and will live +for a time in the Manor. Here are my boys' photographs for you to see, +and my wife's, too." + +He put into her hands a morocco case containing the three portraits, +and Dorothy scrutinized them with intent eagerness. But she had never +seen photographs, and their want of color disappointed her. She gave +them back to Sidney with a faint smile. + +"I shall not like any of them as much as you," she said. + + + + +CHAPTER XXII. + +DOROTHY'S NEW HOME. + +But even with Sidney as her companion and protector the long journey +south was a great trial to Dorothy, who had only once before left her +native place. She was very pale and nervous; he could see her little +hands trembling when they did not lie clasped tightly together on her +lap. The tears gathered under her drooping eyelids, and now and then +rolled slowly down her cheeks. The change in her life had been too +sudden and too great. Only a week ago she had been still a forlorn and +neglected child, of whom no one took any thought. She had believed +herself to be the daughter of a very poor man, who could afford her no +advantages of education and training. Now she was told that she was +heiress to a great fortune; and already the luxuries of wealth were +beginning to surround her. She was traveling by an express train in a +first-class carriage; and Sidney had bought a heap of newspapers and +books to beguile the hours of her journey. She did not open one of +them; her brain was too busy for her to read. Her heart, too, was +beating with fear that had something akin to pleasure in it. + +What would Mrs. Martin be like? She had never seen any man like +Sidney; but she loved him, and felt grateful to him. She watched him +shyly from under her long eyelashes, and thought how handsome and +distinguished he looked; very different from her father, whose hair had +been white and his face gray and morose as long as she could remember +him. She admired her guardian with an intense admiration that would +have amused him greatly had he known of it. But she was afraid of Mrs. +Martin, and still more afraid of the boys of whom Sidney had spoken. + +The well kept park, with its fine avenue of elm trees, lying round +Apley Hall, was very different from the neglected wilderness of a +garden surrounding the old Manor House; and the long front of the Hall +itself, with its stone walls and mullioned windows, and the broad +terrace of velvet-like lawn stretching before it, was very imposing to +her eyes, and filled her with a strong feeling of dismay. She was not +fit to live in such a place as this, and with such people as inhabited +it. A crimson flush rose painfully to her pale face; the tears +gathered again in her eyes as Sidney almost lifted her out of the +carriage, for her dimmed eyes caught a vision of a beautiful woman +coming down the steps to meet them, with an eager and graceful +movement, as if she was hastening to welcome her. Dorothy, like a +child, flung her arms round Margaret's neck, and hid her face on her +shoulder, as she burst into a passion of tears. + +"My poor girl! my poor little girl!" reiterated Margaret, pressing +Dorothy closer to her, "you will be at home here very soon. We are +going to make you fond of us, Dorothy." + +"Oh!" she said, "I did not mean to be so foolish." + +Margaret herself led her to her room, the one which Phyllis had always +occupied when she stayed all night at the Hall. It was near to +Margaret's own room; and she wished to have Dorothy near to her. +Dorothy had never seen such a room before. There was a small white bed +in one corner, hidden by an Indian screen; but in all other respects it +was fitted up as a young lady's sitting room. The window sills were +low and broad, and cushioned as seats; and as soon as Margaret left her +she sat down on one of them, and gazed half frightened about her. +There were books, and pictures, and flowers everywhere. A small +cottage piano stood against the wall, and a writing table was placed in +a good light, as if the occupant of the room was supposed to spend a +good portion of her time in writing. How different it all was from the +bare, uncarpeted, uncurtained chamber, in a lonely corner of the old +Manor, where she had slept last night, and all the nights of all the +years she could remember! She felt almost too shy to walk about this +dainty nest and examine its numerous decorations. Most of the pictures +were engravings of famous originals; and presently she realized that +they were chiefly sacred subjects in which the central figure was that +of our Lord. Three of them were photographs of bas-reliefs, +representing his triumphal entrance into Jerusalem, the way to the +Cross, and the procession of sad men and women carrying his dead body +to the sepulcher. The predominant impression made upon her by the +pleasant room was that produced by these representations of the life of +the Saviour. The place seemed like a sacred vestibule to another world. + +The sound of voices on the terrace below arrested her attention, and +she peeped stealthily through one corner of the window. The light of +the setting sun lay low upon it, casting long shadows across the close, +smooth turf from some figures pacing to and fro under her windows. +There was Margaret; and leaning on her arm was Phyllis, in some wonder +of a white gown, with soft spots of color here and there, which to +Dorothy's eyes looked the prettiest and daintiest of dresses. She was +talking to Margaret playfully and lovingly, but glancing back now and +then to smile upon Sidney, who was following them, and by whose side +walked a young man as tall, as handsome, and as distinguished looking +as himself. This, then, was one of his boys! Dorothy caught her +breath, in a sob of mingled terror and admiration. + +She stole away into a little dressing room, and looked long at herself, +with grave concern and disapprobation, in the mirror, which gave to +her, for the first time in her life, a full-length reflection of her +face and figure. Her dress was clumsily made, and her dark hair was +drawn tightly back from her face, and fastened up into a prim knot at +the back of her head. She was smaller and shorter than the beautiful +girl she had just seen. There was neither grace nor charm about her, +she felt vaguely. Nothing in her former life had fitted her for the +one she was just entering. It would have been better for her to have +remained at Brackenburn. + +She went back to the sitting room disturbed and unhappy; but a soothing +and comforting presence seemed to be there. The terrace was deserted +now; and only the long shadows of the trees fell across its soft sward. +The low evening light gave a tranquil brightness to her room, which was +neither hot nor garish; and in it she seemed to see more distinctly the +many pictures, which more or less clearly told the story of the life of +Christ. + +"Oh, I must be good!" she said in a half whisper. "I will try to be +good." + +She heard a low knock at her door, and Margaret looked in, dressed for +dinner. + +"My dear," she said, "I thought you would be too tired to dine with us +to-day, so you shall have dinner here alone, and Phyllis and I will +come and take tea with you by and by. Will you like that, Dorothy?" + +"Oh! I could not go down to-night," she answered eagerly. + +"And my husband says he will come to see you," continued Margaret; "he +looks upon you as his special charge. By and by you will be quite at +home among us." + + + + +CHAPTER XXIII. + +A WIFE FOR PHILIP. + +Laura had heard with dismay that Sidney was bringing a rich young ward +to live at Apley. But when Phyllis brought a report of Dorothy, after +taking tea with her and Margaret alone, accurately describing her +appearance and mimicking her manner, Laura's mind was set very much at +ease. A timid and awkward country girl was not likely to supplant +Phyllis with Philip or his parents. Both Sidney and Margaret took +great pleasure in Phyllis's attractiveness; and Laura had made them +feel that it was in a great measure due to her constant intercourse +with themselves. She only hoped that Dorothy would not be too homely +and unpolished to reconcile one of her own boys to marry her for her +fortune. A girl with a quarter of a million as her portion set close +to her own doors, almost in her own hands, excited Laura's imagination. +How admirably she would do for Dick! But it would not do to let Dick +know that he must woo her for her quarter of a million. This would be +a far more difficult affair than Philip and Phyllis had been, and would +require her most adroit management. George on her side, and Margaret +on the other side, would not give Dorothy's fortune a thought; it would +not appear any advantage to either of them to secure possession of this +large sum of money. But Laura was shrewd enough to know that Sidney +would be anxious to retain it in his own hands, and no way could be +surer than making the heiress the wife of one of his sons. Hugh would +not be too young; he was the same age as Dorothy, and she was as young +and ignorant as a girl of twelve. + +But it seemed impossible to get hold of Dorothy. She was shy, silent, +and diffident, and clung, as Laura thought, very foolishly to Margaret. +There was a speedy and startling transformation in her appearance as +soon as Margaret could procure suitable dresses for her, and have her +abundant, soft, dark hair arranged becomingly. Margaret saw no +religion in slovenly or peculiar dress; and she took pleasure in seeing +everything and every person appear at their best. Dorothy hardly +recognized herself in a week's time; and the change in her own +appearance fitting her for her surroundings made her feel more quickly +at home; but she was very shy with Phyllis and her mother. Neither of +them could become intimate with the quiet, retiring girl. Dorothy, +like most girls, was more afraid of Phyllis than of anyone else; the +very grace of her manner, conventional rather than natural, made her +shrink within herself, and feel awkward and homely. + +But there was no such feeling in Margaret's benign presence. The +neglected girl's nature opened and unfolded under her influence like a +flower in the sunlight. There was a strong sympathy between them on +religious points. Dorothy had had no training except that of a +constant and simple study of the Bible. Her father had allowed her but +few books out of his large library, but those he had given to her she +knew almost by heart. She was studying diligently now under Margaret's +direction, with the aid of teachers who came down from London to give +her lessons. This education of Dorothy had an intense charm for +Margaret; there had been nothing like it in Phyllis's training, which +had naturally been left in her mother's hands. It was a never flagging +delight to watch the girl growing day by day more intelligent and more +beautiful in her presence; blossoming out into smiles, and caresses, +and half timid merriment. It sent a thrill of pathetic pleasure to +Margaret's heart when she heard Dorothy's first laugh. + +"How much you think of Dorothy!" said Sidney to her one evening some +months later, as they sat together on the terrace with Philip beside +them. + +"I cannot tell you how dear she is to me," answered Margaret. + +"But not more than Phyllis--not as much as Phyllis?" said Philip +jealously. + +"Not more or less," she replied, "but differently. Dorothy is more +like my own child. Phyllis has her father and mother; Dorothy has no +one nearer to her than me. She has never been cared for before, and +she returns my care with the simplest love." + +"But Phyllis loves you as much as this child can do," persisted Philip. + +"Not much more a child than Phyllis," said his father; "she is not two +years younger." + +"But she is only a schoolgirl," put in Philip, "a mere child compared +with Phyllis. Still if she is in love with you and my mother I can +overlook all her defects." + +"Phyllis is not in love with me," replied Margaret, laughing, "and I +admit that makes a difference. We are blind to the faults of those who +are in love with us. 'It is not granted to man to love and to be +wise,' I suppose. But don't be afraid, my dear boy. I shall not love +Phyllis less because I love Dorothy. We do not carve our hearts into +slices, and give piece after piece away till there is nothing left. +Rather every true love makes all our other love deeper." + +"That is true, Margaret," said Sidney. "I have loved God and man more +and better since I loved you." + +He spoke earnestly, and in the agitated tone of deep feeling. Life was +very full to him just then; and he felt day by day that he was greatly +favored by the God he worshiped. His heart expanded with a vivid glow +of religious gratitude. What more was there that he could desire? His +lot was prosperous and happy beyond that of any man's he knew. Sidney +was apt to look at himself through other men's eyes. If he looked at +himself as a rich man it was through the eyes of City men, who spoke to +one another of him as one of the most successful men in the City. As a +religious man he looked at himself through the eyes of Margaret and the +rector, who seemed satisfied that he was truly a Christian like +themselves. It would, then, have been a crying ingratitude if he had +not loved God, who was crowning him with blessings, and man, whose +general lot was less prosperous than his own. There was only one more +success to desire and to achieve, and that Margaret was unconsciously +doing her utmost to attain for him. He must secure Dorothy and her +large fortune for Philip. + +"Philip," he said, "I see Dorothy yonder under the cedars. Go and tell +her I am come home, and have brought something for her." + +Sidney watched her and Philip with pleased eyes as they returned side +by side along the terrace. She was still a slight, childish-looking +girl; but there was no affectation of childish graces in her. She +looked up into Philip's face with a shy, half smiling admiration, which +had a peculiar attractiveness in it. Philip was conscious of this for +the first time, and saw a new beauty, or rather a promise of beauty, in +the dark eyes and the quaint, smiling face lifted up to him. Her eyes +had a depth in them he had not observed before; and even the nervous +interlacing of her fingers, as she ventured to talk to him, did not +seem so awkward a trick as it did when he first saw her. Phyllis had +never been shy with him; and the shyness of a pretty girl has a +wonderful charm. Not that he could compare her with Phyllis for a +moment. He was carrying the book she had been reading under the +cedars, and looking into it he saw that it was the "Pensées de Pascal" +done into English. + +"Do you like this book?" he asked in some surprise. + +"Very much," she answered. + +"But do you understand it?" he asked again. + +"Not all," she said; "you see, I cannot read it in French. But when I +don't understand I ask Mrs. Martin. She lets me read with her two +hours every day," she added, with a light in her eyes, and a tone of +gladness in her low voice. + +He wished it had been Phyllis who had read with his mother two hours a +day. But Phyllis was too much of a butterfly to apply herself to +anything for two hours at a time; and solid reading like this would be +impossible to her. He was afraid that his father and mother both +preferred Dorothy to his destined wife; and a disquieting shadow +crossed his hitherto cloudless future as he saw the pleasure with which +Sidney watched their approach. + +Philip felt that there was a sort of disloyalty in thus thinking of +Phyllis in comparison with any other girl; and as soon as he had found +a chair for Dorothy, he strolled away, hastening his steps when he was +out of sight of the terrace as he crossed the park to the Rectory +grounds. There had been a clerical meeting at the Rectory, which had +kept Phyllis at home with her mother. But now he caught sight of her +standing on the other side of a sunk fence, which separated the garden +from the park; and it seemed to Philip as if she felt she was being +supplanted in the house which had always been a second home to her. He +leaped lightly across the barrier and hastened to her side. As she +looked up to him tears were glittering in her eyes. + +"What is it, Phyllis?" he asked tenderly. + +"You have not been to see me all day," she said in her most plaintive +tones, "and it makes me sad. How could I ever bear to lose you, +Philip! You and I have been more to one another than any of the +others; haven't we? I was thinking just then how we used to play +together when we were quite little creatures. Do you remember?" + +"I never forget it, Phyllis," he answered; "you have belonged to me as +long as I can recollect. How can you imagine you could ever lose me?" + +"I am afraid of it sometimes," she whispered, with a sob that pierced +him to the heart. + +"My darling!" he cried, "that could never be! never! You used to be my +little wife when we were children, and you will be my real wife as soon +as I am old enough to marry. I suppose we are very young yet, my +Phyllis; too young. We must wait at least till I come of age----" + +"But I'm afraid of Dorothy," she said, with another sob. "My mother +says your father is making up his mind you shall marry her, and your +mother is just wrapped up in her. She cares very little for me now, +and Dorothy is all the world to her." + +"No, no!" he exclaimed, "my mother is not changeable; she loves you as +much as ever. Of course Dorothy takes up a good deal of her time, for +the poor child has been taught nothing. You cannot be jealous of her, +Phyllis. Only think of all you are, and all you know, and compare +yourself with a little untrained, awkward girl like Dorothy. Why, +there is not a maid in our house who has not been taught more." + +"But how fond your father is of her!" said Phyllis. + +"And how fond she is of him!" replied Philip, laughing; "she has +neither eyes nor ears for anyone else when he is by, except my mother. +And she drinks in all he says upon every topic as if she understood it. +I suppose she does in some measure, for she has some brains in that +little head of hers. But no man could resist such sweet flattery; and +I believe he loves her next to my mother." + +"More than you boys?" suggested Phyllis. + +"Neither more nor less," said Philip, quoting his mother's words, "but +differently. Of course his love for a girl like Dorothy must differ +from his love for young men like Hugh and me." + +"But more than me?" she persisted. + +"Perhaps," he admitted reluctantly, "perhaps. But what then? I have +only to say I love you, and it will be all right. No, no. He would +make no objection; he could not, when I say I have always regarded you +as my future wife. Besides, it will be years before Dorothy will think +of falling in love. She will grow up for Hugh, perhaps." + +"She is not so much younger than me," said Phyllis in a petulant voice. + +"Years younger; a child, a baby!" he went on; "not to be compared with +you for a moment. But why do we talk of her? You cannot think that +Dorothy could ever take your place with me, Phyllis? I cannot remember +a time when you were not dearer to me than anyone else--except my +mother." + +"I cannot bear any exceptions," she said, pouting. + +But Philip kept silence. Yes; Phyllis was all he could wish for, and +would be a charming wife, with her little capricious ways, and in spite +of slight uncertainties of temper. She always stirred within him a +sense of life, sometimes of ruffled life, perhaps; but there was no +stagnation of feeling in her companionship. But would she ever +possess, and, by possessing, diffuse, the sense of great peace which +his mother's presence gave to him? He knew there were times when if he +could not go to her, and open his heart fully to her wise and tender +scrutiny, his life would be crippled and incomplete, and he would be as +a man who had lost his eyesight, or the use of his right hand. But it +was not so with Phyllis. She could walk merrily beside him along +smooth and sunny roads; but when the thorny path came, what would she +do? + + + + +CHAPTER XXIV. + +THE RECTOR'S TROUBLE. + +It was quite true that Sidney loved Dorothy next to Margaret. From the +first she had been more at ease with him than with anyone else. He had +liked to have Phyllis about the house, with her pretty girlish ways, +and ready to sparkle with delight if he brought some dress or trinket +for her from town. But Phyllis had a father of her own; and her +daughter-like smiles and kisses belonged of right to George, not to +himself. There was no other man to whom Dorothy owed any demonstration +of girlish tenderness and devotion, or who could have felt he was +yielding an indulgence, when she watched for his return home, and ran +to meet him, greeting him with the frank and innocent delight of a +little daughter. Often she was waiting for him at the lodge, with two +or three of her great mastiffs about her; and he would leave the +carriage to walk up the avenue, listening to her bright and quaint +chatter. For she was talkative to him, however silent she might be to +Philip. She was growing prettier every day; Sidney found her as pretty +as Phyllis herself, and far more natural. He declared to himself that +she was as like Margaret when she was a girl as if she had been +Margaret's own child. Only one drop was lacking to make his cup of +happiness full, and that was to see Dorothy the wife of his eldest son. +This keen desire made him more clear-sighted with regard to Phyllis. +He could not imagine how he could have been so blind hitherto to the +danger of letting so close an intimacy exist between her and Philip. +When Phyllis was not at the Hall, Philip was sure to be at the Rectory. +Dorothy's shyness with him made Phyllis more his companion. As Sidney +began to notice them more closely, he detected an air of appropriation +in Phyllis's manner toward Philip which disturbed him greatly. How +long had this been going on? It was useless to call Margaret's +attention to the matter, as she would look upon it from quite a +different point of view from his own. But his son and heir must make a +better match than with a poor clergyman's daughter. He must put a stop +at once to any such love affair, if it existed. + +There was no difficulty in taking a first step in pursuit of this +object. The rector was accustomed to dine regularly at the Hall on a +Monday night, which he looked upon as his leisure time. George greatly +enjoyed these occasions, especially when Sidney and he were alone. +They had been brought up by their uncle almost as brothers, and the old +boyish love still lived in his heart. He had never seen any reason to +dethrone Sidney from the first place he held in his esteem. George was +one of the few fortunate mortals who had possessed an ideal all his +life, and at fifty could still place faith in it. Sidney and his +career had been a ceaseless pleasure and pride to him. + +"George," said Sidney one Monday evening, as they lingered alone +together in the comfortable dining room, "my boy Philip will be of age +now in a few weeks." + +"My boy Dick was of age a few weeks ago," replied George, with a smile. + +"Ah, yes!" went on Sidney, "and a very fine fellow he is. He will +distinguish himself in the world more than Philip will do. Your boys +have genius, and will make their mark. It would be hardly fair if +Philip had every advantage." + +"Philip has riches," rejoined the rector, "but Margaret and I agree +that money is not one of God's great gifts." + +"But he has other gifts besides money," said Sidney. + +"Many, many!" replied George warmly; "he has a noble, unselfish nature +like Margaret's, and a steadfast, faithful heart. He is less worldly +than my boys. I do not think he could make for himself a brilliant +place in this world, any more than I could. But he would stand high in +the kingdom of heaven, as his mother's son should do." + +Sidney made no immediate answer. George had spoken the truth, but it +was an unpalatable truth. Philip was all he could desire in a son, +except that he had no ambition, and was absolutely contented with his +position and prospects in the world. + +"I hope," he said after a pause, "that Philip will make my little +Dorothy my real daughter. He is young yet; too young to know his own +mind. But under Margaret's training Dorothy is growing all I should +wish in Philip's wife. And when I think of how happy my life has been +made by Margaret I cannot help coveting the same happiness for my boy. +You spoke of God's gifts, George. If God will give Philip a wife like +Margaret it would be his best gift." + +George leaned back in his chair, staring intently into the fire, with +an expression of perplexity and trouble on his usually placid face. +How it was he did not know, and now he was trying to find out; but +there was a vague impression on his mind that long, long ago it had +been an understood thing that Philip was to marry Phyllis. True, he +could not recall any conversation on the subject; the children were too +young. But it seemed to him that he had always been led to expect it. +But who had so led him? Certainly not Sidney, for he clearly knew +nothing of it, and had no idea of such a thing. Was it possible he had +been mistaken? Could he have been merely dreaming a pleasant dream +that his dear child's future welfare was secure? For nothing could +have given him greater happiness than intrusting her to the care of a +man he knew so well as Philip, who was in fact like one of his own +sons. Phyllis had her faults, but they were trifles, said the +indulgent father to himself; and she cared more for worldly advantages +and worldly show than she ought; but Philip's unworldliness would check +all that. He found this hope so firmly rooted in his heart that he +could not believe it was only a dream of his own. + +"Yes, Philip must marry Dorothy," pursued Sidney, in a tone of friendly +confidence, "but it will be soon enough in four or five years' time. +Then she will be all he can wish for. If I am not mistaken, Dorothy is +not indifferent to him. I can see no brighter future for them both +than to be man and wife. They are very equally matched in money." + +"But if Philip loved someone else?" began the rector gently. + +"He does not, he cannot," interrupted Sidney; "surely his mother and I +would be the first to know it. He has no intimacy with any girl except +Phyllis; and that is the intimacy of brother and sister. They love +each other as brother and sister; nothing more." + +"Phyllis thinks more of Philip than she does of her brothers," said the +rector, with a sigh. If it was painful to him to be suddenly awakened +from a dream, there was possibly the same pain in store for his little +daughter also. + +"Oh, it is nothing but a girl's fancy," answered Sidney lightly, "even +if it is so. She has seen no other young men; and we must get her out +more, away from this too quiet spot. Laura can easily manage that. +She and Philip are quite too young to have set their hearts upon one +another; so do not trouble yourself. And George, old friend, though I +love your girl for her own sake as well as for yours, I could never +receive her as Philip's wife." + +"I don't say that Phyllis loves your son," said the rector, "or that he +loves her. It is enough for me to know that it would displease you to +set me on my guard lest such a misfortune should occur. I will set +Laura on her guard too." + +"No, no! much better not," replied Sidney, with one of the genial +smiles which had never failed to win George's cordial assent to what he +said; "we are two old simpletons to be so near quarreling about +nothing. I simply confide to you my hopes for Philip as I always talk +to you of my plans. They are all children yet; and will make up their +minds and change them a dozen times in the next few years. Let us keep +our gossip to ourselves. I do not tell Margaret. Why should you tease +Laura?" + +But the rector went home that night with an anxious and a troubled +spirit. The more he considered it the more certain he felt that Philip +and Phyllis believed that they were destined for one another. Laura +always spoke, vaguely indeed, but with reiterated persistence, of the +two together, as if there was no question of them ever being separated. +The boys, too, seemed to think of nothing else; and Phyllis was always +left to Philip as his special companion, when he came daily to the +Rectory. There were small jests and hints, nods and shrugs, all +meaning the same things, among the boys, when Philip made his +appearance. He had himself never doubted their love for one another. +But how this state of affairs had come about he did not know; it had +grown up so slowly and surely. It was an inexpressible shock to him to +discover that Sidney and Margaret knew nothing of it. Was it not +dishonorable toward these, his dearest and oldest friends, to have thus +allowed so close an intimacy to exist between his daughter and their +son? Had he taken advantage of their noble, generous friendship, which +had embraced his children almost as if they were their own? How deeply +he was in their debt for all that made life tranquil and free from +cares! And he was going to repay them by basely entrapping their +eldest son and Sidney's heir into a marriage with his portionless +daughter! + +The rector was very miserable, and there was no one to whom he could +confide his misery. Instinctively he shrank from confessing it to his +wife; and of course he could not tell Margaret. It was a high delight +to him to speak with Margaret of those spiritual experiences, which she +seemed to comprehend almost without words, but which Laura altogether +failed to understand. Of this painful and perplexing anxiety he could +not speak. Once or twice he tried to approach the subject, hoping that +Margaret might utter some word indicating that she, too, was aware of +the attachment between Philip and Phyllis. But Margaret gave no sign +that she had ever dreamed of such a thing. Though the idea of it +seemed natural and familiar at the Rectory, it was quite unthought of +at the Hall. + +But one plain duty lay before him--to separate his little Phyllis from +Philip as much as possible. He faintly hoped that he was mistaken, and +that she had not already given her heart to him. + + + + +CHAPTER XXV. + +COMING OF AGE. + +There was great consternation in the tranquil Rectory, when the rector +declared with unwonted decision that neither he, nor his wife, nor +Phyllis would go north to the coming of age festivities of Philip. +These revels had been talked of for years; and since Dorothy had come +from Brackenburn she had been called upon to describe again and again +the old Manor House and its surroundings. Philip and Phyllis looked +forward to choosing the site of the new mansion together. + +"You boys may go," said the rector; "you have been brought up as +brothers with Philip, and if he wishes it, it is only due to him and +his father that you should attend them. But no one else goes." + +"What!" cried Dick in blunt astonishment; "not the future Mrs. Martin?" + +"What do you mean?" asked the rector sternly. + +"Why, Phyllis, of course!" he answered; and Phyllis laughed merrily, +and blushed a little, but did not show any resentment. + +"I will have no such jests made here," said the rector with increased +sternness. "Philip and Phyllis are not children any longer." + +"Children? no!" cried Dick; "and it is no jest either, father. They've +always been promised to one another. Of course they are engaged." + +"Secretly?" said the rector, unable to utter another word. + +"Oh, it's an open secret," pursued Dick. "You ask Philip. Ask uncle +or aunt Martin. Ask Dorothy. Ask Andrew Goldsmith. Everybody would +say they knew it, except you, dear old father." + +"No, your uncle and aunt do not know," he replied in a tone of deep +depression and sadness. It seemed an unpardonable treachery that these +two should have entered into an engagement without asking the consent +of their parents. This base blow had been struck at Sidney in his +home, and by those that were dear to him. "A man's foes shall be they +of his own household," he said bitterly to himself, as he sat alone in +his study, after leaving all the members of his family in a state of +dismay and amazement. Philip came to him by and by, having been +summoned by Phyllis, and declared that he had never thought of keeping +his love a secret; that he was only waiting till he was of age to speak +openly of it to his father and mother; and that he did not for a moment +anticipate anything like disapproval from either of them. The rector +was too unhappy to take courage or comfort. But he could not be shaken +in his resolution that Phyllis should not join the party going north. + +Philip's coming of age was to be celebrated merely by a gathering of +the tenants at Brackenburn Manor, a festivity which could not have +taken place at all but for the death of Mr. Churchill, an event which +had left the old house at Sidney's disposal. They were strangers on +their own estate, and had, therefore, no friendly neighbors to gather +about them. Now that the rector so firmly refused all invitations, +except for his sons, there was a small party only going northward. +Oddly enough, Sidney invited Andrew Goldsmith to accompany them. It +was a sudden impulse and freak for which he could not account to +himself. Rachel Goldsmith was accompanying Margaret, as she still held +the nominal post of her maid, and it did not seem altogether out of +place to ask her brother Andrew. + +"It'll be a rare treat to me," said the old saddler, "for I've loved +Mr. Philip, as if he'd been my own flesh and blood, ever since my lady +brought him to my house as a little babe. Ah! if he'd been Sophy's boy +I couldn't have loved him more." + +It was years since Sidney had heard Sophy's name; for, naturally, as +time went on, the memory of her, and of her strange disappearance and +silence, had withdrawn into the background of life, and only two or +three hearts, that had been stricken sorely by her loss, kept her in +remembrance. They had no hope now of finding her; but no day passed in +which her father and Rachel did not think of her, and still wonder, +with sad bewilderment, what could have become of her. + +It was early in December: the few leaves left in the topmost branches +of the trees were brown and sere. The wide moors rising behind +Brackenburn were brown too, but there were purple and gray tints on +them--dun, soft tints that looked very beautiful under the low sky and +slowly drifting clouds. To Dorothy it was an unmingled pleasure to +revisit, in this manner, her birthplace, and to see its empty rooms +peopled by all those she had learned to love. The old familiar house, +with its latticed windows shining through the luxuriant tendrils of +ivy, which Sidney had left untrained, was quite unchanged; but when she +entered through the broad porch into the large old hall, she uttered a +cry of delight. It was a transformed and brilliant place; not the +bare, barnlike entrance she remembered. Soft skins and rugs lay on the +oak floor, and a large fire burned in the wide old chimney, which had +always looked to her, when a child, like the mouth of a black cavern. +On each side of the broad and shallow staircase there stood flowering +plants on every step. The place was the same; yet, oh, how different! +A rich color came into her face, and her dark eyes glowed with happy +excitement. Margaret was tired, and Dorothy, feeling almost like +mistress and hostess in her old home, conducted her to her room, where +Rachel was awaiting her lady's arrival. + +Margaret was not in her usual health and spirits. There was always +mingled with her joy in Philip's birth, the memory of her father's +death the day afterward, and the solemn recollection of her own strange +experience of dying, as if she had actually passed out of this world, +and been sent back to it. Life had never been to her, since that +memorable time, the commonplace existence of her mere physical or +intellectual being. She had lived more by the soul than by the mind or +the body. These lower forms of life had possessed their fullness for +her. She had enjoyed the perfect health of her physical nature, with +all the rich pleasures coming through the senses, and she had in a +greater measure taken delight in intellectual pursuits. But, +pre-eminently, she had lived in the spirit, and just now her spirit was +overshadowed. There was a conflict coming near from which it shrank. + +She was troubled about Phyllis. The girl was dear to her from old +associations and the intimacy of a lifetime; but she could not think of +her as Philip's wife. No word had been spoken to her yet about this +subject; but it had been in the air for the last fortnight, and she +could not be unconscious of it. She had guessed the reason of the +rector's firm resolution of not coming to Brackenburn, and not letting +Laura and Phyllis come. Sidney had not spoken of it; but she thought +he was troubled. But the most disquieting symptom of a coming storm +was that Philip kept silence, even to her. He never mentioned Phyllis; +but he was absent and low-spirited. This was the first sorrow, the +first shadow of a cloud, coming over Margaret from her relationship +with her husband and her son. Until now she had been able to speak as +she thought before them, with quiet, unrestrained freedom. But there +had sprung up, during the last few days, a novel feeling of restraint +and embarrassment. Neither Sidney nor Philip uttered the name of +Phyllis. + +After Dorothy had seen Margaret comfortably established in her room, +she stole quietly and quickly out of the house, and hastened on to the +moors. There was yet half an hour of the short December day, and she +could not wait for the morrow. At the first low knoll she turned round +to look back upon the old Manor House, with its picturesque gables and +large stacks of chimneys. She knew now better than she used to do how +very beautiful it was. The sun was setting, and the low light shone +full upon the small diamond panes of the many windows, and cast deep +shadows from the eaves, and brought into stronger relief the antique +carvings on the heavy beams of oak. She felt proud of the place--as +proud as if it had been her own. + +"Why did you never tell us how pretty it was?" asked Philip's voice; +and turning round, she saw him coming up to her over the soundless turf. + +"I never knew," she answered, almost stammeringly; "I never thought it +was as lovely as this. Yet I've seen it from this very spot thousands +of times. Why did it look so sad to me then, and so beautiful now?" + +She looked up into his face as if it was a very knotty question for him +to consider, and his grave expression relaxed a little as he answered +her. + +"You were not very happy here then," he suggested. + +"I never knew a happy day till I knew your father," she replied; "and +I've never known an unhappy one since. Is it happiness that makes a +place look lovely?" + +If it was so, thought Philip, this place could have no beauty for him. +Phyllis was not there, and his heart was very heavy for her absence. +And not only for her absence, but from a growing dread of meeting with +an opposition he had not anticipated. It was significant to him of +trouble that his father and mother never spoke of Phyllis in his +presence; he did not know that they were equally silent with one +another. Though it was the rector who had prevented her from coming +north, he could not help guessing that it was his father who had, in +some way, been the real hinderer. The rector could have no objection +to himself as Phyllis's suitor, and he felt sure that he at least had +looked upon him as her future husband. Phyllis, too, was certain of +it, and so were the boys. He was only waiting till he came of age, and +stepped into his right of free and independent manhood, to tell his +father that he had chosen Phyllis as his wife. + +"It is not only happiness that makes a place lovely," pursued Dorothy, +after a pause, "it is being with people one loves. Do you see that +window just touched by the end of a branch of those Scotch firs? Your +mother is in that room. I cannot see her, of course; but that window +is more beautiful to me because I know she is there. And I know all +the rooms, and how they will be occupied; and the whole house is full +of interest to my mind. So that even if it was an ugly place, it could +not be altogether ugly to me." + +There was a pleasant ring in her voice which was new to Philip's ear, +He looked long and earnestly at the old house, which some day would +belong to him, unless it was pulled down to make room for a finer +mansion. It already belonged to him because it belonged to his father. +It was a beautiful old place, with the gray stones of the strong wall +surrounding it made warm with golden mosses; and the front of the house +covered with undipped ivy-branches, hanging in glistening festoons from +every point of vantage. Such a place could not be built or made. Why +should he be such a Goth as to erect a brand-new mansion, which could +possess no such charm and beauty until he, and generations of his sons, +were moldering in their graves? + +"Wouldn't it be a pity to pull it down?" asked Dorothy, as if she read +his thoughts; "but Phyllis would find the rooms too small, and too low +for her. I described it to her one day, and drew a sort of plan of it; +and she said it was only a big rambling farmhouse, and you must build a +much grander place, because Sir John Martin left a large sum of money +to build it with. So I thought, was it quite impossible for me to buy +it, and you build a house somewhere near it? Then we should always be +neighbors; and it is very lonely here in the winter. Do you think +Phyllis would like to live here in the winter?" + +It was sweet to him to hear Phyllis's name spoken in this way; no one +had uttered it in his presence for a fortnight except the boys, and +they spoke it with a sort of jeer, as brothers sometimes do. Dorothy's +gentle voice lingered shyly over it. He looked down into her shining +eyes with a smile in his own. + +"We must not talk of Phyllis living here yet," he said, "not till the +day after to-morrow." + +"Let us go a little higher up the moors," she said, "I know every +little track, and beck, and dingle for miles round. When I lived here +with my father, I used to sit an hour or two with him every day, on the +other side of the table, reading aloud, and answering the questions he +asked me. But he never talked to me, or took me on his knee, or kissed +me; and I thought all fathers were the same. The rest of the day I had +to myself, and I spent my time here, out of doors." + +"And in the winter when there was snow or rain?" asked Philip. + +"I read all day long," she went on. "See on the roof there, between +two gables, is a little dormer window. There my secret room is. I +really believe nobody knew of it but me; and I used to stay there till +I was nearly starved and famished. But there was no one to ask me +where I had been, or what I'd been doing." + +"Poor child!" said Philip unconsciously. The color mounted to +Dorothy's face, and she turned away from him a little. + +"It is all different now," she continued, after a momentary silence, +"you are all so kind and good to me. And I think sometimes that when +my father died he too went to a place where everyone is good and kind +to him and tries to make up to him for his life here; for he was more +lonely and unhappy than I was. I was only a child, and he was a man. +I should not like to feel that his death had made me so happy, if it +has not made him happy too." + +"My mother has always told us that death itself comes to us out of the +love of God," said Philip. + +He had followed Dorothy along a narrow track, and now they were out of +sight of the house. A wide, undulating upland, whose limits were +almost lost in the darkening sky, stretched as far as the eye could +see. The sun was gone down, but a frosty light lingered in the west. +The keen, sweet air played around them; and Dorothy drew in a deep +breath, and stretched out her arms, with a caressing gesture, to the +wide landscape. She looked more at home here than Phyllis would have +done. Phyllis would have seen but little beauty in so wild and +solitary a spot. Perhaps it was better that she had not seen her +future home for the first time in the winter. + +Philip retraced his steps, with Dorothy beside him, in a more tranquil +frame of mind. She did not shun conversation about Phyllis; and though +nothing was acknowledged between them, he was sure she knew of their +love for one another. What was more likely than that Phyllis had told +her? + +They went back to the house slowly through the deepening twilight, +Dorothy pointing out distant objects which neither of them could +distinguish in the darkness, though she fancied she saw them, so +familiar and so dear they were to her. He looked at the wide, open, +dusky landscape, and the broad sky above them, and the picturesque old +house, with light shining through the many windows, from Dorothy's +point of view. But what would Phyllis think of it, with her dainty, +fastidious ways, and her love of society? + +As they passed through the great gates into the forecourt Andrew +Goldsmith met them. + +"Well, Mr. Philip!" he said, "I don't think much of your place. The +saddle and harness room is almost in ruins; and the stables aren't fit +for anything better than cart horses. It's not to be compared with +Apley Hall; and the sooner you begin to build yourself a suitable +mansion the better." + + + + +CHAPTER XXVI. + +AT CROSS PURPOSES. + +For the next two days Philip was fully occupied in riding with his +father to call upon the principal tenants, who had been already invited +to commemorate his coming of age. He was quite a stranger to them, and +Sidney knew but little of them. They were mostly farmers; a fine, +outspoken, independent race of north-country men, very different in +their ways and manners from the same class on Margaret's estate in the +south. Sidney made himself exceedingly popular with them; and Philip +was almost surprised at his father's tone of easy friendliness with his +tenants. But Sidney was, as he told himself, enjoying the happiest +season of his very prosperous life. Putting aside that little trouble +about Phyllis, which would prove no more than a boy's fancy, he gave +the reins to his feelings of exultation and rejoicing. He was very +proud of this handsome, athletic, well-bred young Englishman, who was +his eldest son and heir, the apple of his eye through all these +twenty-one years, since he welcomed his first-born into the world. He +was secretly afraid of yielding to the tender recollections that +crowded into his brain as his son rode beside him, and, therefore, he +flung himself more fully into an open demonstration of his pleasure in +introducing him to his future tenants. He told them that the Manor +House would not be let again, but that Philip would soon be coming to +dwell among them for a great part of the year, and take his position as +a country squire. He could never quit the south and the near +neighborhood of London himself, but, with his son living up here, he +would naturally be often among them, and would get better acquainted +with them. + +The great dinner given to the tenants and the afternoon merry-making +passed off well, as such festivities usually do. But Dorothy, not +Philip, was the real center of interest. She had grown up under their +observation, a neglected, forlorn, uncared-for child, thought little of +by all of them; and suddenly, on her father's death, she had been made +known to them as a great heiress. She was an astonishment to them all, +especially to the women; the elegance of her dress, the frank and +simple grace of her manner, her daughter-like familiarity with Mr. and +Mrs. Martin amazed them. When she joined in an easy country dance, +with Philip as her partner, there was only one thought in the mind of +each of them: This poor little Cinderella was destined to marry the +young son and heir. + +If Andrew and Rachel Goldsmith had not known better they would have +thought the same. Even Dick and the other boys, who had come north to +be present at these festivities, said to one another that Phyllis was +not missed. Dorothy was very much more the daughter of the house than +Phyllis could ever have been. She was at home, and she felt as if the +success of these rejoicings depended partly upon her. For the first +time, too, she was free from the depressing influence of Phyllis's +superiority; and Laura was not there, with her chilling, criticising +gaze. No one could be insensible to the charm of Dorothy's gay spirits +and sweet kindliness. + +But as soon as the last guest was gone Philip went off alone up the +moors. The moon was at the full, and poured a flood of light on the +twinkling surface of the silent little tarns sleeping in the hollows. +The frosty sky was shot with pale red lines in the north, and a thick +bank of clouds, the edge of which was tinged with moonlight, stretched +across the south. He did not wander out of sight of the black massive +block of the old Manor, but all day he had longed to be alone, and here +he was safely alone. The day he had been looking forward to, which had +been talked of, in his hearing, for as long as he could remember, was +come, and was almost gone. He felt distinctly older to-day than he was +yesterday. No birthday had had a similar effect upon him. Yesterday +he was a boy, bound to obey his father's will; to-day he was himself a +man. Not wiser perhaps, not clearer-headed, or stronger in principle +than yesterday; but free, with a more real liberty. His actions +hereafter would be more definitely his own, for he would be acting more +fully on his own responsibility, and at his own discretion. He had +always loved his father profoundly, with a depth and distinctness rare +in a boy; and Sidney had missed no opportunity of gaining and +strengthening the affection of his sons. But of late Philip had +learned to appreciate his mother's peculiar character more than he had +done in his earlier youth; and if he had asked himself whom he now +loved and trusted most implicitly his heart would have said his mother. + +For he could not go to his father with the story of his love for +Phyllis, and be sure of a patient hearing. He shrank from doing the +duty that must at once be done. Until the last few weeks he had not +felt any doubt of his father's and mother's consent to his marriage +with Phyllis; but he felt now a vague presentiment that his father +would say he had never thought of such a thing, and could not approve +of it. Phyllis's unexpected absence from these rejoicings had marred +the pleasure of the day to him, and filled him with anxiety. She ought +to have been at his side, instead of Dorothy, laughing a little +scoffingly at the speeches made; his own among them. He loved +Phyllis's little sarcasms. + +But why did he feel as if he had been guilty of concealment and +disingenuousness; he, who was so jealous of his honor, and so proud of +speaking to his father with utter singleness of heart? How was it that +he became conscious, uneasily conscious, for the first time, that his +love for Phyllis was possibly unknown to his parents? It was no secret +at the Rectory, that he was sure of; unless the rector himself was +ignorant of it. Why had he never spoken openly of it with his mother +as he had done with Phyllis's mother? When did he begin to hide this +thing from his parents? And why? He could not answer these questions +to himself. He felt himself caught in a net, a very fine net, of +circumstances; but how it had been woven about him he could not tell. + +His mother was gone to her room when he returned to the house, being +overtired; and Dorothy was with her. There was a dance going on among +the servants in the great kitchen, and his cousins were there amusing +themselves. All the rest of the house looked deserted and cheerless, +with the disorder that follows upon any festivities. Philip recalled +with surprise how happy he had felt, in spite of Phyllis's absence, +only an hour or two ago. The cheers of his future tenants sounded +again in his ears; and the proud gladness of his father, and tender +gladness of his mother, came back to him with a sting of reproach; but +still it was his reticence that troubled him. He did not fear any +strong opposition to his wishes when they knew that his love for +Phyllis was unchangeable. They could not have any objection to Phyllis. + +Sidney was sitting in the corner of a huge fireplace, where a fire was +burning cheerfully, and Philip sat down opposite to him. For once his +father was absolutely unoccupied, musing with a smile upon his handsome +face, as if he was reading all the happy past and the brilliant present +in the leaping flames and glowing coals upon the hearth. There was no +sign of old age upon him. In fact, he was still in the prime of life; +strong, athletic, vigorous, with an air of intellectual keenness and +power, which set him high above average men. Philip felt as proud of +him as he did of Philip. He looked across at his son with a light in +his eyes as undimmed as if he had been himself a boy. + +"A man now!" he said, as if he welcomed him across the line that had +lain between him and manhood; "a man like myself!" + +"Yes, a man!" said Philip abruptly, "with a man's heart and a man's +love like yours. Father, I love Phyllis as you love my mother." + +Sidney was not prepared to receive the blow so soon and so suddenly; it +was struck at him in the very zenith of his happiness. But he had +expected it to fall sooner or later, and had laid his plan of action. +He hoped that Philip was not yet involved in an engagement, and that it +would be possible to temporize, to use such tactics as would set him +free from the snare. His face clouded over a little, but he still +gazed affectionately in his son's face. + +"Of course, you have said nothing to her, as you have not spoken of it +to me or your mother," he said. + +"There was no need to say anything," answered Philip, stammering. +"Why, father, she and I have been brought up for one another! I cannot +remember the time when I did not think she would be my wife. Neither +she nor I have thought of anyone else." + +"Does your mother know this?" inquired his father in measured tones. + +"I don't know," he replied; "I suppose not." + +"Who, then?" asked Sidney. + +"Oh! all of them; every one of them," he said, "except my mother and +you. I thought you knew of it till a few weeks ago." + +"Does the rector know?" pursued Sidney. + +Philip paused a little. + +"I cannot say yes for certain," he answered, "for the rector seems to +live in another world from ours; but I never doubted it till he refused +to let Phyllis come here with us. And I never meant to conceal it from +my mother and you; it seemed such a settled matter, and you were both +so fond of Phyllis. I cannot understand how or why this moment is so +painful to me. I thought I could ask you for Phyllis as I have asked +you for everything else I wanted all my life long." + +"Did I ever refuse you anything that was for your good?" asked Sidney, +his voice, which was always pleasant and persuasive, falling into +softer tones. + +"Never, father, never!" he answered eagerly. + +"But I must refuse you this. Listen!" he said, as Philip was about to +interrupt him. "Such an idea never entered your mother's mind or mine. +The children at the Rectory were brought up with you as if you were one +family. I had utter confidence in the rector and his wife. If I had +seen anything to make me suspect an attachment between you and Phyllis, +I should have separated you at once. Brought up for one another! I +see it clearly at last. The plot has been artfully contrived, and +cleverly carried out. You are the dupe of a cunning and worldly woman. +I cast no blame upon Phyllis herself. But, my boy, Phyllis is born to +be the wife of a rich man; she would make a bad wife for a poor one. +Think for yourself if you could ask Phyllis to share poverty with you." + +"But I shall not be a poor man!" exclaimed Philip. All day long +circumstances had impressed upon him the fact that the career of a very +rich man lay before him, and he was almost shocked by his father's +words. + +"You are a poor man until I die," said Sidney, rising and stretching +himself to his full height. His tall and muscular frame was as +vigorous and powerful as Philip's own, and his life at fifty was +probably as good as his son's at one-and-twenty. "How soon would you +wish me to die, Philip?" he asked in a mournful tone. + +"Oh, father!" he cried; "how can you say such words? I could not bear +the thought of you dying." + +"But till then you are dependent upon me," continued Sidney, "and you +cannot ask me to give you the means of bringing trouble on your mother +and myself. I shall probably live another twenty-five or thirty years. +Consider how Phyllis would like the life you could offer her. I do not +say I would let you come to want; but if I allowed you no more than +£800 or £1000 a year, would that satisfy her?" + +Philip was silent. There was reason in what his father said. Phyllis +would look upon £800 a year as poverty. As long as he could recollect, +she had chafed and fretted about the narrow income of her father, and +openly expressed her intention of not living as carefully and +economically as her mother was compelled to do. Certainly Phyllis was +not fit to be a poor man's wife, even if that poor man had an allowance +of £800 or £1000 a year. + +"But I have always thought of her as my wife," he broke out +passionately; "and I cannot give her up. Think how happy you have been +with my mother; and why should you deny me similar happiness?" + +"Because Phyllis is nothing like your mother," answered Sidney, his +eyes sparkling with anger. "Good Heavens! do you compare that +empty-headed butterfly with my Margaret? Your mother would be happy in +a cottage with her sons and her husband, as happy as she is now in her +own house. If I thought for a moment that Phyllis would be such a wife +to you as your mother is to me, I would consent willingly, though she +could never be like a daughter to me. Phyllis would separate you from +me. We should soon be as strangers to one another." + +"No, no!" he said; "you have always seemed to love Phyllis, and so has +my mother. What can you object to in her? Her father is your own +nearest relation and friend. Everybody in Apley knows we have been +always thrown together, as if we were some day to be married. Let me +know your objections, your reasons. No one came between you and the +woman you loved. Why should you not allow me to choose for myself?" + +"Because you have not really chosen for yourself," answered his father. +"Your nature has been played upon ever since your childhood. I can see +it all now, and understand it. Phyllis is not to blame; but Phyllis's +mother has laid her plot, and carried it out very successfully. +Brought up for one another! Did your mother and I ever speak of your +being brought up for Phyllis?" + +"I cannot give her up now!" exclaimed Philip. + +"Ask your mother if Phyllis would make you a true wife," urged his +father. + +"But I could not give her up," he reiterated. "It would break my poor +Phyllis's heart. Every year of my life binds me to her; every feeling +of honor as well as of love. No; it would be impossible. It is of no +use to consult my mother. I will tell her I must marry Phyllis, and I +will beg of her to look upon her as a daughter. In the sight of God I +believe Phyllis is my wife, and I should not be free to marry anyone +else. You will give your consent in time, father." + +"Never!" his father answered with mingled anger and sadness. "You will +be a poor man as long as I live. Tell Laura Martin she and her +daughter must wait for my money till my death." + + + + +CHAPTER XXVII. + +WHO WILL GIVE WAY? + +The conflict which Laura Martin had foreseen years ago was at last +begun between herself and Sidney, and she was prepared for it. But she +was not prepared to meet with two firm opponents in her husband and +Margaret. Her plans had been based on the assumption that these two, +Philip's mother and Phyllis's father, in their complete unworldliness +and contempt for money, would be on her side; and Sidney would be left +practically alone. But now the rector's eyes were open they saw +matters in a very clear light; and his soul was filled with shame. He +was invulnerable to all attacks; even to the tears of his precious +child, and to Laura's repeated assurances that Phyllis would break her +heart if she could not marry Philip. The rector was almost crushed +under this heavy trouble, but he did not yield his position for a +moment. He could not give his approval or consent to the marriage +until Sidney gave his. Nor would he have Philip coming to the rectory. +Margaret was equally firm. She knew Phyllis's nature thoroughly. The +girl was dear to her; for her wide charity, which strove to love all +that God loved--and did not God love every soul of man?--embraced this +child, whom she had known from her birth, with a special and very close +affection. But she knew her to be of the world--very emphatically of +the world. She believed her to be destitute of real spiritual life. +As a clergyman's daughter Phyllis was fairly orthodox, though with her, +as with many clergymen's children, there was a great lack of reverence +for sacred subjects; she made a jest of many things which, to Margaret, +were full of mystery and solemnity. But Margaret attached little +importance to outer forms and rites, and it was at the spirit of +Phyllis's life she looked. That spirit was distinctly selfish and +worldly. Margaret knew that she could not make Philip happy as his +wife, and she refused to sacrifice his future welfare to the +gratification of the moment. The question of Phyllis's fortune or +station never crossed Margaret's mind. + +But Laura was not to be daunted. Philip and Phyllis were as obstinate +in maintaining their position as she could wish them to be. There was +no concealment now. Philip formally announced their engagement to his +personal friends and to the people at Apley. Sidney was amazed and +angry to discover how it was taken as a matter of course by these +nearest spectators of his domestic drama. They had witnessed the +side-play distinctly, while his own eyes were hoodwinked. Andrew +Goldsmith was the first to speak to him about it. + +"They've grown up for one another, sir," he said, "and we've seen it +all along; and I trust they will be happy. But Rachel and me, we've +often thought of late how much better Miss Dorothy would have suited +him, if she'd only been in Miss Phyllis's place. Rachel says Miss +Dorothy is growing up to be the very copy of my lady, true to the life +of her. And what could we have wished more for Mr. Philip?" + +"Goldsmith," answered Sidney, "I will tell you, and you may tell +others, that I disapprove of my son's engagement, and will never give +my consent to this marriage." + +"But it's a hard thing to choose another man his wife, sir," urged +Andrew, who knew perfectly well the conflict now raging between the +Hall and the Rectory. "I've thought often enough of that when I've +been thinking of my poor girl. I was an austere father, though I loved +her as my own soul; and she was afraid to tell me who it was she loved. +It would have been better for her, if she'd lived ever so miserably, to +have our love to comfort her. Now we are lost to one another +altogether. If Miss Phyllis shouldn't make Mr. Philip very happy, he +would still have you, and his mother, and Mr. Hugh. Ah! I'd rather +see my Sophy a miserable wife than know nothing about her. There's an +aching void here in my heart, and must be forever in this world; and I +pray God you and my lady may never feel the same." + +"You have not forgotten her yet," said Sidney in a tone of pain that +went straight to the old man's heart. + +"Nor never shall," he answered; "first thing in the morning and last +thing at night, a voice says to me, 'Sophy!' Ay! I should have gone +crazy but for you and yours. It's the kindness and friendship you and +Miss Margaret have shown to me that has kept my reason for me. And my +reason says, 'Mr. Martin ought not to break with his first-born son +because he has chosen a wife for himself. No man can know the heart of +another man. And life is short; and death may cut us off at any +minute.' I don't say as I would give way so as to let them marry in a +hurry, for they are young and don't know their own minds yet. But set +them a time to wait, and let him serve for her as Jacob did for Rachel; +and if they love one another truly, and are faithful for the season you +fix upon, then give your consent to their being happy in their own way. +We can't be happy in other people's way." + +"I will think of it, Goldsmith," Sidney promised. + +He watched the old man going down the road toward the village street, +for they had returned to Apley, and his mind dwelt, almost +involuntarily, on the unknown tie which united them. Philip was +exactly of the age he himself was when he contracted his foolish and +secret marriage. He recalled his own hot passion for the pretty +village girl, and how impossible it would have been for any argument to +convince him that such love as his would quickly burn itself out, and +leave behind it only darkness, disgust, and misery. He had risked all, +when he had all to risk, to gratify his boyish infatuation. But Philip +would risk only the chance of poverty during his father's lifetime; and +Sidney knew well he could, if he would, raise money on his future +inheritance of an entailed estate. Moreover, Philip's love was given +to one of his own rank in life, a girl of equal cultivation with +himself. It was not a brilliant match, but no one would be surprised +at it. It seemed probable that he might in the end be compelled to +make some terms with his son; and would it not be politic to make them +at once? + +He went slowly homeward, haunted by more vivid remembrances of his +early marriage than any that had troubled him for many years. The dead +past had buried its dead; but there is no stone rolled upon the +sepulcher to make us sure of no resurrection. Suppose Philip had been +Sophy's son! How widely different his training and his whole character +must have been! How different he himself would be at this moment, if +Sophy had been his constant, intimate companion in the place of +Margaret. He thought of it with a shudder of disgust. His love for +Margaret had never known decrease or ebb; it had grown stronger and +deeper every year, but there was an element of almost sacred awe +mingled with it. She was as much above him as Sophy had been below +him. Not that she felt this herself; there was always in her a +deference to his will which a prouder woman would not have shown. But +he recognized her as a purer, nobler, truer soul than himself. His +marriage with her was no more an equal one than his marriage with +Sophy. To-day he felt more nearly on a level with Sophy than with +Margaret. + +She was standing in the pretty oriel window of her sitting room as he +approached the house, and smiled down upon him with something of +sadness in her smile, as he stood below looking up to her. She had +never seemed more lovely in his eyes, or more distant. After all their +married life of twenty-two years he knew himself a stranger to her, and +he felt that he could get no nearer to her. What icy barrier was it +existing between them, growing denser and stronger year after year, and +which could not be melted by the warmth of their love? For they loved +one another--Sidney did not doubt that; Margaret's first love had been +his. Yet there was a great gulf between them; and his spirit could not +go to her, nor hers come to him. + +He went upstairs and received a fond welcome from her, as he sat down +beside her on a sofa. She laid her hand on his, and he lifted it to +his lips; and then he felt her kiss upon his forehead, a caressing, +almost maternal touch, such as she might have given to her son Philip. +Both of these beloved ones were wounded, and both came to her for +consolation. Sidney told her what old Andrew Goldsmith had been saying. + +"Perhaps he is right," said Margaret thoughtfully; "we should remember +that Philip is something more than our son. He is a man and has rights +with which we ought not to interfere. Dearest, it is a bitter +disappointment to me to think of Phyllis as my boy's wife. But who can +tell? If she truly loves him it may be her salvation; and if he truly +loves her, no one else, not an angel from heaven, could be his wife as +she would be, and as I am yours. We may be striving against God's +will, whose love for Philip is infinitely greater and wiser than ours +can be." + +"But, my darling," he remonstrated, "you speak of God's will; and all +this is but the outcome of Laura's machinations. That is only too +plain. If I believed it to be a simple, true, enduring love on both +sides, I would not oppose it so strongly. And it would be an extreme +mortification to let Laura triumph." + +"We must not think of that," she said, smiling. "I have felt it, too, +Sidney; but the mortification has passed over. It is natural enough +they should love one another; they are both very attractive, and they +have seen no one else. Let us do as Andrew suggests, fix a time for +them to wait and test their attachment. And let Philip have a year or +two abroad, as you had when you were his age. His mind will be +enlarged. We have kept him too much at home; and home has been too +dear for him to care to wander from it. But he is not so happy now, +and he will be willing to go away for awhile." + +"He shall," assented Sidney; "and I will make him promise not to +correspond with Phyllis during his absence." + +But Philip would make no such promise. He maintained that it was an +unworthy course to adopt toward his future wife. He was willing to +wait any reasonable number of years that his parents thought right to +ask from him, but in no way would he separate himself from Phyllis. It +would be easier, he declared, to cut off his right hand, or pluck out +his right eye. He left home for a long and indefinite absence, and his +letters came to Phyllis as regularly and as frequently as to his +mother. To his father he did not write. + + + + +CHAPTER XXVIII. + +HOMESICKNESS. + +From this first break in the perfect union of their home Margaret +suffered less than she would have done but for the companionship of +Dorothy. The girl's nature was one of strong, simple, and pure +impulses; and her mind, though uncultivated in the ordinary acceptation +of the word, was clear and intelligent. Margaret could speak to her, +more fully than to anyone else, of the exceptional spiritual life she +was living. There were thoughts and feelings in her soul, inmost +impressions, to which she found it was impossible to give utterance. +It was a life hid with Christ in God. But Dorothy seemed able to +comprehend something of these workings of her mind, if only she caught +a syllable here and there, which told of Margaret's profound +realization of the love in which all men lived and moved. Probably +Dorothy's long years of solitary childhood spent on the open moors, in +contact with simple and grand aspects of nature, had kept her spirit +open to such impressions as Margaret's mysticism, if it could be called +mysticism, produced upon her. These two, like exiles in a strange +land, clung to one another with an intense sympathy and love. + +But this attachment to Margaret did not diminish Dorothy's devotion to +Sidney. There was a touch of romance in this devotion. He seemed to +her to be the deliverer who had opened her prison doors and brought her +out into a happy freedom. In these first hours of his disappointment +in Philip, her presence in his home tended to soften the bitterness of +his vexation. Laura thought that she kept Phyllis out of her proper +place; but it was, in fact, due to Dorothy that Phyllis continued to +visit at the Hall. She would not let Philip's future wife be banished +from his parents' house. The girlish acquaintance which had hitherto +existed between them ripened into a girlish intimacy; and Phyllis was +almost as often at the Hall as formerly. It was a comfort to Margaret +that it should be so; and even Sidney felt it was wiser to maintain a +certain degree of intercourse with his future daughter-in-law. He +could not blame her as he blamed Laura. + +In all this Laura felt that her schemes so far had not miscarried. She +had never expected Sidney to welcome an engagement between his son and +her daughter; it was too poor a match, and here Laura sympathized with +him. But his opposition to it was less violent than she might have +anticipated. All was going well with Phyllis; and now if Dick would +only woo and win the young heiress she would be perfectly content. +Dick was quite willing to fall into her plans. She spent many really +happy hours in forecasting and arranging for them. Though Margaret was +younger than herself, and in perfect health, and Sidney no older than +her husband, and more likely than not to outlive all his +contemporaries, she frequently thought of them both as dead, and Philip +possessing the estates, and Phyllis reigning in Margaret's place. She +expected to behold these things with her own eyes, and share in the +glory of them. That she herself might grow old and die, while Philip +and her daughter were still in comparative poverty and dependent upon +Sidney, very seldom occurred to her. It was a contingency she could +not bear to think of. + +It was a much quieter winter at Apley than usual. There was no +political excitement to occupy Sidney, and Hugh was visiting some of +his Oxford friends during the short Christmas vacation. A few guests, +staying two or three days each, came to Apley Hall. But there was no +special festivity at which Laura could have made an open display of her +daughter as betrothed to the son and heir. The few friends who came +were fully aware of the circumstance, and sympathized very cordially +with the disapprobation felt by Sidney and Margaret. Philip was +wandering about Italy, and wrote frequently to Phyllis. The opposition +to his love, of which he had never dreamed, naturally deepened it. He +felt aggrieved and amazed that his father and mother should see any +defect in her; and this made him exaggerate her charms and good +qualities, until she seemed perfect in his eyes. Yet her letters were +poor and meager, betraying an empty head, and an almost equally empty +heart. + +In spite of the novelty of the impressions crowding upon him, +especially in Rome, this winter was, on the whole, a dreary--a very +dreary--time to him. For the first time he was separated from +everybody whom he loved; even Dick could not spare a year of his life +to travel about with him. He saw no one but strangers, until he longed +to see some one familiar face. He began to feel himself banished; and +at times he suffered from genuine homesickness. His mother wrote long +letters to him; letters as precious in his eyes as Phyllis's; to any +other eyes as gold to tinsel. But his father did not write; it was the +only sign of his displeasure. The checks sent out to him were liberal +beyond his requirements; but no message came with them. There was a +silent strife between his father and himself, a warfare of their wills, +both of them strong and unyielding. It was as great a grief to Philip +as to Sidney. + +The spring came in early, and with unusual heat, in Italy. Much rain +had fallen in February and March, and with the sudden outburst of heat +there was an unwholesome season and a good deal of fever. Down in +Sicily, and even in Naples, there were some fatal cases of cholera. A +few of the English visitors, thronging to Rome for Easter, died of +malaria; probably not a larger number than usual, but they happened to +be persons of some note, whose deaths were reported in the daily +papers, with a few lines of comment. Sidney read the notes from the +Italian correspondents before looking at any other column of the Times. +Laura and Phyllis grew anxious, and professed their anxiety loudly. +But Philip wrote regularly, though in his now wonted strain of low +spirits; and Sidney could see no reason for shortening his term of +banishment. He had not been away four months yet; and there was no +sign of any decrease of his infatuation. + +Philip sent word he was going north to Venice, where the weather was +reported as cool and fine. But about the end of April there came a +letter from him complaining of low fever; and after that there was +silence for a few days, a silence which filled them with apprehension. +Then arrived a note from an American doctor, living in Venice, saying +that he was attending Mr. Philip Martin, and that he was suffering from +a combined attack of nostalgia and malaria, which might, not +improbably, take a serious turn, and which could be best counteracted +by the presence of his father or mother, or one equally dear to him. + +"I must go to him, at once," cried Margaret. "I was expecting this. I +knew it would come sooner or later; and, O Sidney, it is I who must go. +He fancies he loves Phyllis best, but his love for me will be strongest +now, for a time at least. And Phyllis cannot nurse him as I can; his +own mother! I can be ready in an hour." + +"You shall go," answered Sidney, "and I will take you. I would give my +life for his. Is not he my first-born child as well as yours?" + +As he made the hurried arrangements--looking out the trains, giving +orders at home, and sending telegrams up to the City--his brain was +full of remembrances of his son. It seemed but yesterday that he was a +boy at school, idolizing his father; not longer than the day before +yesterday that he was a little child, venturing on its first perilous +journey across the floor from its mother's arms to its father's. He +felt that the fibers of his heart were all interwoven with his son's +life; and there was a new and terrible pain there. What if Philip +should cut the knot of their estrangement by dying? + +The carriage was ready to take them to the station, and Margaret was +seated in it, when the rector and his wife came breathlessly up to it. +Laura was wringing her hands in excitement and terror. + +"Oh! you must wait for Phyllis!" she exclaimed. "You cannot go without +her; and she went only this morning to Leamington on a short visit. +She will be back to-night, in time to start first thing to-morrow +morning. It will break her heart if you go without her." + +"We cannot wait ten minutes," answered Sidney, "it is impossible. But +I will telegraph as soon as we reach Venice; and if there is any +danger," and his voice faltered as he uttered the word, "George must +bring her out at once." + +"Oh! if she could only go with you!" cried Laura. + +At this moment Dorothy appeared in a traveling dress. For some years +past Rachel Goldsmith had been too old to travel, and Margaret, who was +always independent of a maid, had not engaged anyone in her place. +There was a smile on Dorothy's face as she ran down the steps to the +carriage. + +"I am coming to take care of my lady," she said. "Rachel quite +approves of it. She was almost beside herself till I said I would go. +You must let me come. Perhaps Phyllis ought to go instead, but she +could not wait on Mrs. Martin as I can. Besides, I am ready." + +She looked pleadingly into Sidney's face; and he stood aside for her to +enter the carriage where Margaret was sitting. + +"Yes, yes," he said, "jump in; there's no time to lose. Good-by, +George. I will telegraph if Phyllis is wanted." + +Laura watched the carriage rolling out of sight, with a new and +unwelcome misgiving. She had not been afraid of Dorothy before; but +she could not be blind to the great improvement in her since she had +been under Margaret's care. And now she was going out to share in +nursing Philip as an invalid, and amusing him as a convalescent. But +this must not be. George should start immediately in their wake; and +Phyllis with him. + +Here, however, Laura was doomed to disappointment. The rector would +not listen to reason. When he had once made up his mind upon any +worldly matter he was an obstinate man; and he was irrevocably resolved +that he would play no part in furthering the marriage of his daughter +to Sidney's son and heir. When Sidney telegraphed "Bring Phyllis," +then he would take her; but not till then. + +It was well for both Sidney and Margaret that Dorothy was with them. +Unlike her usual self, Margaret was despondent, and convinced that they +could not reach Venice in time to find Philip alive; and Sidney, seeing +her so lost to hope, was stricken with a miserable dread. They made no +pause for rest on the long journey; and, but for Dorothy, they would +hardly have taken food. It was an immense relief to her when, after +many hours of traveling, she saw afar off, in the midst of its shallow +sea, the white domes and towers of Venice glistening in the sunlight. +Sidney and Margaret had been there before; and for them there was but +one point of interest, their son lying ill, perhaps dying, under one of +those glittering roofs. But Dorothy gazed out of the windows at the +lagoons over which the strange railway was carrying her. She was very +weary, and her eyelids were heavy and swollen with long wakefulness; +but the stretches of silvery water, with its low banks of soft +sea-green weeds, were too beautiful not to arouse her. There were no +trees or fields in sight: all around her lay a pale, tremulous plain of +water, quivering under a clear vault of sky, and reflecting on its +surface the deep blue, flecked with little clouds, which over-arched it. + +They had telegraphed beforehand to Daniele's, where Philip was staying, +and a servant awaited the arrival of the train. The young English +signore was better; he had begun to recover as soon as he heard that +his father and mother were on their way to come to him. The message +was delivered in the hurry of passengers descending from the train; but +the relief it brought was instantaneous. They were led through a +common-place station; but as soon as they had passed through the great +gates and stood on the top of a flight of broad steps, Dorothy could +not restrain a cry of pleasure. Below them lay a busy crowd of +gondolas, swinging and floating lightly on the water, and passing to +and fro with the swiftness and accuracy of so many carriages, with +neither collision or delay. There was no noise of wheels or the +trampling of horses' feet, only the cries of the gondoliers and the +shouts of the officials who overlooked them. As soon as she found +herself seated in one of them it threaded its way out of the throng +with a skill that delighted her. Margaret sat back in the shelter of +the awning, with tears of thankful gladness stealing now and then down +her cheeks; but Sidney, with the load suddenly rolled off his heart, +took a place beside Dorothy, and pointed out to her the palaces and +churches he knew so well. + +Dorothy was left alone when they reached Daniele's, and she stood +leaning on the cushioned window-sill of her room, and looked out on the +gay and busy quay below her, with all sense of weariness gone from her +vigorous young frame. The air was very fresh and sweet, and the +sparkling water-roads stretched before her, with black gondolas +flitting noiselessly to and fro, bringing to her ears the merry chatter +of voices, in other cities drowned by the noise of wheels. Opposite to +her a church of white marble delicately veined seemed to float upon the +water, and beyond it stretched a shallow sea, rippling under the +sunshine. It looked like a city of enchantment to her. + +Presently Margaret came in, pale and weary with the long journey, but +with the light of happiness in her eyes. Philip was better than she +could have hoped; there would be no real danger, the doctor said, now +that she was there to satisfy his longing to look upon some dear, +familiar face. + +"He is not even grieved that Phyllis is not come," she said gladly, "he +is just satisfied, with a perfect satisfaction, to see his father and +me. After all there are seasons when no love contents us save a +father's love. We are but children, every one of us." + +Late in the evening, after a long rest, Margaret sat beside Philip's +bed again, holding his nerveless hand in her own. She could hardly +believe that this pale, almost wasted face and languid frame was her +strong young son, who had said farewell to her only a few months ago. +He seemed to have grown years older. He was graver and more +thoughtful. His manner toward her and his father was at once more +independent and more full of a manly deference. His smile, as he +looked into her face, was that of one who was more her equal than he +had been when he parted from her. He had suffered, and suffering had +lifted him nearer to her level. + +"I understand you and my father better than I did," he said. "I see +why you wonder at my love for Phyllis; yes, and I see why I love her. +Possibly I should not love her now, if I saw her for the first time. +But it has grown with my growth, and been secretly fostered and +cherished, unknown to you both. Still I thought you knew; and I love +her, and she loves me. We must venture upon life together, and if it +is not as perfect a union as yours and my father's, why, it is the most +perfect I can make. I could not sacrifice Phyllis now, even to your +reasonable objections." + +"You love her enough to make you ill when you are away from her," said +his mother, sighing, "so we must withdraw our objections." + +"Yes, I love her," he replied; "but that is not so much the question as +whether she loves me as much as ever. Think, dear mother. She has +regarded herself as mine ever since we were little children together; +and with all her vivacity and charming spirits she has never even +thought of attracting anyone else, or of being loved by any other man. +She is all my own. If I could give up my engagement out of love and +obedience to you, I could not run the risk of breaking Phyllis's high +spirit--perhaps her heart. I dare not act like a scoundrel, even to +please my father." + +"Your father would never wish you to act like a scoundrel," said +Margaret in a pained tone; "but he withdraws his objections, and says +you must come home again. Only we wish you not to marry for three +years longer. But oh, my boy! surely you can be happy at home as you +were before, seeing her as you used to see her. You will yield to us +this much? You will not force us to consent to an earlier marriage?" + +Philip drew his mother's hand to his lips, and kissed it in silence. +This was no moment of triumph to him, because he knew it to be one of +pain to her. She had not demanded a great concession from him, and she +had asked it doubtingly, almost humbly. It was amazing that his mother +should petition him for anything, and he not to be able to rejoice in +granting it. + +"Yes, we will wait," he said; "we are both young enough to wait, but +three years is a long time." + + + + +CHAPTER XXIX. + +IN VENICE. + +Philip's recovery from the combined effects of low fever and +homesickness progressed so favorably that Sidney soon felt at liberty +to leave him in his mother's care, and return to London, where his +presence was becoming necessary. Venice was too much haunted by +painful reminiscences for him to care to linger in it, even if he had +the leisure to do so. He had been there once with Margaret, and had +found it so hateful that he had hurried her away after a day or two, +unable to endure its associations. There was no dread of this early +marriage coming to light; it was now nearly thirty years ago, and the +past had given no sign yet of rising in judgment against him. It was +only in a place like this, crowded with associations, and occasionally +when old Andrew Goldsmith spoke of her, that he ever thought of Sophy. +But the streets of Venice, singularly unlike the streets of any other +city--and it was the last city they were in--brought the recollection +of her to his mind with startling and sickening frequency. As soon as +Philip was pronounced convalescent, he could bear it no longer. + +It was still the month of May, and Venice was at its loveliest. The +air was light, and soft, and warm, without too great heat. The little +party left behind by Sidney had nothing to do but float about the +border canals and the lagoons leading out to the sea all day long. +More often than anywhere else, they sailed to the Lido, and sat on the +sand-banks to breathe the keener and purer breezes blowing off the +Adriatic. They could not grow weary of watching for hours the fleet of +fishing boats flitting to and fro on the green waters, most of them +carrying gorgeous yellow sails with brown patterns on them, and stripes +of pale yellow and white along the edges--sails that were heirlooms in +the fishermen's families. Now and then a sail of the clearest white or +the faintest primrose was seen; and far away on the horizon, where the +sky was bluish gray, the distant sails looked of a deep bronze and +purple. All of them fluttered hither and thither as if they were large +and gorgeous butterflies hovering over the waves. It was a sight they +never wearied of. There was a rapture of delight in it for Dorothy +which caught Margaret and Philip into a keen participation in her +enjoyment; and the days passed by as if there was nothing else for them +to do but to glide slowly about in their gondola and see the churches +and palaces floating on the tranquil water, which so faithfully +reflected them in form and color. + +It was but a brief pleasure, for as the month drew to an end a sudden +outburst of heat came on, bringing with it the danger of a return of +Philip's fever. Margaret called in the American doctor, and he ordered +an immediate retreat to the mountains. + +"You will find it bracing enough in the Tyrol," he said, "and you +cannot do better than go for a month or so to the Ampezzo Valley. In +two days' time you will find yourself at Cortina, where you will obtain +fairly comfortable quarters. Or you might go to the Italian Lakes, if +you thought better." + +"No; let us go to the Austrian Tyrol," said Philip. + +"You must go to-morrow morning," continued the doctor. + +"It only seems like a day since we came here," said Dorothy +regretfully, "one long beautiful day. I do not feel as if I had ever +been asleep." + +"It is quite time then for you to be off," remarked the doctor; "you +will be falling ill if you stay much longer. Take my word for it, you +will enjoy the mountains as much as Venice when you get among them. +There is nothing like the Dolomites." + +But when the doctor was gone Dorothy entreated for one more sail in a +gondola. The sun was set, and the heated air was fast growing cool. +The moon was at the full, and as they floated toward the lagoons, the +lights of the city behind them shone like jewels. The sound of music +reached their ears, softened by distance, from gayly illuminated +gondolas bearing bands of musicians up and down the Grand Canal. As +soon as they were beyond this sound, and only the faintest ripple of +the water against their gondola could be heard, Dorothy began to sing +snatches of old north-country ballads and simple old-fashioned songs, +in a soft undertone, with now and then a cadence of sadness in it, +which seemed to chime in with the pale light of the moon, and the dim +waters, and the dusky outlines of the city behind them. Margaret and +Philip listened in silence, for they were afraid she would stop if they +praised her. + +"I feel so happy," she exclaimed, suddenly checking herself, as if she +had forgotten she was not alone. + +"So am I," said Philip, laughing, with such a boyish laugh as his +mother had not heard for many months. + +"And so am I," assented Margaret. "Oh! how good life is, even in this +world!" + +"But why are we so seldom happy?" asked Philip. + +"Why are you happy now?" she rejoined. + +"I will tell you why I am happy," said Dorothy, leaning toward them, as +they sat opposite to her, and they saw her dark eyes shining in the +moonlight. "I am thinking of nothing but this one moment, and +everything is very good. The moon up there, and the little clouds in +the sky, and these waves rippling round us, and the happy air; and you +two whom I love and who love me. There is nothing here but what is +good." + +"Why should we not oftener live in the present moment," said Margaret, +"instead of burdening it with the past and the future? God would have +us do so, as children do who have a father to care for them. He gives +us to-day; to-morrow he will give us another day, different, but as +much his gift as this. If we would only take them as he sends them, +one at a time, we should not be so seldom happy." + +"I promise to try to do it," cried Dorothy, stretching out her hands +toward Margaret, but without touching her. "Philip, let us enter into +an agreement to be happy. Let us take each day singly as it comes, and +look upon it as a gift straight from God." + +Philip did not speak, but Margaret said, as if to herself: + + "My God! Thou art all love. + Not one poor minute 'scapes Thy breast + But brings a favor from above." + + +"I will try to believe it," said Philip; "but there is so much in life +that is not good. There are few days and hours like this." + +They returned to the quay almost in silence, but not less happy because +their happiness had taken a tinge of solemnity. As they landed, and +the light of a lamp fell upon Margaret's face, there was a look of +serene gladness on it, such as neither Dorothy nor Philip had seen +before. It looked to them like the face of an angel, both strong and +happy. + + + + +CHAPTER XXX. + +A MYSTERY. + +They started by the earliest train to Victoria, and were half-way to +Pieve di Cadore before nightfall, taking great delight, each one of +them, in the wonderful beauty of the scenery through which they were +traveling. Philip was in that delicious state of convalescence, the +last stage of it, when health seems renewed to greater and fresher +vigor than before the illness came. He was in high spirits, and in his +inmost heart, if he had looked there, he would have discovered no +regret that Phyllis was absent. Her presence, charming as it was, with +the thousand little attentions she would have demanded from him, would +have interfered with the perfect freedom he enjoyed in the +companionship of his mother and Dorothy. They exacted nothing from +him, and were good travelers, complaining of no discomfort or +inconvenience. There was a good deal of discomfort which would have +fretted Phyllis considerably. But Dorothy was like a pleasant comrade, +whose society added another charm to the picturesque scenery. When +Margaret was too tired to leave the carriage, Dorothy was always ready +to climb the steep paths with him, by which they escaped the tedious +zigzags of the dusty roads. + +To Dorothy, accustomed to a low horizon and wide sweep of upland with a +broad field of sky above it, the lofty peaks of gray rock rising for +thousands of feet into the sky, and hanging over the narrow valleys +with a threatening aspect, were at first oppressive. But the profusion +of flowers on the nearer slopes, which were in places blue with +forget-me-nots and gentians, and yellow with large buttercups, was +delightful to her, and she soon lost the sense of oppression. + +It was the evening of the second day when they reached Cortina, having +crossed the Austrian frontier a few miles from it. They were the first +tourists of the season, said the custom-house officer, and would be +very welcome. The snow was not yet melted off the strangely shaped +rocks, towering upward so precipitously that it could lodge only in the +little niches and rough ledges of the surface, tracing with white +network the lines scored upon it by alternate frost and sunshine. The +valley was more open than those through which they had traveled, and +little groups of cottages were dotted about it, and for some distance +up the lower slopes of the mountains. The air was sharply cold and +nipping, for the sun was gone down behind the high ridge of rock, and +they were glad to get inside the hotel, and into the small, bare dining +room, which was the only room, except the kitchen, not used as a +bedchamber. They intended to stay here for some days, and Margaret, +who had written from Venice to Sidney, informing him of their proposed +journey, sent Philip to telegraph to him that they had reached Cortina. + +It was a little town, and was quickly traversed. To Margaret's +telegram he added that they were all well and happy, smiling to himself +as he thought how his father would shake his head at the needless +extravagance of sending these two words. But Philip felt there was +something special in his sense of well-being which demanded explicit +acknowledgment. The young woman who copied his telegram looked at him +with an air of curiosity and interest. + +"The signore is English?" she inquired. + +"Yes, signora," he replied. + +"The first English of the year," she continued, "and I must send word +to the padre. He was here yesterday, and at all the hotels, to say he +must speak with the first of the English who come to Cortina. Perhaps +the signore has heard so already?" + +"No," answered Philip; "but I have not seen my landlord yet; he was out +of the way when we arrived." + +He had learned Italian sufficiently to carry on a simple conversation; +but he was not very fluent, and he was obliged to pause and think over +his sentences. + +"We are going to stay here some days," he resumed, "or possibly some +weeks. Is it necessary for me to call upon the priest? or will you +tell him where I am staying?" + +"I will call him; it is urgent, I believe," she said, hastening to the +door, and running across a small, open space to a house near the +church. In a few minutes she returned, accompanied by a young priest +in a shabby cassock and worn-out broad-brimmed hat. + +"I have the honor to speak to an English signore," said the priest, +bowing profoundly. + +"I shall be most happy to serve the padre," answered Philip. + +The young priest bade the telegraph clerk a courteous good-night, and +drew him a little on one side. A steep lane led down to the brawling +river which ran through the valley, and they descended it until they +were quite beyond any chance of being overheard. He then addressed +Philip in a low voice, and in tolerably good English. + +"It is an affair of the confessional," he said slowly, and with an +evident effort of memory, as if he was repeating a statement he had +carefully composed beforehand; "it is the case of an old woman, a very +respectable old person. She dies at this moment, and she wills, before +dying, to behold a true Englishman, and to betray to him one great +secret, one important secret. I desired all the persons in the town to +announce to me the arrival of the first Englishman touring to this +place, and lo, it is the signore!" + +It was great luck, thought Philip, to come in so immediately upon a +mystery. No young man would shrink, as older men might do, from being +intrusted with a secret, which might involve them in much trouble and +worry. + +"I am ready to go with you at once," he said, smiling. + +"Not to-night," answered the priest, "it is two hours up the mountain, +and it is already night. She dies not to-night; perhaps not to-morrow. +In the morning, if the signore will condescend his favor." + +"What time shall I be with you?" asked Philip. + +"At six o'clock; will that do?" replied the priest. "I take the--what +you call the Sacrament--the Lord's Supper, is it? to the respectable +old person, and I cannot have any food till she receives it from my +hands. Will the hour of six be too early for the signore?" + +"No, no!" he answered; "but I shall breakfast before starting on a two +hours' walk up the mountain." + +"That, of course," said the priest, laughing low; "you are not a padre. +Moreover, the Protestants have the good things in this life, mark my +words!" + +Margaret had already retired to her room when Philip returned to the +hotel; and when he knocked at her door to bid her good-night, she +called to him to come in. It was an immense chamber, with a red brick +floor, and several windows; but a fire had been kindled in a large +white-tiled stove in one corner of it, and a pleasant heat was diffused +through the room. His mother was lying down on a red velvet sofa, +which threw a tinge of rosy color upon her face, yet she looked to him +somewhat pale and sad. + +"I may be a little overtired," she said, in answer to his anxious +question, "and I am somehow depressed--oddly depressed. We have been +so gay and happy these last few days, that I can hardly bear to feel +myself going down to a lower level. I feel a great longing for your +father to be with me. Philip, do you ever feel as if you had been in +some place before, even if you knew for certain that you never can have +been there?" + +"I have felt it once," he replied. + +"I feel it here," she continued, sighing; "I feel it very strongly. I +feel, too, as if your father had been here; of course that is possible, +though he never mentioned it to me. It seems almost as if I could see +him passing to and fro, and sitting here by my side, just as you are +sitting. And I have another sensation--as if for years I had been +traveling unconsciously toward one spot, and it is here, this valley, +this room. You know I am not superstitious, but if I cannot shake off +this feeling, we must go on somewhere else. It is foolish of me, but I +cannot stay here. I am positively afraid of going to bed, for I shall +not sleep. Look at that great bed in the corner; it frightens me. Yet +I never am afraid." + +"You are overdone, mother," he said tenderly. "I have not taken care +of you, but left myself to be taken care of. Let Dorothy come and +sleep with you; you would not be afraid with her sweet, happy face +beside you." + +"It is sweet and happy," answered Margaret, with a smile. "Yes, I will +have a bed made up for her here, and if I lie awake in the night I can +look across at her, sleeping as if she felt herself under the shadow of +God's wings." + +"Ah, mother!" he cried, "if you only loved my Phyllis as you love +Dorothy!" + +"I may do some day," she replied. "When she is your wife and my +daughter-in-law, she will be nearer to me even than Dorothy." + +He put his arm round her and kissed her gratefully, but in silence. He +knew that she could never love Phyllis as she loved Dorothy. Phyllis, +with her little petulancies, her pretty maneuvers, her arch plottings +to get her own way, her love of ornament and display, all her pleasures +and her purposes, was too unlike Margaret ever to become the daughter +of her heart. But he must make up to Phyllis by a deeper devotion, a +more single attention to her wishes, even when they were opposed to his +own. Marrying her against the will and judgment of his father and +mother, he must make it evident to her, as well as to them, that he +never regretted acting on his own decision. + +"I am going up the mountains to-morrow morning," he said before leaving +her, "with a priest, to hear some great secret from an old woman who is +dying. Some tale of robbery, I expect. We start at six, and it is two +hours' up the mountain; but I shall get back for twelve o'clock +breakfast." + +The clock in the bell tower struck twelve before Margaret could resolve +upon lying down in the great square bed in the corner, which stood +almost as high as her own head. Dorothy had been fast asleep for some +time on the little bed that had been moved into the room, and the +girl's sweet, tranquil slumber in some measure dispelled her own +nervous fears. But the night was sleepless to her. She heard, every +quarter of an hour, the loud, single boom of the great bell, which +reassured the inhabitants of the valley that their watchman was awake +on his chilly tower, and looking out for any cause of alarm. Was it +possible that she had never listened to it before, so familiar the +sound was? Could this be the first night she had lain awake in this +weary chamber, longing for Sidney's presence, and watching with weary +eyes the gray light of the morning stealing through the chinks of the +shutters? Had she never wept before as she did now, with tears slowly +forcing themselves beneath her heavy eyelids? It was all a nervous +illusion, she told herself, proceeding from overstrain and fatigue; but +if it continued through the day, she must go on to some other place. +There would be no chance of rest for her here. + +She lay as still almost as if she had been stretched out in death, her +arms folded across her breast, and her eyelids closed. If she could +not take rest in sleep, she would commune with her own heart upon her +bed, and be still. "Thou, Lord, only makest me to dwell in safety," +she said. She reminded herself that nothing could befall her that God +had not willed. Death she had never feared since the day when she had +all but crossed the threshold of another life. The death of her +beloved ones would be an unspeakable sorrow to her, but not an +unendurable one. What else, then, was there to dread? + + + + +CHAPTER XXXI. + +MARTINO. + +The jagged crests of the eastern rocks were fringed with light from the +sun still lingering behind them, when Philip stepped out into the +frosty air of the morning, which made his veins tingle with a pleasant +glow. He enjoyed the prospect of this novel expedition, and felt glad +that he was the first English tourist of the season. All the town was +astir already, and the priest, with an acolyte, was awaiting him at the +church door, where mass was just over, and the congregation, chiefly of +women, was dispersing to their labors in the fields. Very soon the sun +was shining down on the mountain track they were taking, and the whole +valley lay below their eyes, lit up in its beams. The fields wore the +vivid green of early spring, after the melting of the snows and before +the scorching of the summer skies of brass. There were no song birds; +but once the harsh cry of a vulture startled Philip as it soared above +them, uttering its scream of anger. On the fir trees the crimson +flowers were hardening into cones, which would soon be empurpled and +bronzed by the sun, where they hung in great clusters on the boughs +just beyond his reach. He must bring Dorothy to see them, he thought. +As they mounted higher they came here and there upon broad patches of +gentian, so thickly grown that not a blade of green peeped among the +deep blue of the blossom. Spring flowers were blooming in profusion, +and their path lay once through a field of forget-me-nots, where the +grass was hidden under a mantle of pale, heavenly blue. Certainly he +would bring his mother and Dorothy to see such a pretty sight. + +Higher up the mountain path, which he could not have found without the +priest as a guide, the road grew rougher and more stony, and presently +they passed under the chill shadow of a long, high wall of rock. Here +the snow lay unmelted in great masses, as if it had fallen in +avalanches from the steep precipices above. But a path had been +trodden over them, hard and slippery as frosty roads are on mountain +passes where winter still reigns. Beyond these, in a valley lying high +up on the mountain side, was a group of miserable hovels. From every +roof there rose a cloud of smoke, as if they were all smoldering from +fire, and a volume of smoke issued from each open doorway. There was +neither chimney nor window in any of the rude dwellings. + +"Will the signore arrest himself here till I turn again?" asked the +priest courteously. + +Philip strolled on a little through a mass of broken rocks, split by +the frost from the precipices, and interspersed with tiny plots of +cultivated ground, wherever a handful of soil could be found. But in a +few minutes he heard shouts and yells from what might be called the +village street, and he turned back to see what was going on. The +priest, attended by his acolyte, had entered one of the huts; and now, +stealing away from it, Philip could see the gaunt and wretched figure +of a man, at whom the children were hooting loudly, though they kept at +a safe distance from him. He came on toward Philip with a shambling +gait, and with round, bowed shoulders, as if he had never stood +upright. His shaggy hair was long and matted together, and his beard +had been clumsily cut, not shaved, giving to him almost the aspect of a +wild beast. His clothes were rags of the coarsest texture. Yet there +was something--what could it be? not altogether strange and unfamiliar +in his face as he drew near. There was a deep glance in his gray eyes, +which lay sunken under heavy eyebrows, that seemed to speak some +intelligible language to him, as if he knew the same expression in a +well known face. The peasant passed by, muttering, and stopping +immediately behind him, as if using him as a screen, he picked up an +enormous piece of rock and flung it at the yelping children. + +"Martino! Martino!" they shrieked as they ran for refuge to their +miserable dens; and at the clamorous outcry a crew of dirty, half naked +women, who looked barely human, rushed out into the street, as if to +take vengeance on the irritated man; but at the sight of Philip they +paused for an instant, and then fled back again, banging their doors +behind them, as if fearful of an attack. + +At the sound of the cry "Martino," Philip for a moment fancied they +were calling to him; but quickly recalling to his mind where he was, he +felt how impossible it was for any creature here to know his name. +This poor fellow must bear it--an unlucky, pitiable namesake. He must +be a dangerous madman, he thought; yet when he looked round he saw the +man crouching quietly under a rock at a little distance, his shaggy +head buried in his hands. Philip's whole heart was stirred. He +approached him cautiously, saying, "Good-morning," and the peasant +lifted up his head and fixed his deep-set and mournful eyes upon him. + +"Here is a _lira_ for you," said Philip, by way of opening up a +friendly feeling between them. The man turned it about in his rough +hands, with something like a smile on his rugged face. Then he +crouched down at Philip's feet, with his hands upon the ground--the +attitude of a brute. + +"The good signore!" he exclaimed. + +The two young men presented a striking contrast. The one a handsome, +thoroughbred, refined Englishman, whose culture had been pushed to the +highest point, with all his powers of mind and body carefully trained, +full of pity and kindliness toward the almost savage and imbecile +creature, all but prostrate at his feet, who had grown up an outcast +and a thrall among barbarians. Philip compelled him to rise from his +knees. + +"What is your name?" he asked, speaking slowly and clearly. + +"Martino," he answered in a mumbling voice. + +"That is one of my names too," said Philip, with a light laugh. He +himself was struck with the utter contrast between them. The man was +the same height as himself, only his head hung low, and his shoulders +were rounded. Coarse and brutish as this Austrian peasant was, he felt +a peculiar kindness toward him, and looked at him with the eye of a +future patron and benefactor. If he had only been cared for sooner, +these large limbs might have made a fine man, and his head was not a +bad shape. Now he saw him near at hand there were possibilities about +him which would have made him quite another creature if he had been +taken in hand a few years earlier. It was too late now. + +They stood opposite to one another with friendliness in both faces, but +with the accursed barrier of different languages making it impossible +to communicate their kindly feelings. The peasant kept looking at the +coin in his grimy palm, and back again at Philip's compassionate face, +but he did not try to speak. Philip was about to make another effort, +when the priest approached and addressed a few sharp words to Martino, +who immediately shambled off, dragging his bare and horny feet along +over the stones and ice, in the direction of Cortina. + +"The respectable old person is now ready to receive the signore," said +the priest to Philip. + +He conducted him into the dark interior of one of the hovels, into +which no ray of light entered, except through the nick between the +doorpost and the door, which he left purposely ajar. Coming out of the +strong, clear light of the mountain side, for a minute or two Philip +could discern nothing; but by and by, in the darkness, there appeared +slowly and dimly a haggard, yellow face, wrinkled in a thousand lines, +with cunning eyes grown bleared and red, which wandered restlessly +between him and the priest. All else was dark and indistinguishable. +The black roof lay low, almost touching his head, and the black walls +hemmed him in closely. On the hearth a fire of dry dung was +smoldering, but gave no light; and the noisome smoke rose in wreaths +and columns which found a partial escape through the roof and doorway. +Philip took silent note of it all, with the calm interest of an +accidental bystander. + +"This person wishes to disclose a strange circumstance to the English +signore," said the priest with grave deliberation; "he understands the +Italian a little, I think so." + +"Only a little," answered Philip; "but if you will repeat to me slowly +what she says, I shall make out most of the meaning. And you can help +me, for you know more English than I do Italian." + +The priest bowed with a smile. There was, indeed, great difficulty to +make out the whole story, as Chiara told it in patois; but her manner +was intensely earnest, and Philip bent all his mind to catch the +meaning of her confession. It seemed an obscure and painful story of +some young English girl, who had been deserted by her lover at Cortina, +when she was about to become a mother, and who gave birth to the poor +unfortunate creature whom he had just seen. This man was half an +Englishman, the son of an English mother. This, then, was the secret +of his strange feeling of being almost akin to him. + +"Why did she not try to send him as a child to England?" he asked, +feeling a great rush of compassion toward the man who had been thus +deprived of his birthright. + +There was some hesitation about the reply. Chiara had confessed her +theft to the priest, but she had also left the stolen money to the +church for masses to be said for her soul. She had derived no benefit +from it during her lifetime, having grown to love it with all a miser's +infatuation, and she was not willing to sacrifice the good it might do +her in the life to which she was hastening. She could not run the risk +of having to give up her idolized plunder. The priest, also, was +unwilling for the church to lose any portion of its revenues. + +"Chiara took charge of the child," he said, "and sent it up here to be +nursed by her sister. When her sister died ten years ago she came to +live in this place herself, and Martino worked for her. It was fair +for Martino to work for her, when she paid for all he had." + +"Yes," answered Philip; "but did this woman take no measures to find +the father who deserted his child so basely?" + +"Not possible," exclaimed the priest; "there were few English tourists +passing this way thirty years ago. And Chiara began to love the boy, +and could not part with him." + +"But why does she tell the story now--now, when it is too late?" asked +Philip with a tone of passion in his voice. + +"She would not tell now," said the priest, "but she dies, as you +behold. She is poor, and there will be nothing for Martino. When she +is gone the other people here will stone him, or kill him in some way. +For his mother was a heretic, and they believe she is in hell, and +Martino is not a good Christian, though he was permitted to be +baptized. He is very savage, like a wild beast, and the women are +frightened of him. The men will kill him like a wild beast." + +"She wants to find a friend and protector for him," responded Philip +pitifully. "Well, I will take care of the poor fellow. Did the poor +girl leave nothing behind her which might give me some clew as to who +she belonged to? Martino may have some relations in England." + +"There is this little packet of papers in English," said the priest; "I +have not read them yet, for this person did not give them to me only a +moment ago. No person has ever read them, for she kept them safe and +secret all these years. She wishes the English signore to read them, +and say what can be done for Martino." + +"I cannot read them here," replied Philip, taking the yellow, +time-stained packet from his hand; "but if you will come to my hotel +this evening I will tell you the contents." + +"Very good," said the priest. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXII. + +AN OLD LETTER. + +Philip left the stifling atmosphere of the hovel, and, with a +deep-drawn breath of relief, stepped into the open air. The wonderful +landscape stretched before him in clear sunlight, dazzling to his eyes. +He was nearly two thousand feet above the valley, and the mountains, +which were foreshortened to the sight there, now seemed to tower into +the cloudless sky with indescribable grandeur and beauty. It was a +perfect day, and the light was intense. The colors of these rocks were +exceedingly soft, with a bloom upon them like the bloom upon a peach. +Tender shades of purple and red, with blue and orange, pale yellow and +green, blended together, and formed such delicate tints as would drive +an artist to despair. Tall pinnacles of these cliffs rose behind the +dun-colored mountains of porphyry, and seemed to look down upon him, as +if their turrets and parapets were filled with spectators of the +trivial affairs of man. Thin clouds were floating about them, hanging +in mist upon their peaks or slowly gliding across from one snow-veined +crest to another. Immediately above him, just beyond the hamlet, lay a +vast hollow, in which the snowdrift was melting in the heat of the sun, +which had at last risen behind its rough screen of crags; and a stream +of icy-cold water was falling noisily down a steep and stony channel, +which it had worn out for itself through many centuries of spring +thaws. The heat was very great; and Philip made his way to some little +distance from the huts, and sat down on the ledge of a rock, which +commanded a splendid view of the groups of mountains, and the valleys +lying between them. He was not, as yet, so interested in the packet in +his hand as to be indifferent to the romantic scenery surrounding him. +These letters had been written thirty years ago; they could well wait a +few minutes longer. + +Yet he was indignant; and he was full of compassion toward his +unfortunate fellow-countryman. But at that moment he was enjoying the +sensation of an almost perfectly full life. He felt himself in +faultless health; his mind was on the stretch, with a sense of vigor +and power which was delightful to him after the low spirits of the last +few months; and beneath this strong sensation of mental and physical +life lay a clearer, keener, diviner conviction of the presence of God +than he had ever known before. It seemed to him as if he could all but +hear a voice calling to him, "This is holy ground!" In spite of the +miserable homes of men and women close by, and in spite of the degraded +man whose life had been one long wretchedness in this place, Philip +felt that it was a temple of God himself. + +With this strength, and in the consciousness of unusual energy, he +turned away at last from the sublime landscape, to read the faded paper +in his hands. It bore no name or address; and it was not sealed, only +tied together with a ribbon. A very, very long letter of several +pages, written in almost undecipherable lines, for the ink was faded, +and the paper stained. But there was another packet, and opening it he +found a daguerreotype glass. There were two portraits on it, one of a +girl with a very pretty face, and the other--but whose could this +portrait be? + +Philip's healthy pulse ceased to beat for a moment. Who could it be? +How perfectly he seemed to know it! There had been an old +daguerreotype lying about in the nursery at Apley, which he had seen +and played with as soon as he was old enough to recognize it in its +morocco case. Was it possible that this portrait was the same as that? + +He shut the case softly, feeling as if dead hands were closing it. A +terrible foreboding of some dire calamity came all at once into the +sunshine, and the sweet air, and the sound of hurrying waters. He +unfolded the time-stained letter, and began to read; and as he read, +the dreadful truth, the whole truth, as he thought, broke upon him, and +overwhelmed him with dismay and horror. + +One of his earliest remembrances was the story of the lost girl, Rachel +Goldsmith's niece, who had gone away secretly from home and had never +again been heard of. As a boy he had often thought of how he would go +forth to find her, and bring her home again to his oldest friend, +Andrew Goldsmith. It had been his boyish vision of knight-errantry. +As a young man he had learned what such a loss meant; not the simple +loss he had fancied it as a boy. It had become in later years a +subject he could no longer mention to her father, or his own mother. +Philip's ideal of a man's duty toward a woman was of the purest and +most chivalrous devotion. + +And now! Philip could not face the horror of the thought that was +waiting to take possession of his mind. He roused himself angrily, and +stood up, crushing the letter and the portraits into his pocket. A +path went beyond the hamlet, leading upward toward the crest of a pass +lying between two ranges of mountains. He strode hastily along it, as +if he were pursued by an enemy, passing through pine woods, and over +torrents of stones, which many a storm had swept down from the +precipices above him. Some massive thunderclouds had gathered in the +north, and the snowy peaks gleamed out pale and ghost-like against the +leaden sky. But his eyes were blinded, and his ears deafened. Yet he +was not thinking; he dared not think. A miserable dread was dogging +his footsteps along an unknown path; and presently he must summon +courage to turn round and confront this dread. + +He reached at last the top of the pass, where three crosses stood out +strongly and clearly against the sky. Three crosses! Not only that on +which the Lord died, but those on which every man must hang, weary and +ashamed, at some moment of his life. He sat down beneath the central +one, and leaned against the foot of it. It was his Lord's cross; but +on each side stood the cross of a fellow-man--the man of sorrows, and +the man of sins. He, too, was come to the hour when he must be lifted +up upon his cross. He must be crucified upon it, perhaps in the sight +of men, certainly in the sight of God. He had come to it straight from +the conviction of the presence of God; and looking up to the three +empty crosses, he cried out, "Lord, remember me." + +Then, with hands that shook, and with dazed eyes, he read the long +letter, which Sophy had written years before he was born. And as he +read he found the burden less intolerable than he had dreaded it would +be. His father had not been as base as his first miserable suspicion +had vaguely pictured him. Sophy Goldsmith had been his wife; and +Philip, counting how many years were passed, saw his father a young man +like himself, loving her as he loved Phyllis, but with far less hope of +ever gaining the consent of his friends to such a marriage. He, too, +would have married Phyllis, in spite of all opposition; only not in +secret. + +His brain grew clearer with this gleam of comfort. Then the thought +came that the miserable, half savage peasant whom he had seen that +morning, being Sophy's child, must be his father's first-born son, and +his own brother. It was his father's eyes he had seen, and partly +recognized, when he first looked into Martin's face. His brother +Martin! He thought of his brother Hugh, between whom and himself there +existed the strongest and most loyal brotherhood. Hugh had stood by +him through all his difficulties about Phyllis, and approved of his +choice of her with the warmest approbation. But this barbarous, +degraded, forlorn wretch, an outcast among the lowest people--how could +he feel a brother's love for him? + +If the eldest son--then the heir! The estates in Yorkshire were +strictly entailed upon Sir John Martin's male heirs, as his mother's +lands were settled upon Hugh. This man, scarcely higher than a brute, +must take from him the inheritance which had seemed to be his all his +life. Why! he, Philip Martin, would be a poor man, a man who must work +for his living. This was a new aspect of the case, and one which +aroused him from the deeper depths of his dismay. This discovery +suddenly and completely changed his whole life. + +It was not he who would some day be Philip Martin of +Brackenburn--nothing would be his. Now he could marry Phyllis without +opposition, for he would be as poor as she was. He was not afraid of +poverty; he had no practical acquaintance with it, and Margaret had +trained her sons into a fine contempt of mere wealth. There would be a +worthy object in setting to work now, for he would have a wife and +family to maintain. That was far better than simply making more money +to invest or to speculate with. + +But what ought he to do? This was a secret of momentous importance +concealed by his father for nearly thirty years. It had come suddenly +to his knowledge; and what must he do with it? And now, his heart +having shaken off the worst of its burden, his mind was clear enough to +recognize the hideous and insane selfishness of his father's conduct. +Before he knew who it was that had deserted this young girl and her +unborn child, he had felt a strong indignation at his baseness and +cowardice. What could have made his father, who seemed the soul of +honor, act in such a manner? He had been guilty of a great crime, and +the man sent to discover it was his own son. + +Lifting up his eyes from the ground, on which they had been gloomily +bent, Philip saw the uncouth figure of his elder brother crouching and +half hidden under one of the thieves' crosses. His bare feet had +brought him noiselessly along the road; and he shrank a little from his +observation, as if he was afraid of some sharp rebuff. The deep-set +eyes glowered at him much as a dog's will do when he is not sure of +what reception he will get. There was something wild and desolate +about this solitary figure which touched Philip's inmost heart; and yet +he could give him no welcome to a place there. + +Must he tell his mother? It would be like piercing her to the soul +with a sword. He knew well what keen and tender sympathy she had felt +for the Goldsmiths, both when Sophy first disappeared and during all +the succeeding years of alternating hope and despair. It was this +sympathy that had won Rachel Goldsmith's profound devotion to her +beloved mistress. How his mother must suffer when she learned that the +husband she loved and honored so perfectly had been living a base and +cruel lie at her side, witnessing all the sorrow of the family he had +wronged, and pretending to share in it. He could imagine her bearing +his father's death, but he could not imagine her bearing his dishonor. +His mother must suffer more than he did. + +Philip roused himself at last to go down into the valley; the afternoon +was passing by, and his mother would be getting anxious at his absence. +He said "_Addio_" to his silent companion; but he was conscious, +without looking back, that Martino was following him. He felt glad +when he reached Cortina, on glancing round, to see that he was at last +alone. Dorothy was standing on the balcony outside his mother's +bedroom, and she leaned over, with a laughing face, to reproach him for +being away so long. + +"The very first day, too!" she said. "And oh! if you only knew how +vexed I am! There is a telegram from your father, very pleasant for +you, but most disagreeable to me." + +He ran upstairs at hearing this news, no longer afraid of meeting his +mother, and she gave to him the telegram. + +"Going to Munich on business," it ran; "proceed immediately--meet +there. Taking Phyllis." + +"But there is a great _festa_ in the village to-morrow," said Dorothy, +"and as it is too late to proceed immediately, we are going to stay for +the morning and go on to Toblach in the afternoon. We shall reach +Munich before your father and Phyllis can be there. And oh, Philip! +the bells are ringing carillons as if they were chimes in heaven." + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIII. + +A VILLAGE "FESTA." + +Philip went down to the presbytery and had a short interview with the +padre. Chiara was dying at last; the sacraments had been administered +to her, and her life could not linger on through many hours. What did +the English signore propose to do for his penniless countryman? + +Philip answered briefly that he would take steps to restore him to his +family. He then went to the telegraph office and dispatched another +message to his father. "Received yours. Urgent reasons for your +presence here." + +He would accompany his mother to-morrow to Toblach; but he could not +quit the neighborhood until something could be decided about his +brother. His brother! He stood still abruptly in the village street, +with a half laugh of stupefied amazement. His brother! It must be +some egregious blunder of his own imagination; his brain had been +weakened by the fever. He turned away into a by-road and cautiously +took out the letter and the morocco case. No, that was his father's +portrait; he recognized it too well. The eyes looking out of the faded +daguerreotype resembled the sad, frank, frightened eyes of the +oppressed and persecuted outcast. + +He did not venture indoors again until dinner time, and immediately +after dinner he complained of fatigue. Margaret went to his room +before going to bed herself, entering very softly through the door +between their two chambers lest he should be sleeping. He knew she +stood for a minute or two beside him, shading the lamp with her hand; +but he dared not move or speak. She bent over him and laid her lips on +his hair that she might run no risk of awakening him. He had never +loved her so much as at this moment, and he longed to throw his arms +round her neck and tell her what was troubling him, as he had done when +he was a boy not so very long ago. But he could not tell her this +sorrow; would it not crush her to death? Would to God he could die if +his death would save her! + +The morning was wonderfully bright and sunny, and through the +transparent thinness of the air the most distant peaks shone clearly, +with their soft colors and delicate tracery of snow. The _festa_ began +early with the ringing of bells and the firing of musketry. Long files +of peasantry came down in troops along the narrow tracks leading from +the valley to the mountains. Margaret and Dorothy hurried over their +coffee and rolls to hasten down to the church. But it was already +full, and hundreds of women and children were kneeling outside the +western door, and a similar crowd of men outside the northern door. +Some women sitting on a bench offered a seat to Margaret, whose +beautiful face was lit up with an expression of sympathy with their +devotion. The women, like the men, were praying with their hats in +their hands, bareheaded under a burning sun. Margaret shared a prayer +book with the peasant woman beside her, and read the prayers and +meditations in Italian; while here and there the woman marked with her +thumb some special words, and looked up into her face to see if she was +"_sympatica_"; and she and her companions smiled as they saw Margaret's +lips move with the uttering of the same prayers they were themselves +repeating. + +Presently, amid the ringing of the bells and to the music of a brass +band, a procession was formed, and all the congregation thronged out of +the church, and those who had been praying without fell into their +places--men, and women, and children. There were altars erected in the +streets, at which mass was to be celebrated; and the long procession +filed away with many banners fluttering along it. Last of all, and at +a little distance from the rest, there came a man whom Margaret had +already noticed as standing aloof, half hidden behind a corner of a +wall. He was an uncouth creature, tall and ungainly, with uncut, +matted hair, and a coarse beard; yet there was something in his whole +appearance that reminded her of somebody she knew. + +"Why!" exclaimed Dorothy in accents of surprise. "Look! look! How +like that poor fellow is to Andrew Goldsmith!" + +Yes, that was it. This awkward Tyrolean peasant, who hardly knew how +to use his great limbs, was like Andrew--oddly like him; he might have +been Andrew's own son. She smiled at the oddity of such a resemblance; +but apart from this, the man's solitariness and aloofness interested +her greatly. She turned to the old woman beside her, who was sitting +still, waiting for the procession to accomplish part of its route +before she joined it. + +"Who is that poor man?" she inquired. + +"He is English," replied the woman, "an Englishman who was born here in +the very hotel itself where the signora is staying. Will she wish to +hear all the circumstances? Because I know; I was a servant there when +Martino was born." + +"Is his name Martino?" asked Margaret. + +"Yes, signora," she went on eagerly; "I will tell the English lady. It +is nearly thirty years ago, a little later than this _festa_. An +English signore and signora came to the hotel, and the name written in +the register by the signore was Martino. So when the child was born he +was named Martin; and Saint Martin is his patron, but the saint has +done nothing for him, because his parents were heretics, and not +Christians." + +"Martin!" repeated Margaret, with growing interest; "but what became of +the parents?" + +"The little mother died, poor soul, in giving him birth," said the old +woman, "and lies buried yonder in the cemetery, and Chiara took the boy +for her own. Chiara was the head servant in the hotel, and folks say +she made money by it in some way; but there was not much money in the +signora's trunks--only enough to bury her; or if there was money, it +never did Chiara any good, poor soul! They say she lies dying this +morning up yonder in a hut on the hills, and all she will hear of the +_festa_ is the ringing of the bells and the firing of the cannon. +She's no older than I am; and you behold me!" + +"But the father of Martino," said Margaret, "what became of him?" + +"An old story," she answered; "he had forsaken her three or four weeks +before the boy was born. He was a fine, handsome signore, and she +worshiped him. But what then? Young signori cannot trouble themselves +about girls. Why should they? Girls are too plentiful. He went off +one fine day, and nobody ever saw him again." + +"But did no one try to find him on account of his child?" asked +Margaret. + +"Once," said the woman, "about six years after, a strange Englishman +came here in the winter, and made inquiries, and saw the boy. But he +went away again, and no more was heard of him. Chiara brought the boy +up to be her servant. Her servant? Her slave! His life was worse +than a dog's. We are poor here, signora, but Martino is the poorest +creature of us all. He never had as much as he could eat; not once in +his life. Old Chiara is a skinflint." + +The procession was out of sight, but the monotonous chant droned by +thousands of voices came plainly to their ears. Margaret listened to +the strange sound, with eyes dim with tears for the poor fellow, whose +life was so desolate and hard. + +"Will the lady wish to see the grave of the pretty English girl?" asked +the woman, with an eye to a possible gratuity. "It is not far off in +the cemetery, and we shall be there before the procession passes." + +"I will go," said Margaret in a pitying voice. "Dorothy, stay and +bring Philip to me." + +The murmur of the chanted prayers filled the quiet air as they passed +down a side lane toward the cemetery, broken only by the clashing of +the bells and the firing of cannon at the moment when the Host was +elevated. This triumphal burst of noisy sound came as they passed +through the gates of the neglected burial ground, and Margaret's guide +fell down on her knees and waited until the chant was renewed. Then +she led the way to the corner, apart from the other graves, and +somewhat more overgrown with weeds and nettles, where Sophy lay buried. + +There was a rude cross at the head of the grave, made of two bits of +wood nailed clumsily together; and round it lay an outline of white +pebbles. To-day, a handful of blue gentians lay upon it. There was a +pathetic sadness about these awkward efforts to care for the grave, as +if some bungler had done his best to express his grief, and had +scarcely known what to do. The tears fell fast from Margaret's eyes as +she laid her hand reverently on the rough wood of the cross. + +"Has that poor fellow done this?" she asked. + +"Yes, signora," was the answer, "it's his mother's grave. The pretty +English girl is buried here. I can recollect her well, with blue eyes +and gold hair, and a skin like roses and lilies. He called her Sophy." + +Margaret started. A sudden pang shot through her heart. After all +these years was she to discover the fate of the poor girl, whose loss +she had mourned so long, in this remote spot? Could this be Sophy +Goldsmith's grave? And oh! how sorrowful beyond all their fears must +her sad lot have been! Dying, alone, deserted; leaving behind her a +child who had grown into this miserable pariah of the mountains. +Swiftly the thought of Andrew Goldsmith, and his dark, deep grief when +he learnt all, passed through her mind. + +The refrain of the chant came nearer, and the long procession had +reached the doors of the church close to the cemetery. Suddenly the +peasant woman broke the silence with which she had respected Margaret's +tears. + +"Will the signora pardon me if I leave her?" she asked. "They are +going into church now. God!" she cried in a tone of terror, "here is +the young English signore himself! the signore who forsook the poor +English girl. Oh, my God!" + +Margaret turned round, with a sickening sensation of terror, such as +she had never felt before, as if she would be compelled to see some +dreaded vision. Coming slowly toward them down the weedy path of the +cemetery was Philip, with Dorothy at his side. Both looked grave, as +if they felt the desolation of the neglected spot; but there was an air +of moody preoccupation about Philip, as though his thoughts were +dealing with some subject a thousandfold more sad than the uncared-for +dead. + +"No, no," continued the woman, "it cannot be! The signore would be an +old man now; it is thirty years ago. But just so he looked, and just +so he walked. Did the signora know the poor girl who is buried here +called Sophy, Martino's mother?" + +"Hush! hush!" cried Margaret, in an agony of apprehension; "say nothing +more now. This is my son. Go away to church, and I will see you again +some time soon." + +A moment afterward Philip was standing opposite to her, looking down on +the rudely outlined grave and the rough cross. Neither of them spoke. +He did not ask whose grave it was; and her parched lips could have +given him no answer. + +"It looks like a God-forsaken spot," said Dorothy, pityingly. "Oh, how +can people leave their dear ones in such a desolate graveyard? I +always fancy 'the field to bury strangers in,' which was bought with +the money Judas flung away, must have been such a place as this." + +But neither Margaret nor Philip answered her, and she looked up in +surprise. Margaret's face was like that of one stunned and almost +paralyzed by a sudden shock; her eyes were fixed, and her lips half +open, as if she was gazing on some sight of horror. It was but for a +brief half minute; then she sighed heavily, and tears fell fast and +thick down her pale cheeks. + +"O Philip!" cried his mother, "let us go away quickly from this place. +Let us start at once. I am not myself here. Take me away as quickly +as we can go." + +"Yes, mother," he answered, drawing her hand tenderly through his arm. +He did not dare to ask her any question. He guessed whose grave this +was by which she was standing, and felt sure that she knew something of +the dread secret that oppressed himself. But it was impossible for him +to ask her. She stood nearer to his father even than he did. The +close, inseparable, sacred nature of the tie that unites man and wife +struck him as it had never done before. Any sin of her husband would +be an intolerable burden to her. + +He hurried their departure from the hotel, though it was difficult to +get a carriage on a _festa_ day like this. But at length they started, +and he felt that every step taking them away from Cortina was a gain. +They passed little groups of peasants going homeward; and the sound of +church bells ringing joyous peals pursued them for several miles. But +they left the valley behind them after a time. The drive they were +hurrying over was one of the most beautiful in Europe, but only Dorothy +saw it that day. Once, when she saw a red peak, with clouds rolling +across it, and the spots of crimson gleaming like flames beneath the +vapor, and a pale gray rock close by looking ghostlike beside it, she +turned to Margaret with a low exclamation of delight. But Margaret's +eyes were closed, and her ears were deaf. A vague, undefined terror in +her soul had almost absolute rule over her. She must have been blind +and deaf to the glories of heaven itself, with that fear of an almost +impossible crime in her husband which was haunting her. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIV. + +A FORCED CONFESSION. + +In fleeing as swiftly as she could from Cortina, Margaret had no +intention of deserting Sophy's son. But it seemed essential to her to +get away from the spot for a little while, that her brain might be +clear enough for thought. They stopped, then, at Toblach, at the +entrance of the Ampezzo Valley, and only half a day's journey from +Cortina. It was a relief to her to hear that Philip had already +telegraphed for his father, and as he must pass through Toblach they +waited for him there. + +The tumult in Margaret's mind calmed a little, but still she shrank +from gathering up the threads of what she had heard at Cortina and +weaving them together. Sophy Goldsmith lay buried there, and her son +was living and bore the name of Martin. Philip had been recognized as +being like the man who had deserted her and left her to die. Her mind +constantly recurred to these points. She reproached herself vehemently +for suffering any doubt of Sidney to invade her love for him. Her love +was so deep and vital that it seemed impossible for doubt to undermine +it. If any human being could know another, she felt that she must know +her husband's nature; and treachery and vice were abhorrent to it. She +did not call him faultless, but she had seen none besides the little +flaws and errors which must always hang about frail humanity--such as +she was herself guilty of. "Who can understand his errors? Cleanse +thou me from secret faults," was a prayer often in Margaret's heart; +and she had never been prone to mark little sins, such as men and women +outgrow, if their path be upward. Sidney's whole life lay before her +in the clear and searching light of their mutual love and close +companionship; and looking at it thus she refused to believe any evil +of him, and tried to shut her eyes to the black cloud dimming her +horizon. + +But there could not but be times when doubt and suspicion stole like +traitors into her heart. There was no doubt in her clear brain that it +was Sophy Goldsmith who was lying in that forsaken grave, and that the +wretched pariah she had seen was Andrew Goldsmith's grandson. That was +terrible enough; a most mournful discovery to come upon after so many +years of faint hope, and of constant grief. But if the man who wrought +all this misery, and was guilty of this base treachery, should prove to +be Sidney! It was incredible; it was madness to believe it. + +All this time Margaret did not cease to trust in the love of God, and +in his love toward all men. Though fierce tempests troubled the very +depths of her soul, below them was a deeper depth, not of her own soul, +but of that Eternal Spirit in whom she lived, and moved, and had her +being. She was conscious of resting in this love. But a child resting +in its mother's arms, and on her breast, may suffer agonies of pain. +So Margaret suffered. + +Sidney was in London when Philip dispatched his first message from +Cortina. It was evening when he sent it, and the first thing the next +morning it reached his father's hands. Margaret had written from +Venice as soon as their departure had been decided upon; but Sidney had +not as yet received the letter. Philip's telegram, therefore, came +upon him like a thunderbolt falling out of a clear blue sky. He had +felt no forewarning of this danger. Their route on their return from +Venice had been settled before he left them, and so accustomed was he +to arrange and direct the movements of all about him, that no +apprehension of any change of plan had crossed his mind. It was only +of late that the conviction that his son was a man, and one who would +assert and enjoy the freedom of manhood, had been thrust upon him. It +was evident that Philip had felt himself man enough to change his route +homeward as it pleased him. + +They were in Cortina; but if they were merely passing through there was +but little risk of them learning Sophy's fate. He must get them away +from the dangerous place immediately. For a few minutes he was at a +loss how to do this. Then the plan of setting off himself for Munich +on business occurred to him; and to ensure Philip's prompt compliance +he resolved to take Phyllis with him. He sent a messenger to bring her +hurriedly to London, and they started at night, Phyllis in a whirl of +delight and triumph at Sidney's surrender to her. They were well on +their way to Munich before Philip's second telegram reached London. + +But when they arrived at Munich, instead of his wife and son awaiting +him at his hotel, he found Philip's message repeated in a telegram from +his confidential clerk. Then his heart sank and was troubled. This +summons to Cortina indicated too plainly that his sin had found him +out. His sin! From one point of view--the lenient judgment of a man +of the world--it did not seem a very grievous one. It was nothing +worse than the too close concealment of a boyish blunder. His first +wife had been dead years before he married Margaret; and he had +confessed this secret marriage to her father. With most women there +would be tears and reproaches, followed by forgiveness. But Margaret +would have a point of view of her own. What would she feel about the +ugly fact when she learned that Sophy had died alone and deserted? +Still more, what would she feel about the prolonged concealment as it +affected Andrew Goldsmith and her favorite maid, Rachel? But for these +things he might have reckoned upon her full pardon. + +Phyllis was traveling with him, and demanded a good deal of his +attention. She was a little exacting as a companion, and could not sit +in silence for an hour together. Her spirits were high, for she felt +that now indeed Sidney's objections to her marriage with Philip were +overcome, and that he must consent to an early date for it. When she +kept silence for half an hour she was settling weighty questions about +her trousseau, and wondering if Sidney could not be managed in such a +way as to be persuaded to give her a handsome sum toward the purchase +of it. She knew her father could not spare her a tenth of the money +she would wish for. How delicious it was to be rich! Sidney never +gave a second thought to any of the expenses of their luxurious mode of +traveling; and before long this would be her own experience. +"Sovereigns will be like shillings to me," she said to herself, and the +thought made her very happy. Every whim of her heart would be +gratified when she was Philip's wife. + +In the meanwhile Philip was suffering less than his mother, but with +more certain knowledge of facts. There was no conflict in his mind +between love and suspicion. His love for his father, whom until lately +he had loved passionately, seemed to be scorched up in the fierce fire +of his indignation. He had been guilty of the meanest perfidy, and all +his after life had been one of shameful hypocrisy. As Philip wandered +solitarily about the beautiful pine woods at Toblach, he wore himself +out with thinking of old Andrew Goldsmith, and his lifelong grief, with +his loyal devotion to the man who was dealing treacherously with him, +who month after month, and year after year, had let him hunger and +thirst for the knowledge of his daughter's fate, and had withheld the +truth from him. He thought of his mother, too, whose steadfast, tender +affection for his father had been his ideal of a happy married love. +How would these two, who were most closely concerned with it, bear the +discovery? How would their lives go on after they knew it? + +When Sidney and Phyllis arrived at the little station at Toblach they +found Philip and Dorothy there to meet them. Dorothy welcomed him with +her usual frank delight at seeing him, and she received Phyllis with +shy friendliness. But Sidney saw in an instant that, as far as Philip +was concerned, his worst fears were realized. He looked as if years +had passed over him; and not even the coming of Phyllis brought a gleam +of pleasure to his face. + +She unwound the long gauze veil in which she had enveloped her head, +and looked up at Philip with a coquettish grace. + +"All this way have I traveled to see you," she said archly, "thousands +and thousands of miles, and you look as grim as if I was a horrible +fright." + +"No, no, Phyllis," he answered, taking both of her hands in his. "If I +could feel glad at anything it would be to see you again. But my +mother is ill----" + +"Ill?" interrupted his father. "Your mother ill? Take me to her at +once." + +"I have something to tell you first," said Philip in a low voice. +"Dorothy will take Phyllis to the hotel; and, if you are not too tired, +will you come with me a little way along the road yonder?" + +"I am not tired," answered Sidney. + +They walked away from the station toward the entrance of the Ampezzo +Valley. Every step of the road was familiar to Sidney, for it was at +Toblach he had waited for Sophy, when he had left her in a boyish +passion so many years ago. The boy walking beside him was the very +image of what he had been then. He glanced at him again and again, in +the promise of his immature manhood, scarcely a man yet, but full of a +force and vigor, both of mind and body, not yet tempered and solidified +by the experience that later years would bring. Philip strode along +with the sternness of a youthful judge. His heart was very hot within +him. It was his father on whom he sat in judgment, or he would have +poured out his wrath in uncontrolled vehemence. He did not know how to +begin to speak to his father. + +"Well, Philip," said his father, at last, when they were quite out of +sight and hearing of their fellow-men. + +They had wandered down to the margin of a little lake, in which the +pale gray peaks were reflected faultlessly. The wind moaned sadly in +the topmost branches of the fir trees surrounding them, and overhead a +vulture was flying slowly from crest to crest, and uttered a wild, +piercing cry as Sidney's voice broke the silence. + +"Philip!" he repeated, looking imploringly into his son's face. + +"Father," he said, "I have found out what became of Sophy Goldsmith." + +They were simple words, and Sidney expected to hear them, yet they came +like a deathblow from his son's lips. There was in Philip's voice so +much grief and wonder, such contempt and indignation, that his father +shrank from him as if he had given him physical pain. If his sin had +but found him out in any other way than this! For Philip was dearer to +him than all else--except, perhaps, Margaret. His love, and pride, and +ambition, centered in his son. He had discovered how precious he was +to him during that long journey to Venice, when the dread of his death +had traveled with him. And now it was Philip who spoke in those +unmerciful tones, whose stern face was turned away, as if he could not +endure to look at him. The bitterness of the future would more than +balance the prosperity of the past if his son was alienated from him. + +"Philip," he said in hesitating words, "I loved her--just as you love +Phyllis. I was as old as you. I could not give her up. And my uncle +would never have consented. It was a boyish infatuation. I did not +love her as I love your mother--my Margaret!" he cried with a sharp of +pain in his voice; "but just as you love Phyllis, I loved Sophy, and I +dared not run the risk of losing her. I cannot cut you off from your +inheritance, let you marry as you please, but my uncle could have +thrust me upon the world a penniless man." + +"Do you think I could ever forsake Phyllis?" asked Philip with scorn. + +"Not as you are; probably never," answered his father; "for she could +never be so unfitted to be your daily companion as Sophy was to be +mine. To be linked with a woman who is immeasurably your inferior is a +worse fate than any words can tell. She was not like her father, or +Rachel. She was vain and ignorant, vulgar and passionate. We had +terrible scenes together before we parted; and I did not intend to +forsake her. Listen, and I will tell you how it came about." + +"I was but a boy, no older than yourself," he said as he finished his +account. + +"But when did you know that she was dead?" inquired Philip. + +"Not till after I knew your mother and loved her," he answered. "I let +things drift till then, always dreading that Sophy would make her +appearance and claim a position as my wife. Then I sent out a +confidential man to make inquiries, and he learned her sad fate. I +sinned, Philip; but my punishment will be harder than I can bear if I +lose the love of my wife and children." + +"But why did you desert your son?" Philip asked. + +"My son?" he repeated. + +"Yes," continued Philip bitterly, "your first-born son, the child of +Sophy Goldsmith! How often you have called me your first-born son! +Oh, father, why did you desert my elder brother?" + +Sidney stood speechless. His first-born son, the child of Sophy +Goldsmith! This beloved boy here, in whom he had taken so deep a +pride; who had been all he could wish for in a son; his heir, for whom +he had worked and striven so hard to make for him a great place and a +great name in the world, was not his first-born. There was an Ishmael +risen up to dispute his inheritance with him. + +"Philip!" he exclaimed, "you are deceived, cheated. There was no +living child." + +"But I have seen him," persisted Philip. "He is living near Cortina +still. And I recognize a likeness to you. All the people know that he +is the son of the English girl who died there thirty years ago. I have +a letter here from Sophy Goldsmith; and there are no proofs missing to +establish Martin's claims." + +He gave the letter into his father's hands, and strolled away along the +margin of the lake, that Sidney might be alone as he read it. Philip +felt how terrible a moment this must be in his father's life; and a new +and pacifying sense of compassion sprang up amid the fierce fire of his +indignation. It was no longer a man in the prime of life, with the +shrewdness, and wisdom, and experience of life, who had been guilty of +this base act, but a youth like himself, who had drifted into it +through the adverse current of circumstances. When he heard his +father's voice calling to him presently, he went back with a feeling of +fellowship toward him. His father's face was gray and drawn, as if he +could hardly bear his anguish, and his voice was low and broken. + +"My boy," he cried, "forgive me! Have pity upon me!" + +"Oh, I do!" said Philip, clasping his hand and holding it in a grasp +like a vise, while the tears came into his eyes. "I pity you, father; +I pity you with all my heart!" + +"Does your mother know all this?" inquired Sidney after a while. + +"She knows something," he answered, "but not through me; and she has +not spoken to me. I made up my mind to see you and tell you all before +you met her." + +"That was right," said Sidney. + +There was another silence, for their hearts were too full for words, +and their thoughts were busy. It was Sidney who spoke first. + +"It would break your mother's heart to know all," he said, "and we must +not acknowledge this man as my son. Listen to me before you speak. He +is a man now; and he would be miserable if we took him away from all +his old surroundings, his home, and his friends. It would be good for +him to remain as he is. I will make him a rich man; richer than any of +his neighbors. But he must not come to England; he cannot take your +place. Does anyone but you know that he is my son?" + +"No," answered Philip. + +"Then for the sake of everyone concerned we must keep this secret to +ourselves," continued his father. "I would not ask you to do it if we +had to sacrifice this man's happiness or welfare; but he would be +tenfold happier and better off here, in his own place, than in England +as my son and heir. That must not be, Philip. Do you think he could +be otherwise than wretched in England?" + +"He is wretched now," said Philip, as the recollection of the poor, +persecuted outcast of the little hamlet came vividly to his mind. + +"I will make him a rich man," said his father, "rich and prosperous. +He shall have all his heart can desire; but I cannot acknowledge him as +my son." + +"Oh, father!" exclaimed Philip, "no money can undo the wrong you have +done him. He has led the life of a brute, and is as ignorant as a +brute. He has been browbeaten and trampled on all his life. They have +made a slave of him, and money will do him no good. It is we who must +lift him out of his misery, and care for him, and teach him all that a +man of thirty can learn. Don't think of me. Surely I can bear this +burden; I have no dread of being a poor man. But I could never forsake +my brother. If he is your son, he is my brother, and I owe him a +brother's duty." + +"Your mother must know, then?" said Sidney in a tone of entreaty. + +"Yes," he answered. + +"It will break her heart!" exclaimed his father. + +"My mother would rather have her heart broken than that any wrong +should be done," replied Philip. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXV. + +BEGINNING TO REAP. + +Sidney found himself too unprepared for an immediate interview with +Margaret to return with Philip to the hotel. He felt that he must be +alone to realize the full meaning of his position. It was a matter +almost of life and death to him. The country round was familiar to +him, though it was thirty years since he had seen it, and he soon found +a path which led him away to such a solitude as he sought. Busy as his +brain was, he was at the same time intensely alive to all the +impressions of nature. He felt the scorching heat of the sun, and saw +the shapes of the lofty peaks surrounding him, and heard the humming of +insects, and the trickling of little brooks down the mountain side. It +was a magnificent day, he said to himself. Yet all the while his mind +was plotting as to how he could arrest the storm that was beating +against that fair edifice, which he had been building for himself and +for Philip through so many years. It was a house without a foundation, +built upon the sand, and he, the architect, was discovering too late +that there was no foundation to it. But it must not be. If he could +only bend Margaret to his will, convincing her reason--for she was a +reasonable woman--he did not fear failure with Philip. It was so easy +and so rational a thing to leave this man where he had been brought up, +of course providing amply for him. It would be so difficult and so +inexpedient to acknowledge him, and to place him in the position of +heir to large estates. Surely Margaret would see how irrational, how +impossible it was to deprive Philip of that which had been his +birthright for so many years, in favor of one who was ignorant that he +had any birthright at all, and who would be placed in a miserably false +position if it was granted to him. + +He argued the question over with himself till he was satisfied of the +ground on which he based it. It was not for himself, but for their +first-born son, he would plead. Surely she would keep this secret for +Philip's sake if not for his. + +He turned back along the mountain path down into the valley, amazed to +see that it was already the hour of sunset. Margaret must have been +wondering what had kept him so long away from her. Was it possible +that she could have been so near to him, after an absence of some weeks +too, and he had not yet seen her? He thought of the strong, smooth +current of their love for one another, which had known hitherto no +break or interruption, no suspicion or shadow of disappointment. She +had been more to him than he had ever dreamed that a wife could be. +She was a thousandfold dearer to him now than when she became his wife +twenty-three years ago. If she was estranged from him, what would his +life be worth? + +He saw Dorothy and Phyllis sitting together in their little balcony +overhead, and heard them chattering and laughing together with the +light-hearted laughter of young girls. This reassured him; for Dorothy +would not be so merry if Margaret was very ill or very sad. He passed +on to her room and entered it. She sat in the twilight alone, her +hands grasping the arms of her chair as if for support, and her face, +ashy pale, turned toward him, with no smile or look of gladness upon +it. He stood still at some distance, looking across at her as if a +great gulf lay between them. + +"Margaret!" he cried at last. + +Her face quivered and her lips trembled, but she did not speak; only +her dark eyes gazed searchingly on him, as if she longed to understand +him without words. She shrank from hearing his confession. + +"Margaret," he said, "you have discovered the fate of Sophy Goldsmith!" + +The color mounted swiftly to her white face, and she bent her head; but +she kept silence. Sidney felt that he must still remain at a distance +from her. + +"My darling!" he said mournfully, "you were only a child when I married +her; I was little more than a boy myself, not older than Philip." + +"You married her?" she asked, lifting up her head with a deep sigh of +relief; "oh, how much better it will be for her poor father and my +Rachel!" + +"Yes, she was my wife," he replied, "but I never loved her as I have +loved you, Margaret." + +"But why did you not tell?" she asked; "why did you not let me have +your boy to bring up with my own? How could you live with me hiding +such a secret from me? I let you read the inmost thoughts of my heart. +How could you hide this secret from me?" + +"I told your father," he answered, "and he agreed it was better kept +secret." + +"How many more secret chambers in your past are there which I must +never enter?" she said. "And this secret, the most sacred of them all, +that you were a father before I knew you--how could you keep this from +me?" + +"But I did not know it," he replied. "I concealed my marriage out of +fear of being disinherited by my uncle. Sophy had driven me mad by her +temper, and I left her at Cortina, but I stayed here for some days +expecting her to follow me. She had plenty of money, and knew very +well how to manage for herself. Though I went on without her I left at +each place a letter directing her where to go and what to do. +Certainly I ought to have gone back, but I thought she was sulking with +me. I know she was but a girl; I also was but a boy. I could not feel +toward her as a man feels toward his wife; she was more like a +playmate, who, if she took offense, made me offended. Then I let +things drift on, afraid always of my uncle discovering my secret. But +I never knew till this day that her child had lived." + +"But you knew that she was dead?" asked Margaret. + +"Good Heavens! yes!" he exclaimed. "I loved you the first moment I saw +you, but I could never have owned it before learning that she was dead. +The messenger I sent here wrote to me that she was dead, though he said +nothing about a child. I suppose he intended to tell me on his +arrival, but he was killed in an accident to the diligence crossing the +Arlberg pass. I knew nothing of this until Philip told me just now." + +"But oh! if you had but seen Sophy's son!" cried Margaret with tears, +"the most miserable, the most degraded of all these peasants; a drudge, +a slave to them. O Sidney! how can we atone to him for all this +misery? We can never give him back his lost years." + +"No," he said in a faltering voice, "nothing could ever fit him now for +an English life; it would be all misery to him. We must make him happy +in the only way happiness is possible for him. I will make him a rich +and happy man in his own sphere, here among the people who know him. +They will exalt him into a little king when he is the richest of them +all, instead of the poorest. Do not speak, Margaret; listen to my +reasons. He can never fill the place for which we have trained Philip +so carefully. How could he be a good landlord and magistrate? How +could he become the husband of such a woman as ought to be our +daughter-in-law, and the mother of my heirs? It would be for his good +as well as ours to leave him here. Think of Philip, of me, of the poor +fellow himself. No one knows this secret except ourselves; let it be +as it has always been. I cannot think of Sophy as my wife. I implore +you for my sake, for Philip's sake, our first-born son, let this secret +be kept." + +He was still standing where he had first arrested himself, as if a gulf +lay between them; and she was looking across at him with infinite +sadness in her eyes. There was something miserable in her steadfast +gaze, blended with profound reproach. + +"And what of Andrew Goldsmith?" she asked, "the poor old man who will +never cease to mourn and wonder over the fate of his lost child. Do +you think I could bear for him to go into the next life, and hear for +the first time, perhaps from her own lips, the story of your treachery +and mine? Would not that tempt him to hatred and revenge even there? +And my dear friend Rachel. Could I look her in the face and feel my +heart saying, 'I know now all the sad secret that has troubled you,' +and not utter it in words? O Sidney! how can you lay such a burden +upon me? God is the judge of our conduct, and we are not more His +children than this poor old father and your deserted son. No, we +cannot keep such a secret! We must take the neglected outcast into our +very hearts, and see what atonement we can make." + +In all their past life Margaret had yielded her judgment to his; but +Sidney felt that from what she had now said she would never swerve. It +was useless to appeal to her on the score of the malignant gossip and +painful dishonor he must bear himself; it was equally useless to +represent the loss to Philip of rank and fortune. These were worldly +considerations, and Margaret would not stoop to notice them. He must +seize the only weapon of defense which lay at home. + +"I cannot bear it," he said, lashing himself into a rage. "I will +disown the marriage, and defy the Goldsmiths to prove it. Philip shall +be my heir. This base-born son of mine shall never take his place!" + +"And I," said Margaret, with a tremor in her sweet voice, "will never +live with you again until you own your son. I will own him; and +Philip, when he knows of his existence, will own him as his elder +brother." + +Her face was white with grief as his was with rage. She rose from her +seat and stood looking at him for a moment, as if they were about to +separate forever. He had just returned to her after one of the rare +absences which had come but seldom during their married life. She +could not recognize in him the husband she had loved so perfectly and +trusted so implicitly. There was baseness and selfishness, treachery +and utter worldliness, in this man; she acknowledged it, though it +broke her heart to do so. Her grief was too great for words; and with +a silent gesture of farewell she went away into an inner room, leaving +him in a stupor of dismay. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXVI. + +IN THE PINE WOODS. + +After Philip left his father on the shore of the little lake he, too, +wandered about in loneliness for the rest of the day, unable to bear +his anxiety and trouble in Phyllis's presence, and equally unable to +conceal them. She and Dorothy concluded that he was gone with his +father on some hurried excursion. But early the next morning he +knocked at the door of the room where the two girls were sleeping, and +begged Phyllis to get up and go out with him into the pine woods lying +behind the hotel. She grumbled a little, telling Dorothy in a sleepy +tone that she could not bear going out before breakfast; at his urgent +and reiterated entreaties, she relented, and, after keeping him waiting +for nearly an hour, she made her appearance in a very becoming and very +elaborate morning costume. + +They were soon out of sight and hearing of the hotel, wandering slowly +along the soft, dewy glades of the beautiful pine woods, with the +morning sunlight streaming in long pencils through the openings of the +green roof far above them. Here and there, through the rough, tawny +trunks of the trees, they caught a glimpse of the great gray pinnacles +of rock, with their fretwork of snow, rising high into the deep blue of +the sky. Phyllis was enchanted with everything except the dew, which +was spoiling the hem of her pretty dress, and taking the gloss off her +little shoes. + +"It is as beautiful as the scenery in the Midsummer Night's Dream at +the Lyceum," she said. "Do you remember it, and that delicious music +of Mendelssohn's? If it was moonlight I should expect to meet _Oberon_ +and _Titania_." + +Phyllis felt that she was making herself very charming. Philip was an +ardent admirer of Shakspere, and what could she say more agreeable to +him than this allusion to one of his favorite plays? But, to her great +surprise, he seemed not to hear what she was saying. + +"My Phyllis," he said, "I have something really terrible to tell you." + +"Not that they are going to separate us again!" she cried. "I thought +your father must have taken me into favor once more, or he would not +have brought me all this way with him. He is not going to be tiresome +again?" + +"No, no!" he answered, pressing her hand, and keeping it in his own as +they sauntered on; "we shall have no more trouble on that score. We +need not fear any more opposition from my father. That is the one good +thing in this trouble, for if I am not my father's heir, he will not +expect me to marry an heiress." + +"What do you mean?" she asked in a tone of excitement. + +"I mean that my father has another son older than I am," continued +Philip. "You know all about poor Sophy Goldsmith as well as I do. +Phyllis, it was my father who ran away with her, when he was no older +than I am; and they had a son, who has been living not far from here, +at Cortina, ever since. He is eight years older than I am." + +"Philip!" she exclaimed, standing still, and fastening her eyes upon +his face with an air of incredulity, ready to break into a laugh as +soon as the joke was repeated. + +"I cannot bear to speak of it, even to you," he said gravely. "I wish +to God it was not true. But I have read Sophy's last letter to Rachel +Goldsmith, and there is no mistake. It is undeniably true. What is +worse, my mother is going away this morning. She sent for me last +night, and said I must take her away by the first train this morning. +She looked as if it would kill her. She wishes to go, and I see it is +best. It is best for her and my father to be separated for a while." + +"Separated!" ejaculated Phyllis. "Your father and mother!" + +"For a time only, I trust," said Philip. "It has been too great a blow +for her. Don't you understand, my Phyllis? She has loved the +Goldsmiths so much, and she remembers Sophy quite well, and has always +been deeply interested in the mystery of her disappearance. And now +the sudden discovery of this secret of my father's is too much for her. +I have telegraphed for Rachel to come to Berne, and I am going to take +my mother there at once, and then come back here to you and Dorothy." + +"But are you quite sure there is a son living?" inquired Phyllis. + +"I have seen him, and spoken to him," he replied. "He has some +resemblance to my father, and he is very like old Andrew. Dorothy saw +the likeness in a moment. The worst of it is that he has lived among +the lowest of the people, and seems almost imbecile. He is about +thirty years of age, and is as ignorant as a savage. Poor fellow! poor +fellow!" + +His voice fell, and the tears smarted under his eyelids. Phyllis's +finely penciled eyebrows were knitted together with a quite new +expression of profound and painful thought. He said to himself he had +never seen her look so pretty and charming, and he bent his head to +kiss the furrow between her eyebrows. + +"You are sure it is all true?" she asked. "You are not inventing it?" + +"How could I invent anything so horrible?" he said in amazement. +"Think of what it means! Think of what my father has done! If it were +not for you and my mother, I should wish I had never been born." + +"Then you will never be Philip Martin of Brackenburn," she continued, +"and Brackenburn will not be your estate. It will belong to this other +son?" + +"Of course," he answered, "the estate goes to the eldest son. But I do +not care about being a poor man. They have christened him Martino. +Martino Martin he will be." + +"Gracious Heavens!" she ejaculated. + +"So there will be no more opposition to our love for each other," he +went on in a more cheerful manner; "and I must set to work now to earn +a living for you and myself. It will be very pleasant to work for one +another--I for you, and you for me. You will wait for me, Phyllis?" + +There was no tone of doubt in the half question; it was only asked that +some sweet answer might be given. He was as sure of her love as of his +own; for had they not grown up for one another? + +"But there is Apley," she said, after a short pause. "If this man +takes your estate, you will take Hugh's. It is Hugh who must work for +his living." + +"Oh, no!" he replied; "Apley is settled on my mother's second son, so +it belongs to Hugh. My father had no idea that he had a son living, +and it seemed fair for Apley to go to the second son." + +"But is it quite certain that they were married?" asked Phyllis, with +all the premature knowledge of a country clergyman's daughter. "If +they were not legally married, this man could not take your place." + +Philip dropped the hand he still held. She had struck hard upon a +chord in his nature which vibrated under her touch in utter +discordance. Now and then she had jarred slightly upon him, and he had +hastened to forget it, but here was a discord that would turn all his +life's music into harshness. + +"Phyllis, you do not know what you are saying," he cried. + +"Oh! yes, I do," she answered, half petulantly and half playfully. "It +is not likely that your father would marry a girl like Sophy Goldsmith. +And if he did not, you will still be the heir, and some day I shall be +Mrs. Martin of Brackenburn." + +Philip walked on beside her in silence, his eyes fixed on the ground. + +"That is the first thing to find out," continued Phyllis shrewdly. "I +don't believe there was a legal marriage, or if there was, the +Goldsmith's must prove it. Of course, your mother will be very mad +about it for a while, but it will come right in the end; and 'All's +well that ends well,' you know. But isn't it strange that, after all +these years, we should find out about Sophy Goldsmith? And your father +knew all along, the naughty, naughty man!" + +So smooth hitherto had been the current of their short lives that +Philip had never seen Phyllis in any circumstances of great trouble or +difficulty. She was still a young girl, and how shame or sorrow would +affect her no one could have foretold. But at this crisis, with all +his own nature overwrought with shame for his father and sorrow for his +mother, he felt how vast was the distance between them. They were +dwelling in different worlds. Was it a premonition of this disparity +between them which had made his mother oppose their marriage? + +He turned back abruptly toward the hotel, and they did not talk much on +their way. Phyllis's brain was busy, too busy for much speaking. If +this terrible thing could possibly be true--though she rejected such a +supposition--then, indeed, she must bid farewell to all the bright +schemes she had laid for her future life. Philip would be a poor +nobody, and she really was not fitted to be a poor man's wife. She +loved him, of course, and it would be intense misery to give him up. +How she could part from him she did not know; her mother must manage it +for her, if the necessity ever arose. But to be plain Mrs. Martin, of +nowhere in particular, living on a few hundreds a year! That would be +impossible. Still, what folly it was to be looking forward to things +which would never happen! She turned a bright face to Philip as he +left her at the hotel door. + +"Take courage, and be comforted," she said. "It has all got to be +proved first." + +He turned away with a feeling of utter discouragement. All his world +seemed shaken to its very foundations. His father had been guilty of a +deed of the deepest baseness, and his intended wife was blind to that +baseness. But he had no time for musing on it. Dorothy's voice +arrested him, and, looking up, he saw her coming quickly to him, +dressed as for a journey. Her face was troubled, and she spoke to him +in imploring tones. + +"Your mother is leaving here by the first train," she said, "and she +says I must not go with her. Something has made her very unhappy; her +face grieves me more than I can say. Persuade her to let me go. She +ought not to travel alone." + +"I shall be with her," he answered, "and Rachel Goldsmith will meet her +in Berne. No, Dorothy, it would be a greater comfort to my mother if +you stay here with my father. He is very fond of you, and he, too, is +unhappy. You must stay with him and comfort him." + +"Yes," she said, weeping; "what has happened I do not know, but I will +do what you and Mrs. Martin think best. I do not know which I love the +most. Is it anything very dreadful?" + +"Yes," he replied. + +"Is there nothing I can do besides staying with your father?" she +asked. "Philip, we all know how very, very rich I shall be--too rich. +If any money is wanted, tell him to recollect how much there is of +mine, more than any girl could use. But money losses would not make +you miserable." + +"No," he said; "no loss of money would break my mother's heart." + +"That is how she looks," resumed Dorothy, "as if her heart was broken; +and oh! I cannot bear to lose sight of her. If I was her own child she +would tell me all about it, and I could comfort her. But now, at the +very worst moment, I feel what a stranger I am among you all." + +"No, dear Dorothy," he answered; "you are as dear as a daughter to her +and my father. You will know all by and by, and you will see then you +were of more use staying here than going away with my mother." + +"And is Phyllis going with you?" she asked. + +"Phyllis? Oh, no!" he said. + +"I'm afraid I was feeling a little jealous of Phyllis," she said, +smiling through her tears. "Of course, I know she is nearer and dearer +to you all, except Mr. Martin, than I am; but I think she could not +bear trouble as I can do." + +"Trouble!" he repeated, "yes; but could you bear shame?" + +"Willingly," she answered. + +"Not shame only, but sin. Could you help us to bear our sins?" he +asked. + +"Yes," she said gravely; "if our Lord came into the world to take away +our sins by bearing them himself, surely we ought to bear the burden of +one another's sins--we, who are all alike sinful. Have you any such +burden to bear? But I shall not have to bear either shame or sin for +your father or mother--or for you," she added softly, after a moment's +pause. + +"Thank you, Dorothy," he said. + + + + +CHAPTER XXXVII. + +REMORSE. + +Sidney was unaware of Margaret's intention, and was only awaiting some +message from her to see her again, and try once more what persuasion, +backed by authority, could do to break down her resolution. The +morning train came in and steamed away again, carrying Margaret and +Philip in it, before he returned from a miserable stroll through the +well remembered pine forests. Dorothy met him on her return from the +station, with traces of tears on her face, and was the first to tell +him that Margaret was gone. + +"She need not have done that," he said to himself bitterly. + +But when he entered the room where he had seen her the night before, a +great dread seized him. He felt as he would have done if she had been +dead. There was the chair she sat in only last night; that was the +book she had laid down; those flowers she had gathered and arranged for +herself; and now she was gone! There was something of the desolation +of death about the vacant place. + +A letter lay upon the table, and he seized it eagerly. Margaret was +not one who used many words of endearment, or many caresses. She +thought that love, like religion, should show itself in deeds, not +speeches. Hitherto she had never begun her letters to him in any other +way than the almost formal one of "My dear Sidney." This was different. + +"My beloved husband," it ran, "it is because you are dearer to me than +any other human being, dearer than my own life a hundredfold, dearer +even than my own soul, that I cannot just now bear your presence. How +I love you I cannot find words to tell; my love for you is myself, my +life. There is no bitterness in my heart toward you; only an immense +grief--an abyss of gloom and heaviness, which nothing but God's love +can fill. All my life, since I first saw you, you have seemed to me +one of Christ's true followers; in the world but not of it; a real +disciple, a faithful soldier of the cross. I never saw in you the +shadow of a lie. You were to me truth and faithfulness personified. + +"And now it would be difficult, almost impossible, to see clearly what +you have been, as long as I am near to you. My brain is confused; and +it is necessary for me to get away, lest my feebleness should enfeeble +you in doing what is right. There can be only one right way; and I +hope to stand beside you in the sorrowful years that are coming. I +promise to do this--to come back and hold your hand, and walk by your +side, sharing the burden with you. But do not think to avoid this +burden, and these sad years. The harvest of a seed sown long ago is +come, and we must reap it, whether we do it humbly or defiantly. But I +must go away now from you, my dearest one--from whom I never thought to +separate till death should part us.--MARGARET." + +Sidney read these lines through again and again; at first in such a +paroxysm of anger as he had never felt since he had deserted Sophy, +when he was in his early manhood. Was there not a kind of fanaticism +in his wife's religion--that blindness which is said to prevent +devotees from seeing a thing in its own light? She demanded of him to +encounter the gossip and wonder of the vast circle of his acquaintances +in the City and in society, to bring a slur on his fair fame, and, +worse than all, to place his low born son in the position which her own +boy had hitherto occupied as his heir. She asked him to doom Philip to +the life of a comparatively poor and obscure man. And for what? That +an old man and woman, who for thirty years had lived in suspense about +their child's fate, should at last hear that all this time she had been +lying in her grave. If he could bring Sophy back to life, it would be +different. It must make Andrew and Rachel Goldsmith more miserable to +learn the truth since the truth was what it was. + +Margaret did not think of the dishonor this discovery would bring upon +religion. For he was distinguished in the City, and in Parliament, +both as a philanthropist and a religious man. He had been both since +he had known her, and this sin, committed in his boyish indifference to +all religious matters, must fling the shadow of a total eclipse upon +his career. Why should he make his fellow-Christians ashamed? No +scandal has so much charm as a scandal against a prominent Christian. +And how easy it was to avoid it if Margaret would but consent! No one +would be any the worse, for he would keep his promise of making his +eldest son a rich man in the station now belonging to him. Nothing but +misery could come of any other course. + +Yet as he read again Margaret's letter, with its strong and mournful +expressions of her love, his anger subsided, and the idea of denying +the legality of his first marriage grew slowly more and more repugnant +to him. He saw, too, quite clearly, that he must lose Margaret if he +pursued this plan. What measures she would adopt, if he carried out +such a purpose, he could not tell. But in any case he would lose her; +she would never live with him again if he denied his marriage with +Sophy Goldsmith. Still he would not decide definitely what he would do +till he had seen Sophy's son. + +There was still time to reach Cortina that day, and after a hasty meal +he set out, taking Dorothy and Phyllis with him. He should see this +eldest son of his in time to telegraph to Margaret, before Rachel +Goldsmith could join her at Berne; and she would not refuse his +entreaty to keep silence, at least for a few days. He was pondering +over this new step, as they drove through the wonderful valley, where +the clouds resting upon the crests of the mountains caught, in +many-colored hues, the rays of the evening sun. It was twilight when +they reached the hotel; but the twilight is long there, for the sun +sets early behind the rocky walls which hem in the valley. The village +lay tranquilly in a soft, gray light. How well he remembered it! He +shrank from entering the hotel, for it seemed almost certain that Sophy +herself was awaiting his arrival there. + +Yonder lay the broad pathway through the fields, leading to the half +ruined fortress where he had last parted with her. He turned down the +familiar track as if urged by some irresistible impulse. It was about +the same season of the year; the same flowers and weeds were in bloom, +and the crops were at nearly the same stage of growth. It might have +been the same evening. Was the past blotted out, then? Would that he +could take up his life again as it was thirty years ago, and sow the +seed of the future--oh, how differently! + +But even now he turned with aversion from the idea of a life spent with +Sophy Goldsmith. He fancied he could see her sitting on the flight of +steps which led up to the church door, and that he could hear her +shrill voice bidding him go away, and never return. Yet if he had been +a true man, as Philip was, he could not have forsaken her. If Philip +had found himself caught in such a mistake, a mistake so fatal to all +happiness, he would have accepted the consequences, and done what he +could to make the best of the future. But he had built all his life on +a blunder and a lie. "I have pierced myself through with many +sorrows," he said to himself. + +He was standing still, pondering over this long forgotten and very +dreary past, and now as he uttered these words he lifted up his head +and saw that he had paused under a wooden crucifix, one which he +remembered distinctly. The image of the Lord hanging upon it was worn +and weather-beaten, the wood was bleached and pallid as if it had stood +there long centuries; yet still the bowed head, with its crown of +thorns, possessed a pathetic sadness, as if this man also, Christ Jesus +the Lord, had been pierced through with many sorrows--yes, with one +vast sorrow unlike any other sorrow. He felt, as he had never felt +before, that this grief beyond compare, this crucifixion of the soul as +well as of the body, was his own doing. They were his sins which the +Lord had borne in his own body on the tree; and what he planned to do +would crucify the Son of God afresh. + +"God be merciful to me, a sinner!" he cried. + +It was late before he returned to the hotel; but his mind was fully +made up now. If he had never been a Christian before, he would be so +from this hour, and whatever it might cost him, there should be no more +hypocrisy, no more playing of a part, in his life. A bitter harvest +was before him, but he would reap it unflinchingly to its last grain. +The sting of his sin was that he could not save others from reaping it +with him. And how large was the number of reapers! Directly or +indirectly how many persons must suffer from this early sin of his! + + + + +CHAPTER XXXVIII. + +CHIARA'S HUT. + +Phyllis was gone to bed, but Dorothy was waiting for Sidney in the bare +and comfortless dining room of the hotel. She looked up wistfully as +he entered, for all day her thoughts had been anxious and troubled by +the mystery which had so suddenly surrounded her; and seeing his pale +and haggard face she ran to meet him, and put her arms round his neck, +kissing him fondly as a daughter might have done. He kept her hand in +his as he sank down weariedly into the chair next to him, and he bowed +his head upon the small, fond fingers, and she felt his tears falling +on them. Presently he looked up at her. + +"Dorothy," he said, "you will never forsake me!" + +"Never!" she exclaimed vehemently, "never! not if all the world forsook +you." + +"Even if you heard I was a base scoundrel, a selfish villain?" he asked. + +"Oh, but you are not that!" she answered, kissing him again; "there +would be some mistake. But if it was true, I should never forsake you; +you would want me all the more." + +"That is true," he said. + +"There has been a priest here," she continued, after a pause, "asking +for Philip, and saying he must see him about some letter, and a man +called Martino." + +"I know all about it," said Sidney, "and I will send him a message." + +At sunrise the next morning Sidney set out for the hamlet where Chiara +had lived. It was the fourth day since she died. Martino had followed +the funeral procession, which he was not allowed to join, and had stood +aloof seeing the coffin laid in the open grave. This woman had never +been kind to him, she had led him the life of a dog, but she was the +only person to whom he had in any way belonged. He knew no other home +than the squalid hut, in which all his life had passed. In a dim sense +it was as dear to him as a den is to a wild creature that inhabits it. +The litter of leaves and straw in the corner where he always slept +seemed the only place where he could sleep. Chiara's hand had been the +hand that fed him. There was a void left by her death, a blank that +his dull mind could in no way imagine filled up. But he was shrewd +enough to know that his enemies would not let him return to the hut if +they could help it, and as soon as he saw Chiara's coffin lowered into +the grave, he stole away from the cemetery, and hastening up the +mountain he secured possession of the wretched hovel, barricading the +door, which was the only means of entrance. Here he remained deaf and +dumb to the threats of his neighbors and to the entreaties and commands +of the priest. The long years of persecution and tyranny which he had +undergone had produced the ordinary result of a dull and embruted +nature. Those among whom he lived were little better than savages, +with the lowest conceptions of duty and religion. Of humanity either +to man or beast they knew nothing. Some of them were less cruel and +harsh toward Martino than the rest; there were women who had never +struck him; but he had been the miserable butt of the others until his +bodily strength was great enough for his own defense, excepting from +the brute force of men stronger than himself. + +At the bottom of his soul there was a profound sadness, a certain +susceptibility inherited from his educated and civilized parentage, +which had made him less callous under tyranny, than he would have been +if he had been a foundling of their own race. In his childhood this +susceptibility had displayed itself in bursts of passion and almost +insane excitement; in his manhood it changed to long fits of dumb and +sullen lethargy. Since Chiara's funeral he had lain motionless on the +litter of straw in the hut, regarding the attacks of his neighbors +outside with as much indifference as he would have felt under one of +the terrific thunderstorms which now and then threatened the little +hamlet with imminent destruction. His benumbed mind was almost as +lethargic as his body. But this morning his enemies had exhausted +their small stock of patience, which so far had been eked out by the +presence of the padre, who wished to enter the hut alone and +peacefully, in order to make sure that Chiara had given up the whole of +her penurious savings to the Church. He had urged upon her in the last +solemn moments before death the duty of withholding no portion of her +beloved booty; but he knew the peasant nature too well to trust +implicitly even to the power of superstition where money was concerned, +and he was anxious to search for himself among the accumulated rubbish +of her last home. He had been compelled, however, to return to Cortina +the night before, leaving strict commands that Martino should be left +unmolested. + +When Sidney entered the high, secluded valley and the hamlet came in +sight, a strange scene lay before him. Round one of the wretched +hovels the whole population was assembled in a wild circle of yelling +savages, attacking it in every direction. There were not more than +five or six men, but there was twice the number of women, as muscular +and sinewy as the men, and a host of children. All of them were +scantily clothed and their sunburnt limbs looked as hard as iron. A +heap of enormous stones was piled up near the door of the hut, and the +heavy thud as they were flung against it by brawny arms was echoed by +the wall of rock behind. Sidney was still at a little distance when a +loud shout of triumph reached his ears. One of the women was coming +out of a neighboring hut with a lighted fagot in her hand, which she +thrust up into the dried thatch of the roof. In another minute half a +dozen other fagots were fetched from the hearths, and the reek of the +smoke rose up in a column in the pure morning air. + +Sidney hurried forward, wondering if he should find his son amid this +maddened crew, when the door of the hovel was flung open suddenly from +within, and a man stood in the low doorway--a man, a wild beast rather! +His long, matted hair hung about his face like a mane, and his bare +limbs, scorched almost black with heat, and frost-bitten into long +furrows by cold, looked hardly human. He was gasping for air, as if +all but smothered by the suffocating smoke; and as he stood there, +blinded by the sudden light, a sharp stone flung by one of the women +struck him on the temple. A yell of mingled exultation and abhorrence +followed the successful blow, and the miserable creature would have +been stoned to death like a dangerous wild beast if Sidney had not +cried out in a tone of authority, to the utter surprise of the +assailants. + +The lull would have lasted only a moment if Sidney had not bethought +himself of a ready and effective means of diverting the angry mob. He +thrust his hand into his pocket and flung into the midst of them a +handful of bronze and silver coins. There was an instant diversion and +scramble for the money, and before any of them gave heed to him Martin +rushed away, and with the speed of a scared and hunted animal fled up +the precipitous rocks near at hand. When all the coins were picked up +his enemies looked round for him in vain. + +"I have no more money with me now," said Sidney in Italian, "but there +is plenty more in Cortina for those who come down for it; and the man +who tells me where Martino is, Martino who was Chiara's adopted son, +shall have a golden-----" + +"Martino!" interrupted the most intelligent looking of the men, "that +was Martino we were burning out." + +"Oh, my God!" cried Sidney, staggering as if he had been struck by a +blow as heavy as that which had wounded his son. For a moment or two +he felt faint and stunned, unable to move or speak, and the circle of +faces and figures around him appeared to whirl dizzily about him. He +was conscious of the stare of their inquisitive and savage eyes, which +were fastened upon him with unfriendly gaze, and he could hear the +muttering of their uncouth voices. The hovel was blazing behind them, +and the thick smoke was blown down in clouds upon him and them. He +felt almost suffocated. Was it possible that he was about to die here +among these terrible men and women? He made a superhuman effort to +shake off the deadness that was creeping over him. + +With his consciousness there returned to him the habit of authority and +command. He drew himself up and looked round at them all with a keen +gaze, from which they shrank a little, sulkily and abjectly. His +knowledge of their language came back fluently to his aroused brain, +and made it easy to address them. + +"Your padre told me I should find Martino here, in Chiara's house. +What right have you to set that house on fire? It is not yours." + +"He would not come out," answered one of the women, for all the men +were silent. Certainly they had no right to destroy the hut, and the +law was stern on offenders such as they were. + +"And why did you want him to come out?" asked Sidney. + +"Because he shall not live among us any longer," replied the man who +had spoken to him before; "he is accursed, and he has the evil eye. +His mother is in hell, and no mass can be said for her soul; and he +does not belong to us. No man of us will give him a hand, and no woman +will give him a look. Would any woman here be the wife of Martino?" + +There was a roar of contempt and abhorrence, a laugh such as Sidney had +never heard before. + +"But where is he gone?" he asked. + +"Up yonder," answered the man, pointing to a peak standing high and +clear in the morning sky; "there is a cave up there good enough for a +wolf like him. Let him stop there." + +"I am come here to take him away," said Sidney; "he is my son." + +The words sounded in his own ears as if spoken by some other voice. +This poor, hunted, despised and wounded outcast his son! It seemed as +if before him was unrolled the record of the sad, desolate, neglected, +most unhappy years through which his first-born son had passed, while +every year of them had been crowned with prosperity and happiness to +himself. The thought of it passed swiftly though vividly through his +brain, as such remembrances do in the hour of death. A profound and +uneasy silence had fallen upon the crowd around him. This rich +Englishman had caught them in an unlawful act, and had witnessed their +savage treatment of Martino. They knew how much influence such wealthy +foreigners had with the mayor in the town below, where such men were +treated with servile respect, and they were in dread of some terrible +vengeance for their treatment of his son. + +"I did not know he was living till the day before yesterday," said +Sidney at last, speaking to himself rather than to them. + +Was it only so short a time ago? It appeared to be ages. He had lived +through a century of troubled emotion since he reached Toblach. + +"I will reward any man well who brings him to me," he added, "and now +you had better put out this blazing thatch, if you wish to save your +own huts." + + + + +CHAPTER XXXIX. + +AT BAY. + +When Martino escaped from the burning hovel, he fled like a wild beast +hunted by enemies. The precipitous rocks had ledges and +stepping-stones familiar to him, and his naked feet took firm hold on +every point of vantage ground. He was quickly beyond all chance of +being captured. In his boyhood he had often taken refuge in an almost +inaccessible cavern, which he had found for himself, and where he could +hide like a wolf in its lair. In later times, when Chiara's hard yoke +grew too galling, he had sometimes established himself in this den, and +stayed in it till famine had driven him back to his miserable home. +There was no means of getting food up there, for on the Dolomite rocks +not even a blade of grass will grow; and Martino knew well that if he +became a marauder on the scanty fields below, so difficult to keep in +cultivation, his neighbors would shoot him down as relentlessly as they +would destroy a wolf or a vulture. He had carried up there, with much +trouble and at a great risk, a small store of wood and turf, and he had +made for himself a rude litter of dried leaves and straw. As there was +no vegetation there was no animal life on these barren rocks; there was +no chance of catching a bird or a rabbit. But he could bear hunger for +a long time, and here he was at least in safety. + +He slept the long hours of the day away, and awoke toward night; then +he went to the entrance of his cave and sat down on the ground, his +knees being almost on a level with his shaggy head. Very far below him +lay the valley and the twinkling lights of Cortina, glistening in the +distance like so many glowworms. The stars sparkled in the sky above +like little globes of light. The watchman was already on the clock +tower, striking the quarters of the hour upon the great bell, and its +clear note came up to his listening ear. A thousand feet beneath him, +so vertically below that he could have cast a stone on any of the +roofs, lay the hamlet where he was so much hated. Now and then he saw +a figure carrying a lantern flitting uneasily from hut to hut. All the +day he had heard voices calling, from time to time, "Martino! +Martino!" but he had paid no heed to them in the depths of his cave. +Now once more, before the people settled to their night's rest, he +heard a voice, pitched to a high, piercing note; it was a woman's +voice, a young woman, whom once he had loved in a rough fashion and who +had scouted him as if he was indeed an outcast and a pariah. + +"Martino!" she cried, "come down. We will not hurt you. Here is a +rich English signore, and he says he is your father." + +Martino laughed a low, cunning chuckle. They meant to snare him, and +put him to death out of their way, and this woman thought she could +betray him to them. He made no answer, and gave no sign of life. +Presently all the lights were put out, and every sound ceased in the +hamlet, save the bleat of a kid now and then as it pressed nearer its +mother's side for warmth. Far away he could hear the howling of a wolf +answered by the furious barking of a watchdog. A moon near the full +was rising over the cliffs, and shed a white light on the sharp, +needle-like peaks. There was an incessant play of summer lightning on +the northern horizon, throbbing behind the long and jagged outlines of +the mountains. All about him was solemn, impressive, and mysterious. +If Philip had been there he would have been filled with the most +profound admiration and awe. But Martino was too savage to feel +either; the aspects of nature had little more effect upon him than upon +a wolf. When all was at last still and dark, even in Cortina, he rose, +and cautiously descended toward his old home. + +The few watchdogs knew him too well to be disturbed by his soundless +footsteps as he passed among the silent huts as if he had been a ghost. +The foundations of the walls alone remained of Chiara's hovel, and +there was still some warmth where the roof had been left smoldering on +the ground. Martino squatted down in the midst of the ruins. It had +been nothing but a squalid and dreary home to him, but it was the only +one he had ever known. This was the one spot on earth that had been +his dwelling-place, and his enemies had destroyed it with an utter +destruction. There was no roof now to shelter him, no door he could +shut in the face of his foes. He felt it with a vague bitterness, as +some beast might feel the destruction of its hole, and tears filled his +eyes, and rolled slowly down his rough and furrowed face. + +He roused himself after a while, for he knew the nights were short; +and, being fleet of foot, he ran down the steepest paths to Cortina, to +pick up any food he could find for the coming day. There were roots +growing in the fields there on which life could be sustained for some +time, and his dull brain was untroubled by forebodings of the distant +future. He prowled round the hotel, where Sidney was sleeping a +troubled sleep, and picked up some fragments of food, which the +wasteful servants had thrown through the window as the easiest way of +getting rid of them. The dogs would have eaten them in the morning, +but they were a Godsend to Martino, who carried them away in his ragged +clothes. When he reached his cave at dawn, and the rising sun shot its +earliest beams into it, they fell upon as poor a wretch as the sunlight +would find out during the livelong day. + +Once more he slumbered all day, hearing at intervals the attempts made +to reach him in his fastness, and the voices calling to him repeatedly, +all with one accord saying that his father was come and was searching +for him. He laughed to scorn their attempts. Not a man among them +would dare to scale the precipice; and he did not believe that there +was anyone on earth who would claim him as a kinsman. His father! He +had heard too often of his mother and her accursed fate, but no one had +ever spoken of his father. His mother's grave he knew; and once, when +there was in his heart a strange, confused springing up of +tenderness--it was when he felt a sort of love for the girl who scorned +and repulsed him so indignantly--he had reared a rude cross at the head +of it and collected white pebbles from the river to mark its outline. +But his father! + +At night he stole down to Cortina again, and picked up any fragments +thrown outside the doors for the scavenger dogs. But he did not go to +the desolate ruins, which were no longer a shelter for him. And so two +or three days and nights passed by, Martino living as wild a life as +any wild and noxious beast, while Sidney used every means that could be +thought of to capture him. Not Sidney alone. All the population of +the Ampezzo Valley knew something of the errand that had brought the +rich English signore to Cortina, and every man was eager to gain the +reward he offered, but no one knew a safe approach to the cave, and, if +Martino was on the watch, it seemed certain death to make any further +attempt to seize him. + +At last Sidney himself ascended as far as any man could climb on the +almost sheer face of the peak, and drew as near to his son as was +possible, calling to him in his pleasant and persuasive, but +unfamiliar, voice, so different from the voices he was used to hear +that there was some chance of his paying heed to it. But Martino was +sleeping soundly at the time, and did not hear his father's voice; and, +possibly, if he had heard it he would have thought it a fresh snare. +Sidney retraced the perilous path, disheartened. + +"He will die of famine," said the guide who was with him. "Perhaps he +is dying now, and cannot move himself to answer." + +It was a terrible thought to Sidney; yet it seemed only too likely. +Sophy's son was perishing like a wounded creature that creeps for +shelter into its den and dies a lingering death of famine. + +"We must save him," he cried. "I will give anything you ask if you +will save him." + +"If we knew for certain he was dying," said the guide, scanning the +rock carefully, "I would do it; but if Martino is not dying he is as +strong as an ox. It would be death to any man who climbed up to his +cave. We will get him when he is dead," he added cheerfully. + +Sidney went down into the valley hopeless and heavy-hearted. Yet +underneath the heaviness of his heart lay a vague and wordless +impression that after all it would, perhaps, be best for Martin to die. +For, if he lived, would it be possible ever to civilize this wild +peasant, and bring him in any degree into harmony with the life of +civilization and luxury to which he by birth belonged? The position +and career for which Philip had been educated with so much care must be +filled by this incapable, untrained, utterly ignorant savage. It would +be impossible to fit him, at his age, for the position of an English +farmer; he was below the level of the lowest English laborer. The sin +of his father had been so visited upon him that nothing could atone to +him for it in this life. Sidney acknowledged that it was his sin which +fell so heavily on his son; he repented of it in bitter contrition of +heart. But would it not be best for all if Martin was dead? + +He had nearly reached Cortina, disheartened and perplexed beyond +measure, when Dorothy's clear young voice roused him from his sad +thoughts, and he saw her coming up the steep and stony path to meet him. + +"Good news!" she cried blithely; "good news! Philip is come back. +Mrs. Martin has sent Philip back to us. That is good news to bring +you." + +Good news, and yet unwelcome. For on no one more than Philip, +excepting Martin, would the burden of his early error fall. If he +could have borne all the penalty himself it would have been easier to +bear; but he must see Philip crushed beneath it. Philip's speedy +return was a sign that neither his wife nor son entertained any +bitterness of anger against him, and so far it was good news. But +their unselfish sympathy made his own conduct appear more base. It +placed them too far apart from him. It seemed as if he could almost +better have borne their resentment. + +"He is coming after me," said Dorothy. "I only ran on to tell you." + +She ran down again, leaving the father and son to meet each other +alone; and she was not out of sight when Philip reached him. There was +a subtle change about him; Sidney felt that he had lost him as a son, +but gained him as a friend. He was his comrade, ready to help him in +every difficulty, and loyal to him with an immovable loyalty. The +grave yet cordial sympathy of his manner went to Sidney's heart; and +yet it chilled him. This passionately loved boy of his was a man, +looking at him with a man's eyes, and the feeling latent in this clear, +affectionate gaze was pity, not reverence. The change was a subtle one +hardly to be seen, yet very painful to him. + +"Phyllis has told you?" he said. + +"All she knows," answered Philip. "I conclude that my brother has made +his escape to the mountains, and cannot be captured." + +He uttered the words "my brother" simply, but Sidney winced on hearing +them. + +"I have not spoken of him to Phyllis or Dorothy," he said. "If they +know anything it must be through the chambermaid. It was impossible to +speak to them about it, though all the people in Cortina know." + +"I told Phyllis I had an elder brother living," replied Philip. "I +told her at Toblach." + +"And what did she say?" he asked. + +"She talked like a girl who has read nothing but novels," he replied, +evading a more direct answer. + +And now, as Sidney saw his son standing before him, such a son as his +whole heart could take delight in, the thought of disinheriting him in +favor of the untrained and probably untamable savage, who possessed his +birthright, came back to his mind with irresistible force. It seemed +impossible to do it. This boy, whom he loved with passionate ardor, to +be displaced by a man whose existence was a shame and a sorrow to him! +He himself was in the prime of life--too old to retrieve the past and +shake off its burden, and too young to escape from its consequences for +many years--years of comparative dishonor and of keen disappointment. +His voice was broken as he spoke again to his son. + +"Philip," he said, "must we sacrifice all? Is there a necessity to own +this man?" + +"Yes," he answered unhesitatingly. + +"I cannot see it," said his father. "I am like one walking in +darkness. My conscience says nothing, except that I have sinned. If I +do this I act by your mother's conscience." + +"And mine," responded Philip. "My mother and I have but one mind about +it." + +"I will yield to you," he said, "but my punishment is greater than I +can bear." + +They went on their way down into the valley; and Sidney told him of the +perilous place in which Martin had taken refuge, and the opinion his +guide had given that the poor fellow must be dying of famine. It was +impossible to attempt anything that evening, but the next morning at +sunrise, Philip said, a scaling party must go to the precipice and +ascend it, under his own directions. He was a member of the Alpine +Club; and to leave any fellow-creature perishing through hunger and +faintness from wounds would be infamous. He must hasten to make his +preparations, and learn who were the most courageous and adventurous +guides. + + + + +CHAPTER XL. + +PHYLLIS AND DOROTHY. + +But as they passed the small public garden, lying on the steep slope of +the river banks, Philip caught sight of Phyllis sitting alone on one of +the benches. He had seen but little of her at Toblach, and that was +after a separation of some months. It was an opportunity not to be +missed, and his arrangements could very well be made an hour later. +Though the sun was gone down behind the mountains, the air was still +warm and balmy, and the sky was of that deep blue which is caused by +the absence of mist and vapor. Far away on the highest peaks the +sunlight lingered, making all their soft colors glow with a delicate +bloom and luster. Phyllis's pretty face, as she looked up at his +approach, was a little sulky. + +"Your father is making a tremendous fuss about this man," she said, +looking up into his face with a hard expression in her bright eyes; +"all the world is talking of it here. Is it prudent?" + +"My darling!" he answered fondly, "this man is my elder brother--my +father's son. How can we make too much fuss, as you call it? We must +do all we can to compensate him for the past." + +"But you can never reclaim him from his savagery--never!" she rejoined. +"A man of thirty! He must remain a monster all his life. Is it +certain that your father really married Sophy Goldsmith?" + +"My father says so," he answered shortly. + +"But they could not prove it," she continued with eagerness, and a +shrewd expression in her face which made it look almost hateful to him, +"and he is not compelled to own it. Why could he not have left him +here in peace? It is the only wise thing to do. I don't say leave him +in such poverty and misery as you find him in; no! that would be cruel +and unjust. It is not too late yet to act sensibly. Why do not you +all quietly hush it up? The Goldsmiths need never know; and you can +provide comfortably for him. You will only work misery all round by +taking him to England as your father's eldest son and heir. A monster +like that to become an English gentleman! Good gracious!" + +Philip made no answer. Such considerations had presented themselves to +his own mind, and he had dismissed them hastily, as hateful temptations +arising from the evil that was in his nature. Now that Phyllis uttered +them they seemed more hateful from her lips. He did not know what the +future might bring, but the present brought to him a clear and simple +duty. Justice must be done to Sophy Goldsmith's son. + +"Is it too late, dearest Philip?" asked Phyllis persuasively, both of +her hands clasping his own. "Will not your father listen to reason? +Don't you see what an enormous, enormous difference it makes to us! To +me as much as to any of you. You are sacrificing me. I have turned it +over and over in my mind till I am sick and weary of it. Have you +never thought of what such a change must mean for me?" + +"I have thought of it, my dear one," he said gently. "You are always +first in my thoughts. But I must act according to my conscience." + +"I know you cannot say much about it," she urged, "but shall I tell +your father that I know all, and reason with him? He may be too +excited to act wisely. Let me speak to him." + +"No! no!" he exclaimed, "there is but one course before us; my mother +pointed it out clearly, but I hope I should have taken it of myself. +Martin must come home with us to England, and we must do what we can to +reclaim him, and fit him in some degree for the future. You must help +us, Phyllis--you and Dorothy." + +"You had better go and tell Dorothy of her fine task, then," said +Phyllis peevishly. + +Philip was not long in finding Dorothy, who had sauntered away, +following the little tracks that crossed the open fields, to gather the +wild flowers which were blooming in profusion. She saw him coming +toward her, and retraced her steps to meet him. She had hardly spoken +to him before, so eager had she been to carry the good news of his +arrival to his father. Her face was lighted up with a very pleasant +smile. + +"How glad I am you are come back!" she exclaimed. "Your father has +been so wretched and low-spirited. O Philip! is it true that Andrew +Goldsmith's daughter is found at last? How did she come here? and is +she dead? and what had Mr. Martin to do with it? If I might only know +the truth I should be so thankful." + +"I will tell you, Dorothy," he said. "My father married Sophy +Goldsmith when he was a young man about as old as myself. Secretly, +for fear of his uncle; and they came here, as we did, out of Italy, +thirty years ago. They quarreled, and he left her, expecting her to +follow him; but she died, leaving a child behind her, and he never knew +it." + +"He did not know that she was dead!" exclaimed Dorothy. + +"He let things drift," answered Philip with an unconscious accent of +scorn, "because he was afraid of his uncle discarding him. He made no +inquiries after her till he wanted to marry my mother; and then his +messenger sent him word that Sophy Goldsmith was dead, but said nothing +about the birth of their son. And my father was satisfied! But the +child grew up here among these peasants. He was the man you saw at the +_festa_ who was like Andrew Goldsmith." + +Dorothy walked on beside him in silence, and, somewhat surprised by it, +Philip looked down into her half averted face, and saw the tears +streaming down her cheeks. + +"Oh, poor Andrew!" she sobbed at last; "poor old man! And poor Sophy! +How he has mourned for her! and how he has almost worshiped Mr. Martin! +How will Andrew bear it, Philip? How can your father bear it?" + +"He is all but broken-hearted," he replied, "and so is my mother. They +look already years older, Dorothy. It is we younger ones who must go +to their help now. We must make them feel that the future will not be +a failure, even after this blow. Why cannot we in part reclaim my +brother? He can never be an educated man, not a civilized man +according to our notions. But after all, civilization is as much a +fashion as reality. He need not remain a brute or a savage. The +grandson of Andrew Goldsmith and my father's son must have something in +him which will make him not altogether irreclaimable. You will help +us, Dorothy?" + +"Do you remember how wild and uneducated I was when your father found +me?" she asked. "I know I can never have such dainty ways as Phyllis; +and this poor fellow can never be like you. But he will improve as I +have done." + +Philip could not help laughing as he looked at her, and thought of the +rough, uncouth man his brother was. The tears filled her eyes again. + +"I have seen him," she continued, catching her breath, as if she could +not quite control her sobs, "every night since we came back. Oh, how +dreadful it is I cannot say; and I never thought he was Mr. Martin's +son. He is just like a wild creature prowling about the houses. The +first night I heard him I was awake, and I stole quite quietly on to +the balcony, wondering if I should catch sight of a wolf down in the +street, and there, in the moonlight, was a miserable man searching in +the gutters for food. Ever since I have taken some bread from dinner +and let it down to the ground just under my balcony, and he has come +for it every night." + +"Thank God!" cried Philip in an accent of unutterable pity and +amazement; "then he is not dying of famine. And that is my brother!" + +"I just spoke a word to him last night," she went on. "I spoke very +softly. 'Poor man,' I said in Italian, and he lifted up his head and +threw his hands above it. Then he ran away very swiftly, without +making a sound." + +"Oh, if my father had only known!" he said. + +"I did not tell him, he seemed so absent," replied Dorothy; "but the +poor fellow will come again to-night most likely. We will sit in the +dark watching till he comes, and you can see him from my balcony. The +moon rises later every night, but there will be light enough." + +The vision he had seen the previous night had haunted Martin's dull +brain all the day. He had stolen under the windows of the hotel, where +he had never failed to find food from the first night he had sought it +in the streets. Suddenly a white, quiet form, standing in the +moonlight on the balcony above him, like some image of the Blessed +Virgin, such as he had often seen in shrines and churches, spoke to him +in a low, soft, sweet voice, such a voice as the Blessed Virgin might +have. The vision hardly frightened him, and yet he fled from it, and +hurried back to his place of refuge. He pondered over it in a confused +way all through the day. Legends of the apparition of angels, but more +often of demons, had been told to him and the other children in his +earliest days. It was not strange that such a blessed vision should be +seen, but it was strange that it appeared to him, whose mother was +accursed in hell. Was it possible that this white angel had come to +tell him better news of his mother? Why had he fled so swiftly, when +he felt so little fear of it? Would he see it again if he went down +into the valley? + + + + +CHAPTER XLI. + +MARGARET'S CONFLICT. + +Margaret had sent Philip back to the Ampezzo Valley as soon as she +reached Berne, and before Rachel Goldsmith could join her there. The +feeling that she had left her husband apparently in anger--though it +was no ordinary anger that had possession of her--made her anxious that +their son should return to him as soon as possible. Philip was +disinclined to leave her; but they talked together quietly and fully of +this terrible discovery, and of all its consequences, and she pointed +out to him what, in her eyes, his path of duty clearly was. He must +accept the past, with all its present outgrowth, and not make the +harvest more bitter than it was by ineffectual reproaches and regrets. +What did it really matter, for the brief span of this life, whether he +passed through the world as a poor man or rich, distinguished or +obscure? He was running the race set before him, and far other eyes +than those of man were witnessing his career. Margaret, from her lofty +point of view, was nearer Philip in his youthful idealism than Sidney +could be, and his mother's counsels gave to him the courage and +hopefulness which seemed to his father so strange and pathetic. + +But Margaret herself was passing through the fiercest and most painful +crisis of her life. The blow that had fallen had struck at the deepest +roots of her being. It seemed as if she had linked her whole +existence, down to its innermost fibers, with a nature absolutely at +variance with it. This husband, whom she loved so perfectly, had been +living all these years beside her a life of base treachery and +dissimulation. She marveled as she thought of his daily intercourse +with her maid Rachel, Sophy Goldsmith's aunt, and of his constant +friendliness toward Andrew. How could he bear to see their grief and +suspense, nay, even pretend to share it, and to pursue the search after +their lost child? Was it possible that human nature contained such +depths of duplicity? He had kept silence amid all their mourning, and +made his silence seem full of sympathy. To be guilty of such infamy, +for any reason whatever, seemed inexplicable to her. But to do it for +the sake of money and position! If he had not owned it with his own +lips, no force of accumulated evidence could have compelled her into +belief. + +Yet her heart was very tender toward him. His sin seemed to stain her +own soul, so closely was she bound to him; for still she loved him. +Rather she felt as if she loved him with a deeper fullness, because of +her unutterable pity for his misery. She did not know for certain what +he would do; but she would hope, even against hope, that he would pass +through this gulf that lay between them, and reach her on the clear +heights from which she looked down upon his wrong-doing. He was fallen +indeed; but she would rather be his wife than fill any other position +in the world. He could never be less dear to her than he had always +been. + +She blamed herself for her too great reticence and silence as to her +own spiritual experience. It was so sacred, and yet so natural to her, +that she had rarely attempted to put it into words. If she loved her +husband's soul it must show itself in deeds, not speech. Her love to +God, her discipleship toward Jesus Christ, must be displayed in the +same way; if those around her could not see it in her daily life, it +would be useless to proclaim it. What she felt herself she attributed +to others. God was nearer to every soul than any fellow-creature could +be, and his dealings with each soul was wrapped in a veil impenetrable +to the understanding or comprehension even of those closest and dearest +to it. What God was saying to her husband's soul she could not know. +And no action of Sidney's life had taught her that they were worlds +apart in their spiritual experience. + +Now she saw in a new light that sin which Christ denounced above all +sins--hypocrisy. In a book she had read a short time before she had +come across these sentences: "Howbeit now I know well that Jesus came +not to prophesy smooth things, but to teach us the truth. Therefore +was it most needful that he should speak the truth, and nothing less +than the truth, concerning the Pharisees, to the intent that the eyes +of all mankind might be opened, even to the generation of generations, +that they might discern that the sin of sins is hypocrisy. For other +sins wound, but this sin slayeth, the conscience. Peradventure, also, +Jesus foresaw that a time might come when certain even among his own +disciples would err as the Pharisees erred, shutting their eyes against +the truth, as being unfit and not convenient. He, also, that came to +redeem all the children of men from all evil, was it not most necessary +that he should make clear in the sight of all men what was the greatest +evil? For if men knew it not, how could he redeem them from it?" + +This had been Sidney's crowning sin. He had so acted a part that, +unawares, he had grown to consider it his real nature; it had almost +ceased to be hypocrisy, save in the sight of God, whose eye saw the +false foundation on which the building was raised. For surely Sidney +had not altogether feigned his enjoyment of the privileges and duties +of Christianity. He had gone with her to the table of the Lord; he had +given generously, not only of his wealth, but of his time and talents, +to the service of his fellow-men. He had taken his stand in public +life as a religious man. "Even so ye also outwardly appear righteous +unto men, but within ye are full of hypocrisy and iniquity." This was +the condemnation of her Lord against the man who was dearer to her than +her own soul. + +She felt that she was right in facing this crisis alone, free from the +distracting affection of Sidney. To have stayed near him would have +taxed her strength too heavily; for all life was under an eclipse! Was +it not an abiding darkness, which could not pass away on this side of +the grave? Was he not in an abyss of gloom, into which she must go +down, and dwell with him there? Gloom and sorrow and remorse she would +share with him, but not the infamy of a new sin. + +Even in the deepest abyss God would be with her. This was the hope she +clung to. She recalled the vision she once had of the love of God. +There was absolutely no limit, no change, in that Divine love, though +it might take the form of an apparent vengeance. "Even in hell thou +art there!" she said, and she felt strong enough to go down to the +nethermost depths, if underneath her she were still to feel the +Everlasting Arms. + +The nethermost depth to her would be to separate herself from Sidney. +But if he persisted in carrying out his threat, and being guilty of +this new iniquity, even if her heart broke she would no longer live +with him. She knew what the world would say of it: that it was only a +foolish woman's jealousy and prejudice, a straining at a gnat, if she +could not forgive so boyish a sin as that of which he would seem to +have been guilty. But she took no account of the world. If he +persisted in his threatened injustice to Sophy's memory, if he brought +this bitter shame upon the heads of her dear old friends, it would be a +base act of perfidy, showing him absolutely unrepentant toward God and +man. It would be impossible to her to resume her former wifehood with +him. + +Rachel Goldsmith could not be ignorant of the fact that her beloved +mistress was passing through some great sorrow. But she was a reticent +woman, with great natural refinement, and she said nothing either to +express her own sympathy or to lead Margaret to confide her troubles to +her. She was older than her mistress by fifteen years, and she cared +for no one in the world so much as for Margaret and her two sons. +Philip and Hugh had grown up under her eyes, and she was almost like a +second mother to them. To her strong affection was added that loyal +and faithful respect with which an old servant looks upon the future +masters. + +Margaret spent most of her time in her own room in the hotel at Berne, +through the windows of which she could see the wonderful range of snowy +Alps, that stretched across the horizon, and, catching the evening +light, looks so unearthly in its marvelous purity and beauty. It +seemed to her as if beyond those white and rosy peaks lay "the land +that is very far off." That strong yearning to be gone thither, safely +shut in from the vanities and vexations of life, so often expressed in +old Latin hymns, had taken possession of her, and it seemed to her as +if she had only to will, to rise up, and cross over the invisible +threshold of the other life. Should she go or stay? The choice was +almost given to her. Would she depart at this moment, and be forever +with the Lord? Or would she stay to fight the sore battle her beloved +ones were engaged in? "Let me stay!" she said half aloud. + +At that moment Rachel entered the room quietly with a letter. It was a +thick packet, addressed to her in her husband's handwriting, and +Margaret opened it with trembling fingers. A number of yellow, +time-stained pages fell from it as she seized a little note written by +Sidney. + +"My Margaret," he said, "I have seen my son, and I will acknowledge +him. But unless you stand by me my punishment will be greater than I +can bear. I am like a man walking in darkness amid pitfalls, without +guidance. I will be guided by you. Do not forsake me, my wife. The +letter I enclose was written thirty years ago by Sophy to Rachel. +Would to God it had been sent to her then! To-night we expect to find +Martin, who has fled from us to the mountains." + +Margaret gathered up the scattered leaves, and called to Rachel, who +was just leaving her again alone. + +"Rachel!" she cried, "I can tell you my sorrow and my secret now. It +concerned you more than me, perhaps. And yet, no; it cannot, it +cannot. We have found out what has become of Sophy." + +"Oh, it is Mr. Martin!" exclaimed Rachel; "God bless him! I knew he +would find it out some day; and how shall we ever thank him for it, +Andrew and me?" + +"Hush! hush!" said Margaret; "it is too dreadful. Rachel, he sends you +this letter, which Sophy wrote to you before she died, thirty years +ago, and he says, 'Would to God it had been sent to you then!' Take it +away to read it: I cannot bear to see you reading it." + +Rachel carried the faded letter away. She was an old woman now, with +white hair, and eyes that were failing a little, and needing a brighter +light than when Sophy had written that long letter. But she remembered +Sophy's handwriting well, and tears blinded her dim eyes. Oh, what +anguish of heart would have been saved them if this letter had but +reached them thirty years ago! It was the suspense of the long, long +years that had broken Andrew's spirit, and made an old man of him while +still in the prime of life. Many fathers lose a beloved child by +death, and they lay them in the grave, and go their way, and presently +the sharp grief is healed. But he had lost her more cruelly, by that +crudest way, an unaccountable and mysterious disappearance. It was +well to make the discovery of her fate even now; but if it had only +been made thirty years ago! + +Rachel read the letter slowly, gathering in its many new impressions +vaguely, like one puzzled and bewildered. It seemed a confusion to +her. Who could this Sidney be of whom Sophy wrote--this young man who +had deserted her in a passion, as it appeared, just the thoughtless +passion of a young man? Sophy's temper had often been very provoking, +and she freely confessed that she had provoked him out of all patience. +Sidney? She knew only one man of that name. + +And he was Sidney Martin, her master, the husband of her idolized +mistress. He was the rich man, the magistrate, the member of +Parliament, who belonged to quite another world from that lower world +in which she and Andrew lived, the world to which Sophy had belonged. +To think of him in connection with this young man, Sophy's husband, who +had deserted her, was impossible; it was an unjustifiable liberty--a +crime. + +She put the letter down and took up some sewing, as if she could think +more clearly while her fingers were busy. But her hands trembled too +much, and a crowd of memories came rushing through her brain. O Sophy! +Sophy! how sad an end to come to with your willful ways and foolish +fancies! Dying there, alone, among strangers, who did not know what +you were saying with your dying lips! No hand you knew to hold your +hand as it grew cold, and no voice you could understand to speak words +of comfort as you went down, step by step, into the chill river of +death! Alone! utterly alone! + +Then she read the letter again. And now the name came clearly to +her--Sidney Martin. There must be some other man, then, of that name. +It was incredible that Mr. Martin, who had joined them in their search +and inquiry with such friendly sympathy, could have held the knowledge +of her fate in his own heart. She thought of all his kindness to +Andrew and herself--a kindness that had never failed. Yet--Sidney +Martin! And a secret marriage! It was he, too, who had sent her this +letter, and a strange message with it. If this could be true, what +would be the end of it? + +She made her way to Margaret's room with trembling limbs and a sinking +heart. Margaret was still sitting where she had left her, with her +face toward the window; but it was dark, and the long range of +mountains, that seemed only a little while ago the glistening boundary +of a brighter world, lay pallid as death against the somber sky. + +"Miss Margaret!" cried Rachel in a voice of sorrowful uncertainty. + +Margaret stood up and stretched out her arms, and the two women clung +to one another in a passionate embrace, which seemed to knit together +all the joys and sorrows of their lifelong affection. Rachel knew that +her dreaded surmise was true. + + + + +CHAPTER XLII. + +CAPTURED. + +That night, at Cortina, Sidney was watching in the hope of capturing +his son. Philip was with him, concealed in a dependance opposite to +the hotel, ready to intercept Martin if he took fright, or to pursue +him if he made his escape. Phyllis and Dorothy sat in their dark room, +with the window open that they might step noiselessly on to the balcony. + +Phyllis had not seen Martin; and no description given of him by Philip +and Dorothy led her to imagine him in any way different from the +peasants who inhabited the cottages near the little town. That he was +rougher and less civilized did not for a moment enter her brain. She +noticed these mountain laborers closely, wondering which of them would +be most like her unknown cousin, who so greatly altered her own future +prospects. It was plain to her that Philip and Margaret were Quixotic +enough to acknowledge the claim of this deserted son of a lowborn +mother to his rights as the eldest son and heir of his father, but she +was not sure of what Sidney meant to do. He might still listen to +reason and common sense. But she began to wonder, with a sinking heart +as she thought of marrying a comparatively poor man, how soon and how +much would this usurper acquire a fitness for his distinguished +position. + +To Sidney, the cheerful loyalty with which Philip came to aid him to +rescue his son was full of reproach. He felt, too, that Dorothy and +Philip were taking the affair out of his hands, and that his part was +almost a passive one, that of a spectator. These young creatures who a +few months ago looked up to him as an infallible oracle and the arbiter +of their lives, now stood beside him, nay, even before him, covering +with the strength of their youthful hopes, and their certainty of +success, the feebleness of his own doubtful and perplexed judgment. +They talked of Martin as though sure of redeeming him from his +ignorance and savagery, and fitting him to fill the position he was +born to; while Sidney could see in him only a man whose habits of mind +and body were unalterably rooted, a monster to whom he had given life, +and who was about to become his master. They, youthful and idealistic, +with no knowledge of the world, and but little of their own nature, +were ardently pursuing their object, blind to what he saw so clearly, +the long monotony of slowly passing years to come, when Martin, with +his ingrained savagery, would become a daily burden, full of care and +shame to all of them. If only he could save Margaret and his boys from +that burden! + +The long, silent hours of watching passed on, and Phyllis grew fretful +with the tedium of waiting. Every quarter of an hour sounding from the +clock tower made the time seem longer. The stars glittered in the +almost frosty sky; and the moon, now waning, threw a sad, white light +upon the sleeping town. There had been no sound for an hour or more, +when at last a stealthy, creeping footfall reached their straining +ears. The two girls stole silently to the balcony, and leaned +cautiously over the parapet. In the dim light Phyllis saw a wild, half +naked creature, bare-headed, with long, rough hair matted about his +face, scraping together the fragments of food thrown out into the +street for the dogs. It was a horrible sight to her, and she uttered a +low scream as she fled back into the room, which startled his +frightened ears. He was darting away when Dorothy called to him: +"Martino!" + +It was his own name that this white vision of an angel was calling; and +he hesitated in his intended flight, looking up again to see if she was +still there, and did not vanish away. + +"Martino!" she said again in her foreign accent, "we are your friends." + +"Si, signora," he answered. + +"Martino!" repeated a friendly voice beside him, and he felt a hand +laid gently on his bare arm, "we are your friends." + +He turned round with a start of terror; but the face he met was that of +the young English gentleman whom he had seen a few days ago, before +Chiara died, and who had given him the silver coin, which he carried +carefully concealed in his rags. He knelt down again to him, laid his +hands on his feet, muttering and mumbling his recognition and delight. +Philip glanced round to the dark doorway where his father stood unseen. +What must he be suffering in seeing such a sight as this? + +"Get up, Martino," he said, trying to raise him from his abject +posture, "we are your friends," he repeated, at a loss for words. +"Father," he continued in a low voice, "come and speak to him. You +know his language better than I do. Oh! if I could only make him +understand how much my mother and I pity him!" + +Sidney approached his sons cautiously. For a moment Martin stood as if +about to take a sudden flight; but the sight of an Englishman alone +pacified him; there was no need to be afraid of him. They were very +rich, these English; Chiara had always said so; they could give him +enough money to buy the right of building a little hut for himself in +some place on the mountains, where he could keep goats and sheep. He +stood quietly, therefore, watching them from under his shaggy eyebrows, +while Philip still held him by a slight yet firm grasp, of which he was +unconscious, so light his touch was. They waited, both of them in +silence, for their father to speak. + +But Sidney could not speak. He had seen Martin for only one moment +before, when he fled past him from the infuriated mob that had burnt +Chiara's hut over his head. Now he stood close beside him: a strongly +built man, with thews and sinews of iron, yet worn looking, with bowed +shoulders and stooping head, as though even his great strength had been +overtaxed with too many labors and hardships. His squalid face, the +almost brutish dullness of its expression, the untamed savagery of his +whole appearance, were too revolting to Sidney. Here was his own +folly, his own sin personified. He could have hated this monster but +for the remembrance of Margaret. + +"Mr. Martin," said Dorothy's clear young voice from the balcony +overhead, "take him into the dependance, and tell him he must sleep +there to-night, and you will talk to him in the morning. See, I have +some food in this satchel. And Philip will keep watch lest he should +try to escape. I am so glad we have found the poor fellow." + +"The signora says you must stay here to-night," repeated Philip, as he +saw Martin looking up at Dorothy, and listening attentively to her +unknown language, "and to-morrow we will show you we are friends." + +"Are the signori rich?" asked Martin. + +"Very rich," answered Philip. + +"Will the signori give money to me?" he asked again. + +"As much as you like," said Sidney, "if you will obey me." + +"As much money as Chiara had?" he rejoined. + +"More," replied Sidney. + +"Then I will obey you," he said, with a rough laugh. + + + + +CHAPTER XLIII. + +A POOR MAN. + +But now that Martin was captured, what was to be done with him? Sidney +found that the immediate direction of affairs was taken out of his +hands by these young people, who had been but children yesterday. +Martin attached himself to Philip, as a dog attaches itself to some +chosen master, and followed him about, obeying all his commands with a +doglike fidelity. He squatted in a corner of the room while Philip +took his meals, and the next night he stretched himself on the floor of +Philip's bedroom across the doorway, as if to guard him. At Dorothy's +sensible suggestion the garb of a peasant of the better class was +procured for him, and he put it on with an air of pride in spite of its +discomfort. + +"It would be nonsense to dress him like you, Philip," she said +sagaciously; "he would look ridiculous. It must all come by degrees, +as it did to me. I was quite a wild girl when your father found me; +and I know how miserable poor Martin will feel at first, especially +when we go away from here. It will be like another world to him." + +"We cannot go till Phyllis is quite well," said Philip anxiously. + +For Phyllis had been overcome by the shock of finding Martin such a +monster, and by the apparent determination of his father to own him as +his heir. She was keeping to her room, and filling Philip's heart with +dire anxiety and concern. Only Dorothy saw her, and to her she +maintained an ominous silence. + +"I think," said Dorothy, "that if he went to Brackenburn first, not to +Apley, it would be best for him. There are so few people about, and +the moors lie all around, where he could roam about just as he liked, +and nobody to notice him. Brackenburn will belong to him some day, and +he will grow accustomed to it. When he is a little more like an +English gentleman he may go to Apley." + +"I will suggest it to my father," replied Philip. + +"He will go peaceably with you as your servant," resumed Dorothy, "and +it is better to let him think himself so just at first. The sooner you +start the better. But not with us; Sir Sidney will take care of +Phyllis and me." + +"I cannot start till Phyllis is well," he said. + +But in a day or two Philip saw the necessity of taking Martin away +immediately. All the valley became acquainted with the strange +circumstance that Chiara's drudge was the son of a wealthy Englishman, +who had come to claim him as soon as he heard of Chiara's death. +Everyone sought an opportunity of seeing Martin, and of speaking to +him. The richer people addressed him in a half joking manner; but the +peasants, especially his old neighbors, paid him servile attention. +The woman who had scorned and flouted at him as a pariah, when he dared +to love her, haunted his footsteps. Martin himself strutted to and fro +in the village street, proud of his new garb, and bearing heroically +the pain his strong, high boots gave him; and the third night after +they had captured him Philip found him lying dead drunk in one of the +lowest inns in Cortina. It was full time to remove him from his old +surroundings. + +Sidney accepted the plans proposed by Philip and Dorothy with a sort of +numb pain. He was no longer worthy to be their guide, and they were +softly yet unconsciously setting him on one side. The burden was +falling on their shoulders; and how readily, how courageously they were +bearing it! There was as subtle a change in Dorothy as in Philip, +inasmuch as there was an undertone of pity for him in all she said and +did--a pity that was taking the place of the pride she had hitherto +felt in him. She was very gentle and tender in her manner, hovering +about him, and volunteering her companionship when he was setting out +on the lonely walks with which he made away his time. But Sidney felt +that all at once, in the prime of his life, his career was over. An +ever increasing sense of separation and isolation crept over him: Sophy +and her son stood between him and every other relationship. Possibly +his public career would not greatly alter; his days in the city would +pass pretty much as they had done. He would amass more money, and be +thought well of as a rich man. But at home all was changed. His +beloved son was no longer his firstborn; and even Margaret must feel +keenly that Sophy had been his wife before she was. + +The plan of traveling homeward in two parties was a wise one, for it +would not do to subject two young girls like Phyllis and Dorothy to any +annoyance from Martin's extreme savagery. Philip, too, acknowledged +the prudence of Dorothy's suggestion, though it parted him from +Phyllis, who gave him permission to see her on the eve of his departure +with Martin. + +She was sitting in a large, high-backed chair, covered with crimson +velvet, against which her pale cheeks looked whiter, and her face more +delicate, than they had ever done, and she spoke in a faint and languid +voice, as if the exertion was too much for her. + +"You will not be long after me, my darling?" he said anxiously. "I +would have given all I have to have saved you this sorrow; and yet it +is a comfort to me that you have been here. Now you know all about it, +just as you have known all my life hitherto. There were never two +people, not being brother and sister, who knew all about the other as +you and I do." + +"But, Philip," she asked languidly, "what do you suppose your future +life will be now?" + +"Oh! I must go into my father's business," he answered, "and set to +work seriously. Or if my father would give his consent I should like +most of all to walk the hospitals, and become a surgeon. I should like +to be a famous surgeon." + +"Good gracious, Philip!" she exclaimed, roused by such a proposition +out of her listlessness; "and am I to be a doctor's wife? A doctor's +wife, only having the brougham when you are not visiting your patients! +And you would never be sure of going out with me. Perhaps I should not +be in society at all!" + +"Perhaps not," he replied, "but you will be my own Phyllis always." + +"A fine compensation," she said, pouting and shrugging her shoulders. +"I don't know what my mother will say about it all." + +"But your father?" suggested Philip, with a smile. + +She was silent for a minute, and her face clouded. + +"He will say I am less worthy of you than ever," she replied gravely. +"Oh, yes! my father will be on your side; he is as incautious as any of +you. But I never thought your father would be so rash. You think you +know me, Philip, but all you are doing proves that you are mistaken; +you do not know me at all. I could never, never marry a poor man, +however much I loved him. And you will be poor." + +"Poor!" he repeated, "no, no! I shall not be a rich landowner, but I +shall have ample means for all your wants and my own. We shall be +poorer than my brothers, of course, but not as poor as yours. They +have their living to get, and so have I." + +"It is not all quite settled yet?" she said plaintively. + +"What is not settled?" he inquired. + +"Nobody knows yet but ourselves," she continued; "everything is not +lost. No one can know unless you proclaim it. I have been thinking +all day long while I have been lying ill, and I see all the ruin and +misery it will bring upon you all. The monster himself will be +wretched; if you wish to secure his happiness you should leave him +here. Taking him off to England would be ridiculous." + +"There is nothing else to be done," said Philip briefly. + +But he left Cortina in charge of Martin with a heavier heart for this +conversation with Phyllis. The clumsy form and uncouth gestures of +Martin, who refused any other seat than the box of the carriage, struck +him the more forcibly now they were starting on their way to England. +He looked a middle-aged man, scarcely younger than his father. Would +it be possible to mold him, even by little and little, by the slowest +degrees, into anything like the form of an English gentleman? It was +too late for that. + + + + +CHAPTER XLIV. + +SOPHY'S SON. + +Rachel Goldsmith heard the full story of Martin from Margaret's lips as +far as she knew it herself. She listened to Margaret's description of +the poor wretch, standing aloof from all his neighbors, and not daring +to enter the church, or to join the procession in the great _festa_; +and she shed many tears over the fate of Sophy's son. But it did not +once enter her mind that this unknown nephew of hers would usurp the +place of the young heir, whom she loved with a passionate devotion. +When Margaret began to speak of it she interrupted her hurriedly. + +"Oh, no, no!" she cried; "his grandfather and me would not hear a word +of such a thing! It's a good thing that our Sophy was married rightly, +and that's quite enough. That will satisfy Andrew and me. Let him +come to us, poor fellow, and we will provide for him. Andrew has saved +money, and so have I. It would never do, my lady, for Sophy's son to +live at the Hall in Mr. Philip's place." + +"But we cannot hinder it," said Margaret, smiling somewhat sadly; +"since Martin is my husband's eldest son, he must inherit the estates +entailed upon him. But, Rachel, it is not his poverty we must deliver +him from, it is his ignorance. He has never known what love is, and we +must make him know it. He knows nothing yet of God, and we must teach +him. We have to reclaim him from heathen darkness, possibly from +heathen sinfulness. All his past thirty years have to be atoned for, +and no one can do it as we can--his father, and his brothers, and I." + +"Couldn't Andrew and me do it?" asked Rachel. + +"Do you think you can?" rejoined Margaret. "My husband was guilty of +the wrong; who else can put it right?" + +"Will you wait till I can speak to Andrew?" she asked again. + +"It can make no difference," answered Margaret; "Andrew's grandson is +my husband's eldest son." + +But all the way homeward Rachel was pondering over the way in which she +should tell Andrew these tidings, and in what manner it could be +managed that Mr. Philip should not be dethroned. Though Margaret +talked little about it, Rachel saw that her spirits flagged, and that +she was more sorrowful than she had ever seen her before. Margaret and +her boys filled all Rachel's heart. In early days Sophy had always +been a trouble and perplexity to her, though the sadness and mystery of +her fate had made her forget all these cares. Sophy's son was coming +to be a still greater trouble and perplexity to her in her old age. By +dint of casual questions asked of Margaret at odd times, Rachel drew to +herself a picture of her great-nephew which filled her with dismay. A +man who could neither read nor write, who went about in rags, +bare-headed and barefooted--above all, a man who, if he prayed at all, +prayed to images; such was the usurper who was about to seize Philip's +birthright. + +The evening of the day when Margaret and she arrived at Apley, Rachel +set off to tell her brother of Sophy's fate. The little street, so +familiar to her all her life, seemed to put on a strange aspect as she +sometimes hurried, and sometimes lingered, along it, in the unusual +tumult of her spirit, which was eager, yet afraid, to tell her news. +At last, the small, low window of the shop, and the three hollowed +stone steps leading to the door, were reached. The old journeyman, +grown old and infirm in their service, was putting up the shutters, and +the bell tinkled loudly as he went in and out through the half open +door. She was just in time to enter and pass through the darkened shop +unheard, to the kitchen behind it. + +It looked very homelike and cozy to her, much more so than the grand +rooms at the Hall. Though it was summer a clear fire was burning in +the grate, and its dancing light flickered pleasantly on the polished +oak of the dresser and the old clock, and on the brass candlesticks and +pewter dishes, shining like silver, ranged on the dresser shelves. +Andrew sat in a three-cornered chair inside the chimney nook, resting +himself with an air of tranquil comfort now the shop was closed and the +day's business done. He was a hale looking old man, with a good deal +of strength in him still, though his hair, which had turned gray thirty +years ago, was now of a silvery whiteness. In Rachel's eyes he looked +little older, and far happier, than he had done thirty years ago. + +"So you've come back again from foreign parts," said Andrew, greeting +her cordially, after her sister Mary had kissed her again and again. +"You're welcome back, Rachel; but it's been only a flying visit, not +more than a week or so. I wonder the quality don't get worn out with +flying about like that." + +"It was business this time," she answered gravely, "not pleasure. +You're quite well, Brother Andrew? You've got no rheumatism such +weather as this?" + +"Not a twinge of it," he said. "I never reckoned on being a strong old +man like this. Thanks to the folks at the Hall, Mr. Martin, and Mr. +Philip, and Mr. Hugh, and Miss Margaret most of all. If ever folks +mended a broken heart, they've mended mine, God bless them!" + +"Ay! God bless them," she echoed in a tremulous voice. "Brother +Andrew, do you often think of Sophy now?" + +"Often think of Sophy now!" he repeated; "ay! every day, every hour! +When you came through the shop, I thought, 'Suppose that is my girl!' +She may come home yet, Rachel. Some night, when all the shops are +shut, and the neighbors safe indoors, she'll steal in and ask if she +may come home again. If it wasn't for thinking she might do that, I'd +have quitted the old house years ago; but I've stayed on for fear she +might come back and find no home, and be ashamed of inquiring where +we've gone to. I think of Sophy!" he murmured in a tone of wonder and +reproach. + +"She would be a gray-haired woman now, fifty years old," said Mary; "we +should hardly know her." + +"Then you don't give up the hopes of finding her?" asked Rachel. + +"Never!" he answered. "I've asked Almighty God thousands and thousands +of times to let me live till I knew what had become of her. And I've +pleaded his promises with him, and I cannot think he'll disappoint me. +I am sure I shall know before I die." + +"But it might be best for you not to know," she suggested. + +"But I chose to know it," he said, a gleam of almost insane excitement +burning in his deep-set eyes, "I chose to know it. I did not leave it +with God. I said, 'Let me know even if it kills me. Let me know if I +go down to hell to find her.' I say so now. Rachel," he cried in a +loud and agitated voice, "have you come to tell me something? Have you +found her? Do you know anything about my girl?" + +He sprang up and seized her hands in his own. They were both old +people, with but few years to live, yet at this moment they felt as if +they were thirty years younger, and in the early prime of their days, +when Sophy had disappeared, and the trouble first crushed them. If she +had opened the door and entered among them with her pretty face and +saucy manner, they would have seen her without a shadow or touch of +surprise. + +"Yes, I have heard of her," said Rachel breathlessly. + +Andrew fell back in his chair, and his withered face went ashy pale. +He only cried, as if to himself, "My God! my God!" + +"But, Brother Andrew," continued Rachel in a forced, monotonous manner, +"she is dead. Sophy died thirty years ago." + +"Sophy died thirty years ago!" he repeated, gazing at her with dim +eyes, from which all the light had faded. + +"Very far away, in foreign parts," went on Rachel; "and before she +died--the very day before she died--she wrote a letter to me, a long +letter, that was never sent." + +"Died thirty years ago," murmured Andrew, as if his brain could +understand nothing more. + +"Rachel," said Mary eagerly, "just sit down and tell us all about it. +Have you brought the letter? Was she married? Who did she run away +with? Be quiet, and tell." + +"First," answered Rachel, "I want to know if you can forgive the man +who persuaded her to run away, Brother Andrew?" + +"No! no!" he exclaimed. + +"Not if he were a mere boy, like our Mr. Philip, who did not know the +harm he did?" urged Rachel. + +"If he married her," he said hesitatingly. + +"Oh, he married her," replied Rachel. + +Andrew's white head sank into his hands, and the tears trickled slowly +down his face. Sophy had been married. For the sting of his sorrow +had been the dread that his child had lost her innocence. The tears he +shed were tears of gladness and thankfulness. True, she was dead; but +he, too, would soon die, and he would meet her with no shame upon her +head. He was not afraid of dying now, for the secret he dreaded had +been revealed to him. Rachel drew out of her pocket Sophy's letter, +and laid it on the little round table, where a candle was lighted. + +"But who did she run away with?" asked Mary. "If you know she was +married, you know who she was married to." + +"Yes," she answered, sighing heavily; "he was no older than Mr. Philip, +a mere boy, with no thought of the harm he did. He'd been visiting at +the Hall, and saw our Sophy, and he ran away with her and married her. +It was Mr. Martin himself." + +"Mr. Martin!" exclaimed both Andrew and Mary at the same moment. + +Across Andrew's mind came the recollections of the last twenty-three +years. Sidney had seen and known all their sorrow and bewilderment; he +had seemed to share it; he had diligently aided them in their +inquiries, and all the time he knew! At any moment he could have +rolled the burden off their hearts. He, who had seemed their friend +and benefactor, had been the very enemy they were seeking. The gloomy +and fierce light blazed again in Andrew's sunken eyes, and he raised +his arm, trembling with excitement, and looked mournfully at it, as if +he was stricken with palsy. + +"Would to God my right arm was what it used to be!" he cried. "But I'm +an old, worn-out, broken-down man, with no strength left. I've only +strength to cry night and day upon God to avenge me. And he will +avenge me." + +"Hush! hush!" exclaimed Rachel. "In cursing him you curse those who +are dear to us as Sophy was. You curse Philip and Hugh, and our own +Miss Margaret. And you love them." + +"Yes, I love them," he replied fiercely; "but not like my own girl. +You don't know what it is to have given life to a child, and see her +life destroyed by another man. It tugs at my very heartstrings. Oh, +my Sophy!" + +He dropped his head again so that they could not see his face. But his +shrunk and trembling hands were clenched till the sinews stood out +white and rigid, and his bent shoulders heaved with deep and bitter +sobs. It was the treachery of his idolized master which was burning +his wrongs into his very soul. + +"But he is punished more than you could punish him," said Rachel, "for +Sophy left a child behind her, a son, and my lady says he is heir in +place of Mr. Philip." + +"How can that be?" he asked, looking up with a puzzled gaze. + +"Because Sophy was Mr. Martin's first wife," she continued, "before our +Miss Margaret; and Sir John Martin's estates in Yorkshire are settled +on his eldest son. Sophy's child is a man of thirty now, and my lady +says he must be the squire when Mr. Martin dies." + +"Sophy's son is my grandson," said Andrew, after a long pause. + +"Yes," answered Mary. + +"Then where is he?" he asked impatiently. "I want to see Sophy's son. +I must see that he gets his rights. My grandson will be the squire +some day. But I shall not live to see it, and then Mr. Martin will +cheat him, as he has cheated me." + +"No," said Rachel, "Mr. Martin owns him, and they are bringing him home +from the far-off place where Mr. Philip found him. But, Brother +Andrew, it would be best for him not to take Philip's place. Think of +it! You and me aren't fit to be the grandfather and the aunt of Mr. +Martin's heir. We shall have nothing to do with him; he cannot come +and visit us here in this little house, and we couldn't go and visit +him at the Hall. We shall all be upset, and he will be no more than a +stranger to us, though he is Sophy's son." + +"But I shall be proud of him," answered Andrew. "I shall like to see +him ride past the shop window, like Mr. Philip does. And when he lifts +his hat and smiles at me, as Mr. Philip does, I shall say, 'That's +Sophy's son, my grandson.' Ah! and Mr. Martin will be finely punished. +What is his name, Rachel?" + +"They christened him Martino," she replied; "he will be Martino Martin." + +"Martino Martin," he repeated; "that is my grandson! He will be squire +of Brackenburn, but _I_ shall never see it. I shall be dead before +then; we shall all be gone. But he will be a rich man--richer than Mr. +Philip." + +"You always said you loved Mr. Philip as if he was your own," said +Rachel sadly. + +"Ay! but this is different," he answered; "this one is really my own +flesh and blood. He belongs to me, and I belong to him. I shall see +Sophy again in him. Mr. Philip calls me 'Goldsmith,' but he will call +me 'grandfather.' As soon as he comes home, and has a horse to suit +him, I will make him such a saddle as the highest gentleman in the land +might covet. I long to see him--as fine a gentleman as them all." + +"But you forgive Mr. Martin?" asked Rachel. + +"Forgive him!" he exclaimed. "Forgive a traitor like him! A man who +pretends to be your friend, and comforts you for the sorrow he is +making! Forgive him for stealing away my only child, and hiding my +grandson away in foreign parts! Forgive him all these years of grief +which almost broke my heart! Why should I forgive him?" + +"Because you pray to God to forgive you as you forgive others," she +said. + +"But I've never trespassed against God," he answered, "as this man has +trespassed against me, God Himself being the judge. Let me be for a +while. Perhaps some day, when I see my grandson riding by with +gentlemen like himself, rich, and prosperous, and happy, and, maybe, a +member of Parliament, then I may by chance forgive his father. But I +cannot do it now--not now. I've a great deal to sum up and get over +before I can forgive him." + +Late on in the night Andrew Goldsmith was poring and brooding over +every word in Sophy's letter. He lived over again the years of +distraction, bordering upon insanity, which had intervened between +Sophy's disappearance and the return of Colonel Cleveland to the Hall +with his daughter Margaret and her husband Sidney Martin. He called +back the memory of the singular fascination Mr. Martin had exercised +over him; and his old, troubled heart was very sore as he thought of +all his loyal friendship to the man who had so deeply wronged him. +"And he was my son-in-law all the time," he said to himself. If he had +owned his marriage, and brought his son to his own house to be educated +as his heir, Andrew would gladly have kept in the background, content +with an occasional sight of his grandson. But now he would spread the +story far and wide. Mr. Martin, who had been ashamed of his lowly +marriage, should be more bitterly ashamed of his treacherous secrecy. +His love for Margaret and her sons was swallowed up in his hatred of +her husband, his own son-in-law. + + + + +CHAPTER XLV. + +BITTER DISAPPOINTMENT. + +Nothing could exceed the rage of Andrew Goldsmith when he heard that +his grandson was about to be taken to Yorkshire, instead of being +brought to Apley. What measures he had expected Sidney Martin to take +in order publicly to acknowledge Sophy's son he hardly knew. But to +send him to so distant a spot, without any open recognition of his +rights, was a step that filled the old man with suspicion. Sidney came +back to Apley, but Andrew refused to see him, feeling that it was +impossible to forgive his enemy, and equally impossible to control his +impotent wrath. Sidney passed up and down the village street daily, +but Andrew sat no longer in his shop, for fear of catching a passing +sight of the prosperous traitor, whom he could not punish. He would +not even see Margaret or Dorothy. He held himself altogether aloof +even from his sister Rachel, who was so completely on his enemies' side. + +In a few days after Sidney's return Mary told him that his grandson had +reached Brackenburn, and that Philip was staying with him. His +indignation and suspicion made him restless to see Sophy's son with his +own eyes, and to confer with him as to the claiming of his rights. An +attorney in the neighborhood, whose opinion he asked, advised him to go +down into Yorkshire without letting the family know of his purpose. He +told Mary that he was going away on business for a few days, and she +and Rachel rejoiced that he could give his mind to business at such a +time. They, too, were anxious and overcurious to see their +great-nephew, but it did not occur to either of them that their brother +should undertake any secret enterprise. By and by, when Martin was +getting a little used to the change in his surroundings, Margaret +intended to go to Brackenburn herself, taking Dorothy and Rachel with +her. But for the present all agreed that it was best to leave Martin +to free and unrestrained wanderings about the moors. + +Andrew traveled northward with excited and extravagant visions of his +grandson. He could think of Mr. Martin's eldest son and heir only as +being like Philip and Hugh--young men whom he had always regarded with +mingled deference, admiration, and affection. He had been proud of +"the two young gentlemen from the Hall." This elder brother of theirs +no doubt resembled them, though he was his grandson. + +His heart was full of tenderness toward his lost Sophy's child, as +passionate as the bitter resentment he felt against Sidney. It would +be impossible to say which was the stronger. His whole nature was in a +tumult. The keen and profound anger he felt against Sidney when his +mind brooded over his treacherous friendship to himself, alternated +with a still keener exultation as the thought flashed across him that +he was Sidney's father-in-law, and the grandfather of his heir. He, +the old saddler of Apley, insignificant and poor, was still the +grandfather of the future squire. He wished that Sophy's son had been +the heir to Apley, which was a finer place than Brackenburn. What a +glory and a joy it would have been to pace down the village street and +up the broad avenue to his grandson's Hall! Though this glory could +never be his, his spirit was greatly exalted within him at the thought +of his grandson being the owner of Brackenburn in the future. + +He walked the few miles between the station and Brackenburn, for he was +a vigorous old man, and not accustomed to hiring conveyances. But he +was tired by the time he reached the point in the road from which the +black and white, half timber house was first visible. It disappointed +him more now than it had done before, when he visited it on Philip's +coming of age. This old, irregular pile of buildings, with its many +gables and the old golden-gray stone wall shutting it in, which so +delighted Dorothy and Philip, contrasted unfavorably in Andrew's eyes +with the massive frontage and mullioned windows of Apley Hall. It +seemed more than ever a studied and suspicious injustice to hide his +grandson out of the way in this solitary farmhouse. + +From the point where he stood the great moors, putting on their robes +of purple heather and golden gorse, could be seen stretching behind the +house up to the horizon. It was early in July, and the midsummer sun +lighted up the undulating ground, displaying every patch of bracken and +of gorse, with the rough, jagged teeth of rock thrusting themselves +upward everywhere in their midst. To Andrew's eyes, accustomed to +southern cultivation, the moors seemed a dreary and wild desert, fit +only for tramps and gypsies to squat in. He could see no path across +them; the road on which he stood ran down to the house in the dingle, +but stopped there. All the deserted region beyond was bare and +trackless moorland. It seemed to check his exalted visions of his +grandson's glory. This place was the inheritance of Sophy's son. + +But he would see him righted, if Sidney meant to wrong him. This +deserted child should not be cheated of his birthright. He strode down +the long road in the hot afternoon sunshine, weary and sore at heart. +But he was about to see his grandson, and to tell him, if no one had +yet told him, of the prosperous future that lay before him, of the +riches that had been accumulating for him, of the place he would take +in England. All his suspicions and bitterness did not prevent his +troubled heart from beating with high hopes, or his aged frame from +trembling with eagerness to embrace his daughter's son. + +He approached the house with some caution, for in spite of his love for +Philip he could not shake off the misgiving that he would be willing to +supplant his unwelcome elder brother. The high, gray wall which +surrounded the house hid him from sight until he reached the double +gates hung upon massive stone pillars. Beyond them lay the forecourt, +paved with broad slabs of stone, and opposite to the gates stood the +wide, hospitable wooden porch, which protected the heavy house door, +studded with nails. Andrew paused for a minute or two, gazing through +the iron gates. On the steps of the porch lay a man basking in the +sunshine like a dog. He had kicked off his boots, which lay at a +little distance from him, and his bare feet were stretched out on the +heated pavement. They were bruised and scarred, as if they had never +been protected against winter frosts, or the piercing of sharp rocks. +This man's hands were even worse than his feet: misshapen, clumsy, +frost-bitten, covered with warts and corns, one finger altogether gone, +and his nails worn down into the hard skin. His face wore the same +disfiguring marks of constant exposure to extreme changes of heat and +frost. His front teeth were gone, and his skin furrowed with coarse +wrinkles. His hair was cut short, but it was scanty, tangled, and +matted. Many an English tramp would have looked a gentleman beside +him. Andrew gazed at this strange figure with curiosity. Probably +this man, if he belonged to the place, as he seemed to do, for he was +comfortably smoking a pipe, was one of his grandson's foreign servants. +Yet he looked too uncivilized, too savage to be even a servant. He +ought not to be lying there in front of the house--the stables were too +good for him. Down south, nearer London, no gentleman would put up +with such a scarecrow about his place. But his clothes were good, +though he had divested himself of most of them, and laid them under his +head as a pillow. Martin must learn that such a rough fellow must not +lie on his front doorstep. + +Passing through the gates, Andrew approached this wild figure with +somewhat slow and hesitating steps. No one else was in sight to whom +he could speak, and all the sunny house seemed asleep, except this +strange, uncouth man. But there was something in the sad, marred face +which appealed to his very heart; a dumb, pathetic appealing gaze, such +as looks out of the eyes of a dog, and that seems yearning to express +in words the feelings that lie forever imprisoned in his almost human +nature. The eyes of the stranger, gleaming from under his shaggy +eyebrows, looked into his own with a gaze that was familiar to him. It +shook Andrew to his inmost soul. + +"Who are you?" he asked hurriedly. "You cannot be anybody I ever saw +before. I am come to see Mr. Martin, Sidney Martin's eldest son. +Where is he?" + +The man rose to his feet and lifted up his hand in salutation, standing +before him in an almost abject attitude. The skin on his bare arms and +breast was tanned to a deep brown and covered with short hair. He +mumbled some indistinct syllables in reply, but not a word that Andrew +could comprehend. + +"Who are you? what's your name?" asked Andrew, raising his voice as if +he fancied the foreigner was deaf. In another minute footsteps were +heard in the silent house, and Philip himself stepped out of the hall +into the porch. + +"Andrew Goldsmith!" he exclaimed. + +"Yes, me, Mr. Philip," said Andrew excitedly, "I'm come to claim my +grandson, the child of my only daughter, my poor lost girl Sophy. I +know all about it, Mr. Philip, and my lady herself told Rachel. Why +didn't he come straight home with them to Apley Hall? What is he +hidden away here for? What are you going to do with him? I am his +grandfather, and have a right to know. Next to his father, he belongs +to me, and his interests are mine. Why did you bring him here?" + +"Look at him, Andrew," said Philip. + +Martin was standing a little way off, intently watching his brother, +with such a look of faithful love on his face as an intelligent dog +might have. Philip smiled at him, a sad smile enough, but it made +Martin laugh with delight. So dreary and insane was this sound, as if +Martin's lips had never been taught to laugh, that it always made +Philip's heart ache to hear it. + +"No, no!" cried Andrew, retreating from the two brothers with an +expression of terror, "that cannot be my Sophy's son! No, Mr. Philip, +it is impossible. He's a savage, a Hottentot! he isn't my grandson. +Why! the poor fellow is almost an idiot. He can't be my Sophy's boy. +Tell me you're only playing a joke upon me." + +"He is my brother," said Philip. "See! I will tell him so." + +He said a few words in a language strange to Andrew, and Martin seized +his hand and held it to his lips, covering it with kisses. Then he +fell back into his customary attitude of abject submission. + +"Sit down, Andrew," said Philip in a tone of authority. The old man's +face was pallid, and he was swaying to and fro as though unable to +stand; but he caught the sense of Philip's words, and stretched out his +hands like one groping in the dark. He felt it seized in Philip's +strong grasp. + +"Sit here," he said, drawing him into the porch, "and when you are +yourself again I will explain it all." + +It seemed to Andrew as if the hour of death was come. He had lived to +have the desire of his heart, had lived to know his girl's fate and to +see her child with his own eyes. Now let him die. Not as Simeon died +when he said, "Lord, now lettest Thou Thy servant depart in peace." He +was about to depart in bitterness and desolation of soul, having seen +that which he had longed for; and behold! the sight was a horror and a +curse to him. There was a thick darkness gathering around him. Why, +then, did he not die? Philip's strong young hand was grasping his, and +his clear voice was speaking to him. + +"O Andrew!" he said, "I was coming down to Apley to tell you, and +prepare you for seeing Martin, and then to bring you back here with me. +He is neither a savage nor an idiot. He is improving rapidly, and by +and by we shall bring him to Apley. But you would not have him there +at present, would you?" + +Andrew felt his heart beat again, and the darkness began to give place +to the familiar light of day. He opened his eyes, and the ashy +paleness passed from his aged face. Now he looked up into Philip's +face, that face which had been so dear to him for many years. + +"I will tell Martin who you are," he said. + +But Martin seemed incapable of understanding it. He knew well that he +had had a mother, for had not everyone about him, from his earliest +childhood, given him an extra kick because she was lost in hell? But +that this unhappy mother should have had a father, who was still alive, +was more than he could comprehend. He stood looking vacantly at the +old man for a minute or two, and then crept away bareheaded and +barefooted to the gates. As soon as he was through them he set off at +a run, and they watched his tall, bent figure scudding over the +moorland till they could see him no longer. + +"Yes, Mr. Philip," cried Andrew, with a groan, "yes, you're doing the +best for him and me. But I shall never lift up my head again, never +more." + + + + +CHAPTER XLVI. + +PUBLIC OPINION. + +Andrew would not stay at Brackenburn even for the night. He could not +endure the sight of his grandson again, until he had readjusted his +ideas and schemes, and had reconciled himself to his terrible +disappointment. Philip drove him to the station, doing his best to +comfort and cheer him, but he reached Apley the next day, after a long +night's journey, a broken-spirited and embittered old man. + +Though this grandson of his could never be the fine English gentleman +he had been dreaming about, still Andrew was resolved there should be +no infringement of his birthright. Though he could never attain to +even a faint resemblance of Philip and Hugh, yet he was the eldest son, +the firstborn; and if the law of entail meant anything in England, it +must secure the inheritance to Martin. He laid the whole case, as far +as he knew the circumstances, before a firm of respectable solicitors +in the nearest large town, and was assured that if the next heir was of +sound mind, there was no doubt that he must succeed to Mr. Martin's +entailed estates. But was he sure that he was of sound mind? That was +the question. The description he gave of his grandson favored an +opposite conclusion. + +It was a question that Andrew could not answer satisfactorily, even to +himself. Possibly the mind was there, but it was altogether +undeveloped. The life Martin had passed through was that of a cruelly +treated brute, cowering under cold and hunger, neglect, and oppression, +and hatred. He possessed scarcely more intelligence than an +intelligent dog. This, then, would be the loophole through which +Sidney would escape from the net he had woven for himself. He would +evade doing justice to Sophy's son by treating him as an idiot or a +madman. + +Day after day Andrew went about the neighborhood, for a circle of ten +or twelve miles, telling the story of Sophy's wrongs with a publicity +strangely at variance with his dignified and melancholy reticence in +former days. He became a garrulous old man, ready to pour the history +of his troubles into every ear that would listen to it. And the story +was an interesting one. Many an old resident within some miles of +Apley recollected the incidents connected with the mysterious +disappearance of the saddler's pretty daughter, and the morose distress +of her father. Now that the almost forgotten mystery was solved the +solution proved to be more interesting than the secret. Andrew found +no difficulty in gaining listeners. + +In these days public confession and public penance are impossible. +Sidney had no intention to act unjustly by his unfortunate firstborn +son, but he could take no steps to make his intentions known. He had +made his confession, with secret shame and grief, to his own +solicitors, and to one or two of his most intimate friends. The +rector, of course, had been acquainted with every detail, and had +looked more deeply into his heart of hearts than any other eye, except +Margaret's. But he could not defend himself from aspersions. A +general election was at hand; and Andrew, maddened by the remembrance +of the eager aid he had given to Sidney in former times, redoubled his +efforts to prejudice his constituents against him. But on the eve of +the dissolution Sidney addressed a letter to them, resigning his office +as their representative, and recommending as his successor the son of a +neighboring landlord. No reason was given for his resignation. + +This omission Andrew seized upon. Garbled statements of the recent +events in the life of their late member of Parliament appeared in the +county papers taking the opposite side in politics--statements full of +venom and rancor. These were among the many penalties which Sidney +could not bear alone, but which fell heavily on Margaret and his sons. +The romance of Sophy's life and death contained so much truth that it +was not wise to enter into any contradictory or explanatory statements. +The son of Sidney's first wife was described as a helpless imbecile, +rendered so by the untold miseries which he had suffered with his +father's knowledge. A demand was made that the guardianship of this +unhappy heir should be taken out of his father's hands, and placed in +those of the Lord Chancellor, as the legal protector of idiots. A +commission should be immediately appointed to inquire into the present +condition, both physical and mental, of Sidney Martin's heir. + +This blow struck home. Not only did Sidney suffer from it, but Philip +and Hugh, who were now together at Brackenburn, whither Hugh had gone +for the long vacation. Rachel Goldsmith was filled with indignant +anger. Andrew himself was dismayed at the storm he had raised, and the +use made of his bitter complaints by the "other side," as he called +those opposed to his own political views. He had not wished to play +into their hands. Besides, he knew that whatever concealment Sidney +might have been guilty of, or whatever subterfuges he might have been +tempted to, his grandson's welfare was safe in Margaret's hands. That +Margaret should swerve from the right path, however strait and narrow, +was incredible to him. + +There was one person, however, so deeply interested in these malicious +suggestions, that she hoped they might be carried into effect, at least +so far as the appointment of a commission to inquire into the physical +and mental condition of Martin. Laura was filled with anxiety about +Phyllis; it would never do for her to marry Philip if he was to be an +almost penniless man, coming between two rich brothers. Margaret's +estate went to Hugh, and if Martin was sound in mind and body, there +was no chance for Philip. But in case he was really an imbecile, of +course Philip would succeed. She must find out the truth. + +She seized an opportunity when they were dining at the Hall with no +other guests present. It was a summer's evening, and after dinner they +sat out of doors on the terrace. Phyllis, in obedience to previous +orders, carried Dorothy out of the way. Laura began with a little +trepidation. + +"We saw old Andrew this morning," she said, "and he could talk of +nothing but his grandson." + +Laura knew there were times when the fewest words were best, and she +spoke these with an air of innocent frankness. + +"Yes, Sidney," said George, "the old man is angry with himself at +giving rise to these vexatious reports. Would it not be best to bring +Martin here for people to see him for themselves?" + +"No, no; it is impossible," answered Sidney. + +"But why?" pursued George. "It is always best to face a difficulty as +soon as possible. You cannot keep him out of sight forever. Is it +true, then, that the poor fellow is imbecile?" + +"Not at all," replied Sidney. "The simple truth is that he is a +savage. He has no more idea of our modes of life and thought than a +savage has. His vocabulary is that of a savage; at the most he knows +less than three hundred words, and he cannot learn the English +equivalents of those. His brain is almost utterly undeveloped, and his +mind is almost as much closed against us as if he was only a dog. But +there is no reason to suppose him imbecile, and, in time, he may yet +learn a good deal." + +"Is he strong in body?" asked Laura. + +"As strong as a giant in some ways," said Sidney. "His hard life has +made his muscles like iron. He can sleep out of doors amid snow and +frost that would kill any one of us, and he can eat food that would +sicken us. Yes," he added, in a tone of unfathomable regret, "my +eldest son is a savage and a heathen, but he is not an idiot." + +"And must he really be your heir?" asked Laura with a trembling voice. + +"Certainly," he replied; "he is old enough to cut off the entail, but +until he can understand what that means it cannot be done, and that is +a very complex idea for a savage brain. There is no ground for +dispossessing Martin. Two of our most eminent mental specialists have +been to Brackenburn, and they discover no mental incapacity excepting +that of an altogether undeveloped brain. They found him more dull and +ignorant than the lowest type of English laborer, but they attribute it +solely to neglect, not to brain weakness. He may be unfit for his +position, but there is no reason why his son should be." + +"Goodness!" exclaimed Laura, aghast. "You think, then, he will marry." + +"Why not?" asked Margaret. "Nothing would tend to civilize him so much +as a wife and children, if only we can find some good and nice village +girl whom he could love, and who would consent to marry him. But no +lady would become his wife." + +"Of course not," assented Laura; "but what, then, is to become of poor +Philip?" + +"Philip wants to become a surgeon," said Margaret, smiling, "and I am +willing, even glad; but Sidney hesitates. I do not want my boy drowned +in commercial cares, and dealing chiefly with money all his life, as +Sidney has been. I do not think money worth the sacrifice. I cannot +help believing that our Lord meant what He said: 'How hardly shall they +that have riches enter into the kingdom of God!' It is true. Tell me, +Sidney, is it not true? I shall be glad to have Philip out of the race +for wealth. They will not be poor--Laura; my boy and your girl. They +will have enough to secure everything worth having--everything that +tends to health and culture and rational pleasure. They will only have +to do without superfluities." + +"Philip a surgeon!" exclaimed Laura; "not even a clergyman to take the +family living!" + +"That would be impossible," replied Margaret; "he feels no call for it, +and he could not go into the Church for the sake of the family living." + +"That would be a sin against God," said George; "next to the +unpardonable sin, if it be not that sin itself. Let Philip become a +surgeon; my Phyllis will love him as much as if he was the owner of +Brackenburn." + +But there were at least two persons there who doubted it, and with good +reasons. A smile that had grown rare on Sidney's face lit it up for a +moment, as the thought flashed across him that Philip would soon see +the real nature of the wife he had chosen, and that Dorothy would also +appear to him in her true light. Laura inwardly vowed that neither +persuasion nor authority on her husband's part should keep Phyllis +bound to a man who entered the insignificant career of a surgeon. It +would have been a knotty question whether Phyllis could have married +him, even if he had entered into partnership with his successful +father; but she should never become the wife of a professional man. + +And Martin? It was possible that Sidney and Margaret were exaggerating +his deficiencies. Laura felt no doubt that they painted him worse than +he was; it was Margaret's habit to overstate any opinion she formed. +If he was only a boor, why could not Phyllis civilize him? She might, +in any case, keep her boorish husband in the background and still enjoy +the distinction of being Mrs. Martin of Brackenburn. Before she bade +them good-night she had constructed for herself a tolerable image of +Martin, which might be quite easily tolerated by a girl like Phyllis. +She might still live to see her the wife of Sidney's eldest son. + + + + +CHAPTER XLVII. + +ANDREW'S PRAYER. + +Philip and Hugh, with their cousin Dick, passed the long vacation at +Brackenburn. These young men did their best to make a companion of +Martin; but he could not understand their friendly efforts. He was +willing to accept Philip as his master, and to obey his commands; but +he could not, even for his sake, accept the shackles of a civilized +life. To bask all day long in the sunshine, with as little clothing on +as possible, to have a large plateful of food served to him out of +doors two or three times a day, and at nightfall to steal quietly into +some dark outbuilding and sleep all night upon sweet-scented hay, was +his ideal of well-being. Anything more was irksome to him. + +Sometimes, in obedience to Philip's call, he went with them when they +were shooting on the moors, shambling behind them with his awkward +gait, and seeing and hearing nothing, unless a far-off speck in the +sky, all but invisible to them, caught his eye, and filled him with +excitement in the fancy that it was a vulture. If they came upon the +track of any wild creature, a track altogether imperceptible to them, +he could follow it with unerring skill till they traced it to its lair; +then Martin laughed with an uncouth and cruel laugh, and with savage +eagerness and incredible rapidity the animal was caught, and killed, +and skinned before their eyes. At all other times his face bore an +expression of deep melancholy. He was content only in Philip's close +vicinity. As long as Philip was in the Hall he lounged at his ease in +the sunny forecourt; but when Philip was absent, as he was occasionally +for a day for two, Martin grew restless and anxious, and moped about +the empty rooms vainly seeking for his master. + +But this could not go on much longer. Philip's life must not be +sacrificed to Martin; and it was not practicable for him to take Martin +to London. + +Sidney had not yet felt courage enough to see his eldest son again, and +Margaret shrank from urging him to it. He was greatly changed these +last few months. The air of prosperity that had been wont to sit so +lightly and so becomingly upon him, the happy graciousness of his +manner, his felicitous speeches, his confidence in himself, and his +successful career--all these had passed away. He grew silent, and +cared little for his life in town, seeking more and more, though he +felt her farther from him, the constant companionship of his wife. + +It was late one evening, after all the shops were closed, when Sidney +and Margaret together knocked at Andrew Goldsmith's door. It was +opened softly by Mary, and they stepped inside the dark shop, standing +there while she stole back and knelt down at a chair just within the +kitchen door. Old Andrew was at prayer, and as soon as Mary re-entered +his quavering voice resumed its solemn petition. + +"We beseech Thee, O Lord," he said, "to take under the shadow of Thy +wings that poor child of mine, my lost girl's son, who is now in sore +straits and great trouble. He has no friend save Thee; there is +nothing in him to make folks love him. But nothing has been done for +him, Thou knowest. The man that deserted my girl deserted his own +flesh and blood. And he is no better than a heathen, worshiping stocks +and stones. Let us see Thine arm stretched out to save him, and to +punish that man, his father, who left him to perish, body and soul. +Vengeance, O Lord; let us see Thy vengeance on him." + +Sidney heard nothing more. It was a terrible thing to hear a +fellow-man appealing to God against him. Margaret's heart was melted +with pity toward them both. If only either of them knew the infinite +love of God; if they could but realize how small a moment in their +endless life the brief passage through this world was to every soul of +man; if they could only understand how much closer God is to every soul +he creates than we are to one another--what need would there be to pray +in this manner, even for Martin? + +"We are come to answer your prayer, Andrew," she said, stepping forward +as soon as he had finished; "not your prayer for vengeance, but for +your grandson. He is my husband's son, and mine. We all care for him. +My dear boy Philip is doing all he can for him; and now we want you and +Mary to help us." + +"What can we do, my lady?" he asked, despondently; "the past is past. +He can never be like Mr. Philip and Mr. Hugh." + +"Not like them," she answered; "but do you suppose he is less precious +to God than they are? God makes no difference between them. Christ +died for him as truly as for them. You are too much troubled about +small things, Andrew. But you can help Martin. Listen to our plans +for him. It is best for him to live at Brackenburn, because that place +will always be his own; and we want you and Mary to go and live there +with him as master and mistress of his household. You will naturally +care for him more than anyone else can do; and you know it is not +possible for us to go to live at Brackenburn; it is too far from +London. We think, too, of getting somebody who will be a sort of tutor +to him, who will teach him all he is able to learn." + +She paused a moment, but Andrew did not speak. + +"You will make this sacrifice for Sophy's sake," she resumed. "Your +grandson has suffered a great wrong, not altogether from my husband's +fault, and we must all do what we can to set it right. My husband did +not know of the existence of this son." + +"Not know of him!" repeated Andrew. + +"He knew only that Sophy was dead," said Margaret. + +"But you knew she was dead!" he cried, turning fiercely upon Sidney; +"you knew it while you were pretending to comfort me, you scoundrel! +you hypocrite! You made promises to me of searching for her, and +making inquiries, and all the time you knew she was in her grave. God +grant I may see you punished!" + +The impotent anger of the old man was painful to witness. His white +head shook as if with palsy, and his trembling hands clutched the back +of a chair for support. Mary ran to his side as if afraid of his +falling to the floor. + +"I am punished, Goldsmith," said Sidney. "Do you think it is nothing +to be branded, as you have branded me, with infamy? But I have come to +ask your forgiveness, and your aid in saving Martin from further +consequences of my sin." + +"Forgive you!" he answered. "I cannot, neither in this life nor the +life to come. But I'll do what Miss Margaret asks. I'll quit my old +house, and go away, and die among strangers, as my poor Sophy did; and +every time you go up and down the street you'll see how desolate you've +made my house. I've got a long lease of it, and it shan't be let to +anybody else. We'll put up the shutters and leave it empty, and every +time you see it you'll remember Sophy and my curse on you." + +"Andrew!" said Margaret, "you are casting yourself away, out of the +light of God's love, and all your path will be dark to you. You will +cease to know him as he is; and you will find how terrible he can be in +his anger." + +"I repent bitterly of my sins against you," urged Sidney, "and I own +how treacherous they were. But, Goldsmith, believe me when I say that +I am changed, that I could not sin against you now as I did then." + +"Changed!" said the old man scornfully, "changed! How can you show it +to me? You've been found out; and we are changed toward you. But I +can see no difference in you. You've not lost your riches and your +lands. You're not punished in any way that I can see. Yes, you are a +grand son-in-law for an old saddler like me." + +"Let us go away," said Margaret sadly. + +She took her husband's arm, and walked silently along the streets and +up the long avenue, so familiar to them through many happy years. But +now their hearts were heavy and cast down. The difficulty had come to +Sidney which comes upon men whose outward life has been at variance +with the inner. There was no mode by which he could prove to his +fellow-men the reality of the change within him. He had seemed to be a +Christian so long that there was no way of manifestly throwing off the +cloak of hypocrisy. He must wear the livery of Judas to the end. + + + + +CHAPTER XLVIII. + +A LOST LOVE. + +Philip rejoiced at being set free from an irksome and almost hopeless +task. He had been absent from home for many months; and though he had +written often to Phyllis from Brackenburn, her replies had been growing +more and more meager and unsatisfactory. Her brother Dick drew his +attention to the fact that half of Phyllis's missives were written on +post cards, and might be read by all the world. They came very near a +quarrel; Dick's depreciatory tone in speaking of his only sister always +amazed Philip. + +As soon as possible after his arrival at the Hall he hurried down to +the Rectory. It was usual for Phyllis to be awaiting him at the Hall; +but after his long absence she probably preferred to welcome him alone. +He had not seen Phyllis's father and mother since he lost his +inheritance, but he did not anticipate any change in them because his +circumstances were so greatly altered. The rector received him with +more than usual cordiality and tenderness. He put his arm +affectionately about Philip's shoulders. + +"I'm pleased with you, my boy," he said; "you are fighting a good +fight, and coming out the victor." + +Philip grasped the rector's hand tightly. His mother had never seemed +to recognize the real hardship of his position; and his father made +worse of it than it actually was. The rector spoke of it as a fight in +which he would win the victory, and yet suffer some loss in doing so. + +"You are a man now," resumed the rector, "a man I approve of and honor +with all my heart. It will be a glad day to me when I give you my +richest gift--Phyllis." + +"A richer gift than anything I can lose," said Philip. + +Philip left the rector's study one of the happiest men in the world, +and went away to the drawing room, where Phyllis and her mother were +sure to be found at this hour of the night. He heard the voices of the +boys in their smoke room, and congratulated himself on the chance of +Phyllis being alone with her mother. It was just what he had hoped for. + +But Phyllis was so entangled and encumbered with some fancywork when he +opened the door, that she could not spring forward delightedly to meet +him. She sat still; and he stooped over her and pressed his lips to +her soft cheek, and then turned to kiss her mother, who also did not +greet him with her accustomed rapture. + +"How could you run away from your mother so soon after getting home?" +she inquired reproachfully. + +"Did you think I could keep away till to-morrow?" he rejoined. "My +mother knew I was coming here, and she is not jealous of Phyllis. She +knows I love Phyllis as much as herself, though differently. I do not +love my mother less because Phyllis is so dear to me." + +He lingered on the name Phyllis, slightly emphasizing it, with a +delicate caress in the tone of his voice. The color flushed her pale +and grave face, and her sight grew a little misty; but she went on with +her embroidery as if she did not hear him. + +"Now, Philip," said Laura, "sit down, and let us talk sensibly. +Everything is so changed, so shockingly changed by this sad discovery. +Your father made a false step, and cannot retrace it; but it alters all +your position and your prospects." + +"Yes," he assented. + +"I want you to look at it as the world looks at it," pursued Laura. +"After all, we are living in this world, not in the next, as your +mother fancies. You are now comparatively a poor man; you are, in +fact, a penniless man, for you are altogether dependent upon your +father. Formerly you were the heir, and no caprice of your father's, +or any failure in his business, could deprive you of the inheritance. +You were quite secure of the future. But now you have not a penny, +either in possession or prospect, which does not depend upon your +father. And city businesses are so uncertain; you may be rolling in +wealth one day and a bankrupt the next. Suppose your father failed, he +would be all right for his life, and Martin would be all right, and so +would Hugh. But where would you be?" + +Philip made no answer. His eyes were fastened upon Phyllis, whose +fingers went on busily with their work as if she had heard her mother's +words over and over again. + +"So far as I can see," continued Laura, "you are in a dreadfully +precarious position--in such a position as would make an older man +reflect seriously before he thought of marriage. What can you offer to +a wife? A most uncertain prospect; possibly, even probably, absolute +penury. Penury! You come to Phyllis, and say, 'Give me your love, +which is most precious to me, and, in return, I will share with you my +poverty and troubles.' It seems to me a strange way of showing +affection." + +"But am I in a different position to your sons, who have to make their +own way in the world?" asked Philip in a slightly faltering voice. + +He moved his seat to the sofa on which Phyllis was sitting, and took +possession of her hand, which lay in his, limp and listless, making no +return to its warm clasp. + +"No," answered Laura; "but they know they must marry girls with money. +If Phyllis had a fortune I should not say a word. But your father +refused his consent to your marrying a girl without a fortune; you know +that only too well, Philip. I am not quite so worldly as that. But +Phyllis, poor girl, cannot marry a poor man; she is not fit to cope +with poverty, as I have done. I know the rector will not be wise +enough, or firm enough, to refuse you as your father rejected Phyllis. +But I am her mother, and I have an equal right to a voice in the +matter. I cannot see her throw herself into life long difficulties +through a foolish fancy that you love one another. You are both far +too young to know your own minds." + +"I was wrong in saying I was in the same position as my cousins," said +Philip, in growing agitation; "you know that both my father and mother +are rich. It is true I am not the heir of either of them, but they +have a large income; and I feel sure that if I desire it they will make +me such an allowance as will provide all rational comforts and +enjoyments to my wife." + +"An allowance that must cease with their lives," replied Laura, "and +nothing is more uncertain than life. I do not wish to alarm you, my +dear Philip, but your father is much, very much shaken by this +unfortunate discovery of yours. You must not count upon him living to +old age. I have talked all this over with Phyllis, and she agrees with +me." + +"No, no," he said vehemently; "you may make her say so, but I will +never believe it! Phyllis, who has been my little wife as long as I +can remember; Phyllis, who has grown up for me--whom I loved as soon as +I loved anyone! No; she will never forsake me. She would become my +wife if I had only the poorest cottage to give to her as a home." + +He clasped her hand between his own with a grasp from which she could +not free it, though she made a feeble effort to do so. Then she lifted +up her tear-filled eyes, and looked very sadly into his eager face. + +"I never could marry a poor man," she said. "O Philip! why did your +father own he was married to Sophy Goldsmith? Nobody could have proved +it, and nobody would have believed it; and then, you know, there would +not have been all this fuss." + +"Phyllis!" he cried, "you don't know what you are saying." + +He dropped her hand and turned away from her. These few words of hers +were horrible to him. All that her mother said passed by him almost as +if it had no meaning. Some time ago he had begun to doubt the +disinterested nature of her affection for him; but he had no more +doubted Phyllis than he did the rector. But at this moment her +worldliness was more frank and outspoken than her mother's. There was +an unabashed openness about it that staggered him, if she knew what she +was saying. But she could not know; it was incredible that she could +comprehend the baseness of her speech. He turned back to her again. + +"Phyllis," he said earnestly, "tell me truly, do you agree to what your +mother says?" + +"Quite," she answered. "We have talked it over again and again, and I +agree with her. We should have been very happy together, but now I can +only be sorry for you." + +He went away without another word, stunned and bewildered. The boys +were still laughing and talking in the smoke room, and the rector was +reading in his study. It seemed to Philip as if he was dreaming some +vexatious and incredible dream. This was his other home, as familiar +to him as his father's house. He had scarcely known any difference +between Hugh and the other boys, whose merry racket was in his ears. +But now a sentence of banishment had been pronounced against him. He +could never come in and out again with the free, happy fellowship of +former times. It was many months since he had crossed the old +threshold; it would be many months before he crossed it again. + +He went home and told his mother briefly, in as few words as possible; +and she said little to him, for she saw his grief was too fresh for +consolation. Moreover, she was not herself grieved, and she knew it +would be vain to touch his sorrow with an unsympathetic hand. Sidney +was more pleased than by anything which had happened since Philip's +engagement to Phyllis. It was a good thing for him to discover his +mistake in time. + +"Let us go to London," said Margaret, "and make a home for Philip for +the next three months. If we stay here either he will not come down, +or he must meet Phyllis and her mother; for we could not break off all +our intercourse with the rector. Dorothy has never been in London for +more than a day or two, and we can find plenty to do during the winter. +And, Sidney, let us go and keep Christmas at Brackenburn." + + + + +CHAPTER XLIX. + +WINTER GLOOM. + +Andrew and Mary Goldsmith left their old home in Apley, and went north +to take charge of Sophy's son. It was a great change in the lives of +people so old. Instead of their small, snug kitchen, and their shop, +with its outlook on the familiar street, they dwelt in large, +wainscoted rooms, separated by long, wandering passages and galleries, +through which the autumn winds moaned incessantly, and from the windows +they saw only the deserted moorland. The caretakers, who had been +accustomed to have entire charge of the place, remained in it as +gardener and cook; and a groom and housemaid had been hired for the +extra work, caused, not by Martin, but by the tutor who had undertaken +to teach him the bare elements of learning and the simplest customs of +civilized society. Mary Goldsmith found herself at the head of this +little establishment, not without some feelings of pride in the +importance of her position; and Andrew was installed as master and +guardian of his grandson. It was a great change from their homely life +at Apley. Yet, with all the discomfort of the change, there was a +lurking sense of pleasure in being the nearest of kin to the heir of +the estate. + +On the other hand, Martin was a source of constant anxiety and +mortification to them both; but Andrew took the mortification most to +heart. He loved his uncouth barbarian, who was Sophy's son, with a +very deep though troubled love. There could be no interchange of ideas +between them, except by gesture: for Andrew was too old to learn +Martin's stammering patois, and Martin appeared quite unable to +recollect the few English words his tutor tried to fix upon his memory. +The tutor, who knew Italian well, though he was not versed in the +patois of the frontier between Italy and Austria, soon learned Martin's +very limited vocabulary, and also his narrow range of mental +sensations. But between Andrew and his grandson there was no means +whatever of communication by speech. The old man would sit patiently +for hours watching the dull, coarse face of the clumsy peasant, whose +favorite postures were lying huddled up on the ground, or squatting on +his heels with his knees almost on a level with his ears. Sometimes he +fancied his grandson responded to his wistful gaze with a gleam of +intelligent affection in his eyes; and now and then Martin would offer +him a pipe if he was not provided with one. There was a certain amount +of friendliness in this act. + +Martin's tutor conscientiously spent a regular number of hours in +attempting to teach him; and he did his best to make him sit down to +the table at meals and take his food like other people. But Martin was +both obstinate and obtuse. In his childhood he had not been permitted +to imitate the children about him; and the imitative faculties +continued dormant in his manhood. + +Occasionally, to please Philip, he had consented to sit down with him +and Hugh to a meal, and tried to do what they told him, but for nobody +else was it worth while to take so much trouble. He was learning, with +the slow and weary progress of an adult, the difficult accomplishment +of writing, his crooked and frost-bitten fingers traveling laboriously +over the paper, forming characters he did not understand. He was +learning, a little more easily, how to read; but here again his +progress was hindered by his want of comprehension. For, wisely or +not, he was being taught in English, and, as yet, English was a tongue +without meaning to him. + +The best time for Andrew was when Martin accompanied him on the moors. +The old man was still hale and strong, and could pass all the hours of +the day out of doors, provided he was not always in movement. Martin, +too, was only happy in the open air, and he liked lounging about, +sitting for long spells under some moss-grown rock, as he had been +accustomed to do when he was tending Chiara's herds. Like savages, he +was capable of prolonged and extreme muscular exertion when necessary; +but necessity alone could drive him to make any effort, excepting when +a wild impulse possessed him to try his great physical strength. +Usually he was content to loiter about, with a pipe in his mouth and +his hands in his pockets, the impersonation of sluggish laziness. For +hours together these strange kinsmen--the vigorous old man, with his +hot heart of indignant love beating in his time-worn frame, and his +grandson, with all his faculties and affections undeveloped--strolled +about the wide moorland, unable to exchange a word, and communicating +with one another only by looks and gestures. + +To Martin, all that had happened to him had the incoherence and marvel +of a dream. Chiara's death had first broken the melancholy monotony of +his life, and immediately followed this extraordinary change in his +circumstances. He accepted it, but he could not comprehend it. He +found himself supplied with all he wanted, without any effort of his +own; he no longer worked for many long hours for coarse food in scanty +quantities, nor was he roughly roused from his sleep at the first dawn +of the morning. No voice spoke in angry tones to him, and no face +scowled upon him. Yet he did not enjoy the dainty meals set before him +at regular and stated intervals, instead of being snatched and devoured +with a watchful, and anxious, and savage glee. He was called upon to +submit to incomprehensible restraints upon all his actions. Moreover, +he was sensible that there was a vast difference between himself and +these strange people who surrounded him; a far greater difference than +he had felt when living among the petty tyrants, whom he hated, but who +were familiar to him. There had been a certain zest and enjoyment in +hatred, which was missing in this new life, where there were no enemies +or oppressors. Besides this, though he had never consciously felt the +spell of the mountain peaks among which he dwelt, the broad, wide sweep +of the moorland, rising gradually up to a softly undulating line +against the sky, was irksome and painful to him; why, he knew not. A +deep, passive dejection fell upon his spirit, and drove every thought +of his slowly awakening mind inward. There was nothing in him of the +child's spontaneous action of the mind outward. He had suffered from +tyranny and persecution; he was now suffering from nostalgia, and utter +weariness of his uncongenial life. + +The first day the snow began to fall Andrew's vigilant eye detected the +tears falling down the rugged cheeks of his grandson. He ran out into +the forecourt and stood still for the soft flakes to fall upon his bare +head, and hands stretched out as if to give them a welcome--the welcome +we give to messengers from a beloved land. He looked down at the print +of his feet on the white carpet, and immediately took off his boots, +and trod upon it barefooted, as if with reverence of its purity. All +day long he wandered about the moors, his face lit up with an +expression that was almost a smile. Andrew, who did not care to +accompany him into the frosty air and bitter north wind, watched him +from a garret window, now taking long and rapid strides across the +snow-clad uplands, and now standing motionless for many minutes, his +bare head bowed down and his arms hanging listlessly by his sides, +until the snowflakes had covered him from head to foot. What was he +thinking of, this poor son of Sophy's? What did he remember? Was he +really of sound mind; or was it true, as all the country folks were +saying, that he was a poor, witless innocent? Could nothing be done to +arouse him, mind and soul? Was there no way of undoing the wrong that +had been done? + +So the dark months of November and part of December passed by, and +Rachel wrote that Mr. Martin and all the family were coming to keep +Christmas at Brackenburn instead of Apley. To meet Sidney again, and +stay under his roof almost like a guest, was more than Andrew could +brook; so he took himself away to Apley to spend a lonely Christmas in +his old home. + + + + +CHAPTER L. + +FATHER AND SON. + +Sidney had not seen his son since his arrival in England. There had +been no necessity for doing so; and he shrank from the great pain of +coming again into close contact with him. But this meeting could not +be avoided forever, and Margaret, who felt a keen sympathy with her +husband while recognizing his duty toward his eldest son and heir, +urged her plan of spending Christmas in Yorkshire. Nearly six months +had elapsed, and she hoped that Martin would be in some degree +reclaimed from his almost brute condition. + +For days before the arrival of the family the old Manor House was +undergoing a process of cleaning and beautifying which was bewildering +and irritating to Martin. Carpets were laid down on all the floors, +and large fires were kept burning in every room. Flowers were blooming +everywhere, and ingenious decorations of holly and ivy and mistletoe +hung upon all the walls. His tutor was gone away for the holidays, and +Andrew had disappeared. The small, stagnant pool of his existence was +being stirred to its depths, and this fretted him. He did not know at +all what it meant; and on the day when the family were expected, when +everybody was ten-fold busier than before, he wandered off early in the +morning, and his absence was not noticed by the occupied household. + +It had been dark for an hour or two, when Martin shambled across the +forecourt and into the porch on his return. The large glass doors +which separated the porch from the hall were uncurtained, and he crept +in without noise to look through them cautiously. The place was +altogether transformed. There was a huge fire of logs and coal burning +brightly on the hearth, with a many-colored square of carpet laid +before it, and chairs drawn up into the light and heat. Great bunches +of red holly and pots of scarlet geranium gave bright color to the +hall. A woman, grander and more beautiful than he had ever seen, +richly clad in purple velvet, sat in one of the high-backed chairs, and +standing near to her was the English signore, who called himself his +father. It seemed to his dull and troubled mind, as he stood outside +in the dark, that this must be the other world, where the saints dwelt, +of which the padre had sometimes spoken. Could this be the Paradiso to +which Christians went after masses had been said to get them out of the +Purgatorio? There was the Inferno, where his mother was, and the +Purgatorio, and the Paradiso. But this place was too beautiful to be +anything but the Paradiso; and these grand and beautiful beings were +the inhabitants of it. He was gazing, with a vague sense of it being +impossible for him to enter in, when he saw other figures descending +the broad, shallow staircase slowly, side by side. The one was the +gracious and radiant vision he had seen in Cortina, the other was his +lost friend, his brother, his master, Philippo. + +His joy was the joy of a dumb animal on seeing a beloved master +suddenly reappear after a mysterious, inexplicable absence. He burst +open the door impetuously, and rushed in, covered with the snowflakes +that had been lodging half frozen in his hair and beard for the last +hour or two. He flung himself before Philip clasping his knees with +his arms, and uttering uncouth cries of delight and welcome. For the +moment he had relapsed into the savage again; the heavy, clumsy frame, +the ragged face, down which the melting snow was running, the bare feet +and head, inarticulate cries, all seemed to show that no training, no +process of civilizing, could make him other than the confirmed savage +that he was. + +"Margaret, I cannot bear it!" exclaimed Sidney, as if appealing to her +for strength. + +"It is only for the moment," she said softly; "he is excited now. And +see how fond he is of Philip. That is a good thing for him. Remember +how short a time six months is to undo the work of thirty years. And +Mary Goldsmith tells me he has no great faults, such as he might have +had. She thinks he is learning every day to be something more like +other people. He is your son, Sidney--our son; speak to him." + +She had not seen him since the festa at Cortina, and she regarded him +now with intense interest. His face was certainly more intelligent +than it was then; the scared look upon it was gone, and it bore a +stronger likeness to Andrew Goldsmith. There was even a slight +resemblance to Philip, by whom he was now standing, and on whose face +his eyes were riveted with an expression of contentment. His hair and +beard were cut short and trimmed, not hanging in matted locks, as when +she saw him first. He wore a rough shooting suit, not unsuitable for +Philip; and the chief points of oddity in his appearance were his bare +head and feet. But Mary was right, thought Margaret; in time he would +look like other people. + +"Martin!" said his father in a raised voice, louder than he was himself +aware of. Martin started and turned away from Philip, approaching +Sidney with a cowed yet dogged air. He did not take his outstretched +hand. + +"Do you know who I am?" asked Sidney in Italian. + +"Yes, signore," he answered, "my father." + +They stood looking at one another. The one man was twenty-two years +older than the other, yet they seemed almost of the same age. Martin +was prematurely aged, broken down by persecution, and weatherworn by +exposure and want; his father was unbent, strong, and vigorous in mind +and body, still in his prime, and only during the last six months +showing any sign of his fifty-two years being a burden to him. There +was something so pitiful in the contrast, that Philip walked away out +into the porch; and Margaret and Dorothy clasped each other's hands and +looked on with tear-filled eyes. + +"Oh, my father!" said Martin, speaking as if his soul had at length +found an outlet in words, "this is the Paradise, and I am not fit for +it. I know nothing. You are a great signore, and I am nothing. We +are far away from one another. My mother is in the Inferno; Chiara and +the padre said it; no masses can be said for her soul. Let me go back +to the mountains. I am not fit to live with great signori. My mother +calls to me here," and he laid his hand on his heart, "'Come back, +Martin, come back!' and I must go. Send me back to the mountains." + +Dorothy loosed Margaret's hand and stepped swiftly to Sidney's side, +putting her hand fondly through his arm. He looked down on her with an +expression of irretrievable sadness. + +"Listen to me, my son," he said, speaking very slowly and distinctly. +"I did a great wrong when I left your mother, and I did a greater wrong +in not seeking to know if you lived or not. I never knew you were +born. If I had known it, you would have lived with me; and now you +would be as Philip is, like him in every way. Look round you. When I +die this house will be yours, and you will be a rich man. Do you +understand?" + +"Yes, signore," he answered, with excited gestures, "I shall have much +money and much land. But now I have nothing. Give me some of the +money now, and let me go back and buy a farm in Ampezzo. They will be +my servants now; nobody will pelt me with stones, and shout after me, +and turn me out of the church. They will give me a chair there, and +the padre will take off his hat to me. Perhaps they will say masses +for the soul of my mother, when I am a rich man. Send me back, oh, my +father!" + +"Will you go away and leave your brother Philip?" asked Dorothy in +hesitating accents. For though she had been diligently learning +Italian for some months, she was afraid Martin would not understand +her. He looked at her in amazement, and a gleam lighted up his +furrowed face. + +"The signora knows what I say!" he exclaimed; "these other people here +know nothing. I want to speak, and they stare at me. I am a fool in +their eyes. But I can speak now to the signora, and to my father, and +to Philippe. It is better now." + +"Martin," said Sidney, "you must stay here, in England, till you are +more like an Englishman. In a year or two I will take you back to +Cortina, and you shall choose where you will live. But this house and +these lands are yours, and they will be your son's when you die. It is +best for you to live in your own house and your own country." + +"Stay with us," pleaded Dorothy, looking compassionately into his sad +eyes. "Nobody loves you there, and we love you. I will teach you to +be like your brother Philip. I used to live here, and I will show you +places you have never seen. Stay with us, Martin." + +"But my mother calls me," he answered. "They will say no masses for +her soul if they do not know I am a rich man." + +"I will send them money for it," replied Dorothy. "Besides, it is a +mistake, Martin; your mother is not in the Inferno." + +He listened to her as if she had been the Madonna he had fancied her +when he first saw her. A heavy sob broke through his lips, and then a +cry of exultation. The chief burden that had weighed upon his spirit +slipped away and fell from him. The deepest stigma of his life was +removed; and in this he was like other men, that his mother, whom he +had never seen, was dwelling in the same place as the mothers of other +men. + + + + +CHAPTER LI. + +THE GROWTH OF A SOUL. + +Dorothy gave herself up to the task of humanizing Martin with great +enthusiasm. Her success was naturally greater and more rapid than that +of the tutor or old Andrew. She undertook to teach him to read, and +arguing it was best to teach him in Italian until he knew more of +English, she began to teach him from a little book she had bought in +Italy, one which was a great favorite of her own for its quaint and +simple legends. It was the "Fioretti di San Francisco." + +A pretty picture it was to all the other members of the household to +see Dorothy seated in a high-backed oak chair on the hearth, with the +fire light playing about her, while Martin, squatting on a low seat +beside her, read diligently from the book on her lap, marking each word +with his rude forefinger. Often she read aloud to him in hesitating +accents, for the language was still strange to her; but the very +slowness and difficulty of her utterance made it easier for him to +comprehend. Sidney and Margaret themselves sat listening to the gentle +and childlike beauty of these "Flowrets of S. Francisco," and watching +the kindling intelligence of Martin's face. His soul was developing +under Dorothy's tender care. On the snow-clad moors, also, Dorothy +made herself his constant companion. In all weather, except when the +snow was whirling in a bewildering network of closely falling flakes, +she was ready to go out with him, and Philip, and Hugh, guiding them to +places known only to herself. She could show them the winter dens of +many a wild creature; and Martin learned from her that he was not to +kill them. Once she led them to the edge of a deep, narrow dell, +invisible from a little distance, and under the brow of it was a cave +hewn out of the rock, a cave so similar to his place of refuge on the +mountains, that Martin uttered a cry of mingled astonishment and +delight. It was like a piece of home to him. + +Later on, when the others had gone back to London, Dorothy persuaded +Sidney to procure for him, from that far-off Austrian valley, one of +the curious, quaint old crucifixes which stand at every point where +crossroads meet. She had it placed near the entrance of this cave; +for, she said, if it awoke a thought, or gave him a glimmer of +religious light, it was right for him to have it. When he came upon it +first, unexpectedly, he threw himself on his knees before it, and burst +into a passion of tears. It was a symbol familiar to him from his +earliest days; the only place of refuge, where, if he could reach it, +he was safe from the blows of his tyrants. + +So evident was Martin's rapid development, that Margaret decided to +remain with Dorothy after Sidney and Philip had returned to London. +She was deeply interested in this growth of a soul under her own eyes. +Martin was learning to make broken sentences in English; and she marked +his progress with constantly increasing pleasure in seeing him overcome +difficulties. + +To Martin these winter months were less wearisome than the summer and +autumn had been. The snow made the moors a more familiar ground, and +in these long, dark afternoons, if Dorothy was out of the way, he could +creep into the kitchen, and crouch down in the chimney nook smoking a +pipe, undisturbed by the servants, who were still busy at their work. +Margaret and Dorothy sat chiefly in the great hall, which Martin liked +next best to the kitchen; large screens were drawn round the hearth, +and huge fires kept burning, and there Martin would lie on the warm +bearskins, with Dorothy's dogs around him, while she read the "Fioretti +di San Francisco." Most things were irksome to him still; he could +never wear the shackles of civilization easily. But he was changing +and developing. By and by they would reap the harvest of the seed they +were sowing. + +The Easter holidays brought back Philip for a few days. In his eyes +the transformation was marvelous. Martin had submitted to wearing +boots and a hat; at any rate, when he went out with Dorothy. He sat +down with them to their meals, and could even make his wants known to +the servants in intelligible words. He was learning to ride, and he +was willing to sit in the carriage quietly when they drove to the +nearest town. His eyes followed Dorothy, and he was obedient to her +slightest sign. He watched her as if to see if he displeased her in +any way. When she looked at him his dull face brightened with a rare +smile, which had a strange and pathetic attraction in it, like a sudden +and transient gleam of sunshine on a dreary, wintry day. The doglike +allegiance he had displayed toward Philip was plainly transferred to +her. + +Was there any touch of jealousy in the uneasiness which Philip felt at +this new phase of his brother's character? A vague, indefinable +apprehension of some new danger took hold of him at the sight of this +constant companionship between Martin and Dorothy. He recognized in +his own mind that Martin was still a young man, and that there was a +simple charm about Dorothy that few men of any rank in life could be +indifferent to. Was Martin too dense a barbarian to feel it? + +Though more civilized in other respects, Martin had not yet learned to +sleep before he was sleepy. His hours of slumber were still as +irregular as his hours of eating had been at first. Late one night, +when all the rest of the household were long ago asleep, Philip found +him on the hearth in the hall, sitting on his low stool beside +Dorothy's chair. His deep-set eyes were glowing under his shaggy +eyebrows like the embers on the hearth. + +"My brother," he said, as Philip stood looking down at him, "tell me, +am I now a rich English signore like the other signori?" + +"Of course," answered Philip, about to sit down in Dorothy's chair; but +Martin motioned him away, and drew another seat forward. + +"This belongs to her, my signorina," he said; "it is not for you or for +me." + +"Why not?" asked Philip, half laughing. "She is only a girl like other +girls." + +Martin made no answer, but repeated "like other girls" under his +breath, as if it was a new idea to him. + +"My brother," he resumed, after a pause, "when I was poor, without a +penny, long ago, there was a girl I loved. When a man loves a girl he +wants her for his wife. I wanted this girl to be my wife, but she spat +at me." + +"I am glad you did not marry her, Martin," said Philip, thinking how +far worse it would have been if he had discovered his brother with a +wife and children. + +"She wouldn't spit at me now," he continued proudly. "I am a rich +signore now, and I should laugh at her being my wife. She is down +there, in the mud. But, my brother, listen to me. You say my +signorina is a girl like other girls, and I am a rich signore. Would +she laugh at me if I love her and want her to be my wife, like the girl +I loved long ago?" + +For a minute or two anger and a strong feeling of repulsion kept Philip +silent. It was too monstrous to think of patiently. This rude +peasant, this scarcely reclaimed savage, to be lifting up his eyes to +the sweet English girl, who had only stooped to civilize him out of the +pure compassion of her heart! But the feeling died out as quickly as +it had been kindled. It was possible for Martin to love her, and, if +so, how much he would have to suffer! + +"She would laugh at me," said Martin in tones of the deepest and +saddest conviction; "she would not look at me. See, I am a dog to her. +She would turn her face away from me, and never look at me again. She +is so far away above me, but you are close to her. You are like her, +very grand, and very beautiful, and very clever. I am down, down in +the mud. I cannot learn your ways; they are too hard for me. Oh, my +brother! if I was like you, my signorina would love me and be my wife." + +Philip, looking down at the seared and melancholy face of his +unfortunate brother, said to himself that this might have been true. +If Martin had been trained and educated as he himself had been he would +have been a suitable husband for Dorothy, and what would please his +father and mother more than to have her for their daughter? + +"She is like the Madonna to me," said Martin slowly and hesitatingly, +as if searching through his brain for suitable words to express the +thoughts pressing busily into it; "my Madonna. I see her all day, and +at night I cannot sleep. I sit all night on the mat at her door +watching, listening. I do not sleep, but I am happy." + +"You must never tell her that," replied Philip; "it would make her very +unhappy." + +"I will never tell her, my brother," he answered submissively; "she is +too high above me. She is like an angel, and I am a dog. That is +true. I am nothing; only a rich man. But I will give her all my +riches--this house, these lands. They shall be hers, not mine." + +"But you are not a rich man till your father dies," explained Philip; +"they belong to him as long as he lives, and then they will belong to +you as long as you live, but you can never give them away. They will +be kept for your eldest son. It would be impossible for you to give +any of them to Dorothy." + +"It is a lie, then," he said; "it is a lie. I am not a rich man. They +are of no good to me, this house and these lands. It would be better +for me to have a farm of my own in Ampezzo, and marry a woman there. I +did not dare to think the signorina would be my wife; but if I could +give her this house and these lands, and live near her, where I could +see her every day, I could be happy, perhaps, here in this strange +country, though I do not know what the people say. I am not happy in +Ampezzo; they curse me and throw stones at me. I am not happy here in +these clothes, and this great house, and these fine rooms. Let me be a +servant; your servant, or the signorina's; then I might be happy." + +"That could never be," said Philip pityingly. + +"That is what I am fit for," urged Martin. "Take me away from here; +make me work hard. Say to me: 'Martin, clean my horse;' 'Martin, do +this;' 'Martin, do that,' like Chiara did. The days would not be long +then, and I should sleep sound at night. I want to be tired out, my +brother. See, I am very strong; my arms and legs are strong; and I sit +all day in a chair smoking a pipe, and all they tell me to do is, 'Read +a little book, signore,' or, 'Learn a little English,' or, 'Let me +teach you how to write.' Only my signorina says: 'Let us go out on the +moors, Martin.' But she is not big and strong like me, and I walk like +a girl beside her, for fear she should grow tired. I feel like a wolf +shut up in a stable and fastened by a chain. Make me work hard like a +servant, or let me go back to Ampezzo." + +Philip let his hand fall gently on Martin's shoulder, and he turned and +kissed it--the smooth, well formed hand, strong and muscular, yet as +finely molded as a woman's. Martin stretched out his own knotted and +deformed hands, and looked at them, as he had never done before, in the +fire light, with a half laugh and a half groan. Since Philip's arrival +this time he had become more conscious of the vast difference between +himself and his brother. He saw his own uncouthness and ugliness as +they must appear in Dorothy's eyes. His close watchfulness of her had +betrayed to him how different was the expression of her face when she +was talking to him or to Philip. He had seen a happy light in her eyes +when Philip was beside her, or even when she caught the sound of his +voice about the house. These two, thought Martin humbly, were fit for +each other. Dorothy would be Philip's wife, not his. + +"Yes, my brother," he said, speaking his last thought aloud, "my +signorina loves you, and she will be your wife." + +"Martin," exclaimed Philip, rising hastily, "you must never say such a +word as that to me again." + +He left him in solitary possession of the great hall; but looking out +of his own room an hour later, he saw Martin stretched like a dog +across the threshold of Dorothy's door. + + + + +CHAPTER LII. + +LAURA'S DOUBTS. + +Philip could not sleep, so great was his agitation. This conversation, +the first Martin had ever held with anyone, filled him with +consternation, almost to dismay. He had spoken to Dorothy of his +delight over Martin's awakening soul, the soul of a child expanding +under her influence, and a lovely expression of gladness had lit up the +girl's face. But it had been a man's soul that was developing, not a +child's. They had none of them thought of that. Martin was a man +whose natural affections, so long thwarted and disappointed, were ready +to flow swiftly into the first open channel. But to love Dorothy! If +it had not been for his lifelong love for Phyllis, Philip would have +loved Dorothy himself. How sweet and simple she was! how true! There +was a fresh and innocent, almost a rustic charm about her which +contrasted strongly with Phyllis's cultivated attractiveness. Philip, +in his heart-sickness at Phyllis's worldliness, was open-eyed to +Dorothy's unconscious disregard to custom and fashion. She valued the +world as his mother valued it. With this thought there flashed across +his mind an idea that brought terror with it. So unconventional was +Dorothy that outward culture would not have as much value in her sight +as it had in his own. Moreover, there was a passion in her, as in his +mother, for self-sacrifice, an absolute, unappeasable hunger to be of +service to her fellow-creatures. Was it quite impossible that after a +while Dorothy might not become Martin's wife? He vehemently assured +himself that it was impossible; but the question tormented him. It was +already a marvelous change that had been wrought on Martin. Yet he +felt an unutterable horror at the thought, and for the first time a +bitter repugnance arose in his heart against his unhappy elder brother. +He might take the estate, that birthright, which had appeared to be his +own through all these years. But he must not think of Dorothy. What +could this repugnance mean? If he had not loved Phyllis so ardently +and constantly, he would have said he was in love with Dorothy himself. +But it was only a few months since all Apley, Dorothy also, were +witnesses of his rejected love and bitter disappointment. Only a few +months? They seemed like years! He had been deceived in Phyllis, of +course; the Phyllis whom he loved was chiefly a creature of his +imagination; there had never been such a being. Dorothy was nearer his +ideal than Phyllis had ever been, but he could not tell her so when she +knew how passionate had been his mistaken love for Phyllis. + +Early in the morning he sought a private interview with his mother, +letting Dorothy go off on to the moors alone with Martin. Margaret and +he watched them walking side by side, Martin's bowed-down head turned +attentively toward her. + +"It is a wonderful change," remarked Margaret; "we have not wasted +these last four months, have we, Philip?" + +"Mother," he said abruptly, "suppose Martin has fallen in love with +Dorothy!" + +Margaret's eyes met his own for a moment, and then followed the +receding figures till they were nearly lost to sight. The short +silence seemed intolerable to him. + +"Poor fellow!" she said in a tone of exquisite pity, "that might be, +and it would be another misfortune for him. I believe his nature is a +fine one, full of possibilities of nobleness. But he has had no chance +hitherto; and if this is true his last hope is gone." + +"Dorothy could not marry him!" exclaimed Philip. + +"She would not marry him," said Margaret sadly; "if she would she could +indeed do more for him than any other human being can. If he loves her +that will partly account for his rapid development. There is no +educator like love." + +"But, mother," he cried, "Martin can never be anything but an ignorant, +superstitious peasant. There can be no real culture for him. He can +never be a gentleman. He will not be as well educated as our lodge +keeper." + +"I suppose he will always be ignorant of what we call knowledge," she +answered, "but he need not remain superstitious. The light of God can +shine into his heart as fully as into ours. He begins to realize that +we love him; and what is our love but single drops from the +unfathomable ocean of God's love? As soon as he knows that God loves +him, he will be wiser than the wisest man of the world." + +"Then you would not oppose Dorothy marrying him?" he asked indignantly. + +"Not if she would do it," she replied. "I would heap upon Martin the +best and worthiest of all the blessings of this life, if that would +atone for the loss of all his childhood and youth. Think of it, my +Philip. While you occupied his place, he was enduring the want of all +things. We cannot do too much, or give up too much, for him. But no +thought of loving him in that way is in Dorothy's mind." + +"Thank God!" he said fervently. + +Margaret smiled, and held out her hand to him fondly. A moment ago the +thought had flashed through his brain that his mother was too +high-minded and too visionary for this life. But the clear, steadfast +light in her eyes, and the smile playing about her lips, were not those +of a person rapt away from all earthly interests. + +"No, Philip," she said, "Dorothy looks upon Martin simply as a brother, +one whose sad lot she can brighten. I cannot wish it otherwise, though +I am grieved for him. Tell me all you think about it." + +He repeated almost verbally the conversation he had held with Martin +the night before; and Margaret listened with a troubled face. + +"Dorothy ought not to stay here," he said. + +"It is a pity," she answered, sighing, "for it increases our +difficulties a hundredfold. I was hoping the time would come when we +could take Martin to London, and introduce him there to such of your +father's old friends who ought to know him, and who could understand +the whole story. But it will not do for Dorothy to stay here much +longer; and Martin would not improve alone with me, if I could stay, as +he does with her. O Philip! I could almost wish, for your father's +sake, that she could care for Martin." + +"Impossible!" he ejaculated. + +"Yes, you wise, blind boy," she replied, "it is impossible. If Martin +could be trained into a perfect gentleman, it would still be +impossible." + +"Mother!" he exclaimed, the color mounting to his forehead as he turned +away from her smiling eyes, "it is so short a time since Phyllis jilted +me." + +"If I am not mistaken," said Margaret, "Dorothy loved you before that." + +"Loved me!" he repeated, "why! I was nothing to her. I had no eyes +for her before you came to Venice; I saw no one but Phyllis. I could +never presume to tell her I loved her, when she knows how infatuated I +was with Phyllis." + +"I judge only by appearances," said his mother, "but your father thinks +as I do; and nothing could please your father more. She is already as +dear to him as his own child. He has suffered more than words can +tell, and greatly on your account, but he will feel that you have not +lost all if you win Dorothy as your wife. I think the estate well lost +if it saved you from an unhappy marriage." + +"Oh, mother," he cried, "what a fool I was!" + +"To be sure," she said smiling. + +"But now I could see Phyllis again to-morrow," he went on, "and not +feel grieved. Let us go back to Apley; at least you and Dorothy. You +left home on my account; but it is too far away here. It would be +better for my father to have you at home again, or in London. Come +home again, mother." + +"Poor Martin!" she said, with a troubled face. + +But as she thought over what Philip had told her, Margaret felt that it +was time to separate Martin from Dorothy. She took Rachel Goldsmith +into her confidence, and she agreed with her. It seemed a preposterous +thing to Rachel that Martin should deprive Philip of his birthright, +and that so much importance should be attached to his education at so +late a period of his life. + +"The best thing for him," she said, "would be to set him up in a little +farm, and give him cows and sheep and pigs to tend; he'd be ten times +happier than here. There's no common sense in the laws, if they say +our Sophy's son is to take the place of your son, my lady; and to his +own misery too. I'd say nothing if anybody was the better for it. But +it is just the ruin of my brother Andrew. And to think of him falling +in love with Miss Dorothy! when the scullery maid would think twice +before she married him!" + +"Poor fellow!" sighed Margaret. "Poor fellow!" she said many times to +herself during the next few days, as preparations were made for their +departure. Dorothy also was full of pity for him, and devoted every +hour of the day to him. She visited with him all their favorite +haunts, which were growing to her more beautiful with the touch of +spring upon them, though to him the vanishing of winter brought regret. +She read to him once more the "Fioretti di San Francisco," and heard +him read over and over again the first few chapters, which he had +mastered under her tuition, or perhaps learned by heart merely. But +Dorothy, though grieved and troubled for him, was glad to go south. +Her spirits rose high at the thought of how short a distance would +separate her from Philip, and the still more pleasant thought that he +was willing to make Apley his home again, shrinking no more from the +sight of Phyllis. It was with a light heart, saddened for a few +minutes only by Martin's face of moody melancholy, that she quitted +Brackenburn. + +The old house fell back into its former dreary stillness. Andrew and +Mary Goldsmith returned to take charge of it; and the tutor resumed his +routine duties of educating and civilizing Martin. But Martin was +duller and less apt than before. Dorothy had left with him her +"Fioretti," telling him to ask his tutor to read to him, and to let him +learn out of it. But the book was too precious to him; alone he spelt +through the chapters she had taught him, but he would let no one else +touch it. If he must learn to read it should be in English, out of his +dog's-eared primer. But he could learn no more. + +There was again nothing to do during the long days which the advancing +spring brought. When the east winds blew bitterly over the moor he lay +silent and still in the warmth of the fire; when the air was heated by +the rays of the sun, which was mounting every day higher into the +heavens, he basked, silent and still, in its warmth. Andrew again +attached himself as the constant companion of Sophy's son, though +between them must ever stand the barrier of different tongues--a +barrier which neither of them could cross. There were a hundred things +Andrew wanted to say to him, especially to warn him against cutting off +the entail, when he was dead, but it could not be done. The two were +seldom apart, though they could exchange no thoughts. The persistent, +dogged affection of this old man, his grandfather, won its way some +what into Martin's heart. He grew accustomed to his presence, and +missed him if he was absent. + +The one person who rejoiced most in Margaret's return to Apley was +Sidney. She had been more separated from him these last few months +than she had ever been since he first knew her. It struck Margaret +that his burden pressed more heavily upon him than it did at first. +The parliamentary session had been running its course, and he, who was +an ardent politician, stood outside the arena. Many of his former +colleagues, possessing only a partial knowledge of the events of the +last years, treated him with thinly disguised contempt or studied +neglect. Even in Apley and its neighborhood the faces of old friends +were estranged, and their manner chilling. He was no longer the public +favorite. + +Sidney felt this change bitterly and profoundly. It had always been +his aim to surround himself with kindly and smiling faces, which should +meet his eye wherever he looked, even to the farthest circle of his +sphere. His servants and dependents almost idolized him, and he had +succeeded in gaining popularity among his equals. Now all faces seemed +changed and critical. Even God's face was turned away from him. He +was walking in heaviness and darkness of soul, such as he had not known +before his sin had found him out, and while his conscience was +satisfied with mechanical and superficial religion. His path was +strait where it had once been broad and pleasant. Still, deeper down +than this surface conscience of his, and this heaviness of soul, in his +inmost spirit, touched by no other spirit than God's, there was a +stirring of life and love such as he had never known before, which no +words can shadow forth, and no mind save that which feels it can +conceive. + +It was a necessary consequence of this intrinsic change that he and +Margaret should draw nearer to one another. He understood now what had +been mysterious and incomprehensible in her. There was in a degree the +same sense of closer union and mutual comprehension between him and the +rector. While other faces were turned away, these two shone upon him +with a diviner light of love and friendship. But there was no one +else. Even Dorothy, with all her sweetness, was judging him, balancing +the scales of justice with the severe evenhandedness of youth with a +bandage over its eyes. Philip had passed beyond him, and stood higher +than he in his youthful probity and honor. They were right; he had +been guilty of a great wrong. + +Always gnawing at his heart was the remorseful recollection of his +eldest son, whom he could not love, but for whom he felt an unutterable +pity. A living witness against his selfishness and hypocrisy! The +thought of him, haunting him at all times, was charged with misery. It +was becoming morbid with him, when Margaret, not too soon, came back to +Apley, and was once more his daily companion. + +Margaret and Laura met on apparently the old terms. Margaret was very +anxious that there should be no break in the intimacy between Sidney +and the rector. Partly on this account, and partly from the patience +and pity she had learned for the follies of others, she made no +difference toward Laura. But Dorothy, again with the severity of +youth, could not tolerate the presence of Phyllis's mother. Phyllis +herself was away; but when Laura came up to the Hall, Dorothy found +some pretext to be absent, or, if that was impossible, sat by in +unbroken silence. Not one of Laura's blandishments could induce her to +go to the Rectory. Dick's chances were gone, if he ever had any. + +"I see plainly enough what Sidney and Margaret are about," Laura said +to her husband. "Now Philip has lost the inheritance, and is a poor +match, they are going to bring about a marriage between him and Dorothy +Churchill. They are shrewd enough for that, with all their +unworldliness." + +"Philip and Dorothy!" he repeated thoughtfully; "that seems to me an +excellent marriage, now that my poor little Phyllis has found out she +never loved Philip. I should have rejoiced in giving Phyllis to him; +but doubtless Dorothy is still better suited. And Sidney wished it +before he knew of Phyllis's engagement to Philip." + +"But I was hoping Dick would have a chance with Dorothy," she said. + +"Dick? Oh, no!" he answered. "It would grieve me to the heart if any +of my sons became fortune hunters. Dorothy is too rich for any of +them. Let them marry girls in their own station, and live honest, +industrious lives. I am glad Dick never thought of such a thing." + +"But Philip is in the same position now; it is just as much +fortune-hunting for him to seek Dorothy." + +"Nothing of the kind," he said with the sudden sharpness of a dreamy, +mild-tempered man. "Do you suppose Sidney has nothing but those +estates bought by Sir John Martin, our uncle? He has had that +magnificent business for over five-and-twenty years. All that he has +made for himself will go to Philip." + +"Why does Philip become a medical student, then?" she asked snappishly. + +"Because the lad does not care to be doing nothing," he replied, "and +Margaret does not like him to engage in commerce. She says she does +not want him to have nothing to do save merely amassing money. Of +course, he would have been a country gentleman, practically a landlord, +looking after his father's interests and the welfare of his future +tenants. He would have become a magistrate, and he was admirably +fitted for filling many useful posts as a country gentleman. Now this +prospect has come to an end he chooses to study surgery instead of +going into business; a good choice, I think. But he will be a rich +man, rich enough to marry a greater heiress than Dorothy, without +incurring the reproach of fortune hunting. Sidney must be little short +of being a millionaire." + +Could this be true? thought Laura with a sinking heart. George might +easily be mistaken, but then again it was quite probable that Sidney +had made a large fortune by trade. Enormous fortunes were made in the +city, and Sidney was always spoken of as a very successful man. +Suppose he should be a millionaire! There was not the shadow of a +doubt which of his sons his money would go to. Hugh was well provided +for, and Martin would not get a shilling, more than was entailed upon +him. Philip as a millionaire would be a better match than even an +English landlord with a Yorkshire estate, worth only £10,000 a year. +She wished she had been less hasty in breaking off Phyllis's +engagement. It was that folly of Philip becoming a medical student +which had led her astray. But then, would Philip be a millionaire? + + + + +CHAPTER LIII. + +ANDREW'S HOPE. + +A few weeks after Margaret and Dorothy left Brackenburn, a telegram +reached Sidney in town from Martin's tutor: "Martin lost since dawn +yesterday; searching moors." + +The sense of loneliness and separation became intolerable to Martin +after Dorothy was gone. The homesickness, if it could be called so in +one who had never had a home, made him uncontrollably restless. There +was not in all this vast expanse of moorland an object that could +distract his brooding memory, and in the old house, with its now empty +rooms, there was no one who could speak in his own language except the +tutor, a kindly man enough, but with no special interest in his uncouth +charge. Martin had borne his exile as long as he could. Now he would +make his way down to London where Dorothy and Philip lived. His father +also was there, and that beautiful, gracious signora, who called +herself his mother, and who always looked at him with wonderful +kindness in her eyes. When he saw them he would make them understand +that he could not live in England any longer, and they would let him go +back to Ampezzo, and buy him a farm there among the old familiar faces. +No one would ill treat him any more when they saw how rich he was. + +He set off in the clear gray of the dawn, just as the twitter of the +birds began in every tree and hedgerow, and the silver drops of dew +hung upon every leaf. It was barely a year since he had been taken +from his mountain home, and his life of misery and oppression there; +but to him it was as long as centuries. He recollected well enough +what he had suffered; still he felt vaguely that, though his sufferings +were different, they were not less in this strange country. He was +like a blind man whose sight is partially restored, and behold! +everything is dim, and monstrous, and full of terror; he dare not move +lest he should come in contact with these menacing forms. All the new +world to which Martin had been brought was out of keeping with him. He +had no place in it. If he could only live like the farmers in the +Ampezzo Valley, a hardy, sturdy, stalwart life, where his sinewy, +clumsy limbs would be of service to him, there would be a chance of his +being happy. + +These impressions, like all others, were vague, but not on that account +less powerful. He could not shape them into language, but he fancied +if he could see Philip or Dorothy he could make them understand. But +they were gone, these only beloved ones, and he did not know when he +should see them again. He must follow them, or he would die. His +wanderings took a southerly direction. It was natural to him to avoid +passing through the streets of any town, and when he came near to one +he turned aside and took a roundabout road. There was no hardship to +him in sleeping out of doors at this time of the year, and he felt no +inconvenience from the fact that he could not maintain a decent +appearance. In the villages he passed through, buying food with the +few shillings he possessed, he was taken for a foreign tramp, and well +watched. The children sometimes hooted at him, but that was nothing; +it was almost welcome, and he paid no attention to it beyond a +flickering smile. + +Meanwhile, in all the local papers, and very quickly in the London +papers also, there appeared sensational paragraphs describing the +disappearance of and search made for the son and heir of Sidney Martin. +The whole story, with the old scandal, came to the front again. In the +course of a few days the fugitive was found, and brought back to +Brackenburn, whither his father and brother had hurried upon receiving +the news. It was in vain to reproach him. He was a man, with a man's +right to freedom, and not even his father was justified in keeping him +under restraint as if he was a madman. A man who suffered from no +sense of hardship when he was living out of doors, with little food +besides wild berries and field vegetables, might spend the greater part +of his time in these fitful wanderings, relapsing more and more into +his original barbarism. + +"Your mother and Dorothy cannot live here altogether to be his keeper," +said Sidney to Philip, "yet it is evident his grandfather has no +control over him. What more can we do?" + +"You have done all you could, father," answered Philip, "and now I say, +let him go back to Cortina, if he is so bent upon it; and we should not +lose sight of him. It would be nothing to buy him a farm there." + +"Impossible!" said Sidney. "If he returns a rich man, some woman there +will marry him, and his son will be no more fit to be an English +gentleman than he is. If we could make him understand about the entail +I could pay him to cut it off; but he could never know what it meant. +No; he must not go back to Cortina." + +"Let us take him down to Apley," suggested Philip. + +"Would he be better off there?" asked his father. "He finds life here +too civilized with all the moors to roam over. How would he feel where +every acre of land is enclosed, and no trespassing allowed, and where +life is so much more cramped by custom and conventionality? Do you +think he could bear it? I say nothing about your mother and Dorothy, +whose lives must be upset and spoiled by his presence; but would he be +happier?" + +"Look at him," said Philip, "how he is listening and watching us, as if +he would tear the words out of our mouths. Martin," he added in +Italian, "we are talking about you." + +"Yes, yes!" he answered eagerly. + +"What are we to do with you?" asked Philip. + +"Send me back to Cortina," he replied. + +"But we want you to live here," continued Philip; "we wish you to marry +some good English girl, and bring up your sons to be like Hugh and me. +This house and these lands will belong to your eldest son when you die; +and he must be brought up like us, not like the farmers in Cortina." + +"If I die, and if I have no son, who would the house belong to?" asked +Martin reflectively. + +They did not answer him. Martin's face was thoughtful and anxious, and +he was evidently puzzling over this new idea. He looked from one to +the other with an expression of wistful entreaty in his deep-set eyes, +and a look of stronger intelligence than they had seen before dawned +upon his face. + +"My brother," he said, "before I came you were in my place. You did +not know I lived; you were the eldest son. I take from you this house, +these lands. Take them back from me; they make me sad. I will keep +none of them. See! I am not even good enough to be thy servant." + +"But you cannot give them back," rejoined Philip. "Perhaps I might +take them if you could and let you be happy in your own way. But you +are my father's eldest son, and you must have them, and your eldest son +after you." + +"Ah! what a misery!" he cried. "I take all these things from my +brother!" + +He spoke mournfully and tears glistened in his eyes. He flung himself +down on the floor, and hid his face with his hands in an attitude of +despondency and wretchedness. + +"If I died," he said at last, "all would come right. Why did you not +leave me in Ampezzo? I do you harm; I rob you." + +"No, you do me no harm," answered Philip; "besides, you are my brother +and we care for you. If you are good we shall love you." + +To Philip it seemed as if this brother of his was little more than a +child, who might be managed as a child. But Martin shook his head and +looked up intently into his father's face. + +"You will never love me," he said. "My father, it would be a happy +thing for you all if I was to die." + +The words were so true that neither of them could contradict him. If +Martin died how many of the vexatious complications that beset them +would cease, and soon be forgotten by the world! Margaret might have +said something to console the sorrowful heart just awaking to life and +consciousness, but she was not there. + +"If I could only die!" he murmured to himself with exceeding sadness. + +The problem of how to atone for his sin presented itself with augmented +force to Sidney. This son of his had none of the distinctive vices of +a savage, unless it was a touch of ferocious cruelty, not surprising in +one whose whole life had been subject to oppression and persecution. +He had inherited from himself certain moral qualities which dominated +his lower passions; but from his mother he had derived a self-will and +a lack of intelligence which must always make him blind and deaf to +reason. As he crouched there on the ground, muttering to himself, a +vivid image of Sophy came across Sidney's mind. This poor creature +could never make a thorough savage, self-reliant and triumphant in his +animal nature; neither could he now be trained into an intelligent and +contented member of civilized society. What could be done for him? + +Andrew Goldsmith had taken himself off immediately upon Sidney's +arrival at Brackenburn, but Mary remained in charge of the household. +To Mary, as well as to Rachel, it was a great trial to see Philip's +place taken by Martin, though he was their own niece's son. Their +old-fashioned loyalty to their superiors made them feel as if he was an +interloper, one who was utterly unfit for the position which was +Philip's due. If Martin could have been brought to England to inherit +their own savings, and perhaps succeed his grandfather as the village +saddler, they would have welcomed Sophy's son with all their hearts. +But it seemed out of the course of nature that he should succeed +Sidney, and take Philip's estate. Mary, too, was additionally troubled +just now by a scheme of her brother Andrew's. + +"Martin's giving you a deal of trouble, sir," said Mary the evening of +the day after Martin had been brought back to the Manor House. "If it +wasn't for our Andrew, I should say let him go back where he came from. +But Andrew won't hear a word of that sort. He says Martin shall have +his rights, and as long as he lives he'll see there's fair play. But +if you'll let me tell you a secret, sir, Andrew's bent upon getting him +married, because he thinks you'll want to keep him single, so as Mr. +Philip may come into the estate some day." + +"It would be the best thing that could be done for him," said Sidney, +"if Andrew could find anybody who would marry him. I mean any good, +reputable girl." + +"Well, I don't credit it!" replied Mary, "but I think Mrs. Martin at +the Rectory put it into Andrew's head at Christmas, talking to him a +lot of nonsense. He says he's sure she'd be willing for Miss Phyllis +to marry him when he's renovated and polished up a little. But Rachel +and me laughed at him, and said, anyhow, the rector 'ud never think of +giving his consent to her marrying a poor, ignorant, dark Roman +Catholic, worshiping a crucifix set up for him by Miss Dorothy, to say +nothing of his rough ways, and dreadful bad manners. Miss Phyllis +would never look at him, I said, and Mrs. Martin has never set eyes on +him yet. All the same, it put it into Andrew's head that somebody +would marry Martin, if he could not marry as high as Miss Phyllis." + +It spite of the heaviness of his heart, Sidney could not repress a grim +laugh at the thought of Laura marrying Phyllis to his eldest son, when +that son was Martin, not Philip. + +"Does Andrew know of anyone else?" he asked. + +"Why, yes," said Mary, "if he's not hindered. There's a sort of +far-off cousin of ours, a pretty, nice-mannered girl, something like +our Sophy, you know; she's a clerk in a post office, getting her +fifteen pounds a year. Selina Goldsmith her name is, and Andrew wants +me to have her here to keep me company, he says, and wait on him and +me. But I'm sure he's got another notion in his head, and Rachel told +me to tell you, when I wrote to ask her advice." + +"Mary, you and Rachel are faithful old friends," he answered, "but +believe me when I assure you Margaret and I would be grateful to any +good girl who would become Martin's wife and make him happy. There are +many women who would marry him for his future position, if Miss Phyllis +would not. You have my full sanction to bringing your young kinswoman +here, and, if you succeed in marrying her to Martin, half our +difficulties will be overcome." + +"Andrew will never believe it," said Mary. "And she may sit at table +with us when Martin is there, and go out walks with him and Andrew? I +shan't let her go without Andrew." + +"You may do all you can to promote such a marriage," he replied; "and +if Martin is married before next Christmas, we shall be only too glad." + +He returned to Apley the next day with a sense of relief in the hopeful +prospect which Mary's words had opened to him. It was not improbable +that Martin would marry this girl, and if he did, he might lead a +secluded and tolerably happy life in the old house at Brackenburn, and +gradually fall into occupying himself on the farm that was attached to +it. Once suitably married, Martin would be no longer so great an +anxiety to them all, and he himself might live down the aspersions so +lavishly cast upon his reputation. Martin's children should be brought +to Apley at an early age, and, though he would not separate them too +much from their parents, they should grow up under his own and +Margaret's care. To them he might make that atonement which he could +never make to his son. + +Andrew Goldsmith rejoiced greatly in the success of his scheme, to +which Mary had withdrawn all her opposition. Selina was brought to +live at Brackenburn. She was something like Sophy--pretty, lively, and +pettish. To exchange her drudgery at the small post office and shop, +where she had been glad to earn fifteen pounds a year, for the grandeur +of living at a manor house, with very little to do, seemed at first an +immense step in life to her girlish ambition. Andrew had rather +plainly hinted at what a height she might climb to if she chose, but to +his intense disappointment and dismay, Selina seemed much more shocked +at Martin's rough ways and bad manners than Miss Dorothy herself was. +He had seen Dorothy carry Martin his food from the dining room to the +porch, when he refused to sit down to the table, and many a time had +Martin persisted in walking barefoot beside her on the turfy moors. +But Selina declared she could not put up with his coarseness and +vulgarity, and she seemed more inclined to devote herself to winning +the admiration of Martin's tutor. + +Andrew insisted upon Selina accompanying them often in their rambles on +the moors, rambles irksome and tedious to her beyond measure. There +was nothing to be seen there save earth and sky. Martin paid but +little heed to her. Like all the rest, she could not talk to him. +Those who knew his language were gone away, and how long it would be +before they came again he did not know. This girl, whose voice was +loud and shrill, and who laughed all the time a little giggling laugh, +except when she was sulky, who had strange antics, shaking her head at +him, and holding up her finger, and pointing here and there, was +altogether unlike his signorina, or the gracious and stately lady who +was now his father's wife. He liked his rambles best alone, though he +could tolerate the companionship of the old man, his grandfather, who +was always silent, but who looked at him often with loving eyes. It +did not escape his notice that, since his foiled attempt to find his +way to London, he was never left long alone but one or other of his +guardians sought him out. The fancy took possession of him that Selina +had been added to their number to be another spy upon him. + +Andrew Goldsmith's impatience was extreme. He was angry with Selina +for failing to win his grandson's love, and angry at the thought of +Martin not marrying. That would be a triumph for his enemy. If he +could only argue with Martin, he fancied something could be done, but +all he had to say must be translated by the tutor, who was in Sidney's +pay. This barrier of language between himself and Sophy's son was +another of the wrongs Sidney had inflicted on him. + + + + +CHAPTER LIV. + +FAILURES. + +Sidney's disappointment at the failure of this new scheme almost +equaled Andrew's. He had built a good many hopes on the chance of +Martin's marriage, for Margaret dwelt much on the humanizing influence +a wife and children would have upon him. But Rachel secretly rejoiced +in her brother's discomfiture; and Mary, who could not be brought to +fall into the scheme, watched its failure gladly. Neither of them +could believe it would be a good thing for Philip. + +Nothing could be more melancholy than Martin's life became. At Cortina +he had been miserably oppressed, every man's hand being against him; +but he had been so fully occupied by the heavy tasks exacted from him +by Chiara that time had never hung heavily on his hands. The very +hatred and tyranny he had suffered from, and the deprivations he had to +undergo, supplied that spice of excitement without which existence is a +tedious monotony. A deep disgust of life took hold of his half +awakened mind. In former days the struggle for existence had occupied +him. That hunger, which hardened him to a long and patient effort, as +he stealthily followed and trapped some wild animal, was no longer +felt; his food was brought to him oftener than he needed it, and he ate +more than was good for him out of sheer want of employment. The sound, +dreamless sleep that came to him on his heap of straw in Chiara's hut +did not visit the soft, comfortable bed, which his aunt Mary took care +to make herself every morning, that the feathers might be kept downy. +Even his outdoor life was no longer a perilous climbing of peaks with +deep precipices and abysses, which compelled him to give a strained +attention to every step; it was a dull loitering over a safe plain, +with an old man always jogging on beside him, and a smooth horizon +bounding his view. He was too ignorant to know what was ailing him, +body and mind; but nostalgia held him in its dread embrace, and life +was becoming an insufferable burden to him. + +Now and then the heavy cloud lifted, and a gleam of light reached him. +Philip came down as often as he could spare a day or two, and his +flying visits were Martin's only sunshine. He was at last beginning to +realize that this grand signore was indeed his brother. If he knew +when he was to come he watched all day for the moment when he could set +out to meet him. If Philip came unawares his transport of gladness +more than once brought the tears to Philip's eyes. But his father's +visits produced in him a feeling of anxiety, and almost of terror. He +was afraid of him, and this fear flung him back into his original +moroseness and barbarism in his father's presence. + +His longing to see Margaret and Dorothy was intense, but he never gave +expression to it. Only when kneeling before the crucifix, near the +entrance of his cave, did he utter either of their names. In this +place alone did he find any moments of comparative freedom from the +mysterious malady which was consuming him. The damp, rocky roof and +walls, the hard, rough floor, the utter stillness and wildness of the +place were like a bit of his old life when he sought refuge in his cave +on the mountains. Sometimes, when he managed to elude the vigilance of +his grandfather, he made his way to this spot, and felt, for an hour or +two, something of the restful, satisfied feelings we all enjoy when we +are at home. When, as he stood at the low mouth of the cave, and +lifted up his heavy eyes to the worn, grotesque, pathetic figure of +Christ upon the cross, that familiar sight on which his childish gaze +had so often rested, then he could almost fancy that a step or two +would bring him out upon the sharp, ice-bound peaks, where the biting +wind would string up his relaxed frame, and send the blood tingling +through his languid veins. + +The summer and autumn passed by, but Margaret and Dorothy did not +return to Brackenburn. Sidney intended to keep Christmas there again, +and their visit was reserved for the winter. Philip and Hugh also, +though they spent a week now and then shooting on the moors, did not +give up the whole of the long vacation to Martin, as they had done the +year before. Some of the time was spent at Apley, where their +intercourse with their cousins at the Rectory had returned to its +former channel, excepting with Phyllis, whose absence when Philip was +staying at the Hall was as regular as his presence there. + +Laura was for once perplexed and uncertain. She could not forget that +though Philip was at present only a medical student he might some day +be a millionaire. She had means of setting an inquiry afloat as to +Sidney's position in the city; but the answers she got were +contradictory, and in consequence unsatisfactory. Ought she, in +Phyllis's interests, to attach him once more to her? or should she see +him carry off a rich heiress like Dorothy before her very eyes? She +could not forgive herself for having been too precipitate in breaking +off his long engagement with Phyllis, but she did not think it would be +impossible to renew it. + +She summoned Phyllis home early in October, while Philip was still at +Apley, in order to see how the young people would conduct themselves +toward one another. But fortune did not favor her. Philip and Dorothy +met Phyllis unexpectedly in the avenue between the Hall and the +Rectory. The color mounted up to Philip's face, and there was a slight +embarrassment in his manner; but Phyllis was quite self-possessed, and +spoke to him in a cordial and cousinly tone. + +"Why! Philip, it is ages since I saw you," she said gayly, "and now +you have quite a professional air. Pray do not ask me after my health, +dear Dr. Martin. I cannot let you feel my pulse, or look at my tongue." + +"I need not," he answered; "you never had anything the matter with you, +and you have not now. I wish some of our poor hospital patients had +your chances of keeping well." + +"He talks of the hospital immediately," she rejoined, tossing her head, +"and he smells of his drugs. O Philip! Philip! that you should come +to this! You are a lost man." + +"I suppose I am," he said, laughing; "I am lost to my old life, but I +like the new one as much. Phyllis, it seems like a hundred years since +I saw you." + +"That is what makes you look so old," she retorted; "a hundred years, +added to the twenty-three I know of, must make a tremendous difference. +How much more aged you are than me!" + +"Do you think he looks older?" asked Dorothy rather anxiously. "Mrs. +Martin is afraid he works too hard, and she is troubled a little about +it." + +"So are you," rejoined Phyllis. + +"Yes, I am," she replied steadily, yet a little shyly. She was more +disturbed by this unexpected meeting than either of the other two were. +It seemed to her that it must be inexpressibly painful to them both, +and that it would be better for her to go away. + +"Well, good-by," said Phyllis airily; "here is the gate. Open it for +me, and shut it behind me, or we shall have your Scotch cattle in our +glebe. We shall see you at the Rectory soon, Philip?" + +Philip opened the gate, and he and Dorothy stood in silence watching +her, until, as she turned a corner that would hide her from their +sight, she looked round and kissed her hand to them. + +"How pretty she is!" exclaimed Philip. It astonished him that he felt +so little agitation upon seeing her for the first time. She was very +pretty; very fair. "But if she be not fair for me, what care I how +fair she be?" he said to himself, feeling the very spirit of Wither's +old poem. The face beside him, not so faultless as Phyllis's, was more +beautiful to him for its expression of almost timid sympathy with his +supposed grief. Dorothy's eyes looked wistfully into his. + +"I cannot understand how or why I loved her," he went on in a low tone. +"I suppose it was because I grew up with the idea that she was to be my +wife. Not at home, but at the Rectory she was always called my little +wife. So it grew with my growth." + +"It must have been a great sorrow to you," murmured Dorothy. + +"It was the uprooting of a fancy, not a sorrow," he said; "I am +thankful it was torn up like the weed it was. A weed! Yes; and it +would have been a noxious weed, poisoning my whole life. It is +compensation enough for losing the position for which Phyllis would +have married me." + +They walked on under the overarching trees, with the setting sun +throwing long shadows before them as they moved side by side. A few +fallen leaves lay upon the road, or whirled merrily around them in the +evening wind. + +"There is only one girl who is like my mother," he said suddenly, "and +if I could hope to win her--if it was in years to come--if she would +wait for me----" + +"Who is it?" asked Dorothy tremulously, as he paused; and she looked up +into his face with a pained expression. So soon to have forgotten his +love to Phyllis--and to love again! + +"Why, Dorothy!" he exclaimed, "there is nobody in the world like my +mother but you! Don't you feel it? My father is always pointing it +out. Will you not some day forget my foolish fancy for Phyllis, and +believe that I love you, and only you, with all my heart? I have loved +you ever since we were at Cortina and found out poor Martin." + +Dorothy made no answer. Her heart beat so quickly that she knew she +could not control her voice or her tears if she attempted to speak. +Her love for him dated farther back than his for her. + +"You think me fickle, and that I fall in love too easily," he said in +tones of deprecating earnestness, "but set me a time, let me prove +myself in earnest. I had not seen you when I was inextricably bound to +Phyllis. Oh! I love you quite differently; I think of you as if you +were my conscience. I try to see myself as you see me; and when I do I +feel how unworthy I am of you." + +"No, no," she answered, between laughing and sobbing; "unworthy of me!" + +"Then you will give me time to prove that I love you," he said, "and to +give me a chance of winning your love." + +"There is no need of that," she whispered. + +"Is that true?" he cried, seizing her hands, and gazing eagerly into +her face. "Do you mean that you have loved me, blind idiot that I was? +Do you mean that you were not disgusted by me when I was playing the +forlorn lover, and must needs be sent abroad to cure me of my folly? O +Dorothy! if I could only make you forget what a fool I made of myself!" + +"I was so sorry for you," she said pityingly, "and I would have done +all I could to save you from your sorrow. But it is best as it is, +perhaps." + +"A thousand times best!" he exclaimed. "Ever since we were at Cortina +you have been in my heart of hearts; and I understand a little now the +sacred mystery that a true marriage must be." + + + + +CHAPTER LV. + +A NEW PLAN. + +There were more persons than Laura Martin who felt bitter and +disappointed when the announcement was made that Sidney Martin's second +son was about to marry his rich ward. Dorothy, with her large fortune, +had been the subject of much speculation and many schemes among +Sidney's circle, and he did not escape further odium. + +His career stood in this light in the eyes of most who knew him. In +his early manhood he contracted a low marriage, which he kept a +profound secret for fear of losing the favor of his rich uncle, whose +next heir he was. When tired and disgusted with his unsuitable wife, +he deserted her and his infant son in a remote and almost unvisited +spot in the Austrian Tyrol, thus dooming his firstborn child to a life +of misery and degradation many degrees worse than that of the lowest +laborer in England. After his succession to the estates of his uncle +he assumed the character of an ardent philanthropist and Christian, by +which he gained the affection of the only daughter and heiress of +Colonel Cleveland of Apley. His eldest son by this marriage was +brought up as his heir, and would have succeeded him but for the +accidental discovery of his first-born son, a man of thirty, densely +ignorant, and as uncivilized as a savage. The right of this man having +been established by his mother's father, Sidney was compelled to +acknowledge him and place him in the house which would belong to him +upon his father's death. But to compensate the second son, thus +dispossessed and disinherited, he handed over to him the wealthy ward, +who had been entrusted to his care by a man who knew him only under his +assumed character. This young girl had been kept secluded from all +chances of making another choice. Sidney Martin was a clever man, said +the world, a clever Christian. + +No man knew the depth of his repentance. Even Margaret but dimly +guessed it. If he could have made a sacrifice of all his life, and +gone back to the hour when he fled from Sophy's shrill peevishness, he +would have done it, and taken up his life afresh, burdened with her as +his wife and the mother of his children. But the past could not be +undone. There was a closer union now between him and Margaret than +there ever had been, though it had struck its roots in his sin and +sorrow. It might have been a higher union, lifted up into pure regions +of holiness and gladness, but he had dragged her down to him in the +valley instead of rising with her to fairer heights. + +Another scheme presented itself to his brain, always busily planning +how to retrieve the past. Why should not Philip and Dorothy marry at +once, and go to live at Brackenburn? Philip had been brought up to +fulfill the duties of an English country gentleman, a post Martin could +never fill. He might still take that position, and look after the +Yorkshire estate as long as Sidney himself lived. Then the progress +which Martin had been making under Dorothy's influence, and which had +been arrested by her departure, would go on again. Martin was sinking +back mentally, and was failing physically. Philip and Dorothy would +save him body and soul. + +Margaret approved cordially of this idea. Her heart was full of pity +for the desolate man, living his lonely life among people who must +utterly fail to understand him. There was no reason why Philip and +Dorothy should not marry soon and take up their charge. They could +make a home for Martin, who loved them both so ardently; and if it came +to pass in the future that he should marry, they would give up the +place to him. As Dorothy loved her birthplace so much, she and Philip +might choose to build themselves a house in the neighborhood of +Brackenburn. + +There was one person only who might raise an objection to this plan; +and Philip went down to Brackenburn to consult Andrew Goldsmith, and +convince him of its desirability. It was a November night when he +reached the manor house, and scarcely a light shone in any of its +windows, and not a sound was to be heard until Philip rang the great +hall door bell. It was opened by Selina, with a candle in her hand; +and by its dim light she led him along the many passages until they +reached the door of the housekeeper's room near the kitchen. Both +Andrew and Mary Goldsmith were dozing in the flickering firelight, and +Selina giggled audibly at their bewildered efforts to appear awake and +lively. + +"A poor home for Martin," thought Philip, as he shook hands with the +old people. Martin was stretched upon the hearthrug, and did not stir. +He was lying in a languid posture, as if his strength was quite worn +out. His hair, no longer left to grow in a tangled mass, lay in thin, +straight lines on his forehead and his hollow temples, which had almost +the color of old ivory. His cheeks, too, were sunken, and as he slept +there was a tremulous movement about his lips, which gave to him an air +of childish weakness. He looked like a strong man whose strength was +slowly ebbing away. + +"Martin, old man," said Philip, laying a cold hand on his burning +forehead, "wake up and give me a welcome." + +Martin awoke with a violent start, and looked up vacantly, like a dog +just roused from his sleep, but when he saw who was bending over him he +burst into a passion of tears. + +"It is time Dorothy and I came to take care of him," thought Philip. + +He would have no other fire kindled, and as supper was just ready, he +sat down with them. When this meal was over, and Mary and Selina had +gone to see after his room for the night, Philip found an opportunity +of at once telling his business. Andrew was fond of him, but in his +obstinate old heart there was a lurking jealousy of this fine young +fellow who had so long usurped the place of his grandson. It vexed him +to see Martin stretch himself on the ground at Philip's feet, and gaze +up into his face in humble admiration. + +"Mr. Goldsmith," began Philip. In old times he had called him Andrew, +but since he knew him to be his father's father-in-law he had adopted a +more formal mode of address, which Andrew always acknowledged by a slow +and somewhat dignified motion of his head. "Mr. Goldsmith, I came to +tell you and Mary, who are among my earliest friends, that I am going +to marry Miss Dorothy. Soon, too, for my father and mother wish it, as +well as myself." + +Andrew took his pipe out of his mouth as if to speak, but put it back +again till he should hear more, for he was sure there was more to come. + +"We are to be married almost immediately," continued Philip, "partly on +Martin's account. You know how he misses my mother and Dorothy, and +you know how quickly he learns from Dorothy. He has fallen back ever +since she went away. So we intend to make a home for Martin. We are +going to take him under our charge, and see how much we can do for him. +My mother says this life is only a moment in our endless life, and +Dorothy and I are going to spend our moment in taking care of my +brother." + +"How are you going to do it?" asked Andrew suspiciously. + +"And as soon as we are married, we are coming here to live with +Martin----" + +"That shall never be," interrupted Andrew, bringing his clenched fist +down on the table with a blow that made Martin start, and cower like a +frightened hound. "I'll see that my grandson is not turned out of his +own house. No, no. Marry as soon as you please; but you shan't come +to live in Martin's place." + +Andrew's folly and vehemence were so unexpected by Philip, that for a +minute or two he sat silently staring at the old man's infuriated face. +Martin, who had been roused by his angry tones, sat up on his heels and +gazed from one to the other in bewildered attention. + +"Mr. Goldsmith," said Philip, after his pause of amazement, "we are +making this arrangement chiefly on Martin's account. It is true Miss +Dorothy loves this house, where she was born, and would rather live +here than anywhere else; but she knows it can never be ours. We think +of building another house in this neighborhood." + +"Ay!" interrupted Andrew again, "with the money left by Sir John Martin +to build a place suitable for his heir. But Martin is his heir. I am +not too old to see that he has his rights. What you say sounds all +very well; but there's nobody but me to see the poor lad gets his own. +I'm sorry to gainsay you, Mr. Philip, but you cannot come to live here +in my grandson's house. He must be master, and nobody else." + +"Not for his own good?" asked Philip. "He cannot be master, for he +does not know how to give an order to any servant. He will learn in +time, if we take him in hand. We thought you and Mary would be glad to +return to Apley, for you are among total strangers here; and Rachel is +going to live with us as housekeeper." + +"Ah!" cried Andrew, with a long-drawn accent of suspicion and contempt, +"Rachel would do anything to serve you. I should soon hear that Martin +had signed his rights away. I couldn't trust Sophy's son with Rachel +when it was you he had to be unsaddled for. No; it shall never be. +I'll stay by Martin as long as I live; and nobody else shall be master +or mistress in his house." + +"Martin," said Philip, stooping down to his brother again, and speaking +in the simple Italian words he understood, "I am going to marry the +signorina. Would you like us to come here, and live with you always?" + +Martin repeated the words slowly to himself in a whisper; and slowly +the expression of his heavy face turned into a smile so wistful and +pathetic that it made Philip's heart ache. It was the smile of a soul +that sees afar off the glory and blissful ness of a life from which it +is shut out, but which it gazes at with distant and ignorant sympathy. + +"Yes, yes, my brother!" he answered. + +"I don't know what you say to him," said Andrew jealously; "but he's +more simple than a child; you may do what you like with him. But you +won't take me in; neither you nor your father. Here Martin is, and +here he stays." + +"We wish him to stay here," replied Philip. "We are coming chiefly for +his sake." + +"But I say you shall not come," persisted Andrew. "I'm his only +guardian, and I'll defend his rights. Come in Philip--turn out Martin. +That's how it will be; and I put down my foot against it. Here Martin +stops, and here I stop; and nobody else comes in as master." + +"You compel me to remind you that Martin has no right to this house," +said Philip, "as long as my father lives. This place belongs to my +father, and to no one else." + +"I'll take lawyer's opinion on that," he answered doggedly. "I've +given up putting my trust in any man, especially Mr. Martin. And if +it's true, as sure as you bring Miss Dorothy here as your wife I'll +take my grandson away, down to Apley, and all the country-side shall +see Mr. Martin's son and heir sitting at work in a saddler's shop. He +is fitter for that, perhaps, than to be a squire; but whose fault is +it? Who deserted him and his mother? Oh! Sophy, Sophy! my poor lost +little girl!" + +He dropped his white head upon his hands, and his sobs sounded through +the little room. Philip rose silently, and went away; and Martin, with +his bare feet, followed him noiselessly. The old man was left alone +with his impotent rage and grief. + + + + +CHAPTER LVI. + +ON THE MOORS. + +Andrew Goldsmith went, as he had threatened, to consult lawyers, one +after another, and learned, to his vexation, that, so long as the +father lived, the son had no legal claim to the estate. There could be +no disputing Sidney's right to dispose of Brackenburn as he pleased +during his lifetime. The next course to take would be to follow out +his other threat of having his grandson at Apley, and setting him to +learn his trade in the village shop, in the sight of all the +passers-by. But here again he found himself baffled. He had no +authority over Martin; no power save that of persuasion. And how could +he persuade one with whom he could exchange no conversation, except by +signs? Martin was free to choose for himself; and none but his enemies +had access by language to his mind. They might tell him exactly what +they pleased; and there was no doubt they would prevail upon him to +welcome Philip and Dorothy to Brackenburn. Andrew found himself +defeated on all points. + +One thing he resolved upon in this defeat--he would not leave +Brackenburn unless he was forcibly ejected. He would remain beside +Martin, jealously guarding him against signing away his rights. If +they ejected him he would find quarters near at hand; and all the +country should hear of his apprehensions. The thing should not be done +in a corner. If it was done it should be proclaimed far and wide. He +was Martin's sole protector as long as he lived; and his resolution and +resentment made him feel strong enough to live through many long years +yet. + +Since old Andrew was so determined in his opposition to Sidney's +scheme, there was no longer a great haste in pushing forward the +marriage of Philip and Dorothy. But the old purpose of keeping +Christmas at Brackenburn was taken up again. Margaret hoped that she +and Rachel could make Andrew believe that there was no antagonism felt +by any one of them against Martin, but that their great desire was to +arrange everything for his welfare. They were glad to hear that he did +not intend to quit Brackenburn on their arrival, although he had taken +lodgings in the bailiff's house, resolved not to sleep under the same +roof as Sidney. + +The weather during December was unusually severe. For several days a +bitter northeast wind, rising almost to a gale, swept across England, +and there was a leaden hue in the gloomy sky, as of low clouds charged +with snow, which needed a little rise in the temperature before it +could fall. Even at Apley, black frosts, changing into dense fogs, +prevailed. But in Yorkshire, though the fogs were lighter, the frost +was keener. Every pool and tarn on the moors were ice-bound, and the +noisy burn running down the valley at Brackenburn was silenced, only a +sluggish thread of water trickling under the sheet of ice which spread +from side to side. The coarse grass upon the moors was fringed with +ice; and the low trees, now bare of leaves, showed like masses of white +coral against the leaden sky. The farmers brought their flocks of +sheep to pastures near home, and only the wild ponies were left to +brave the inclemency of the threatened storm. But it was slow in +coming. Now and then the clouds broke, and gleams of wintry sunshine, +or a brilliant vision of stars, appeared through the opening. + +The winter once again made Martin feel more at home. This snow-charged +sky was familiar to him, more familiar than the soft, hazy, blue sky, +or the drifting clouds of summer. The moorlands, too, were less +strange to him in their frost-bound grayness than in the gorgeous +purple and gold of autumn. He felt less homesick than usual; yet he +was no happier. There was a lurking dread in his heart, so vague that +he was only dimly conscious of it--the dread of having Philip and +Dorothy in their great happiness always in sight. + +For he loved Dorothy with a passion that was none the less because he +could not express it in words, even to himself. He felt himself unfit +for her--far beneath her. He could see how Philip stood beside her, +her equal, each suited to the other. But this did not make his +inferiority less painful to him. He knew enough of his present +position to be aware that what Philip was he might have been. They had +brought this foolish girl, Selina, to be his wife, but how could he +love her when he had seen Dorothy? + +The day was come when all these great and fine people were expected to +arrive--to find him in their way--always in their way, like a dog who +has no right to a place on the hearth, but is not driven away out of +pity. This kindness of theirs was only a little less oppressive than +Chiara's tyranny. Never could he become what they wished him to be, +yet he would have to be always striving to become it. It was as if +they stood on a sunlit peak far above him, beckoning and calling to him +to come up to them, while he was chained at the foot, and could climb +but a very little way toward them. Forever climbing and forever +falling, with soreness of heart and sickness of soul. This was what +his future life would be. + +Early in the short day he started off for the moors, followed at a +little distance by Andrew, who was as miserable as himself. Martin +strode on across the trackless uplands, scarcely heeding where he went, +though he kept his purpose vaguely in his mind. He was going toward +his cave, three miles away; but, at present, trivial objects were +sufficient to divert him from his path. The wild creatures, so +numerous on the moors, were become almost tame by the severity of the +cold, and many of them were lying dead on the frozen ground. Martin +stood at times for some minutes gazing down with a sort of pity on +these victims of the cold. In former days he would have rejoiced over +them as so much prey; but he was never hungry now, and he had seen +Dorothy look sad over the dead body of a bird. So with this dim sense +of compassion in his heart he stood and gazed at them. Then Andrew, +who kept him in sight as far as his old limbs permitted, had time to +overtake him, and lay his hand upon Martin's arm, and point toward +home, only to start him on again in his devious course. + +Ever since he understood that his death would reinstate Philip in his +old position, he had thought wistfully of death. There was no escape +out of the evil about him except by dying. He was too much of a savage +yet to think of suicide: that is a crime of a certain degree of +civilization. To put himself to death would have been to him almost as +impossible as for a beast to do so. But as he came again and again +across these creatures who had perished by the cold, the idea of death +was kept all day before his mind. + +There was a brief spell of sunshine, but it soon came to an end, and +the wintry beauty of the moors was over. They lay sullen and gloomy +under the sullen and gloomy sky. The frost-bound pools lurked in the +hollows like black gulfs. A sudden blast of freezing wind blew across +the wide expanse with a shriek, beneath which was a moan. Then there +followed a silence; and the crackling of the frozen twigs and sedges +under his feet sounded with strange loudness. + +He went on more languidly, for with the hiding of the sun the glow +passed out of his veins. The sky in the north, toward which his face +was turned, grew denser and darker; and he wondered why he saw no snowy +peaks rising against it. For he was at home again, in Ampezzo, and +more than once he fancied he heard Chiara's shrill, threatening voice +calling to him. Was he come out to seek anything that was lost? Were +all the sheep safe? and the goats? He could hear no bleating. The +wolves would be dangerous in such weather as this. And now the snow +was falling thickly, driven by the wind in giddy circles, and swirling +around him bewilderingly. He laughed aloud as he stood still to watch +them. But he had lost his way, and there was nothing to guide him; no +light in the sky except from these white, fluttering snowflakes. In +which direction did his cave lie? Once there he would be under shelter +from the storm. + +All at once he heard the frenzied shouting of old Andrew's voice, +calling, "Martin! Martin!" and he came back with a start to the +present time. He was not on the mountains above Cortina, but in +England, on the wild moors, and the voice calling to him was not +Chiara's, but the old man's, who was said to be his mother's father. +He shouted back again, and the call drew nearer. He went a few steps +toward the sound; and the tall, stooping figure of Andrew loomed +through the driving storm. As Martin drew near him, he uttered a cry +of joy, and fell senseless and benumbed into his arms, which he +stretched out to catch him. + +"I will save you, old man," cried Martin; "I will save you." + + + + +CHAPTER LVII. + +EXPIATION. + +Important business had taken Sidney to Liverpool, and it had been +arranged that instead of returning to Apley, he should go across to +Brackenburn and meet the rest of the Christmas party there. Traveling +was a good deal impeded by a severe snowstorm, and he was disappointed, +though not surprised, to find that the London train was very much +behind time, when he reached the country station nearest to +Brackenburn. Leaving the carriage and brake to bring the large party +coming up from the south, Sidney hired a light spring cart, which would +make its way more quickly and easily along the encumbered roads. The +early night had already fallen; and a few breaks in the drifting +clouds, through which the stars shone by twos and threes, seemed to +foretell a cessation in the storm. + +The full moon was shining through one of these rifts when he reached +the forecourt of the old house, and its silvery light fell on all the +gables, and touched every tossing spray of ivy glistering with the +freshly fallen snow. But instead of the cheerful lights shining in +every window, all the front of the house was in darkness. Within the +wide porch a deep drift almost barred the approach to the door. There +was something ominous in the deathlike silence and darkness of this +place, to which he had been traveling with the expectation of entering +it surrounded by all whom he loved most. There stole over him a sense +of loneliness, such as all of us feel at times, when the utter solitude +of the life within us, the isolation of each one's spirit, presses +consciously and with deep awe upon us. No words could say how precious +Margaret was to him; but even she could never enter into the secret and +mysterious house of his soul. + +A glimmer in a distant window at last answered to the driver's noisy +and repeated ringing of the great bell; and the door was opened, Mary +Goldsmith appearing with a face of terror. + +"Oh, Mr. Martin!" she cried in a tremulous voice, "they're lost in the +snow. They've never come back. Andrew and Martin are lost in the +snow!" + +For a moment it seemed as if her words forbade his entrance; and he +stood motionless on the threshold looking from her to the whiteness of +the scene behind him. + +"Come in, come in," she said impatiently, "and tells us what we must +do. All the men are gone to the station, and only the old gardener's +left. They went out hours ago, Andrew and Martin, and never came back. +They'd have been home before nightfall if they hadn't lost themselves." + +Sidney entered the hall, leaving the heavy door ajar, and in a minute +or two a long drift of snow stretched across the polished floor, blown +in by the rising wind. + +"Has nobody gone in search of them?" asked Sidney. + +"Nay!" said Mary, crying, "there's only me, and Selina, and the maids; +and it's such a dizzy storm. We lost our way only going along the +garden walks. We couldn't see a yard before us. But we've lighted up +all the windows at the back, looking over the moor. Only I'm afraid +they can't be seen far off through the driving snow." + +The wind had risen again almost to a gale, and roared round the +solitary house, shaking every door and casement, and beating the long +ivy tendrils against the windowpanes. Sidney could see nothing even of +the storm for the sheet of ice and snow covering the outside of the +windows. Andrew old, and Martin ailing in health, out on the moors, in +this tempest! He looked into Mary's terror-stricken face with an +expression of intense anxiety. + +"They will be dead before morning!" cried Mary. + +She put his own half formed thought into blunt words. Dead! Sophy's +father and Sophy's son! The old, long gone by days when he was a boy +and madly in love with Sophy came back to him vividly, as if the +effacing touch of many years had not blotted out the recollection of +them. The girl's pretty, saucy face, her high spirits and merry moods, +her unrestrained love for him and his brief frenzied passion for her, +all the long forgotten memories, sprang into bitter and stinging life. +His conscience told him he had been glad when he knew she was dead, +leaving his way to happiness and prosperity clear before him. But +there was a great horror to him in a thought which was lurking +somewhere in an obscure corner of his brain, a murderous thought, that +he would rejoice in the death of Sophy's son. What would he do if +Philip, his beloved son, were lost on the moors? That must he do for +Martin. + +He forgot Margaret for the time, as if to him she had no existence. He +thought only of his sons--Philip, whom he would give his life to save, +and Martin, to whom he owed a deeper debt than to any other human +being; and flinging open the hall door he precipitated himself into the +storm. There was a sudden lull as he did so; the gusts of wind ceased, +and the dizzy snowflakes no longer hid the way. Bidding Mary send all +the aid she could, as soon as the men arrived from the station, Sidney +started across the moors. + +He was fairly well acquainted with their general aspect, and felt no +misgiving as to keeping within the range of the points most familiar to +him. The light was clear enough to enable him to avoid the greater +drifts, and the hollows, lying like great basins of snow. Besides, at +any moment he might come upon the weary men, exhausted, perhaps, with +exposure and fatigue, but stumbling homeward. From time to time he +shouted, and waited, listening painfully for some answer. But no +answer came, and still he went on, busy with the multiplicity of +thoughts that crowded through his brain, and taking little heed of time +or distance. + +It seemed almost as if Martin and Philip were walking beside him. The +fatherhood that was in him--the most godlike of all human emotions--was +stirred to its very depths. He knew what it was; he had felt it in all +its fullness toward Philip. But Martin also was his son! What an +infinite love and pathos there were in the words "my son"! It seemed +incredible, impossible, that he could have so sinned against that +divine fatherhood in himself as to forsake the mother of his firstborn +child. He had given life to Martin, but alas! what a life! Could he +never set that wrong right through even the countless ages of eternity? +Had not Martin lost forever the birthright that ought to have been his +in this world? + +No love either of father or mother; no symbol by which he could learn +the love of God himself. Martin had never known what it was to be a +son. All the innocent blisses, the passing gladness, the deep, +unutterable joys of a happy childhood had been stolen from him. That +which Philip had possessed in the richest measure Martin had had no +least taste of. His childhood had been desolate and oppressed as +childhood ought never to to be; his manhood had been given over to +destitution and slavery. The father had sown in a small seed-plot, the +son had reaped in a wide harvest-field. + +The chief bitterness of it all, the very sting of death, was that no +atonement was possible. As Sidney struggled onward through the +clogging snowdrifts, he felt that he could give up even Margaret if he +could recall the past. What was wealth, or influence, or the love of +wife and child, or the choicest of all earth's many gifts, compared +with the joy of having been true to that which was most akin to God in +his own nature? That joy could never be his; but he would be a true +father to Martin now, though he could not hope to find in him the +sonship which is the crown of fatherhood. + +The lull in the storm was over. The snowflakes began to whirl around +him giddily, driven and tossed hither and thither by the bitter wind, +and falling so thickly that they formed a dense veil of fluttering +atoms, as impervious to the sight as a stone wall. The familiar +landmarks were utterly lost were they ever so near to him. He fought +his way through the wind and the snow as best he could, calling from +time to time. The thick air was soundless; he could hear only his own +heavy sighs and labored breath. The biting cold was making him feel +dull and torpid; a lethargy crept over his busy brain. + +Suddenly, as if a white curtain had been drawn aside for a moment, he +saw on the other side of a slight ravine the cave which had been +Martin's chosen retreat, and in the safe shelter of it sat Andrew and +Martin, with a fire burning brightly in the entrance of the cave. +Yonder there were warmth and safety; and in Sidney's clouded brain +there sprang a great gladness at having found his son. He cried +"Martin!" and it seemed to him as if he turned his ear toward him and +listened to his call. + +But the vision was hidden again from his sight before he could take a +step forward; and still groping his way, though feebly and with +exhausted limbs, he struggled on through the bewildering snowflakes to +reach the haven of his son's shelter. + + + + +CHAPTER LVIII. + +NIGHT AND MORNING. + +Scarcely an hour later than Sidney's arrival Margaret came to +Brackenburn, with the large party of her companions and servants. It +did not strike her or Philip that there could be much danger in a storm +such as they had passed through coming from the south. But Dorothy and +the servants belonging to Brackenburn looked grave. The men, huddled +in the porch, held a consultation. It was impossible to do anything +until the downfall abated. The giddy maze of snowflakes was more +bewildering than the darkest night, for lanterns could be of no use in +such a storm, as they would have been in utter darkness. + +"Oh! Miss Dorothy," cried Mary, "you know this country's ways better +than us from the south. Is there nothing we can do?" + +"Nothing," she answered; "we must wait till the snow abates. Nobody +could go out in a storm like this." + +"Would not your St. Bernard track them?" asked Philip. + +"No," she said, "none of the men could venture out now. Oh! you don't +know what it is. You cannot go, Philip; you could not find your way +for five minutes." + +"They'll be frozen to death before morning," wailed Mary. + +"No," answered Dorothy in a faltering voice; "Martin would get to his +cave, and they are safe there. But there is your father, Philip." + +"He hasn't been gone an hour," said Mary, "and the others have been out +six hours or more." + +They gathered round the fire, which had smoldered down upon the +neglected hearth; but it was soon in a blaze again, and the cheerful +light fell upon Margaret's pale and thoughtful face. Philip and +Dorothy looked at her, and then glanced apprehensively at each other. +For the moment Margaret, with her steadfast and simple air of +tranquillity, seemed to belong to another world than theirs. + +"God is also in the storm," she said softly, as if to herself. She +drew Dorothy close to her, and laid her other hand on Philip's arm. + +"Children," she said, "we are no safer than they are, for we are all +alike in the hands of God. You must go and take food and rest, that +you may be strong to help as soon as the storm is over. Philip must go +to seek them as soon as it is possible to find them." + +But Margaret herself could not take either rest or food. Under her +habitual tranquillity, which had become almost a second nature to her, +there was to-night a strange agitation, such as she had felt but once +before. This breaking up of the deep spring of feeling differed from +the storm that had shaken her soul to the center when she discovered +Sidney's treachery; but it was not less intense. She had never known +before how much she loved him as her husband, with what a passionate +force her heart clung to him. It seemed to her as if she was actually +out with him, out in the bewildering snow, weary, aching, stumbling +from drift to drift, growing numb and torpid. Oh! if she were really +by his side, speaking to him, and hearing his dear voice! It was right +that he should go to seek Martin; she did not grudge the peril. She +was glad that he should risk his life for the son whose life he had +ruined. But if he should perish, her husband, just now, when he had +attained a higher level, when the love of God had conquered his love of +the world! + +From time to time Margaret opened her casement and looked out on the +baffling snow-fall, which filled all the contracted field of vision. +Nothing else could she see, not even the sky; only the dancing motes +against a background of dense gloom. + +Soon after dawn the downfall ceased, and Dorothy led Philip up to an +attic window from which there was the widest view of the moorland. +Stretching before their dazzled eyes was an undulating plain of the +purest white, with not a track or mark upon it. Here and there a line +of the faintest primrose shining in the pale daylight showed the crest +of a hillock or the margin of a hollow. But all landmarks were blotted +out. The sky was still of a leaden hue, and there was a threatening of +more snow on the northern horizon. + +"We must find them before another night comes on," exclaimed Philip. + +"I could find my way to Martin's cave with a compass," said Dorothy +hesitatingly. "If the sun comes out I am sure I could find it." + +"But you must not go, my darling," he answered. "I cannot let you go +with us men." + +"My dogs would be very little use without me," she said; "they will not +follow anyone else so well. I don't think the dogs can track them, but +Martin might hear their baying, and would make an effort to come to us, +or let us know where they are." + +"Let us start at once then," exclaimed Philip. + +The men were scanning the threatened storm in the north, but Dorothy's +appearance, ready to go with them, silenced all objections. The snow +was too soft to walk on easily, and the dogs whined as she bade them +follow her, but they obeyed. + +"Only pray 'at the storm 'ill keep off till we are home again," said +the old shepherd, who could estimate the danger of their undertaking +better than anyone else. Margaret watched them from her window with a +wistful tenderness in her eyes, which were heavy and dim with her +sleepless night. It was not possible for her to go. + +The sun shone faintly, and Dorothy, by its aid and that of her compass, +could direct the course of the little troop of men and dogs to the +point where the cave was. She fancied she could recognize, under the +softly undulating surface, the outlines of one ridge after another, and +the hollows where frozen tarns were lying. The men shouted, and the +dogs bayed with their deep voices, filling the moorland with their cry, +but there was no sign as yet that any of the lost men heard them. How +swiftly the precious moments were passing by! and how slow was the +progress which they made! The leaden snowclouds were slowly climbing +up the sky, and had already covered the dim disk of the low lying sun. + +"I feel sure the cave is over there," said Dorothy. + +They had reached a more rugged part of the upland, strewn with masses +of rock, which stood half buried in heather in the summer. Deep +snowdrifts had gathered on the side of each of them. The cave lay +under a rock at the head of a long, narrow dell, scarcely more than a +cleft in the earth, down which a burn ran in summer; and above the +margin of this cleft stood a shape which, as they drew near to it, took +the form of a cross. + +They hastened to the ravine, and looked down into it. It was half +filled with a deep drift, which almost hid the mouth of the cave, but +the wind had blown away most of the snow from the old Calvary, which +had weathered so many wintry tempests in the Ampezzo Valley. The arms +of the cross were pure white, and the crucified form upon it was +swathed in a white shroud. But the foot of it was buried in the snow, +and a human form lay there almost hidden by it, with arms outstretched, +as if to clasp the cross. Who could it be? + + + + +CHAPTER LIX. + +FOUND. + +For a few moments they all stood paralyzed and speechless on the edge +of the ravine, gazing down at the death-like form. Dorothy and Philip +clasped one another's hands with a grasp as if their own death was +near. Then the dogs broke noisily on the dread silence, and as the +clamor rang through the air, there came a shout from the cave; and +Martin made his way through the drifted snow, and stood in the +entrance, looking up to them with rough gestures of delight. + +A sharp cry of terror broke from Philip's lips, and springing down into +the ravine he cleared away the snow that covered the prostrate form. +Martin was beside him in an instant, and with swift, savage instinct, +he bent down, and laid his head on his father's breast, to hear if the +heart within was beating still. His head had never rested there +before, and now it lay there motionless, listening for the feeblest +throb that spoke of life. No one moved or spoke. How long the +suspense lasted, who could tell? But at length Martin raised himself, +and looked up into Philip's face. + +"My brother, our father is dead!" he said. + +And now Philip flung himself down upon his father's breast. How often +he had lain there! How many thousands of times had these outstretched +arms carried him to and fro, and these lips spoken to him the fondest +and proudest words a father could utter! He cried, "Father! father!" +in a tone of passionate entreaty, which made the hearts ache of all who +heard him. But no man there dare tell him that there was any hope. + +There was, however, no time to spare. If the coming storm broke out +again in its former fury the position of all of them would be perilous. +Martin beckoned them to follow him into the cave, where old Andrew lay, +well protected by dry fern and ling heaped about him, and with Martin's +thick overcoat laid over him. He was too feeble to walk home across +the moors, and a double burden had to be borne by them. + +It was a slow and sorrowful progress homeward under the gloomy sky, and +across the trackless snow. Philip and Martin had to take their part in +carrying the rude litter on which their father lay, and Dorothy, +speechless with grief and anxiety for Margaret, walked beside it. +Margaret watched the mournful procession as it crept slowly toward her +across the silent uplands. Never before had she been so vividly +conscious of the presence of God. "In him we live, and move, and have +our being," she said in her inmost soul, with a gladness as sharp as +pain, as these slowly moving forms of those she loved most drew nearer. +One was being carried home; and by a subtle, sympathetic instinct which +had stirred within her all night, she knew who it must be. Sidney, her +husband, dearer than all save God, was being brought home to her, dead. + +She met Philip at the door of her room, his young features drawn and +set with anguish, and she laid her hand in his, and looked up into his +eyes, with a tender tranquillity on her white face. + +"Do not tell me," she said, "only show me where they have laid him." + +They went hand in hand silently across the old hall to the library +door; then Margaret paused, and pushed Philip gently on one side, with +such a smile as the angel of death might have upon his benignant face. + +"I must go in alone," she said, "and let no one come near me. But I +know that God is good." + +Philip and Dorothy watched within sight of the door through which she +had disappeared and Martin stretched himself on the floor at their +feet. Deeper than their own grief was their sorrow for the mortal +anguish of Margaret. For what would life be to either of them if the +other was taken away? They did not speak; but they looked into each +other's face, and felt that their love was made greater and more sacred +by this calamity. Martin's sad eyes were fastened upon them, as they +sat together, leaning toward one another, as if words between them were +not needed. + +"My brother," he said, breaking the silence at last, "I wish I was dead +instead of my father. Why did he go out into the storm?" + +"He went to find you, Martin," answered Dorothy. + +"To find me!" he cried, "to find me!" + +A gleam of gladness came across his heavy face, and into his deep-set +eyes; and he raised himself from the ground to pace up and down the +floor, murmuring, "To find me," again and again to himself. Once he +approached the closed door of the library, and knelt before it, +crossing himself devoutly, and whispering a prayer, such as he was wont +to say at the foot of the Calvary. After a while he returned to the +hearth, where Philip and Dorothy had been anxiously watching him. + +"My father went out into the storm to find me," he said with glistening +eyes. "I shall know him now when I see him again in Paradise." + +How long they waited they never knew; but at last from the soundless +room Margaret came out, white as death, but with a radiant look upon +her face such as they had never seen before. Dorothy and Philip stood +up in awed silence but Martin fell down on his knees as she drew near +to them. She laid her hands upon his shoulders and, bending over him, +laid her lips upon his wrinkled forehead. + +It was the seal of such a pardon as few women are called upon to give. +This man had cost her all that she most prized on earth. He was the +living memorial of her husband's sin. He would thrust her firstborn +son out of his birthright. As long as she lived he would be to her the +symbol of all earthly anguish, and love, and bitterness. But her heart +was melted with inexpressible pity for him, a pity which his dark mind +could never understand. Nothing but this mute and solemn caress could +tell him that she pitied and loved him. + +Dorothy understood it more fully than the others did, and, throwing her +arms around Margaret, she burst into a passion of tears. + + + + +CHAPTER LX. + +MARTIN'S FATE. + +Andrew Goldsmith was ailing for a few days, and kept his bed until +after the funeral solemnities were over. Sidney was taken home to +Apley, to be buried where Margaret would some day lie beside him. +Martin went down there for the first time to appear as one of the chief +mourners at his father's grave; but he returned immediately to +Brackenburn, which was now his own. + +Andrew Goldsmith entered into his heart's desire. Sophy's son, his own +grandson, was now the squire of Brackenburn, the possessor of the +estates entailed by Sir John Martin. He would take his place as a +wealthy landowner, a man of position and influence. The old saddler, +who had been so long dominated by a fixed idea, could hardly give a +thought to the tragic fate of his son-in-law, Sophy's husband, who had +deserted her, and left her to die among strangers. Once or twice Mary +overheard him saying to himself, "He died alone, like my Sophy, with +nobody near him as loved him." But he seldom spoke of Sidney. + +"I must see they don't wrong Martin," he said, full of suspicion even +of Margaret and his own sister Rachel; "there's a many ways rich folks +can wrong poor ones. I must see to it myself." + +But his disappointment was great when he found that all Sidney's +accumulated wealth was left to Philip, Martin and Hugh, his other sons, +being amply provided for in other ways. Philip's portion was still the +largest. Andrew's chagrin and consternation were boundless, and he +could never believe that his grandson had not been defrauded. The idea +fastened on his mind, and made him a miserable man. + +Martin contributed largely to his misery. He was now unquestionably an +English landowner, but he could not, or would not, live otherwise than +as an Austrian peasant. It was at first planned that Philip should buy +an estate near Brackenburn, and take Martin under his brotherly +protection and influence. But the vast complications of his father's +business involved too many interests for him to withdraw from it for +some years. He could not sacrifice the interests of hundreds of +families to his own desire for a private life, or even to the claims of +brotherhood. He felt himself called to step into his father's place, +and for some time to be the head of the many branches into which his +father's business had spread. + +So Martin was left reluctantly to his fate. Before long a priest from +the Ampezzo Valley, a man whom he knew, came to take charge of him and +his affairs. Martin was glad to have anybody who could talk to him in +his own dialect; and this man, to whom he looked up in awe and +reverence, was so kindly to him, and knew how to direct him so well, +that he soon yielded to him the unquestioning obedience of an ignorant +peasant to his priest. There was no more intercourse than before +between Andrew and his grandson; but the former, with all his narrow +and strong prejudices, was compelled to witness the introduction of +foreign ways and Popish idolatry, as he called it, into Martin's +household. This was not what he had looked forward to when his heart +had beaten high with pride when his grandson took possession of his +estates. + +Now and then Philip went to see his half-brother, when he could spare a +day or two, and Margaret every year spent a few weeks at Brackenburn. +But Martin only once visited Apley, the restraints of a home so +civilized and cultured being intolerably irksome to him. He was not +unhappy, but he had none of the higher joys of life. There was one +point on which no man could influence him. He would never marry. +Ignorant and savage as he must always remain, there was an austere +purity of soul in him which made it impossible for him to marry without +love. + +The conviction that, after all, Philip or Philip's son would succeed to +the estates was a secret trouble to Laura for the rest of her life. If +she could but have known that Philip would be the most wealthy of +Sidney's three sons! But she had formed no idea of the immense +accumulation of Sidney's private property, which would have all been +Phyllis's if she had not broken off that match. Phyllis shared her +chagrin in some measure, but it was tempered with the anticipations of +a youthful beauty. There were other men besides Philip, she said, +though he was a great miss. And she had loved him, she added, with +more sadness in her tone than her mother had ever heard. They both +took more interest in the details of Philip and Dorothy's marriage than +Margaret herself did. + +Margaret took up her old life in her old home, where most of all +Sidney's presence was most real to her. It was her conviction that he +was present, a thin though impenetrable veil alone lying between them. +In this path of consolation and peace she walked by faith, a more +satisfying thing than walking by sight. She knew that if he had not +gone forth to seek the son whom he did not love, there would have dwelt +in her heart of hearts a lurking condemnation of him, which would have +been exceedingly bitter; whereas now there was there a thankful sense +of the full atonement he had made for deserting his child in his +infancy. She could well wait until she spoke face to face with Sidney +again. Day by day she was strengthened with strength in her soul. + + + +THE END. + + + + + + + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Half Brothers, by Hesba Stretton + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 59094 *** |