God and the Man E-Book

Robert Buchanan

• Herausgeber: Books on Demand
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Seitenzahl: 503

Beschreibung

'Granddad, Granddad! look up!--it is Marjorie. Have you forgotten your niece, Marjorie Wells? And this is little Edgar, Marjorie's son! Speak to him, Edgar, speak to granddad. Alack, this is one of his dark days, and he knoweth no one.' In the arm-chair of carven oak stained black as ebony by the smokes of many years, and placed in the great hall where the yule log is burning, the old man sits as he has sat every day since last winter; speechless, to all seeming sightless; faintly smiling and nodding from time to time when well shaken into consciousness by some kindly hand, and then relapsing into stupor. He is paralysed from the waist downwards. His deeply wrinkled face is ashen gray and perfectly bloodless, set in its frame of snow-white hair; hair that has once been curly and light, and still falls in thin white ringlets on the stooping shoulders; his hands are shrivelled to thinnest bone and parchment; his eyes, sunken deep beneath the brows, give forth little or no glimmer of the fire of life. Ninety years old. The ruin, or wreck, of what has once been a gigantic man.

Leseprobe

God and the Man

God and the ManChapter 1. A WINTER NIGHT'S PROLOGUEChapter 2. THE YEARS ROLE BACK: A DEATH BEDChapter 3. SHADOWS AT THE FEN FARMChapter 4. SOWING THE BLACK SEEDChapter 5. ENTER PRISCILLAChapter 6. FATHER AND DAUGHTERChapter 7. A DISAFFECTED SPIRITChapter 8. CLOUDS IN THE SKYChapter 9. THE ENEMY IN THE PATHChapter 10. UP AT THE WILLOWSChapter 11. ANOTHER LOVE SCENEChapter 12. KATE CHRISTIANSON'S TROUBLEChapter 13. KATE COMES HOMEChapter 14. THE WIDOW'S CUP IS FULLChapter 15. THE DEAD WOMANChapter 16. ON BOARD THE 'MILES STANDISH'Chapter 17. OUTWARD BOUNDChapter 18. JOHN DYSONChapter 19. FACE TO FACE AGAINChapter 20. PRISCILLA MAKES HER CHOICEChapter 21. BETWEEN TWO ELEMENTSChapter 22. CAST AWAYChapter 23. ICE-DRIFT FROM THE POLAR SEAChapter 24. THE STORMChapter 25. BESET BY THE ICEChapter 26. 'AN EYE FOR AN EYE'Chapter 27. HERE BEGINS CHRISTIAN CHRISTIANSON'S RECORD, WRIT DOWN BY HIS OWN HANDChapter 28. THE ISLAND OF DESOLATIONChapter 29. CHRISTIAN ROOFS HIS HOUSEChapter 30. A NEW PERPLEXITYChapter 31. THE FACE ON THE CLIFFChapter 32. THE TWO MENChapter 33. IN THE SHADOW OF THE CAVEChapter 34. 'COME BACK WITH ME!'Chapter 35. THE AURORAChapter 36. THE BEARChapter 37. VIGILChapter 38. OUT IN THE SNOWChapter 39. THE SICK MAN'S DREAMSChapter 40. 'OUR FATHER'Chapter 41. THE LAST LOOKChapter 42. 'SNOW TO SNOW!'Chapter 43. FROM THE LOG OF THE WHALER 'NAUTILUS'Chapter 44. AT THE SAILOR'S HOMEChapter 45. EPILOGUECopyright

God and the Man

Robert Buchanan

Chapter 1. A WINTER NIGHT'S PROLOGUE

'Granddad, Granddad! look up!--it is Marjorie. Have you forgotten your niece, Marjorie Wells? And this is little Edgar, Marjorie's son! Speak to him, Edgar, speak to granddad. Alack, this is one of his dark days, and he knoweth no one.' In the arm-chair of carven oak stained black as ebony by the smokes of many years, and placed in the great hall where the yule log is burning, the old man sits as he has sat every day since last winter; speechless, to all seeming sightless; faintly smiling and nodding from time to time when well shaken into consciousness by some kindly hand, and then relapsing into stupor. He is paralysed from the waist downwards. His deeply wrinkled face is ashen gray and perfectly bloodless, set in its frame of snow-white hair; hair that has once been curly and light, and still falls in thin white ringlets on the stooping shoulders; his hands are shrivelled to thinnest bone and parchment; his eyes, sunken deep beneath the brows, give forth little or no glimmer of the fire of life. Ninety years old. The ruin, or wreck, of what has once been a gigantic man. The frame is still gigantic, and shows the mighty mould in which the man was made; the great head, with its brood overhanging brows and square powerful jaw, is like the head of an aged lion of Africa, toothless and gray with time. Kick the great log, and as the sparks fly up the chimney thick as bees from out a hive, his eyes open a little, and he seems faintly conscious of the flame. Flash the lamp into his sunken eyes, and as he mutters curiously to himself, and fumbles with thin hands upon his knees, a faint flash of consciousness comes from the smouldering brand of brain within. He is not always so inert as now. This, as the grave matron who is bending over him says, is one of his dark days. Sometimes he will look around and talk feebly to his children's children, and seem to listen as some one reads out of the great family Bible which stands ever near his elbow; and the gray old face will smile gently, and the thin worn hand lie lightly as a leaf on some flaxen head. But to-night, though it is Christmas Eve, and all the kinsfolk of the house are gathered together, he knows no one, and sees and hears nothing. He breathes, and that is all. All round the upland hall the snow is lying, but over it, since last night, have fallen, in black tree-like shadows, the trails of the thaw. The woods are bare. The great horse-chestnut on the hill-top has long since shed its sevenfold fans, intermingled with jagged brown buds bursting open to show the glossy nuts within. Bare even is the ash, which keeps a goodly portion of its leaves so long, and stands scarcely half stript, darkening in the chill autumnal wind. All the landscape round looks dark and ominous; the shadow of winter is seen visibly upon the shivering world. 'Put a drop to his lips--perhaps he'd know us then.' The speaker, a tall, handsome widow of fifty, with grim, weather-beaten face, holds by the hand a dark-eyed boy of ten, swarthy as a quadroon. Friends and kinsmen of the family--of both sexes and all ages--gather round. It is a festival, and all are more or less gorgeously clad, bright-ribbon'd caps and gorgeous silk gowns being predominant among the women, and blue swallow-tail'd coats and knee-breeches among the men. Next to the centenarian, the chief centre of interest is the handsome widow and her little boy. She has been long absent from England, having married a West Indian planter, and long ago settled down in Barbadoes. A widow with one child, she has at last returned to the village where she was born, and though she has been some months at home, the novelty of her presence has by no means worn away. 'Put a drop to his lips,' she repeats, 'and speak up to grandfather.' 'Grandfather!' cries the boy, taking one of the cold bony hands. No stir--no sign. 'It's no use, Marjorie,' observes the good matron with a dolorous shake of the head. 'When he goes like this, he is stone deaf and blind. Some of these days, doctor says, he'll never wake up at all, but go out like a spark, as quiet as you see him now.' 'And no wonder,' returns the widow. 'The Book says three score and ten, and he is over a score beyond.' 'Four score and ten, and seven weeks,' pipes a thin voice from the background. 'Ah, it be a powerful age.' He who speaks is himself an old man, very thin and very feeble, with a senile smile and purblind eyes; yet, gazing upon the figure in the arm-chair, he assumes an appearance of ghastly youth, and feels quite fresh and boylike. 'Four score and ten, and seven weeks,' he repeats, 'and the master was a man growed before I was born. He puts me in mind of the great oak by Dingleby Waste, for it stood many a hundred year before it fell, and now, though it be fallen with its roots out o' the ground, its boughs do put out every summer a little patch of green, just to show there be a spark of life i' the old stump yet.' The members of the family group gaze open-mouthed at the speaker, and then, with mouths still wider open, at the tenant of the arm-chair; one and all with a curious air of belonging to another and less mortal species, and having nothing in common with a thing so fallen and so perishable. And still the old man does not stir. Lying thus, he does indeed seem like some mighty tree of the forest, gnarled and weather-beaten and bare, uprooted and cast down, with scarcely a sign to show that it has once gloried in the splendour of innumerable leaves, and stood erect in its strength against the crimson shafts of sunset and of dawn. All the long winter evening there has been mirth making around him. The hall is hung with holly, green leaf and red berry; and from the quaint old lamp that swings from the centre beam is pendent a bunch of whitest-berried mistletoe. Fiddles and flutes and pipes have been playing, and nimble feet have beaten merry time on the polished oaken floor. And throughout it all grandfather has kept his silent seat on the ingle, and hardly seemed to hear or see. It is a grand old hall, fit to be a portion of some grand manorial abode; and such indeed it was once upon a time, before the old manor house fell into decay, and became the home of the Christiansons. Facing the great ingle is a large double entrance door, studded with great nails and brazen bars like a prison gate; and whenever this door--or rather one half of it--is swung open, you see the snow whirling outside, and can hear a roar like the far-off murmur of the sea. The hall is long and broad, and at one end there is a wide staircase of carven oak, leading to a gallery, which in turn communicates with the upper rooms of the house. In the gallery sit the musicians, led by the little old cripple, Myles Middlemass, the parish clerk. Great black beams, like polished ebony, support the ceiling. The fireplace is broad and high, with fixed oaken forms on either side, and projecting thence, two sphynx-like forms of well-burnished brass; while facing the fire and the great yule log, sits, in his arm-chair of polished oak, the old man, Christian Christianson, of the Fen. The music begins anew, and the folk begin a country dance. Farm maidens and farm labourers lounge in from the kitchen, gathering like sheep at one end of the hall, close to the kitchen door. Then Farmer Thorpe, who is master of the house, which came to him with Mary Christianson, the old man's daughter, leads off the dance with Mistress Marjorie, his grim kinswoman from Barbadoes. The others follow, young and old, and the oldest as merrily as the youngest. Loud cries and laughter rise ringing to the rafters; there is struggling in corners, girlish laughter, patter of light and peal of heavy feet; and the louder the mirth sounds within, the louder roars the winter wind without. But old Christian sits moveless, with his blank eyes, half-closed, fixed on the fire. Like a fallen tree, did we say? Rather like some gray pillar of granite rising grimly out of the sea; with the innumerable laughter of ocean around it, and flight of white wings around it, and brightness above it; dead, dead to all the washing of the waves of life, and blind to all the shining of the sun. As he sits there, some look at him in awe, and whisper to each other of his past, and shake the head ominously as they think of his strange adventures sailing up and down the world. For he has lived much of his life in foreign lands, a wanderer for many years without a place whereon to rest his feet; he has been a master mariner, and a trader, and an owner of sailing ships; and far away, long ago, he gathered wealth in some mysterious fashion, and brought it back with him to buy the ancestral acres that his father's father lost. A stormy life and a terrible, say the gossips; not without blood's sin and such crimes as, twice told, lift the hair and shake the soul; for if they speak sooth, he has sailed under the black flag on the Indian seas, and taken his share in the traffic of human life. Those who are oldest remember dimly the days of his passion and his pride--days when his hand was against every man, and when his very name was a synonym for hate and wrath. The women-folk speak, moreover, of his strength and beauty, when his white locks were golden as a lion's mane, and his gray eyes bright with the light of the Viking race from whom he drew his fiery blood. While the mirth is loudest, pass out through the hall door into the night. The great door closes with a clang; the brightness fades into the murmuring darkness of the storm. Stand on the lonely upland, and see the white flakes driving tumultuously from the sea; far across the great marsh with Herndale Mere glistening in its centre like a great shield, and beyond the dark sandhills which stretch yonder like tossing billows for miles and miles beyond, the sea itself is tossing and gleaming, and crashing on the hard and ribbed sand of the lonely shore. The heavens are dark, and neither moon nor star is visible; but the air is full of a faint mysterious light--like moonshine, like starshine, like the light that is in the filmy falling flakes. In this faint phosphorescence the frozen mere flashes by fits and the distant sandhills loom dimly in the distance, and on every side gathers the whiteness of the fallen sheets of snow. Behind the great farm, with its windows flashing out like bloodshot eyes, and its shadows coming or going on the crimson blinds, stretch the upland fields, deep in drift of mingled snow and sand; and inland, here and there, glance the lights from clustering homesteads and solitary farms. A lamp is burning in every home tonight, for all the folk are awake, and the coming of the Christ is close at hand. A long lane, deep with many a waggon rut, and closed on either side by blackthorn hedges, leads from the upland, across fields and meadows, to the highway, only a mile along which is the village, and the quaint old village church. Listen closely, and the faint peal of bells comes to your ear in the very teeth of the wind!--and look, even as you listen, lights are creeping up the lane, and soon, shadows of human forms loom behind the lights, and you see the carol singers, with William Ostler from the Rose and Crown at their head, coming along, lanthorns in hand, to sing at the farm door. William Ostler staggers as he comes, and tumbles sprawling into the snow; whereat there is loud laughter and scuffling of heavy hobnailed feet. Young men in heavy woollen coats, and girls in red cloaks with warm hoods, and little boys and girls following behind, come trooping along the lane. Now they meet the bitter blast upon the upland, and the lanthorns are blown out, but with the light from the farm windows to guide them, they come stamping along, and, facing the hall door, range themselves in a row. Then William with a tipsy hiccough, gives out the word, and the voices ring out loud and clear. Scarcely has the carol begun, when all sounds cease within the farm; the dance has ceased, and all are standing still to listen. As the last note dies away, the door swings open, and Farmer Thorpe, with face like a ribstone pippin, and white hair blowing in the wind, stands on the threshold, with shining faces peeping out behind him in a blaze of rosy light. 'Come in, come in!' he cries, cheerily. 'Welcome all!' Stamping the snow from their boots, shaking it from their garments, they troop in and gather together at the kitchen end of the hall, where warm spiced ale is poured for them, and chucks of home-made cake put into their chilly hands. Left outside in the dark, the village children pelt each other with snowballs, and run races in the snow, and shout shrilly in through the keyhole, and beat with tiny mittened hands on the mighty door. It is close on midnight now. The carol-singers have gone their ways, to make their music elsewhere, and get good entertainment for their pains. The house is full of the pleasant smell of meat and drink. But the great hall is empty; empty, that is to say, save for the old form sitting before the fire. There he crouches still, conscious of little save the pleasant warmth; breathing faintly, otherwise not stirring hand or limb. The musicians, the labourers, the farm maidens, are busy feasting in the kitchen; whence comes, through the half-closed doors, the sound of load guffaws, of clattering dishes and jingling glasses, of busy, shuffling feet. There is plenty of rough fare, with libations of strong beer and cider and ginger-ale. In the low-roofed dining-room, which opens out up three oaken steps at the other end of the hall, the genteeler portion of the company sit round the supper board,--a snow-white cloth of linen, piled with roast and boiled meats, fat capons, knuckles of ham and veal, Christmas cakes and puddings, great rosy-cheeked apples, foaming jugs of ale, flasks of ruby-coloured rum, and black bottles of foreign vintage. Farmer Thorpe heads the table, in his swallow-tailed coat of bottle-green, his long buff waistcoat with snowy cambric at the breast and throat, his great silver chain with dangling charms and seals; and facing him, at the other end, is Mary his good dame, splendid in silk and flowered brocade, with a cap, to crown all, that is the envy and admiration of every matron in the happy group. On either side are ranged the guests in their degree,--Squire Orchardson of the Willows, a spare thin-visaged man in deep mourning; having the place of honour at the farmer's right hand, and pretty Mabel Orchardson, the squire's only daughter, blushing not far away, with young Harry Thorpe, a tall yeoman of twenty-one, to ply her with sweet things and sweeter looks, and to whisper tender nothings in her ear. The light of swinging lamps and country-made candies gleams all round upon happy faces, red and bright, with fine shadows behind of oaken furniture and wainscoted walls. The mirth is real, though solemn; for the wine has not yet had time to tell its tale. The old folks pledge each other in old-fashioned style; healths go round; pretty maidens sip out of the glasses of their cousins and lovers, while fond feet meet, and knees touch, under the table. There is a clatter of dishes and knives and forks, a murmur of voices, which only ceases at intervals, when the wind shakes the house and causes the roof and walls to quake again. But all at once, above the crying of the wind and above all the noise of the feast, rises a sound so shrill and terrible that all mirth ceases, and the company listen in terror. It sounds like a human shriek, coming through the half-closed door that leads to the hall--a human shriek, or something superhuman, so strangely does it ring through the merry house. Hark, again! There can be no doubt now. It is the shriek of a man's voice, sharp, fierce, and terrible. The more timid among the company--both men and women--keep their seats, shiver, and look at one another; the braver spirits, headed by Farmer Thorpe, push through the open door, and gather on the steps leading down into the hall. In the middle of the hall stands, ghastly pale now, and terrified, the swarthy boy from Barbadoes, his hands clenched, his eyes staring, every fibre of him trembling with terror. Near to him is another boy, stronger and bigger, of coarser make and breed; young Walter Thorpe, the farmer's nephew, whose father lives down at the Warren. A little way off their little cousin, Mary Farringford, crouches dumb with terror, her large blue eyes dilated and misty with timid tears. All the three children gaze one way--the dark boy fascinated, like a murderer caught in the act, with the murderous look of hate and venom found by fear upon his face and frozen there; young Walter a little frightened too, but preserving a certain loutish stolidity; little Mary quivering like a reed. All gaze towards the great fireplace, for there, still fixed in his chair, but with head erect, eyes dilating, and skinny finger pointing, sits the old man, awake at last indeed! His mouth is still open, panting, and it is clear now that the shriek which startled the company came from his throat. His finger points to the dark boy, who recoils in dread; but his eyes are fixed, not on the boy's face, but on a glittering object which lies upon the floor, close to the boy's feet. An open clasp-knife, with dagger-like blade and steel spring, the kind of knife that seamen use, too often, upon one another. Farmer Thorpe steps into the hall, with the wondering company behind him. 'What is the matter?' he exclaims. 'Who was it that screamed out?' Walter Thorpe, who has recovered his composure, shuffles his feet, grins stupidly, and jerks his thumb at the old man. 'Him!' he replies with characteristic indifference to grammar. 'And what--what's this?' cries the farmer, following the old man's eyes and looking at the knife. 'Eh, eh, whose knife is this?' 'His!' replies Walter again, nodding his head at the other boy. 'Edgar's!' exclaims the voice of the widow Marjorie Wells; and as she speaks she comes forward very pale, and touches her son with an angry hand. 'Edgar, what does it mean?' He scowls, and makes no answer. 'Have you been quarrelling? she continues sternly. 'How dare you quarrel, you wicked boy?' 'He struck me,' pants Edgar, still with the murderous look in his face. 'No, I didn't,' cries Walter. 'Yes you did.' 'I didn't--leastways till you pushed me against little Mary and threw her down. Then when I slapt your face, you pulled out that knife, and tried to stick me like a pig!' A murmur of horror runs through the company. 'You hear, madam?' says Farmer Thorpe, sharply. 'I think your boy's to blame, and if he was my son, I'd give him a sound thrashing. Fancy the young imp carrying a knife like that, and trying to use it too.' 'Edgar is passionate,' says the widow, haughtily; 'but I daresay he was provoked.' 'He said that I was black,' cries Edgar, looking up at his mother with his great eyes, 'and that when I was a man I ought to marry a black woman--and cousin Mary laughed--and so I pushed him; and when he struck me, I pulled out my knife, and I would have stabbed him, if grandfather had not screeched out.' 'Fine doings o' Christmastide,' exclaims Farmer Thorpe, shaking his head grimly; 'and look you now at father,' he continues, passing across to the old man, who still keeps the same position, with eyes staring and finger pointing. 'How goes it, father? Come, come, what ails you now?' At the voice of his son, the old man drops his outstretched arm, and begins to mutter quietly to himself. 'Eh?' says Farmer Thorpe, putting down his ear to listen. 'Speak up, father.' The words are faint and feeble exceedingly, but they are just intelligible: 'Take--away--the knife!' At a signal from the farmer, one of the neighbours lifts the knife from the floor, touches the spring, closes it, and hands it over to the farmer, who forthwith consigns it to the lowest depths of his breeches' pocket. All the company look on, breathless, as if upon a Veritable miracle--the dead coming back to life. There is a pause. Then again the feeble voice comes from the worn-out frame. 'My son John.' 'Here, father.' 'Call them!--call the children!' For a moment the farmer is puzzled, but seeing the old man's eyes again wander towards young Edgar Wells, he begins to comprehend. 'Come here,' he says sharply; 'grandfather wants you.' The boy at first shrinks back, then, with natural courage, forces a smile of bravado, and comes boldly forward. As he passes into the crimson firelight, the old man's eyes perceive him, and the wrinkled face lightens. But the next instant the feeble eyes look round disappointed. 'Both,' he murmurs--'both my children.' Again the farmer is puzzled, but his good dame, with woman's wit, hits the mark at once. 'I think he wants our nephew Walter,' she says softly. 'Go to him, Walter.' With a sheepish grin, Walter Thorpe steps forward, and so the two boys stand face-to-face close to the old man's knee. As his feeble gaze falls upon them, his lips tremble, and he gazes vacantly from one to the other from beneath his rheumy lids. Then suddenly reaching out one hand, he holds Walter by the jacket-sleeve, and with the other, which trembles like a leaf, tries to clutch at Edgar. But Edgar, startled by the sudden movement, has shrunk back afraid. 'What doth he mean?' whispers a neighbour. 'Now, God be praised!' says Dame Thorpe, 'I think he means the lads to make friends. See, Marjorie, how he feels out to touch your boy; and hark, what is he saying?' They listen closely, and at last they catch the words: 'The children--put their hands into mine.' At a look from the farmer, Walter puts his coarse brown hand between the old man's trembling fingers, which close over it and clutch it convulsively. But Edgar scowls and hangs aloof, till his mother comes forward and touches him. 'Put out your hand--at once!' Thus urged, the boy partly stretches out his arm, when the widow takes his hand and places it, like the other's, between the old man's fingers. As the hands of the two boys touch in that sinewy cage, which now holds them firm as iron, their eyes meet with a momentary gleam of defiance, then fall. 'Hush!' murmurs Dame Thorpe, softly; and there is a long silence. The old man's lips move, but no sound comes from them. His eyes no longer seek the faces around him, but are half-closed, as if in prayer. Presently there is a faint murmur. The farmer bends down his ear, and catches the words, murmured very feebly,... 'Love one another.'... Deeper stillness follows, and a solemn awe fills the hearts of all the company. Presently the old man's hands relax, and with a quiet sigh, he leans back smiling in his chair. His dim eyes open and look round, his lips begin to move quietly again. 'When I was a boy...' They catch no more, for the words die away, and he seems to fall into a doze, perhaps into a dream of the days that once have been. While he thus lies, and while the company return with spirits solemnised to table, let us stay by him in the lonely hall, and with eyes fixed upon the fire, recall the troubled memories of his life.

Chapter 2. THE YEARS ROLE BACK: A DEATH BED

As far back as he could remember,--when, though his body was a useless log, and his eyes dim with dust of age, his memory was still green,--the Christiansons had hated the Orchardsons, and the Orchardsons had returned the hate with interest. The two families were heat and frost, fire and water, peace and war; their spirits could never cross each other without pain. Physically, even, they were as unlike as tall stalwart trees of the forest and creeping shrubs of the common: the male Christiansons, tall, stalwart yeomen of six foot upwards; the Orchardsons narrow-chested, stooping figures, below the middle height.

There was, moreover, this great difference between them: good luck was ever on the one side, while the other seldom throve. A shilling in the pocket of an Orchardson multiplied itself to a pound, and the pound to ten, and the ten to a hundred; while in the pockets of a Christianson, hundreds melted like withered leaves, like the cheating pieces given to foolish folk by the fairies. The Christiansons never could keep money; the Orchardsons never could let it go. For all this, and for a thousand other reasons, they hated each other the more.

It was such an old hate, such a settled feud, that no one quite knew when or how it began; indeed, there was a general disposition in the neighbourhood to trace it back to a mythical period, somewhat further back than the Conquest. But certain it was, that even in the times of the great Civil Wars, the two families were on different sides--cavalier Orchardsons hunted down by roundhead Christiansons, and being hunted down in turn when at last, with the Merry Monarch, came time and opportunity.

Mention a Christianson to an Orchardson, and the latter would look evil, shrug shoulders, and show a certain sort of easy hate tempered with proud contempt. Name an Orchardson to a Christianson, and it was a very different matter; the blood in his veins would turn to gall, his gorge would rise, and he would feel his strong frame convulsed with wrath, while his hands were clenched for a blow. The Orchardsons were more than shadows on the lives of the Christiansons; the very thought of them lay like lead upon the breast, choking the wholesome breath.

As years went on, and milder influences supervened, the fierceness of the vendetta between the two families died away, leaving only a great frosty chill, in which the families, without any active hostility, fell farther and farther asunder. The Orchardsons remained at the old manor-house, ever increasing their substance both in money and land. The Christiansons kept tight hold of their farms down towards Herndale Mere and the sea, but it was whispered in more than one wise quarter that they were deeply involved, and that when Robert Christianson, the reigning head of the house, went the way of all flesh, there would be revelations.

One evening, late in the autumn, as young Tom Rudyard, the doctor's assistant, sat quietly smoking a pipe in the bar parlour of the Rose and Crown, with pretty Nancy Parkinson by his side, and buxom Mrs. Parkinson looking on with a smile, he received an unexpected summons. A tall young lad of about fourteen, clad in a rough yeoman costume, and carrying a riding switch, came bolt into the room.

Tom started up guiltily, for he knew that to enter that bar-parlour was forbidden to Dr. Marshman's assistants (all of whom had in succession 'gone wrong' through a too great love of festivity), and then, recognising the new-comer, grinned, and gave a hoarse laugh. Standing thus erect, the young doctor showed a very long spare body and attenuated legs, clad in a costume rather too loud for that of a regular practitioner, and encroaching indeed on the privileged style of the jaunty veterinary surgeon.

'What, Master Christian, is it you?' cried Nancy, with a smile; then, seeing at once by the boy's pale face that something was wrong, she added, 'Is anything the matter?'

'Yes,' answered the lad with quivering lips. 'The doctor's wanted at once up to the farm. Father's taken bad.'

One cry of commiseration rose from the two women.

'What is it?' asked Tom, reaching up for his beaver hat, which hung on a hook behind the door. 'Not a fit, I hope? At his time of life--'

'Don't waste time talking,' said the boy, 'but come along. Mother sent for the old doctor, but he's out and away at Deepdale; so I came to look after you.'

Although he was only a boy, he spoke with a certain authority, and through his great height and powerful frame, looked almost a man; certainly a man in strength, though his form was as yet shapeless and awkward, and his hands and feet too large. That he was greatly troubled and alarmed was shown by his bloodless face and the pale, dry lips, which he moistened every moment with the tip of his tongue.

'It's a goodish stretch up to the farm,' said the young doctor, with a rueful glance at the cosy fire. 'I shall want a horse.'

'Take my mare,' returned the lad, 'she's standing at the door, and she'll carry you up at a gallop.'

'I dare say, and break my neck on the road. I don't know a yard of the way.'

'But the mare does; give her her head, and she'll go home straight as a shot.'

Doctor Torn still looked doubtful.

'I shall want my instruments, may be.'

'Then do you ride on, while I go to the surgery, and bring them after you. I'll take the short cut across the marsh, and be there nigh as soon as you.'

Walking out to the front door of the inn, they saw the light from the porch flashing against a great wall of rainy blackness. It was a wild night of wind and rain. The sign was shrieking and tossing like a corpse in chains, and the air was full of a rushing hiss of water.

In front of the door, just discernible in the darkness, stood a dripping horse, or pony, held by a ragged stable boy.

'Lord, what a night!' cried the doctor, with a shiver, and an inward imprecation on the inconsiderate people who were taken ill in such weather.

'Quick! quick!' said young Master Christianson, impatiently. 'Mount the pony.'

'Is he quiet?'

'As a lamb--only mind to give him his head.'

Quiet as a lamb he indeed seemed, standing drawn together in the rain, perfectly still; but no sooner were the young doctor's long legs thrown over him, than he was off at a bound. The rider had only just time to clutch the bridle, and to utter a startled yell--then darkness swallowed him up.

Good Mistress Parkinson stood at the inn door, with her daughter at her side.

'Master Christianson,' she cried, as the lad moved away; adding as he turned his head, 'let me get you a drop of warm ale, or a posset. You be soaking through.'

The lad shook his head, and buttoning his coat tight round his throat, ran swiftly from the inn door, leaving the good women full of perplexity and simple pity. For Christian, though a wild and headstrong lad, or rather just because he was headstrong and wild, was a prime favourite in all that neighbourhood. 'The true Christianson breed,' all admitted, with wise shakes of the head and secret admiration--quarrelsome, irritable, fierce and fiery, yet withal forgiving and open-handed; proud, like his father and mother before him, of the old name and of the typical family strength; so strong and handsome, that young maids, much his elders, had already been known to cast tender looks at him; yet so simple and boy-like, that he preferred snaring a rabbit or setting a woodcock spring to the brightest pair of eyes in Christendom.

Swift as a deerhound, he ran up through the village, setting his right shoulder against the slanting rain, until he reached the old doctor's cottage, and knocked sharply at the little low door. An old woman opened, and with scarcely a word to her, he ran into the parlour, or 'surgery,' looking for the doctor's case of instruments, and for such simple remedies as might be needed. As he searched, he rapidly explained to the old dame, who knew him well, the state of affairs; and then, having secured what he wanted, and buttoned them tight under his coat, he ran out again into the rain.

Swiftly still he ran along the dark road, not losing breath, though it was rough and steep; presently, with one bound, he leapt a hedge and alighted in a field of rainy stubble. Though he seemed to be in pitch darkness, it was clear that he knew every inch of the way, as, crossing a field, he came out upon an open common or waste, covered with dark rainy pools. Across the common, and up a miry lane; then he saw flashing on a hillside before him the lights of a farm.

When he reached the farm door, he found it standing open, and Doctor Tom, splashed from top to toe, on the point of entering, while the little mare, which he had ridden in fear and desperation, was standing with head down, quiet as a lamb.

'How's father?' asked the lad in a whisper, as he followed the doctor into the hall.

A shock-headed farm-maiden answered something in a whisper, and Christian led the way upstairs. Passing up a broad oaken staircase, he reached an open corridor, out of which opened several doors; approaching one of which, he knocked softly.

The door was immediately opened by a young girl, about a year older than himself. She put her finger on her lips, as he was about to speak, and beckoned the doctor, who quietly approached.

In a large old-fashioned bedroom, with a polished floor of slippery black oak, and a low ceiling close to the black rafters of the roof, was a large wooden bedstead, on which lay the figure of a man, a great gaunt yeoman, with iron-grey hair and clean shaven face. Some of his clothes had been hastily thrown off, and by the bedside 'were his high riding boots; but he still wore his shirt and waistcoat, the former torn open to free the powerful workings of the throat. His eyes were closed, his face ghastly pale, his whole attitude that of exhaustion and semi-stupor, and his breathing was very heavy and hard.

By the bedside stood a tall, pale matron, some few years his senior, and close to her, on a chair, was an open Bible.

Doctor Tom came in on tiptoe, and standing by the bedside, sucked the knob of his stick, and gazed with rather vacant eyes at the man; then, reaching down his coarse red hand, felt the pulse, and found it very jerky and feeble.

'Brandy---have you given him brandy, mistress?' he asked, in a hoarse whisper.

The matron nodded her head.

'Well, give him some more, at once, please; 'tis the only thing to keep life in him. How did it begin? What doth he complain of most?'

In a low voice, the matron explained that her husband had been seized, while sitting at supper, with a violent pain in the region of the heart. He had come in very wet and weary from a long ride to the neighbouring market town, and he had been fasting all day. He had been a good deal troubled, too, she said, and that made him neglect his food. When he was first seized with pain, she thought he would die at once, but when he had drank some spirits boiling hot, he got a little relief. Presently another attack of pain came on, and then they got him to bed, and put warm bottles to his feet; since then he had been easier, and had seemed as if he were asleep.

As the two stood whispering together, the sick man suddenly opened his eyes.

'Who's that?' he said, feebly. 'Be it the doctor?'

'Yes,' said his wife, 'young Mr. Tom.'

'Tell him I don't want no doctor's stuff; I shall be all right i' the morning.'

'How's the pain, master?' asked the doctor.

'Middling--middling bad,' answered the patient; then with a groan he put his hand upon his chest. There be a weight here like a millstone, right down upon my heart.'

'Doth it pain you when you breathe, master?'

'Ay, surely! like a knife a-cutting me in twain. But I don't want no physic--no, no!'

He closed his eyes, moaning, and seemed to sink into a doze.

Doctor Tom led the matron aside.

'Your good man's powerful bad, mistress. He'll have to be bled straight away.'

'Is he in danger, think you?'

Maybe yes, maybe no. If the blood flows free, it may ease his heart a bit; his viscera be gorged with black blood, mistress, and his heart doth not get room to beat.'

So without more conversation or delay the young leech opened a vein in the farmer's arm. The dark blood came freely but feebly, and as it flowed, he really seemed to breathe with greater ease. When about an ounce of blood had been taken away, and the artery carefully bound up, he seemed to lie in comfortable sleep.

'He'll do now,' said Dr. Tom. 'We'll look round in the morning, and see how he thrives.'

The matron, who had exhibited rare nerve during the blood-letting, and had herself assisted without a word, now looked wildly up in the doctor's face.

'Will my man live?'

'Why not, mistress? See how easy he do breathe, now! Ay, he'll live, I hope, for many a long year!'

Down the great stairs slipped Doctor Tom, followed by young Christian. He was well satisfied with himself, and quite unaware that, in the true spirit of the science (or nescience) of those days, he had finished his man, and drawn from an exhausted arterial system its last chance of recovering its shattered strength.

'Will you ride back?' asked the boy.

On the back of that brimstone mare?--not I. I'd rather walk barefoot, young master. Good-night.'

The lad did not offer to escort him beyond the door; but leaving him to wander home as he might along the dark roads, returned to the room up-stairs, and rejoined his mother and sister.

That night none of the three retired to rest. The mother sat watching by the bedside, while the girl and lad sat upon the hearth, waiting and listening. Not a sound broke the silence but the monotonous breathing of the sick man, and a faint murmur from the lips of the mother, as, with horn-rimmed spectacles upon her nose, and the old Bible upon her knee, she read softly to herself.

The room was dimly illumined by the faint rays of a wood fire, and by the light of a small oil-lamp, which was fastened against the wall over the chimney-piece. Seen even thus, the boy and girl seemed made in very different moulds: he, strong, herculean, rough, with blue eyes, and curly flaxen hair; she, tall, thin, and delicate, with swarthy skin, dark eyes, and chestnut hair. The boy, in his build and complexion, resembled the figure on the bed. The girl resembled the wan woman who sat reading by the bedside.

Christian Christianson was scarce fourteen years old; his sister Kate was rather more than a year older. Their parents had married somewhat late in life, and the two children were the only living issue of the match.

Both in name and frame did the rough lad show his Scandinavian origin, his connection with those far-off ancestors of his who swept down from the north in the old times, harried the seas and the sea-coasts, and scattered their seed far and wide on those tracts of territory which pleased them best. Nothing foreign seemed to have entered the light current of his blood. While he lay there, rough and awkward as a lion's cub, he might have been taken for the heir of some old viking, bespattered from his cradle with the salt sea foam.

But young Christian was heir to little save the surname of his father and the monopoly of certain fruitless feuds. His father and his father's father had farmed the lands verging on the great sandhills, and within hearing of the sea; and it was to be supposed that he would farm them also, when his turn came. His father's father had died in debt, and his father had been more or less in debt when he was born, and the shadow of mysterious obligations had been over the house ever since he could remember. He had been brought up to no profession, and with no particular occupation; but by looking on and using his wits, as boys can, he had learned a little of farming, and the value of farm stock. His education had been rough-and-ready enough. While his sister could play a little on the harpsichord, and sew a fine sampler, besides being able to read and write fairly, he possessed no accomplishments, save, of course, those which he had acquired by sheer force of physical courage and perseverance. He could sit any horse barebacked, he knew every beast of the field and fowl of the air, he could wrestle and swim, and he was an excellent shot at birds on the wing--this last being a much rarer accomplishment in those days than we, with our modern notions, might imagine. But he had little or no taste for books, and beyond a good ear for a tune, and a good deep voice, which might have made him a fair singer, little capacity for any of the arts.

As he sat before the fire, his eyes were lifted ever and again to the pallid face of his mother, who read on monotonously to herself. Kate Christianson sat with her hands in her lap, gazing at the fire. So hour after hour passed, until it was past midnight; and then, all at once, the invalid's sleep began to grow disturbed. He tossed upon his pillow, and clutched the counterpane with his strong hand, muttering half-articulate sounds. Suddenly his wife started as if stung, for she heard the sound of a hated name.

'Five thousand five hundred pounds...five per cent. per annum...Richard Orchardson, his heirs and assigns...witness...' Here his words became inarticulate, until he added, gasping, his own name, 'Robert Christianson, of the Fen.'

Young Christian heard, and looked up with a strange darkness on his fair face.

'Mother,' he whispered, 'did you hear?'

'Hush!' cried the matron with uplifted finger; for her husband's eyes had opened again, fixing themselves strangely upon hers. They watched for a few moments, then, with a low cry, the man started up and tried to spring out of bed.

'Father! Father!' cried Mistress Christianson, rising and pushing him back. 'What ails you, father? Christian, come--help to hold him down.'

The lad sprang up, and putting his strong arms gently round his father, tried to soothe him; for it was clear that his wits were wandering.

'Who's that? My son Christian?'

'Yes, father.'

'Get me my hat and staff, lad. I be going out.'

'Not to-night, father.'

'Ay, to-night. Tell thy mother not to sit up, for I shall be late.'

'Speak to him, mother!'

'Father, don't you know me?' cried his wife.

'Ay, ay, dame, I know thee well enough, but I cannot stay talking. I be going out.'

'Where are you going?'

'Down to the Willows. I must see Dick Orchardson, and tell him my mind.'

The listeners looked at one another aghast. The very mention of the name of an Orchardson sounded strange on those lips, but to hear one of the hated brood named so glibly, as a being with whom it was possible under any circumstances to have human intercourse, was positively startling.

'God help him!' cried his wife with a cold shiver.

Exhausted by his efforts to rise, the farmer sank back upon his pillow. His breathing was now very difficult, and his face was convulsed as if with acute pain. They moistened his lips with brandy, and chafed his trembling hands.

'Father!' cried Christian, trembling; and Kate, standing close to him, echoed his tender cry.

The farmer opened his eyes again, and looked round.

'Who's there? Is that my boy Christian?'

'Yes, father.'

'Come closer, lad, and take my hand. Where's thy mother?'

'Here, father,' said Mistress Christianson. 'Oh, Christian, thy father's dying!'

'No, no, mother,' cried the boy.

'Tell Dick Orchardson--'

So far the farmer spoke, then paused again. Again that hated name.

There was a long pause. The farmer lay with eyes wide open, looking upward, and muttering to himself. They could make nothing now of his words, and a dreadful awe was upon them, for the shadow of the coming angel was already upon his face. Kate Christianson cast herself down by the bedside, hiding her face and sobbing wildly. The mother stood gaunt and pale, her dim eyes on the man who had been her loving companion so many long years. The lad, clutching his father's chilly hand, was trembling like a leaf.

So they waited, and it seemed, in that solemn moment, that the chamber grew dark. Oh that dreadful silence of the chamber of death! The poet speaks of 'darkness visible;' this is silence heard--a silence ominous and strange, in which the very beating of the heart is audible, and we feel the stirring motion of the unconscious life within.

They listened and waited on. At last a few faint words were audible.

'Down by the four-acre mere. Is that Dick Orchardson? Tell him...Get me a light, lad, I cannot see the letters, I cannot read...Ask thy mother, forgive, forgive...'

One last faint cry, and the voice was for ever still. Of what was a living face but a few minutes before, only a marble mask remained. All knelt and prayed, for the shadow which follows all men was in the room.

Chapter 3. SHADOWS AT THE FEN FARM

When Robert Christianson was dead and buried, there came at last the revelations that had long been predicted. First of all, it was discovered in a general way that he was far more heavily in debt than any one had guessed; that, indeed, his affairs were a ravelled skein which it would take all the ingenuity of the law or all its cruelty to disentangle. Then, when the various threads of obligation were separated from each other, and the widow and her children thought that the coast was clear, came a letter, like a thunderbolt, announcing that the freehold of the greater part of the farm lands was under a mortgage, that the interest was long in arrear, and that, to crown all, the holder of the fatal mortgage was their hereditary enemy, Richard Orchardson of the Willows.

At first it was too horrible for belief. The very thought was an outrage on the beloved dead. The widow sat with stern sceptical face, while the boy Christian was loud in his expression of indignation. But confirmation quickly came. It was made only too clear that the deceased farmer, in the extremity of his distress, had accepted assistance from the enemy of his father and his father's father, and had given as substantial security the mortgage upon the choicest of the farm lands.

Bitterer even than death itself came the humiliating discovery; bitterer, because for the moment it killed all reverence and respect for the poor dead, and showed him as a man yielding, forgetful, and barren of pride. Better to have starved, thought the widow, than have sought or taken succour from that quarter. Alas! she little knew how long and terrible had been the farmer's struggle before he did yield, how cruel the pang had been, and how the pain of the secret had preyed upon the poor man's heart, until it broke in shame.

When all was thought that could be thought, the mother and son spoke out by the fireside, while Kate looked sadly on.

'Twas a trap for thy poor father,' said the widow, 'be sure of that. Dick Orchardson set it many a long year, and at last thy father, poor man, was caught. Ah, if he had only come home to me and told me of his trouble! This comes of having secrets out-o'-doors.'

'What shall we do, mother?' asked Christian. 'Can we pay the money?'

'Nay, my boy.'

'And Lawyer Jeifries bath given notice that we must pay up or yield the land.'

'One or other, Christian.'

The lad clenched his hands and uttered a fierce cry.

'They shan't take the land away from thee, mother. Let them try it! I'll go down to the Willows, and make old Dick Orchardson own it was all a cheat, and if he denieth it--'

The boy paused, livid with hate and rage. As he did so, his sister Kate, who had been looking on in terror, interposed tearfully.

'Nay, who knows,' she said, 'but the squire is more kindly than folk say? Why did he lend our father the money, and help him out of his trouble, if he hated him so much?'

'Hear her, mother!' cried Christian, 'hear the foolish wench! And yet she hath heard the preacher say that figs grow not on thistles, and roses spring not from thorns. An Orchardson kindly! Mother, do you hear?

'Kate is a girl,' returned the widow, grimly, 'she cannot understand. It began long since.'

'What began, mother?' asked Kate.

'The trouble between our houses. If there had ne'er been any Orchardsons, we should be rich folk now. They robbed thy father's father, a hundred years ago.'

'But, mother--'

'Tis something in the blood,' cried the widow. 'A fox is a fox, and a kestrel a kestrel, and an Orchardson is an Orchardson, till the world doth end. The wicked breed! If God would blot it out.'

'Amen, mother,' cried Christian; and Kate, knowing their temper, did not dare to say another word.

So it remained in their minds as a settled thing that Robert Christianson had, by some kind of devilish malignity, been beguiled into taking help of the Orchardsons, whose sole desire had been to crush the hapless family, and perchance close the mortgage. They waited a little time in great dread and anger; but no more word came from the lawyers, and their whole lives were poisoned by the suspense.

That portion of the freehold embraced in the mortgage included the best and richest part of the farm lands, leaving untouched only some ninety acres and the old farm-house, which latter had fallen into great dilapidation, and stood, quite solitary, over against the sandhills, with its face from the sea, which formed a broad estuary two miles away. Inland before it stretched the farm fields, in a great hollow which had once been a fen, and still bore that name, but sloping gradually to rich pastures and clumps of cheerful wood. Over these pastures and woods peeped the village spire--the glistening of which, in all kinds of weather, was a cheerful and comfortable sight to the inmates of the farm.

The very solitude of the situation gave to the owners of the Fen Farm a feeling of possession and mastery. Standing at his own door, a Christianson was monarch of all he surveyed--of the broad and comparatively barren acres of the old fen; of the narrow osier-fringed stream which wound through these acres and then, curving suddenly, ran in among the sand-hills towards the sea; of the rich slopes beyond, where crops waved green and yellow, or frosty stubble glittered, through the various seasons of the year.

There was only the spire to remind him of the world of men beyond, of the red-tiled village hidden from his sight, and of the heaven above. Then the sandhills behind the house were his; and these, though comparatively worthless and only affording combes of arid pasture for cattle here and there, were large in extent, and grave lordly sense of territorial sway. And among the sandhills was the rabbit warren, let to a cousin of the family on profitable terms.

With the ancient freehold of the Fen Farm went, by right immemorial, the privilege of coursing and shooting. Every boy Christianson might run a hound or handle a gun on his own acres. Not only did rabbits swarm in the sandhills, but the sands were the resort, at certain seasons, of the hare, which would seek deserted rabbit-burrows and lie there till discovered perdu, and hunted out, by man or dog.

Small wonder, then, if the Christiansons loved the place, and clung to every inch of the soil. Even the house, though a rambling tenement and scarcely weatherproof, with cheerless rooms and rat-haunted wainscots, was very dear to them for the sake of the generations which had lived and died within. In summer time, with its red front covered with creepers and wild roses, its dove-cot on the red-tiled roof, and the white doves wheeling and settling in the sunlight, it looked quite pretty and bright. There was an ancient orchard, too, with broken-down walls, and trees so old and gnarled they yielded little fruit, and grass as thick and deep as the grass that grows on graves.

But if the cruel debt of the mortgage was not paid, what remained? Only the old house, and the sand pasturages, and the arid acres of the old fen; only, in other words, a barren stretch of soil, not to be farmed with profit by any but a man of means. The pasturages and combes of the upland slope, which ever filled the eye with a certain sense of prosperity--the woods where the nightingale sang in summer and the woodcock was flushed in the frost--the rich fields which grew the best grain--all these would surely go. It was an ugly thought. To stand at the farm door, and know that possession ceased at the stream, and that the cattle grazing on the slopes beyond belonged to another, would be almost too much to bear.

A few days after mother and son had discussed that cruel business of the mortgage, and come to the conclusion that devilry had been at work, young Christian was rambling among the sandhills with his greyhound Luke--an English dog, with a cross of the coarser Irish breed. Not far from the farm, he came upon the track of a hare, printed with filigree delicacy in the sand. The marks were confused and mingled, crossing and recrossing one another, for poor Puss had been obviously 'running races in the mirth' through the morning dew, but at last the lad hit upon the true trail. It led him a good mile between the sandhills. On the top of each sandhill or mound grew thick coarse cotton grass and grassy weeds, and whenever the track led thither he set the dog's nose to work. Presently, reaching the summit of one of the highest of these sandhills, he came in sight of the long flat stretch of black sand and mud fringed by the waters of the sea.

He stood for a time and gazed. The sea was quite calm, in the grey silver light of a still November day, with quiet clouds piled upon the horizon like a range of hills. A lobster-boat, with flapping brown sails, was crawling along by means of sweeps towards the distant fishing beds. On one spot of the sands, close to the sea, was a white swarm of gulls, sitting perfectly move-less, save when now and then a solitary bird would rise with sleepy waft of wing, fly a few yards, and settle again. All was very still, but from a sea-creek not far distant he could hear from time to time the cry of the curlew.

While he stood, he saw sailing towards him, slowly, methodically, hovering always at the same distance from the earth, a large raven, followed at a distance of about fifty yards by another bird, the female. They came slowly, for each in turn, hovering over each sandhill, on the grassy summit of which something edible might hide, searched the grass for prey. From time to time the foremost bird uttered a thoughtful croak or chuckle, which the hindmost bird echoed after an interval. Christian knew the two birds well. Once, indeed, he had shot at the male bird at very short range, eliciting no other result than a defiant croak and a few falling feathers. Since then he had let the birds alone. They too had a freehold of the place, and had used it for a hunting-ground years before he was born.

He watched the birds carelessly, till they passed in succession over his head, greeting him with a croak of sublime indifference, and then, poised slanted in the air, glided more rapidly away. Turning his eyes to the sea, he saw that the swarm of gulls had risen and were hovering in the air, their cries, made faint by distance, reaching him where he stood.

Riding along the sands, at a trot, was a horseman, whom, in the distance, he did not recognise.

Idle, and tired of hunting the hare, he sat down and watched the rider till he disappeared behind the sand-hills, and the flock of gulls settled again on the fringe of the sea. Then, after a little time, Christian rose and walked down the side of the sandhill. In the smooth hollows between the mounds, it was impossible to see or be seen for many yards away; and presently, as he turned round a sandy corner, he came full in view of a gentleman on horseback--doubtless the same he had seen approaching by the side of the sea.

A man of about forty years of age, dressed in velvet riding-coat, breeches, high boots, and low crowned beaver hat. He was portly, but somewhat unhealthy-looking, his skin being deeply marked with the small-pox, his eyes being somewhat shrunken and inflamed, and his hair and short-cropt whiskers of deep black.

He was not alone. By his side, upon a small Welsh pony, rode a boy of about twelve years of age, evidently his son, for he had his father's eyes and complexion without their disfigurements. At a first glance, he struck one as a disagreeable boy, with a supercilious expression, and a peculiar look of lying-in-wait. As he was riding, he did not exhibit his chief physical deformity. Though scarcely a cripple, he was lame. One limb had never grown rightly, and though he could walk tolerably and comfortably, he could do so with neither ease nor grace.

At sight of these two figures, Christian turned red as crimson, for he knew them well. The gentleman was his father's enemy, Squire Orchardson of the Willows; the boy was Richard Orchardson, the squire's only son.

To his surprise, the squire rode right up to him along the sands, and then drew rein.

'You are young Christianson of the Fen?' he asked in a sharp authoritative voice.

Christian stood scowling, but made no answer.

'Have you no tongue, sirrah? I was just coming to see your mother.'

Christian started as if stung, and went from red to pale. Meanwhile his greyhound, seized by a fit of excitement, began to bark furiously at the heels of the boy's pony, which pranced and plunged, causing its rider to utter a timid cry.

'Call up your dog!' cried the squire. 'See you not 'tis frightening my son's pony?'

Christian turned towards the dog and called it to him, with such a scowling sneer upon his face as was irritating beyond measure.

'Come, Luke,' he said, and turned away.

'Stay!' cried Mr. Orchardson, involuntarily raising his riding-whip. 'Is your mother at home, boy?'

No reply.

'A Christianson all over,' muttered the squire. 'A cub of the old breed. Come, Dick.'

So saying, he trotted off, with his son following; the latter, as he urged his pony away, greeting Christian with a mocking grimace. Christian clenched his fists, while, with a shrill contemptuous laugh, the boy disappeared.

His blood boiling with rage, Christian stood for some minutes; then, remembering the squire's question, he began to hasten homeward. Was it possible that the squire meant to insult his mother by darkening her door during her affliction. If so, let him take care. He would at least warn his mother.

Excited beyond measure, he ran among the sandhills, till, emerging from them, he came in full view of the farm.

He was too late.

The squire and his son were sitting on horseback before the farm door; the squire was talking and gesticulating loudly, and on the threshold, as if pointing them from it, was Mistress Christianson, stern, and pale as death.

Christian strode up to the door and joined the group, just in time to hear the last few words of their conversation.

'I am sorry you are so bitter, dame,' the squire was saying; 'God knoweth, I have no wish to be hard upon you, and I will gladly grant you grace.'

'We want no grace from an Orchardson,' answered the dame; 'I pray you, sir, quit my door.'

'Yes, quit our door!' echoed Christian, coming up at this moment.

'Like cub, like vixen,' muttered the man to himself; then, turning to his son, who sat smiling upon his pony, he added, 'Come, Dick, we are not wanted here.'

The boy laughed, and said something in a whisper, which brought a dark smile to his father's cheek. At the whisper and the look, Christian felt sick with mingled hate and rage; and he made a movement with clenched hands as if to advance upon the pair, when his mother put her hand upon his arm to command him back.