The Witch's Head E-Book

H Rider Haggard

• Herausgeber: Interactive Media
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

"The Witch's Head" is a novel by H. Rider Haggard, first published in 1885. The story takes place in England and revolves around a young man named Leonard Outram, who inherits a large estate from his uncle. The estate includes an ancient castle, which is rumored to be haunted by a witch's ghost. Leonard becomes obsessed with the legend of the witch and begins to investigate her story. He discovers that the witch was a woman named Lady Arabella who was accused of witchcraft and executed hundreds of years ago. Leonard becomes convinced that Lady Arabella was innocent and begins to experience strange occurrences in the castle, including visions of The Witch's Head. "The Witch's Head" is a gripping tale that combines historical fiction, mystery, and horror elements to create a thrilling read.

Leseprobe

H. Rider Haggard

The Witch’s Head

Published by Sovereign

This edition first published in 2023

Copyright © 2023 Sovereign

All Rights Reserve

ISBN: 9781787365940

Contents

BOOK I.

BOOK II.

BOOK III.

BOOK I.

CHAPTER I.

ERNEST’S APPEARANCE

“Come here, boy, let me look at you.”

Ernest advanced a step or two and looked his uncle in the face. He was a noble-looking lad of about thirteen, with large dark eyes, black hair that curled over his head, and the unmistakable air of breeding that marks Englishmen of good race.

His uncle let his wandering glance stray round him, but, wandering as it was, it seemed to take him in from top to toe. Presently he spoke again:

“I like you, boy.”

Ernest said nothing.

“Let me see—your second name is Beyton. I am glad they called you Beyton; it was your grandmother’s maiden name, and a good old name too. Ernest Beyton Kershaw. By the way, have you ever seen anything of your other uncle, Sir Hugh Kershaw?”

The boy’s cheek flushed.

“No, I have not; and I never wish to,” he answered.

“Why not?”

“Because when my mother wrote to him before she died”—and here the lad’s voice choked—“just after the bank broke and she lost all her money, he wrote back and said that because his brother—I mean my father—had made a low marriage, that was no reason why he should support his child and widow; but he sent her five pounds to go on with. She sent it back.”

“That was like your mother, she always had a high spirit. He must be a cur, and he does not speak the truth. Your mother comes of a better stock than the Kershaws. The Carduses are one of the oldest families in the Eastern counties. Why, boy, our family lived down in the Fens by Lynn there for centuries, until your grandfather, poor weak man, got involved in his great lawsuit and ruined us all. There, there, it has gone into the law, but it is coming back, it is coming back fast. This Sir Hugh has only one son, by the way. Do you know that if anything happened to him you would be next in the entail?—at any rate you would get the baronetcy.”

“I don’t want his baronetcy,” said Ernest, sulkily; “I will have nothing of his.”

“A title, boy, is an incorporeal hereditament, for which the holder is indebted to nobody. It does not descend to him, it vests in him. But tell me, how long was this before your mother died—that he sent the five pounds, I mean?”

“About three months.”

Mr. Cardus hesitated a little before he spoke again, tapping his white fingers nervously on the table.

“I hope my sister was not in want, Ernest?” he said, jerkily.

“For a fortnight before she died we had scarcely enough to eat,” was the blunt reply.

Mr. Cardus turned himself to the window, and for a minute the light of the dull December day shone and glistened upon his brow and head, which was perfectly bald. Then before he spoke he drew himself back into the shadow, perhaps to hide something like a tear that shone in his soft black eyes.

“And why did she not appeal to me? I could have helped her.”

“She said that when you quarrelled with her about her marrying my father, you told her never to write or speak to you again, and that she never would.”

“Then why did you not do it, boy? You knew how things were.”

“Because we had begged once, and I would not beg again.”

“Ah,” muttered Mr. Cardus, “the old spirit cropping up. Poor Rose, nearly starving, and dying too, and I with so much which I do not want! O, boy, boy, when you are a man never set up an idol, for it frightens good spirits away. Nothing else can live in its temple; it is a place where all other things are forgotten—duty, and the claims of blood, and sometimes those of honour too. Look now, I have my idol, and it has made me forget my sister and your mother. Had she not written at last when she was dying, I should have forgotten you too.”

The boy looked up puzzled.

“An idol!”

“Yes,” went on his uncle in his dreamy way—“an idol. Many people have them; they keep them in the cupboard with their family skeleton; sometimes the two are identical. And they call them by many names, too; frequently it is a woman’s name; sometimes that of a passion; sometimes that of a vice, but a virtue’s—not often.”

“And what is the name of yours, uncle?” asked the wondering boy.

“Mine? O, never mind!”

At this moment a swing-door in the side of the room was opened, and a tall bony woman with beady eyes came through.

“Mr. de Talor to see you, sir, in the office.”

Mr. Cardus whistled softly.

“Ah,” he said, “tell him I am coming. By the way, Grice, this young gentleman has come to live here; his room is ready, is it not?”

“Yes, sir; Miss Dorothy has been seeing to it.”

“Good; where is Miss Dorothy?”

“She has walked into Kesterwick, sir.”

“O, and Master Jeremy?”

“He is about, sir; I saw him pass with a ferret a while back.”

“Tell Sampson or the groom to find him and send him to Master Ernest here. That will do, thank you. Now, Ernest, I must go. I hope that you will be pretty happy here, my boy, when your trouble has worn off a bit. You will have Jeremy for a companion; he is a lout, and an unpleasant lout, it is true, but I suppose that he is better than nobody. And then there is Dorothy”—and his voice softened as he muttered her name—“but she is a girl.”

“Who are Dorothy and Jeremy?” broke in his nephew; “are they your children?”

Mr. Cardus started perceptibly, and his thick white eyebrows contracted over his dark eyes till they almost met.

“Children!” he said, sharply; “I have no children. They are my wards. Their name is Jones;” and he left the room.

“Well, he is a rum sort,” reflected Ernest to himself, “and I don’t think I ever saw such a shiny head before. I wonder if he oils it? But, at any rate, he is kind to me. Perhaps it would have been better if mother had written to him before. She might have gone on living, then.”

Rubbing his hand across his face to clear away the water gathering in his eyes at the thought of his dead mother, Ernest made his way to the wide fireplace at the top end of the room, peeped into the ancient inglenooks on each side, and at the old Dutch tiles with which it was lined, and then, lifting his coat after a grown-up fashion, proceeded to warm himself and inspect his surroundings. It was a curious room in which he stood, and its leading feature was old oak panelling. All down its considerable length the walls were oak-clad to the low ceiling, which was supported by enormous beams of the same material; the shutters of the narrow windows which looked out on the sea were oak, and so were the doors and table, and even the mantelshelf. The general idea given by the display of so much timber was certainly one of solidity, but it could scarcely be called cheerful—not even the numerous suits of armour and shining weapons which were placed about upon the walls could make it cheerful. It was a remarkable room, but its effect upon the observer was undoubtedly depressing.

Just as Ernest was beginning to realise this fact, things were made more lively by the sudden appearance through the swing-door of a large savage-looking bull-terrier, which began to steer for the fireplace, where it was evidently accustomed to lie. On seeing Ernest it stopped and sniffed.

“Hullo, good dog!” said Ernest.

The dog growled and showed its teeth.

Ernest put out his leg towards it as a caution to it to keep off. It acknowledged the compliment by sending its teeth through his trousers. Then the lad, growing wroth, and being not free from fear, seized the poker and hit the dog over the head so shrewdly that the blood streamed from the blow, and the brute, losing his grip, turned and fled howling.

While Ernest was yet warm with the glow of victory, the door once more swung open, violently this time, and through it there came a boy of about his own age, a dirty deep-chested boy, with uncut hair, and a slow heavy face in which were set great gray eyes, just now ablaze with indignation. On seeing Ernest he pulled up much as the dog had done, and regarded him angrily.

“Did you hit my dog?” he asked.

“I hit a dog,” replied Ernest politely, “but—”

“I don’t want your ‘buts.’ Can you fight?”

Ernest inquired whether this question was put with a view of gaining general information or for any particular purpose.

“Can you fight?” was the only rejoinder.

Slightly nettled, Ernest replied that under certain circumstances he could fight like a tom-cat.

“Then look out; I’m going to make your head as you have made my dog’s.”

Ernest, in the polite language of youth, opined that there would be hair and toe-nails flying first.

To this sally, Jeremy Jones, for it was he, replied only by springing at him, his hair streaming behind like a Red Indian’s, and, smiting him severely in the left eye, caused him to measure his length upon the floor. Arising quickly, Ernest returned the compliment with interest; but this time they both went down together, pummelling each other heartily. With whom the victory would ultimately have remained could scarcely be doubtful, for Jeremy, who even at that age gave promise of the enormous physical strength which afterwards made him such a noted character, must have crushed his antagonist in the end. But while his strength still endured Ernest was fighting with such ungovernable fury, and such a complete disregard of personal consequences, that he was for a while, at any rate, getting the best of it. And luckily for him, while matters were yet in the balanced scales of Fate, an interruption occurred. For at that moment there rose before the blurred sight of the struggling boys a vision of a small woman—at least she looked like a woman—with an indignant little face and an uplifted forefinger.

“O, you wicked boys! what will Reginald say, I should like to know? O, you bad Jeremy! I am ashamed to have such a brother. Get up!”

“My eye!” said Jeremy thickly, for his lip was cut; “it’s Dolly!”

CHAPTER II.

REGINALD CARDUS, ESQ., MISANTHROPE

When Mr. Cardus left the sitting-room where he had been talking to Ernest, he passed down a passage in the rambling old house which led him into a courtyard. On the farther side of the yard, which was walled in, stood a neat red-brick building one story high, consisting of two rooms and a passage. On to this building were attached a series of low green-houses, and against the wall at the farther end of these houses was a lean-to in which stood the boiler that supplied the pipes with hot water. The little red-brick building was Mr. Cardus’s office, for he was a lawyer by profession; the long tail of glass behind it were his orchid-houses, for orchid-growing was his sole amusement. The tout ensemble, office and orchid-houses, seemed curiously out of place in the gray and ancient courtyard where they stood, looking as they did on to the old one-storied house, scarred by the passage of centuries of tempestuous weather. Some such idea seemed to strike Mr. Cardus as he closed the door behind him, preparatory to crossing the courtyard.

“Queer contrast,” he muttered to himself; “very queer. Something like that between Reginald Cardus, Esquire, Misanthrope, of Dum’s Ness, and Mr. Reginald Cardus, Solicitor, Chairman of the Stokesly Board of Guardians, Bailiff of Kesterwick, etc. And yet in both cases they are part of the same establishment. Case of old and new style!”

Mr. Cardus did not make his way straight to the office. He struck off to the right, and entered the long line of glass-houses, walking up from house to house, till he reached the partition where the temperate sort were placed to bloom, and which was connected with his office by a glass door. Through this last he walked softly, with a cat-like step, till he reached the door, where he paused to observe a large coarse man, who was standing at the far end of the room, looking out intently on the courtyard.

“Ah, my friend,” he said to himself, “so the shoe is beginning to pinch. Well, it is time.” Then he pushed the door softly open, passed into the room with the same cat-like step, closed it, and, seating himself at his writing-table, took up a pen. Apparently the coarse-looking man at the window was too much absorbed in his own thoughts to hear him, for he still stood staring into space.

“Well, Mr. de Talor,” said the lawyer presently, in his soft, jerky voice, “I am at your service.”

The person addressed started violently, and turned sharply round. “Good ’eavens, Cardus, how did you get in?”

“Through the door, of course; do you suppose I came down the chimney?”

“It’s very strange, Cardus, but I never ’eard you come. You’ve given me quite a start.”

Mr. Cardus laughed, a hard, little laugh. “You were too much occupied with your own thoughts, Mr. de Talor. I fear that they are not pleasant ones. Can I help you?”

“How do you know that my thoughts are not pleasant, Cardus? I never said so.”

“If we lawyers waited for our clients to tell us all their thoughts, Mr. de Talor, it would often take us a long time to reach the truth. We have to read their faces, or even their backs sometimes. You have no idea of how much expression a back is capable, if you make such things your study; yours, for instance, looks very uncomfortable to-day: nothing gone wrong, I hope?”

“No, Cardus, no,” answered Mr. de Talor, dropping the subject of backs, which was, he felt, beyond him; “that is, nothing much, merely a question of business, on which I have come to ask your advice as a shrewd man.”

“My best advice is at your service, Mr. de Talor: what is it?”

“Well, Cardus, it’s this.” And Mr. de Talor seated his portly frame in an easy-chair, and turned his broad, vulgar face towards the lawyer. “It’s about the railway-grease business—”

“Which you own up in Manchester?”

“Yes, that’s it.”

“Well, then, it ought to be a satisfactory subject to talk of. It pays hand over fist, does it not?”

“No, Cardus, that is just the point: it did pay, it don’t now.”

“How’s that?”

“Well, you see, when my father took out the patent, and started the business, his ’ouse was the only ’ouse in the market, and he made a pot, and, I don’t mind telling you, I’ve made a pot too; but now, what do you think?—there’s a beggarly firm called Rastrick & Codley that took out a new patent last year, and is underselling us with a better stuff at a cheaper price than we can turn it out at.”

“Well!”

“Well, we’ve lowered our price to theirs, but we are doing business at a loss. We hoped to burst them, but they don’t burst: there’s somebody backing them, confound them, for Rastrick & Codley ain’t worth a sixpence; but who it is the Lord only knows. I don’t believe they know themselves.”

“That is unfortunate, but what about it?”

“Just this, Cardus. I want to ask your advice about selling out. Our credit is still good, and we could sell up for a large pile—not so large as we could have done, but still large—and I don’t know whether to sell or hold.”

Mr. Cardus looked thoughtful. “It is a difficult point, Mr. de Talor, but for myself I am always against caving in. The other firm may smash after all, and then you would be sorry. If you were to sell now you would probably make their fortunes, which I suppose you don’t want to do.”

“No, indeed.”

“Then you are a very wealthy man; you are not dependent on this grease business. Even if things were to go wrong, you have all your landed property here at Ceswick’s Ness to fall back on. I should hold, if I were you, even if it was at a loss for a time, and trust to the fortune of war.”

Mr. de Talor gave a sigh of relief. “That’s my view, too, Cardus. You are a shrewd man, and I am glad you jump with me. Damn Rastrick & Codley, say I!”

“O yes, damn them by all means,” answered the lawyer, with a smile, as he rose to show his client to the door.

On the farther side of the passage was another door, with a glass top to it, which gave on to a room furnished after the ordinary fashion of a clerk’s office. Opposite this door Mr. de Talor stopped to look at a man who was within, sitting at a table writing. The man was old, of large size, very powerfully built, and dressed with extreme neatness in hunting costume—boots, breeches, spurs, and all. Over his large head grew tufts of coarse gray hair, which hung down in dishevelled locks about his face, giving him a wild appearance, that was added to by a curious distortion of the mouth. His left arm, too, hung almost helpless by his side.

Mr. Cardus laughed as he followed his visitor’s gaze. “A curious sort of clerk, eh?” he said. “Mad, dumb, and half-paralysed—not many lawyers could show such another.”

Mr. de Talor glanced at the object of their observation uneasily.

“If he’s so mad, how can he do clerk’s work?” he asked.

“O, he’s only mad in a way; he copies beautifully.”

“He has quite lost his memory, I suppose?” said De Talor, with another uneasy glance.

“Yes,” answered Mr. Cardus, with a smile, “he has. Perhaps it is as well. He remembers nothing now but his delusions.”

Mr. de Talor looked relieved. “He has been with you many years now, hasn’t he, Cardus?”

“Yes, a great many.”

“Why did you bring him ’ere at all?”

“Did I never tell you the story? Then if you care to step back into my office I will. It is not a long one. You remember when our friend”—he nodded towards the office—“kept the hounds, and they used to call him ‘hard-riding Atterleigh’?”

“Yes, I remember, and ruined himself over them, like a fool.”

“And of course you remember Mary Atterleigh, his daughter, whom we were all in love with when we were young?”

Mr. de Talor’s broad cheek took a deeper shade of crimson as he nodded assent.

“Then,” went on Mr. Cardus, in a voice meant to be indifferent, but which now and again gave traces of emotion, “you will also remember that I was the fortunate man, and, with her father’s consent, was engaged to be married to Mary Atterleigh so soon as I could show him that my income reached a certain sum.” Here Mr. Cardus paused a moment, and then continued, “But I had to go to America about the great Norwich bank case, and it was a long job, and travelling was slow then. When I got back, Mary was—married to a man called Jones, a friend of yours, Mr. de Talor. He was staying at your house, Ceswick’s Ness, when he met her. But perhaps you are better acquainted with that part of the story than I am.”

Mr. de Talor was looking very uneasy again now.

“No, I know nothing about it. Jones fell in love with her like the rest, and the next I heard of it was that they were to be married. It was rather rough on you, eh, Cardus? but, Lord, you shouldn’t have been fool enough to trust her.”

Mr. Cardus smiled, a bitter smile. “Yes, it was a little ‘rough,’ but that has nothing to do with my story. The marriage did not turn out well; a curious fatality pursued all who had had any hand in it. Mary had two children; and then did the best thing she could do—died of shame and sorrow. Jones, who was rich, went fraudulently bankrupt, and ended by committing suicide. Hard-riding Atterleigh flourished for a while, and then lost his money in horses and a ship-building speculation, and got a paralytic stroke that took away all his speech and most of his reason. Then I brought him here to save him from the madhouse.”

“That was kind of you, Cardus.”

“O no, he is worth his keep, and besides, he is poor Mary’s father. He is under the fixed impression that I am the devil; but that does not matter.”

“You’ve got her children too, eh?”

“Yes, I have adopted them. The girl reminds me of her mother, though she will never have her mother’s looks. The boy is like old Atterleigh. I do not care about the boy. But, thank God, they are neither of them like their father.”

“So you knew Jones?” said De Talor, sharply.

“Yes, I met him after his marriage. Oddly enough, I was with him a few minutes before he destroyed himself. There, Mr. de Talor, I will not detain you any longer. I thought that you could perhaps tell me something of the details of Mary’s marriage. The story has a fascination for me, its results upon my own life have been so far-reaching. I am sure that I am not at the bottom of it yet. Mary wrote to me when she was dying, and hinted at something that I cannot understand. There was somebody behind who arranged the matter, who assisted Jones’s suit. Well, well, I shall find it all out in time, and whoever it is will no doubt pay the price of his wickedness, like the others. Providence has strange ways, Mr. de Talor, but in the end it is a terrible avenger. What! are you going? Queer talk for a lawyer’s office, isn’t it?”

Here Mr. de Talor rose, looking pale, and, merely nodding to Mr. Cardus, left the room.

The lawyer watched him till the door had closed, and then suddenly his whole face changed. The white eyebrows drew close together, the delicate features worked, and in the soft eyes there shone a look of hate. He clenched his fists, and shook them towards the door.

[Illustration: ]

“He clenched his fists and shook them towards the door.”

“You liar, you hound!” he said aloud. “God grant that I may live long enough to do to you as I have done to them! One a suicide, and one a paralytic madman; you—you shall be a beggar, if it takes me twenty years to make you so. Yes, that will hit you hardest. O Mary! Mary! dead and dishonoured through you, you scoundrel! O my darling, shall I ever find you again?”

And this strange man dropped his head upon the desk before him, and groaned.

CHAPTER III.

OLD DUM’S NESS

When Mr. Cardus came half an hour or so later to take his place at the dinner-table—for in those days they dined in the middle of the day at Dum’s Ness—he was not in a good mood. The pool into which the records of our individual existence are ever gathering, and which we call our past, will not often bear much stirring, even when its waters are not bitter. Certainly Mr. Cardus’s would not. And yet that morning he had stirred it violently enough.

In the long, oak-panelled room, used indifferently as a sitting and dining room, Mr. Cardus found “hard-riding Atterleigh” and his grand-daughter, little Dorothy Jones. The old man was already seated at table, and Dorothy was busying herself cutting bread, looking as composed and grown-up as though she had been four-and-twenty instead of fourteen. She was a strange child, with her assured air and woman’s ways and dress, her curious thoughtful face, and her large blue eyes that shone steadily as the light of a lamp. But just now the little face was more anxious than usual.

“Reginald,” she began, as soon as he was in the room (for by Mr. Cardus’s wish she always called him by his Christian name), “I am sorry to tell you that there has been a sad disturbance.”

“What is it?” he asked, with a frown; “Jeremy again?” Mr. Cardus could be very stern where Jeremy was concerned.

“Yes, I am afraid it is. The two boys—” but it was unnecessary for her to carry her explanations further, for at that moment the swing-door opened, and through it appeared the young gentlemen in question, driven in like sheep by the beady-eyed Grice. Ernest was leading, attempting the impossible feat of looking jaunty with a lump of raw beefsteak tied over one eye, and presenting a general appearance that suggested the idea of the colours of the rainbow in a state of decomposition.

Behind him shuffled Jeremy, his matted locks still wet from being pumped on. But his wounds were either unsuited to the dreadful remedy of raw beefsteak, or he had adopted in preference an heroic one of his own, of which grease plentifully sprinkled with flour formed the basis.

For a moment there was silence, then Mr. Cardus, with awful politeness, asked Jeremy what was the meaning of this.

“We’ve been fighting,” answered the boy, sulkily.” He hit—”

“Thank you, Jeremy, I don’t want the particulars, but I will take this opportunity to tell you before your sister and my nephew what I think of you. You are a boor and a lout, and, what is more, you are a coward.”

At this unjust taunt the lad coloured to his eyes.

“Yes, you may colour, but let me tell you that it is cowardly to pick a quarrel with a boy the moment he sets foot inside my doors—”

“I say, uncle,” broke in Ernest, who was unable to see anything cowardly about fighting, an amusement to which he was rather partial himself, and who thought that his late antagonist was getting more than his due, “I began it, you know.”

It was not true, except in the sense that he had begun it by striking the dog; nor did this statement produce any great effect on Mr. Cardus, who was evidently seriously angry with Jeremy on more points than this. But at least it was one of those well-meant fibs at which the recording angel should not be offended.

“I do not care who began it,” went on Mr. Cardus, angrily, “nor is it about this only that I am angry. You are a discredit to me, Jeremy, and a discredit to your sister. You are dirty, you are idle; your ways are not those of a gentleman. I sent you to school—you ran away. I give you good clothes—you will not wear them. I tell you, boy, that I will not stand it any longer. Now listen. I am going to make arrangements with Mr. Halford, the clergyman at Kesterwick, to undertake Ernest’s education. You shall go with him; and if I see no improvement in your ways in the course of the next few months, I shall wash my hands of you. Do you understand me now?”

The boy Jeremy had, during this oration, been standing in the middle of the room, first on one leg, then on the other. At its conclusion he brought the leg that was at the moment in the air down to the ground, and stood firm.

“Well,” went on Mr. Cardus, “what have you to say?”

“I have to say,” blurted out Jeremy, “that I don’t want your education. You care nothing about me,” he went on, his gray eyes flashing and his heavy face lighting up; “nobody cares about me except my dog Nails. Yes, you make a dog of me myself; you throw things to me as I throw Nails a bone. I don’t want your education, and I won’t have it. I don’t want the fine clothes you buy for me, and I won’t wear them. I don’t want to be a burden on you either. Let me go away and be a fisher-lad and earn my bread. If it hadn’t been for her,” pointing to his sister, who was sitting aghast at his outburst, “and for Nails, I’d have gone long ago, I can tell you. At any rate, I should not be a dog then. I should be earning my living, and have no one to thank for it. Let me go, I say, where I sha’n’t be mocked at if I do my fair day’s work. I’m strong enough; let me go. There! I’ve spoken my mind now;” and the lad broke out into a storm of tears, and, turning, tramped out of the room.

As he went, all Mr. Cardus’s wrath seemed to leave him.

“I did not think he had so much spirit in him,” he said aloud. “Well, let us have our dinner.”

At dinner the conversation flagged, the scene that preceded it having presumably left a painful impression; and Ernest, who was an observant youth, fell to watching little Dorothy doing the honours of the table: cutting up her crazed old grandfather’s food for him, seeing that everybody had what they wanted, and generally making herself unobtrusively useful. In due course the meal came to an end, and Mr. Cardus and old Atterleigh went back to the office, leaving Dorothy alone with Ernest. Presently the former began to talk.

“I hope that your eye is not painful,” she said. “Jeremy hits very hard.”

“O no, it’s all right. I’m used to it. When I was at school in London I often used to fight. I’m sorry for him, though—your brother, I mean.”

“Jeremy! O yes, he is always in trouble, and now I suppose that it will be worse than ever. I do all I can to keep things smooth, but it is no good. If he won’t go to Mr. Halford’s, I am sure I don’t know what will happen;” and the little lady sighed deeply.

“O, I daresay that he will go. Let’s go and look for him, and try and persuade him.”

“We might try,” she said, doubtfully. “Stop a minute, and I will put on my hat, and then if you will take that nasty thing off your eye, we might walk on to Kesterwick. I want to take a book, out of which I have been teaching myself French, back to the cottage where old Miss Ceswick lives, you know.”

“All right,” said Ernest.

Presently Dorothy returned, and they went out by the back way to a little room near the coach-house, where Jeremy stuffed birds and kept his collection of eggs and butterflies; but he was not there. On inquiring of Sampson, the old Scotch gardener who looked after Mr. Cardus’s orchid-houses, she discovered that Jeremy had gone out to shoot snipe, having borrowed Sampson’s gun for that purpose.

“That is just like Jeremy,” she sighed. “He is always going out shooting instead of attending to things.”

“Can he hit birds flying, then?” asked Ernest.

“Hit them!” she answered, with a touch of pride; “I don’t think he ever misses them. I wish he could do other things as well.”

Jeremy at once went up at least fifty per cent. in Ernest’s estimation.

On their way back to the house they peeped in through the office window, and Ernest saw “hard-riding Atterleigh” at his work, copying deeds.

“He’s your grandfather, isn’t he?”

“Yes.”

“Does he know you?”

“In a sort of a way; but he is quite mad. He thinks that Reginald is the devil, whom he must serve for a certain number of years. He has got a stick with numbers of notches on it, and he cuts out a notch every month. It is all very sad. I think it is a very sad world;” and she sighed again.

“Why does he wear hunting-clothes?” asked Ernest.

“Because he always used to ride a good deal. He loves a horse now. Sometimes you will see him get up from his writing-table, and the tears come into his eyes if anybody comes into the yard on horseback. Once he came out and tried to get on to a horse and ride off, but they stopped him.”

“Why don’t they let him ride?”

“O, he would soon kill himself. Old Jack Tares, who lives at Kesterwick, and gets his living by rats and ferrets, used to be whip to grandfather’s hounds when he had them, and says that he always was a little mad about riding. One moonlight night he and grandfather went out to hunt a stag that had strayed here out of some park. They put the stag out of a little grove at a place called Claffton, five miles away, and he took them round by Starton and Ashleigh, and then came down the flats to the sea, about a mile and a half below here, just this side of the quicksand. The moon was so bright that it was almost like day, and for the last mile the stag was in view not more than a hundred yards in front of the hounds, and the pace was racing. When he came to the beach he went right through the waves out to the sea, and the hounds after him, and grandfather after them. They caught him a hundred yards out and killed him, and then grandfather turned his horse’s head and swam back with the hounds.”

“My eye!” was Ernest’s comment on this story. “And what did Jack Tares do?”

“O, he stopped on the beach and said his prayers; he thought that they would all be drowned.”

Then they passed through the old house, which was built on a little ness or headland that jutted beyond the level of the shore-line, and across which the wind swept and raved all the winter long, driving the great waves in cease-less thunder against the sandy cliffs. It was a desolate spot that the gray and massive house, of which the roof was secured by huge blocks of rock, looked out upon, nude of vegetation, save for rank, rush-like grass and plants of sea-holly. In front was the great ocean, rushing in continually upon the sandy bulwarks, and with but few ships to break its loneliness. To the left, as far as the eye could reach ran a line of cliff, out of which the waves had taken huge mouthfuls, till it was as full of gaps as an old crone’s jaw. Behind this stretched mile upon mile of desolate-looking land, covered for the most part with ling and heath, and cut up with dikes, whence the water was pumped by means of windmills, that gave a Dutch appearance to the landscape.

“Look,” said Dorothy, pointing to a small white house about a mile and a half away up the shore-line, “that is the lock-house where the great sluice-gates are, and beyond that is the dreadful quicksand in which a whole army was once swallowed up, like the Egyptians in the Red Sea.”

“My word!” said Ernest, much interested; “and, I say, did my uncle build this house?”

“You silly boy! why, it has been built for hundreds of years. Somebody of the name of Dum built it, and that is why it is called Dum’s Ness; at least I suppose so. There is an old chart that Reginald has, which was made in the time of Henry VII., and it is marked as Dum’s Ness there, so Dum must have lived before then. Look,” she went on, as, turning to the right, they rounded the old house and reached the road which ran along the top of the cliff, “there are the ruins of Titheburgh Abbey;” and she pointed to the remains of an enormous church with a still perfect tower, that stood within a few hundred yards of them, almost upon the edge of the cliff.

“Why don’t they build it up again?” asked Ernest.

Dorothy shook her head. “Because in a few years the sea will swallow it. Nearly all the graveyard has gone already. It is the same with Kesterwick, where we are going. Kesterwick was a great town once. The kings of East Anglia made it their capital, and a bishop lived there. And after that it was a great port, with thousands upon thousands of inhabitants. But the sea came on and on and choked up the harbour, and washed away the cliffs, and they could not keep it out, and now Kesterwick is nothing but a little village with one fine old church left. The real Kesterwick lies there, under the sea. If you walk along the beach after a great gale, you will find hundreds of bricks and tiles washed from the houses that are going to pieces down in the deep water. Just fancy, on one Sunday afternoon, in the reign of Queen Elizabeth, three of the parish churches were washed over the cliff into the sea!”

And so she went on, telling the listening Ernest tale after tale of the old town, than which Babylon had not fallen more completely, till they came to a pretty little modern house bowered up in trees—that is, in summer, for there were no leaves upon them now—with which Ernest was destined to become very well acquainted in after years.

Dorothy left her companion at the gate while she went in to leave her book, remarking that she would be ashamed to introduce a boy with so black an eye. Presently she came back again, saying that Miss Ceswick was out.

“Who is Miss Ceswick?” asked Ernest, who at this period of his existence had a burning thirst for information of every sort.

“She is a very beautiful old lady,” was Dorothy’s answer. “Her family lived for many years at a place called Ceswick’s Ness; but her brother lost all his money gambling, and the place was sold, and Mr. de Talor, that horrid fat man whom you saw drive away this morning, bought it.”

“Does she live alone?”

“Yes; but she has some nieces, the daughters of her brother who is dead, and whose mother is very ill; and if she dies one of them is coming to live with her. She is just my age, so I hope she will come.”

After this there was silence for a while.

“Ernest,” said the little woman presently, “you look kind, so I will ask you. I want you to help me about Jeremy.”

Ernest, feeling much puffed up at the compliment implied, expressed his willingness to do anything he could.

“You see, Ernest,” she went on, fixing her sweet blue eyes on his face, “Jeremy is a great trouble to me. He will go his own way. And he does not like Reginald, and Reginald does not like him. If Reginald comes in at one door, Jeremy goes out at the other. And besides he always flies in Reginald’s face. And, you see, it is not right of Jeremy, because after all Reginald is very kind to us, and there is no reason he should be, except that I believe he was fond of our mother; and if it was not for Reginald, whom I love very much, though he is curious sometimes, I don’t know what would become of grandfather or us. And so, you see, I think that Jeremy ought to behave better to him, and I want to ask you to bear with his rough ways, and try and be friends with him and get him to behave better. It is not much for him to do in return for all your uncle’s kindness. You see, I can do a little something, because I look after the housekeeping; but he does nothing. And first I want you to get him to make no more trouble about going to Mr. Halford’s.”

“All right, I’ll try; but, I say, how do you learn? you seem to know an awful lot.”

“O, I teach myself in the evenings. Reginald wanted to get me a governess, but I would not. How should I ever get Grice and the servants to obey me if they saw that I had to do what a strange woman told me? It would not do at all.”

Just then they were passing the ruins of Titheburgh Abbey. It was almost dark, for the winter’s evening was closing in rapidly, when suddenly Dorothy gave a little shriek, for from behind a ruined wall there rose up an armed mysterious figure with something white behind it. Next second she saw that it was Jeremy, who had returned from shooting, and was apparently waiting for them.

“O Jeremy, how you frightened me! What is it?”

“I want to speak to him,” was the laconic reply.

Ernest stood still, wondering what was coming.

“Look here! You told a lie to try to save me from catching it this morning. You said that you began it. You didn’t. I began it. I’d have told him too,” and he jerked his thumb in the direction of Dum’s Ness, “only my mouth was so full of words I could not get it out. But I want to say I thank you, and here, take the dog. He’s a nasty tempered devil, but he’ll grow very fond of you if you are kind to him;” and seizing the astonished Nails by the collar, he thrust him towards Ernest.

For a moment there was a struggle in Ernest’s mind, for he greatly longed to possess a bull-terrier dog; but his gentleman-like feeling prevailed. “I don’t want the dog, and I didn’t do anything in particular.”

“Yes, you did, though,” replied Jeremy, greatly relieved that Ernest did not accept his dog, which he loved, “or at least you did more than anybody ever did before; but I tell you what, I’ll do as much for you one day. I’ll do anything you like.”

“Will you, though?” answered Ernest, who was a sharp youth, and opportunely remembered Dorothy’s request.

“Yes, I will.”

“Well, then, come to this fellow Halford with me; I don’t want to go alone.”

Jeremy slowly rubbed his face with the back of an exceedingly dirty hand. This was more than he had bargained for, but his word was his word.

“All right,” he answered, “I’ll come.” And then whistling to his dog, he vanished into the shadows. And thus began a friendship between these two that endured all their lives.

CHAPTER IV.

BOYS TOGETHER

Jeremy kept his word. On the appointed day he appeared ready, as he expressed it, to “tackle that bloke Halford.” What is more, he appeared with his hair cut, a decent suit of clothes on, and, wonder of wonders, his hands properly washed, for all of which he was rewarded by finding that the “tackling” was not such a fearful business as he had anticipated. It was, moreover, of an intermittent nature, for the lads found plenty of time to indulge in every sort of manly exercise together. In winter they would roam all over the wide marsh-lands in search of snipe and wild ducks, which Ernest missed and Jeremy brought down with unerring aim, and in summer they would swim, or fish, and bird-nest to their hearts’ content. In this way they contrived to combine the absorption of a little learning with that of a really extended knowledge of animal life and a large quantity of health and spirits.

They were happy years, those, for both the lads, and to Jeremy, when he compared them to his life as it had been before Ernest came, they seemed perfectly heavenly. For whether it was that he had improved in his manners since then, or that Ernest stood as a buffer between him and Mr. Cardus, it certainly happened that he came into collision with him far less often. Indeed, it seemed to Jeremy that the old gentleman (it was the fashion to call Mr. Cardus old, though he was in reality only middle-aged) was more tolerant of him than formerly, though he knew that he would never be a favourite. As for Ernest, everybody loved the boy, and then, as afterwards, he was a great favourite with women, who would one and all do anything he asked. It was a wonder that he did not get spoiled by it all; but he did not. It was not possible to know Ernest Kershaw at any period of his life without taking a fancy to him, he was so eminently and unaffectedly a gentleman, and so completely free from any sort of swagger. Always ready to do a kindness, and never forgetting one done, generous with his possessions to such an extent that he seemed to have a vague idea that they were the common property of his friends and himself, possessing that greatest of gifts, a sympathetic mind, and true as steel, no wonder that he was always popular both with men and women.

Ernest grew into a handsome lad, too, as soon as he began to get his height, with a shapely form, a beautiful pair of eyes, and an indescribable appearance of manliness and spirit. But the greatest charm of his face was always its quick intelligence and unvarying kindliness.

As for Jeremy, he did not change much; he simply expanded, and, to tell the truth, expanded very largely. Year by year his form assumed more and more enormous proportions, and his strength grew more and more abnormal. As for his mind, it did not grow with the same rapidity, and was loth to admit a new idea; but once it was admitted, it never came out again.

And he had a ruling passion, too, this dull giant, and that was his intense affection and admiration for Ernest. It was an affection that grew with his growth till it became a part of himself, increasing with the increasing years, till at last it was nearly pathetic in its entirety. It was but rarely that he parted from Ernest, except, indeed, on those occasions when Ernest chose to go abroad to pursue his study of foreign languages, of which he was rather fond. Then, and then only, Jeremy would strike. He disliked parting with Ernest much, but he objected—being intensely insular—to cohabit with foreigners yet more, so on these occasions, and these only, for a while they separated.

So the years wore on till, when they were eighteen, Mr. Cardus, after his sudden fashion, announced his intention of sending them both to Cambridge. Ernest always remembered it, for it was on that very day that he first made the acquaintance of Florence Ceswick. He had just issued from his uncle’s presence, and was seeking Dolly, to communicate the intelligence to her, when he suddenly blundered in upon old Miss Ceswick, and with her a young lady. This young lady, to whom Miss Ceswick introduced him as her niece, at once attracted his attention. On being introduced the girl, who was about his own age, touched his outstretched palm with her slender fingers, throwing on him at the same moment so sharp a look from her brown eyes that he afterwards declared to Jeremy that it seemed to go right through him. She was a remarkable-looking girl. The hair, which curled profusely over a shapely head, was, like the eyes, brown; the complexion olive, the features were small, and the lips full, curving over a beautiful set of teeth. In person she was rather short, but squarely built, and at her early age her figure was perfectly formed. Indeed, she might to all appearance have been much older than she was. There was little of the typical girl about her. While he was still observing her, his uncle came into the room, and was duly introduced by the old lady to her niece, who had, she said, come to share her loneliness.

“And how do you like Kesterwick, Miss Florence?” asked Mr. Cardus, with his usual courtly smile.

“It is much what I expected—a little duller, perhaps,” she answered composedly.

“Ah, perhaps you have been accustomed to a gayer spot.”

“Yes, till my mother died we lived at Brighton; there is plenty of life there. Not that we could mix in it, we were too poor; but at any rate we could watch it.”

“Do you like life, Miss Florence?”

“Yes, we only live such a short time. I should like,” she went on, throwing her head back, and half-closing her eyes, “to see as much as I can, and to exhaust every emotion.”

“Perhaps, Miss Florence, you would find some of them rather unpleasant,” answered Mr. Cardus, with a smile.

“Possibly, but it is better to travel through a bad country than to grow in a good one.”

Mr. Cardus smiled again: the girl interested him rather.

“Do you know, Miss Ceswick,” he said, changing the subject, and addressing the stately old lady, who was sitting smoothing her laces, and looking rather aghast at her niece’s utterances, “that this young gentleman is going to college, and Jeremy, too?”

“Indeed,” said Miss Ceswick; “I hope that you will do great things there, Ernest.”

While Ernest was disclaiming any intentions of the sort, Miss Florence cut in again, raising her eyes from a deep contemplation of that young gentleman’s long shanks, which were writhing under her keen glance, and twisting themselves serpent-wise round the legs of the chair.

“I did not know,” she said, “that they took boys at college.”

Then they took their leave, and Ernest stigmatised her to Dorothy as a “beast.”

But she was at least attractive in her own peculiar fashion, and during the next year or two he got pretty intimate with her.

And so Ernest and Jeremy went up to Cambridge, but did not set the place on fire, nor were the voices of tutors loud in their praise. Jeremy, it is true, rowed one year in the ’Varsity Race, and performed prodigies of strength, and so covered himself with a sort of glory, which, personally, being of a modest mind, he did not particularly appreciate. Ernest did not even do that. But somehow, by hook or by crook, at the termination of their collegiate career, they took some sort of degree, and then departed from the shores of the Cam, on which they had spent many a jovial day—Jeremy to return to Kesterwick, and Ernest to pay several visits to college friends in town and elsewhere.

And so ended the first little round of their days.

CHAPTER V

EVA’S PROMISE.

When, on leaving Cambridge, Jeremy got back to Dum’s Ness, Mr. Cardus received him with his usual semi-contemptuous coldness, a mental attitude that often nearly drove the young fellow wild with mortification. Not that Mr. Cardus really felt any contempt for him now—he had lost all that years ago, when the boy had been so anxious to go and “earn his bread;” but he could never forgive him for being the son of his father, or conquer his inherent dislike to him. On the other hand, he certainly did not allow this to interfere with his treatment of the lad; if anything, indeed, it made him more careful. What he spent upon Ernest, the same sum he spent on Jeremy, pound for pound; but there was this difference about it—the money he spent on Ernest he gave from love, and that on Jeremy from a sense of duty.

Now, Jeremy knew all this well enough, and it made him very anxious to earn his own living, and become independent of Mr. Cardus. But it was one thing to be anxious to earn your own living, and quite another to do it, as many a poor wretch knows to his cost, and when Jeremy set his slow brain to consider how he should go about the task it quite failed to supply him with any feasible idea. And yet he did not want much; Jeremy was not of an ambitious temperament. If he could earn enough to keep a cottage over his head, and find himself in food and clothes, and powder and shot, he would be perfectly content. Indeed, there were to be only two sine qua nons in his ideal occupation: it must admit of a considerable amount of outdoor exercise, and be of such a nature as would permit him to see plenty of Ernest. Without more or less of Ernest’s company, life would not, he considered, be worth living.

For a week or more after his arrival home these perplexing reflections simmered incessantly inside Jeremy’s head, till at length, feeling that they were getting too much for him, he determined to consult his sister, which, as she had three times his brains, he would have done well to think of before.

Dolly fixed her steady blue eyes upon him and listened to his tale in silence.

“And so you see, Doll”—he always called her Doll—he ended up, “I’m in a regular fix. I don’t know what I’m fit for, unless it’s to row a boat, or let myself out to bad shots to kill their game for them. You see I must stick on to Ernest; I don’t feel somehow as though I could get along without him; if it wasn’t for that I’d emigrate. I should be just the chap to cut down big trees in Vancouver’s Island or brand bullocks,”’ he added meditatively.

“You are a great goose, Jeremy,” was his sister’s comment.

He looked up, not as in any way disputing her statement, but merely for further information.

“You are a great goose, I say. What do you suppose that I have been doing all these three years and more that you have been rowing boats and wasting time up at college? I have been thinking, Jeremy.”

“Yes, and so have I, but there is no good in thinking.”

“No, not if you stop there; but I’ve been acting too. I’ve spoken to Reginald, and made a plan, and he has accepted my plan.”

“You always were clever, Doll; you’ve got all the brains and I’ve got all the size;” and he surveyed as much as he could see of himself ruefully.

“You don’t ask what I have arranged,” she said, sharply, for in alluding to her want of stature Jeremy had touched a sore point.

“I am waiting for you to tell me.”

“Well, you are to be articled to Reginald.”

“O Lord!” groaned Jeremy, “I don’t like that at all.”

“Be quiet till I have told you. You are to be articled to Reginald, and he is to pay you an allowance of a hundred a year while you are articled, so that if you don’t like it you needn’t live here.”

“But I don’t like the business, Doll; I hate it; it is a beastly business; it’s a devil’s business.”

“I should like to know what right you have to talk like that, Mr. Knowall! Let me tell you that many better men than you are content to earn their living by lawyer’s work. I suppose that a man can be honest as a lawyer as well as in any other trade.”

Jeremy shook his head doubtfully. “It’s blood-sucking,” he said energetically.

“Then you must suck blood,” she answered, with decision. “Look here, Jeremy, don’t be pig-headed and upset all my plans. If you fall out with Reginald over this, he won’t do anything else for you. He doesn’t like you, you know, and would be only too glad to pick a quarrel with you if he could do it with a clear conscience, and then where would you be, I should like to know?”

Jeremy was unable to form an opinion as to where he would be, so she went on:

“You must take to it for the present, at any rate. And then there is another thing to think of. Ernest is to go to the bar, and unless you become a lawyer, if anything happened to Reginald, there will be nobody to give him a start, and I’m told that is everything at the bar.”

This last Jeremy admitted to be a weighty argument.

“It is a precious rum sort of lawyer I shall make,” he said, sadly, “about as good as grandfather yonder, I’m thinking. By the way, how has he been getting on?”

“O, just as usual—write, write, write all day. He thinks that he is working out his time. He has got a new stick now, on which he has nicked all the months and years that have to run before he has done—little nicks for the months and big ones for the years. There are eight or ten big ones left now. Every month he cuts out a nick. It is very dreadful. You know he thinks that Reginald is the devil, and he hates him, too. The other day, when he had no writing to do in the office, I found him drawing pictures of him with horns and a tail, such awful pictures, and I think Reginald always looks like that to him. And then sometimes he wants to go out riding, especially at night. Only last week they found him putting a bridle on to the gray mare—the one that Reginald sometimes rides, you know. When did you say that Ernest was coming back?” she said, after a pause.

“Why, Doll, I told you—next Monday week.”

Her face fell a little. “O, I thought you said Saturday.”

“Why do you want to know?”

“O, only about getting his room ready.”

“Why, it is ready; I looked in yesterday.”

“Nonsense! you know nothing about it,” she answered, colouring. “Come, I wish you would go out; I want to count the linen, and you are in the way.”

Thus adjured, Jeremy removed his large form from the table on which he had been sitting, and whistling to Nails, now a very ancient and preternaturally wise dog, set off for a walk. He had mooned along some little way, with his hands in his pockets and his eyes on the ground, reflecting on the unpleasant fate in store for him as an articled clerk, continually under the glance of Mr. Cardus’s roving eye, when suddenly he became aware that two ladies were standing on the edge of the cliff within a dozen yards of him. He would have turned and fled, for Jeremy had a marked dislike to ladies’ society, and a strong opinion, which, however, he never expressed, that women were the root of all evil; but, thinking that he had been seen, he feared that retreat would appear rude. In one of the young ladies, for they were young, he recognised Miss Florence Ceswick, who to all appearance had not changed in the least since, some years ago, she came with her aunt to call on Dorothy. There was the same brown hair, curling as profusely as ever, the same keen brown eyes and ripe lips, the same small features and resolute expression of face. Her square figure had indeed developed a little. In her tight-fitting dress it looked almost handsome, and somehow its very squareness, that most women would have considered a defect, contributed to the air of power and unchanging purpose that would have made Florence Ceswick remarkable among a hundred handsomer women.

“How do you do?” said Florence, in her sharp manner. “You looked as though you were walking in your sleep.”

Before Jeremy could find a reply to this remark, the other young lady, who had been looking intently over the edge of the cliff, turned round and struck him dumb. In his limited experience he had never seen such a beautiful woman before.

She was a head and shoulders taller than her sister, so tall indeed that only her own natural grace could save her from looking awkward. Like her sister she was a brunette, only of a much more pronounced type. Her waving hair was black, and so were her beautiful eyes and the long lashes that curled over them. The complexion was a clear olive, the lips were like coral, and the teeth small and regular. Every advantage that Nature can lavish on a woman she had endowed her with in abundance, including radiant health and spirits. To these charms must be added that sweet and kindly look which sometimes finds a home on the faces of good women, a soft voice, a quick intelligence, and an utter absence of conceit or self-consciousness, and the reader will get some idea of what Eva Ceswick was like in the first flush of her beauty.

“Let me introduce my sister Eva, Mr. Jones.”

But Mr. Jones was for the moment paralysed; he could not even take off his hat.

“Well,” said Florence, presently, “she is not Medusa; there is no need for you to turn into stone.”

This woke him up—indeed, Florence had an ugly trick of waking people up occasionally—and he took off his hat, which was as usual a dirty one, and muttered something inaudible. As for Eva, she blushed, and with ready wit said that Mr. Jones was no doubt astonished at the filthy state of her dress (as a matter of fact, Jeremy could not have sworn that she had one on at all, much less to its condition). “The fact is,” she went on, “I have been lying flat on the grass and looking over the edge of the cliff.”

“What at?”

“Why, the bones.”

The spot on which they were standing was part of the ancient graveyard of Titheburgh Abbey, and as the sea encroached year by year, multitudes of the bones of the long dead inhabitants of Kesterwick were washed out of their quiet graves and strewed upon the beach and unequal surfaces of the cliff.