Chapter 11

SANDAL AND SANDAL.
     "Time will discover every thing; it is a babbler, and speaks even
     when no question is put."
     "Run, spindles! Run, and weave the threads of doom."

Next morning very early, Stephen had a letter from Charlotte. He was
sitting at breakfast with Ducie when the rector's boy brought it; and it
came, as great events generally come, without any premonition or
heralding circumstance. Ducie was pouring out coffee; and she went on
with her employment, thinking, not of the letter Stephen was opening,
but of the malt, and of the condition of the brewing-boiler. An angry
exclamation from Stephen made her lift her eyes to his face. "My word,
Stephen, you are put out! What's to do?"
"Julius has turned Mrs. Sandal and Charlotte from house and home,
yesterday afternoon. They are at the rectory. I am going, mother."
"Stop a moment, Steve. This is now my affair."
Stephen looked at his mother with amazement. Her countenance, her voice,
her whole manner, had suddenly changed. An expression of angry purpose
was in her wide-open eyes and firm mouth, as she asked, "Can you or
Jamie, or any of the men, drive me to Kendal?"
"To-day?"
"I want to leave within an hour."
"The rain down-pours; and it is like to be worse yet, if the wind does
not change."
"If it were ten times worse, I must to Kendal. I am much to blame that I
have let weather stop me so far and so long. While Dame Nature was busy
about her affairs, I should have been minding mine. Deary me, deary me!"
"If you are for Kendal, then I will drive. The cart-road down the fell
is too bad to trust you with any one but myself. Can we stop a moment at
the rectory on our road?"
"We can stop a goodish bit. I have a deal to say to the parson. Have the
tax-cart ready in half an hour; for there will be no betterness in the
weather until the moon--God bless her!--is full round; and things are
past waiting for now."
In twenty minutes Ducie was ready. The large cloak and hood of the
Daleswoman wrapped her close. She was almost indistinguishable in its
folds. The rector met her with a little irritation. It was very early to
be disturbed, and he thought her visit would refer, doubtless, to some
trivial right between her son and Charlotte Sandal; besides which, he
had made up his mind to discuss the Sandal affairs with no one.
But Ducie had spoken but a few moments before a remarkable change took
place in his manner. He was bending eagerly forward, listening to her
half-whispered words with the greatest interest and amazement. As she
proceeded, he could scarcely control his emotion; and very soon all
other expressions were lost in one of a satisfaction that was almost
triumph.
"I will keep them here until you return," he answered; "but let me tell
you, Ducie, you have been less quick to do right than I thought of you."
"The fell has been a hard walk for an old woman, the cart-road nearly
impassable until this rain washed away the drifts; but I did not
neglect my duty altogether, neither, parson. Moser was written to six
weeks since, and he has been at work. Maybe, after all, no time has been
lost. I'll away now, if you will call Stephen. Don't let Mrs. Sandal
'take on' more than you can help;" and, as Stephen lifted the reins,
"You think it best to bring all here?"
"Far away best. God speed you!" He watched them out of sight,--his snowy
hair and strong face and black garments making a vivid picture in the
misty, drippy doorway,--and then, returning to his study, he began his
daily walk up and down its carpeted length, with a singularly solemn
elation. Ere long, the thoughtful stride was accompanied by low, musical
mutterings, dropping from his lips in such majestic cadences that his
steps involuntarily fell to their music in a march-like rhythm.
    "Daughter of Justice, wronged Nemesis,
     Thou of the awful eyes,
     Whose silent sentence judgeth mortal life,--
       Thou with the curb of steel,
       Which proudest jaws must feel,
     Stayest the snort and champ of human strife.
     Under thy wheel unresting, trackless, all
     Our joys and griefs befall;
     In thy full sight our secret things go on;
       Step after step, thy wrath
       Follows the caitiff's path,
     And in his triumph breaks his vile neck bone.
     To all alike, thou meetest out their due,
     Cubit for cubit, inch for inch,--stern, true."
At the word "true" he paused a moment, and touched with his finger an
old black volume on one of the book-shelves. "'Stern, true,' whether
Euripides says 'cubit for cubit,' or Moses 'an eye for an eye,' or
Solomon that 'he that troubleth his own house shall inherit the wind.'
Stern, true; for surely that which a man sows he shall also reap."
After a while he went up-stairs and talked with Mrs. Sandal and
Charlotte. They were much depressed and very anxious, and had what
Charlotte defined "a homeless feeling." "But you must be biddable,
Charlotte," said the rector; "you must remain here until Stephen
returns. Ducie had business that could not wait, and who but Stephen
should drive her? When he comes back, we will all look to it. You shall
not be very long out of your own home; and, in the mean time, how
welcome you are here!"
"It seems such a weary time, sir; so many months that we have been in
trouble."
"It was all night long, once, with some tired, fearful ones 'toiling in
rowing;' but in the fourth watch came Christ and help to them. It is
nigh hand--the 'fourth watch'--with you; so be cheerful."
Yet it was the evening of the sixth day before Ducie and Stephen
returned. It was still raining heavily, and Ducie only waited a moment
or two at the rectory gate. Charlotte was amazed to see the old
clergyman hasten through the plashing shower to speak to her. "Surely
Ducie's business must have a great deal of interest to the rector,
mother: he has gone out to speak to her, and such weather too."
"Ducie was always a favorite with him. I hope, now that her affairs have
been attended to, ours may receive some care."
Charlotte answered only by a look of sympathy. It had seemed to her a
little hard that their urgent need must wait upon Ducie's business; that
Stephen should altogether leave them in their extremity; that her
anxious inquiries and suggestions, her plans and efforts about their
new home, should have been so coldly received, and so positively put
aside until Ducie and Stephen came back. And she had a pang of jealousy
when she saw the rector, usually so careful of his health, hasten with
slippered feet and uncovered head, through the wet, chilling atmosphere,
to speak to them.
He came back with a radiant face, however, and Charlotte could hear him
moving about his study; now rolling out a grand march of musical Greek
syllables from Homer or Euripides, anon breaking into some familiar
verse of Christian song. And, when tea was served, he went up-stairs for
the ladies, and escorted them to the table with a manner so beaming and
so happily predictive that Charlotte could not but catch some of its
hopeful spirit.
Just as they sat down to the tea-table, the wet, weary travellers
reached Up-Hill. With a sigh of pleasure and content, Ducie once more
passed into its comfortable shelter; and never had it seemed to her such
a haven of earthly peace. Her usually placid face bore marks of strong
emotion; she was physically tired; and Stephen was glad to see her among
the white fleeces of his grandfather's big chair, with her feet
outstretched to the blazing warmth of the fire, and their cosey
tea-service by her side. Always reticent with him, she had been very
tryingly so on their journey. No explanation of it had been given; and
he had been permitted to pass his time among the looms in Ireland's
mill, while she and the lawyer were occupied about affairs to which even
his signature was not asked.
As they sat together in the evening, she caught his glance searching her
face tenderly; and she bent forward, and said, "Kiss me, Stephen, my
dear lad. I have seen this week how kind and patient, how honorable and
trustful, thou art. Well, then, the hour has come that will try thy love
to the uttermost. But wise or unwise, all that has been done has been
done with good intent, and I look for no word to pain me from thy mouth.
Stephen, what is thy name?"
"Stephen Latrigg."
"Nay, but it isn't."
Stephen blushed vividly; his mother's face was white and calm. "I would
rather be called Latrigg than--the other name, than by my father's
name."
"Has any one named thy father to thee?"
"Charlotte told me what you and she said on the matter. She understood
his name to be Pattison. We were wondering if our marriage could be
under my adopted name, that was all, and things like it."
Ducie was watching his handsome face as he spoke, and feeling keenly the
eager deprecation of pain to herself, mingling with the natural
curiosity about his own identity, which the cloud upon his early years
warranted. She looked at him steadily, with eyes shining brightly
through tears.
"Your name is not Pattison, neither is it Latrigg. When you marry
Charlotte Sandal, it must be by your own true name; and that is Stephen
Sandal."
"Stephen Sandal, mother?"
"Yes. You are the son of Launcelot Sandal, the late squire's eldest
brother."
"Then, mother, then I am--What am I, mother?"
"You are squire of Sandal-Side and Torver. No living man but you has a
right to the name, or the land, or to Seat-Sandal."
"I should have known this before, mother."
"I think not. We had, father and I, what we believed good reasons, and
kind reasons, for holding our peace. But times and circumstances have
changed; and, where silence was once true friendship and kindness, it is
now wrong and cruelty. Many years ago, Stephen, when I was young and
beautiful, Launcelot Sandal loved me. And my father and Launcelot's
father loved each other as David and Jonathan loved. They were scarcely
happy apart; and not even to please the proud mistress Charlotte, would
the squire loosen the grip of heart and hand between them. But your
father was more under his mother's influence: proud lad as he was, he
feared her; and when she discovered his love for me, there was such a
scene between them as no man will go through twice in his lifetime. I
have no excuse to make for marrying him secretly except the old, old
one, Stephen. I loved him, loved him as women have loved, and will love,
from the beginning to the end of time."
"Dear mother, there was no wrong in that. But why did you let the world
think you loved a man beneath you? an uneducated shepherd like my
reputed father? That wronged not only you, but those behind and those
after you."
"We were afraid of many things, and we wished to spare the friendship
between our fathers. There were many other reasons, scarcely worth
repeating now."
"And what became of the shepherd?"
"He was not Cumberland born. He came from the Cheviot Hills, and was
always fretting for the border life: so he gladly fell in with the
proposal your father made him. One summer morning he said he was going
to herd the lambs on Latrigg Fell, but he went to Egremont. Your father
had gone there a week before; but he came back that night, and met me at
Ravenglass. We were married in Egremont church, by Parson Sellafield,
and went to Whitehaven, where we lived quietly and happily for many a
week. Pattison witnessed our marriage, and then, with gold in his
pocket, took the border road. He went to Moffat and wed the girl he
loved, and has been shepherding on Loch Fell ever since."
"He is alive, then?"
"He is at the Salutation Inn at Ambleside to-night. So, also, is Parson
Sellafield, and the man and woman with whom we staid in Whitehaven, and
in whose house you were born and lived until your fourth year. They are
called Chisholm, and have been at Up-Hill many times."
"I remember them."
"And I did not intend that they should forget you."
"I have always heard that Launcelot Sandal was drowned."
"You have always heard that your father was drowned? That was near by
the truth. While in Whitehaven, he wrote to his brother Tom, who was
living and doing well in India. When his answer came, we determined to
go to Calcutta; but I was not in a state of health fit for such a
journey as that then was. So it was decided that your father should go
first, and get a home ready for me. He left in the 'Lady Liddel,' and
she was lost at sea. Your father was in an open boat for many days, and
died of exhaustion."
"Who told you so, mother?"
"The captain lived to reach his home again, and he brought me his watch
and ring and last message. He never saw your face, my lad, he never saw
your face."
A silence of some minutes ensued. Ducie had long ceased to weep for her
dead love, but he was unforgotten. Her silence was not oblivion: it was
a sanctuary where lights were burning round the shrine, over which the
wings of affection were folded.
"When my father was gone, then you came back to Up-Hill?"
"No: I did not come back until you were in your fourth year. Then my
mother died, and I brought you home. At the first moment you went
straight to your grandfather's heart; and that night, as you lay asleep
upon his knee, I told him the truth, as I tell it to you this night. And
he said to me, 'Ducie, things have settled a bit lately. The squire has
got over his trouble about Launcie; and young William is the
acknowledged heir, and the welcome heir. He is going to marry Alice
Morecombe at the long last, but it will make a big difference if
Launcelot's son steps in where nobody wants him. Now, then,' he said, 'I
will tell thee a far better way. We will give this dear lad my own name,
none better in old Cumbria; and we will save gold, and we will make
gold, to put it to the very front in the new times that are coming. And
he will keep my name on the face of the earth, and so please the great
company of his kin behind him. And it will be far better for him to be
the top-sheaf of the Latriggs, than to force his way into Seat-Sandal,
where there is neither love nor welcome for him.'
"And I thought the same thing, Stephen; and after that, our one care was
to make you happy, and to do well to you. That you were a born Sandal,
was a great joy to him, for he loved your father and your grandfather;
and, when Harry came, he loved him also, and he liked well to see you
two on the fells together. Often he called me to come and look at you
going off with your rods or guns; and often he said, 'Both fine lads,
Ducie, but our Steve is the finer.'"
"Oh, mother, I cannot take Harry's place! I love Harry, and I did not
know how much until this hour"--
"Stop a bit, Stephen. When Harry grew up, and went into the army, your
grandfather wasn't so satisfied with what he had done. 'Here's a fine
property going to sharpers and tailors and Italian singing-women,' he
used to say; and he felt baddish about it. And yet he loved Squire
William, as he had loved his father, and Mistress Alice and Harry and
Sophia and Charlotte; why, he thought of them like his own flesh and
blood. And he could not bear to undo his kindness. And he could not bear
to tell Squire William the truth, for he knew well that he would undo
it. So one day he sent for Lawyer Moser; and the two of them together
found out a plan that seemed fair, for both Sandal and Latrigg.
"You were to remain Stephen Latrigg, unless it was to ward off wrong or
ruin in Sandal-Side. But if ever the day came when Sandal needed
Latrigg, you were to claim your right, and stand up for Sandal. Such a
state of things as Harry brought about, my father never dreamed of. He
would not have been able to think of a man selling away his right to a
place like Seat-Sandal; and among all the villains he ever knew, or
heard tell of, he couldn't have picked out one to lead him to such a
villain as Julius Sandal. So, you see, he left no special directions for
such a case, and I was a bit feared to move in too big a hurry; and,
maybe, I was a bit of a coward about setting every tongue in Sandal-Side
talking about me and my bygone days.
"But, when the squire died, I thought from what Charlotte told me of the
Julius Sandals, that there would have to be a change; and when I saw
your grandfather sorting the papers for me, and heard that Mistress
Alice and Charlotte had been forced to leave their home, I knew that the
hour for the change had struck, and that I must be about the business.
Moser was written to soon after the funeral of Squire William. He has
now all the necessary witnesses and papers ready. He is at Ambleside
with them, and to-morrow morning they will have a talk with Mr. Julius
at Seat-Sandal."
"I wonder where Harry Sandal is."
"After you, comes Harry. Your grandfather did not forget him. There is a
provision in the will, which directs, that if, for any cause not
conceivable by the testator, Harry Sandal must resign in favor of
Stephen Sandal, then the land and money devised to you, as his heir,
shall become the property of Harry Sandal. In a great measure you would
only change places, and that is not a very hard punishment for a man who
cared so little for his family home as Harry did. So you see, Stephen,
you must claim your rights in order to give Harry his."
The facts of this conversation opened up endlessly to the mother and
son, and hour after hour it was continued without any loss of interest.
But the keenest pleasure his new prospects gave Stephen referred itself
to Mrs. Sandal and Charlotte. He could now reinstate them in their old
home and in their old authority in it. For the bright visions underneath
his eyelids, he could not sleep,--visions of satisfied affection, and of
grief and humiliation crowned with joy and happiness and honor.
It had been decided that Stephen should drive his mother to the rectory
in the morning, and there they were to wait the result of Moser's
interview with Julius. The dawning came up with sunshine; the storm was
over, the earth lay smiling in that "clear shining after rain," which is
so exhilarating and full of promise. The sky was as blue, the air as
fresh, fell and wood, meadow and mountain, as clean and bright as if
they had just come new from the fingers of the Almighty. Ducie was
handsomely dressed in dark violet-colored satin, and Stephen noticed
with pride how well her rich clothing and quiet, dignified manner became
her; while Ducie felt even a greater pride in the stately, handsome
young man who drove her with such loving care down Latrigg fell that
eventful morning.
Julius was at breakfast when the company from Ambleside were shown into
the master's room in Seat-Sandal. The lawyer sent in his card; and
Julius, who knew him well, was a trifle annoyed by the visit. "It will
be about your mother's income, Sophia," he said, as he viciously broke
the egg he was holding; "now mind, I am not going to yield one inch."
"Why should you, Julius? I am sure we have been blamed and talked over
enough. We never can be popular here."
"We don't want to be popular here. When we have refurnished the house,
we will bring our company from Oxford and London and elsewhere. We will
have fine dinners and balls, hunting-parties and fishing-parties; and,
depend upon it, we shall very soon have these shepherd lords and
gentlemen begging for our favor."
"Oh, you don't know them, Julius! They would not break bread with us if
they were starving."
"Very well. What do I care?"
But he did care. When the wagoners driving their long teams pretended
not to hear his greeting, for the jingling of their bells, he knew it
was pretence, and the wagoners' aversion hurt him. When the herdsmen
sauntered away from his path, and preferred not to talk to him, he felt
the bitterness of their dislike, though they were only shepherds. When
the gentlemen of the neighborhood looked straight before them, and did
not see him in their path, he burned with an indignation he would have
liked well to express. But no one took the trouble to offend him by word
or deed, and a man cannot pick a quarrel with people for simply letting
him alone.
Sophia's opinion recalled one or two of these events that were
particularly galling; and he finished his breakfast in a sulky,
leisurely fashion, to such reflections as they evoked. Then, with a
cigar in his mouth, he went to the master's room to see Moser. He had
been told that other parties were there also, but he did not surmise
that their business was identical. Yet he noticed the clergyman on
entering, and appeared inclined to attend to his request first; but as
he courteously waved his claim away, and retired to the other end of
the room, Julius said curtly,--
"Well, Mr. Moser, good-morning, sir."
The lawyer was pretending to be absorbed in the captions of the papers
in his hand, for he was offended at being kept waiting so long: "As if a
bite of victuals was of more ado than business that could bring Matthew
Moser all the road from Kendal."
"Good-morning, Mr. Sandal."
The omission of "Squire," and the substitution of "Mr.," annoyed Julius
very much, though he had not a suspicion of the lawyer's errand; and he
corrected the mistake with a bland smile on his lips, and an angry light
in his eyes. Moser, in reply, selected one particular paper, and put it
into the hand of Julius.
"Acting for Squire Sandal, I would be a middling bad sort of a lawyer to
give you his name. Eh?"
"You are talking in riddles, sir."
"Eh! But I always read my riddles, Mr. Sandal. I am here to take
possession of house and land, for the real heir of Sandal-Side."
"I bought his right, as you know very well. You have Harry Sandal's own
acknowledgment."
"Eh? But you see, Harry Sandal never had a penny-worth of right to sell.
Launcelot Sandal left a son, and for him I am acting. Eh?"
"Launcelot Sandal was drowned. He never married."
"Eh, but he did!--Parson Sellafield, what do you say about that?"
"I married him on July 11, 18--, at Egremont church. There," pointing to
Matt Pattison, "is the witness. Here is a copy of the license and the
'lines.' They are signed, 'Launcelot Sandal' and 'Ducie Latrigg.'"
"Confusion!"
"Eh? No, no! There's not a bit of confusion, Mr. Sandal. It is all as
clear as the multiplication table, and there is nothing clearer than
that. Launcelot Sandal married Ducie Latrigg; they had one son, Stephen
Sandal, otherwise known as Stephen Latrigg: proofs all ready, sir, not a
link missing, Mr. Sandal. When will you vacate? The squire is inclined
to be easy with you, and not to back-reckon, unless you force him to do
so."
"This is a conspiracy, Moser."
"Conspiracy! Eh? Ugly word, Mr. Sandal. An actionable word, I may say."
"It is a conspiracy. You shall hear from me through some respectable
lawyer."
"In the mean time, Mr. Sandal, I have taken, as you will see, the proper
legal steps to prevent you wasting any more of the Sandal revenues.
Every shilling you touch now, you will be held responsible for. Also,"
and he laid another paper down, "you are hereby restrained from
removing, injuring, or in any way changing, or disposing of, the present
furniture of the Seat. The squire insists specially on this direction,
and he kindly allows you seven days to remove your private effects. A
very reasonable gentleman is Squire Sandal."
Without further courtesies they parted; and the deposed squire locked
the room-door, lifted the various documents, and read them with every
sense he had. Then he went to Sophia; and at that hour he was almost
angry with her, although he could not have told how, or why, such a
feeling existed. When he opened the door of the parlor, her first words
were a worry over the non-arrival, by mail, of some floss-silks,
needful in the bird's-nest she was working for a fire-screen.
"They have not come, Julius," she cried, with a face full of inquiry and
annoyance.
"They? Who?"
"The flosses for my bird's-nest. The eggs must be in white floss."
"The bird's nest can go to Jericho, or Calcutta, or into the fire. We
are ordered to leave Seat-Sandal in seven days."
"I would not be so absurd, Julius, so unfeeling, so ungentlemanly."
"Well, then, my soul," and he bowed with elaborate grace, "Stephen
Latrigg, squire of Sandal-Side, orders us to leave in seven days. Can
you be ready?"
She looked into the suave, mocking, inscrutable face, shrugged her
shoulders, and began to count her stitches. Julius had many varieties of
ill-humor. She regarded this statement only as a new phase of his
temper; but he soon undeceived her. With a pitiless exactness he went
over his position, and, in doing so, made the hopelessness of his case
as clear to himself as it was to others. And yet he was determined not
to yield without a struggle; though, apart from the income of Sandal,
which he could not reach, he had little money and no credit.
The story, with all its romance of attachment and its long trial of
faithful secrecy, touched the prejudices and the sympathies of every
squire and shepherd between Duddon and Esk and Windermere. Stephen came
to his own, and they received him with open arms. But for Julius, there
was not a "seat" in the Dales, nor a cottage on the fells, no, nor a
chair in any of the local inns, where he was welcome. He stood his
social excommunication longer than could have been expected; and, even
at the end, his surrender was forced from him by the want of money, and
the never-ceasing laments of Sophia. She was clever enough to understand
from the first, that fighting the case was simply "indulging Julius in
his temper;" and she did not see the wisdom of spending what little
money they had in such a gratification.
"You have been caught in your own trap, Julius," she said aggravatingly.
"Very clever people often are. It is folly to struggle. You had better
ask Stephen to pay you back the ten thousand pounds. I think he ought to
do that. It is only common honesty."
But Stephen had not the same idea of common honesty as Sophia had. He
referred Julius to Harry.
"Harry, indeed! Harry who is in New York making ducks and drakes of your
money, Julius,--trying to buy shares and things that he knows no more of
than he knows of Greek. It's a shame!" and Sophia burst into some
genuine tears over the reflection.
Still the idea, on a less extravagant basis, seemed possible to Steve.
He began to think that it would be better to compromise matters with the
Julius Sandals; better to lose a thousand pounds, or even two thousand
pounds, if, by doing so, he could at once restore Mrs. Sandal and
Charlotte to their home. And he was on the point of making a proposition
of this kind, when it was discovered that Julius and his wife had
silently taken their departure.
"It is a hopeless fight against destiny," said Julius. "When the purse
is empty, any cause is weak. I have barely money to take us to Calcutta,
Sophia. It is very disagreeable to go there, of course; but my father
advised this step, and I shall remind him of it. He ought, therefore, to
re-arrange my future. It is hard enough for me to have lost so much
time carrying out his plans. And I should write a letter to your mother
before you go, if I were you, Sophia. It is your duty. She ought to have
her cruel behavior to you pointed out to her."
Sophia did her duty. She wrote a very clever letter, which really did
make both her mother and sister wretchedly uncomfortable. Charlotte held
it in her hand with a heartache, wondering whether she had indeed been
as envious and unjust and unkind as Sophia felt her to have been; and
Mrs. Sandal buried her face in her sofa pillow, and had a cry over her
supposed partiality and want of true motherly feeling. "They had been so
misunderstood, Julius and she,--wilfully misunderstood, she feared; and
they were being driven to a foreign land, a deadly foreign land, because
Charlotte and Stephen had raised against them a social hatred they had
not the heart to conquer. If they defended themselves, they must accuse
those of their own blood and house, and they were not mean enough to do
such a thing as that. Oh, no! Sophia Sandal had always done her duty,
and always would do it forever." And broad statements are such
confusing, confounding things, that for one miserable hour the mother
and sister felt as mean and remorseful as Sophia and Julius could
desire. Then the rector read the letter aloud, and dived down into its
depths as if it was a knotty text, and showed the two simple women on
what false conditions all of its accusations rested.
At the same time Julius wrote a letter also. It was to Harry Sandal,--a
very short letter, but destined to cause nearly six years of lonely,
wretched wandering and anxious sorrow.
     DEAR HARRY,--There is great trouble about that ten thousand pounds.
     It seems you had no right to sell. "Money on false pretences," I
     think they call it. I should go West, far West, if I were you.
     Your friend,
     JULIUS SANDAL.
He read it to Sophia, and she said, "What folly! Let Harry return home.
You have heard that he comes into the Latrigg money. Very well, let him
come home, and then you can make him pay you back. Harry is very
honorable."
"There is not the slightest chance of Harry paying me back. If he had a
million, he wouldn't pay me back. Harry spoke me fair, but I caught one
look which let me see into his soul. He hated me for buying his right.
With my money in his hand, he hated me. He would toss his hat to the
stars if he heard how far I have been over-reached. Next to Charlotte
Sandal, I hate Harry Sandal; and I am going to send him a road that he
is not likely to return. I don't intend Stephen and Harry to sit
together, and chuckle over me. Besides, your mother and Charlotte are
surely calculating upon having 'dear Harry' and 'poor Harry' at home
again very soon. I have no doubt Charlotte is planning about that Emily
Beverley already. For Harry is to have Latrigg Hall when it is finished,
I hear."
"Really? Is that so? Are you sure?"
"Harry is to have the new hall, and all of old Latrigg's gold and
property."
"Julius, would it not be better to try and get around Harry? We could
stay with him. I cannot endure Calcutta, and I always did like Harry."
"And I always detested him. And he always detested me. No, my sweet
Sophia, there is really nothing for us but a decent lodging-house on the
shady side of the Chowringhee Road. My father can give me a post in
'The Company,' and I must get as many of its rupees as I can manage. Go
through the old rooms, and bid them farewell, my soul. We shall not come
back to Seat-Sandal again in this chapter of our eternity." And with a
mocking laugh he turned away to make his own preparations.
"But why go in the night, Julius? You said to-night at eleven o'clock.
Why not wait until morning?"
"Because, beloved, I owe a great deal of money in the neighborhood.
Stephen can pay it for me. I have sent him word to do so. Why should we
waste our money? We have done with these boors. What they think of us,
what they say of us, shall we mind it, my soul, when we drive under the
peopuls and tamarinds at Barrackpore, or jostle the crowds upon the
Moydana, or sit under the great stars and listen to the tread of the
chokedars? All fate, Sophia! All fate, soul of my soul! What is
Sandal-Side? Nothing. What is Calcutta? Nothing. What is life itself, my
own one? Only a little piece out of something that was before, and will
be after."
       *       *       *       *       *
Who that has seen the Cumberland moors and fells in July can ever forget
them?--the yellow broom and purple heather, the pink and white waxen
balls of the rare vacciniums, the red-leaved sundew, the asphodels, the
cranberries and blueberries and bilberries, and the wonderful green
mosses in all the wetter places; and, above and around all, the great
mountain chains veiled in pale, ethereal atmosphere, and rising in it as
airy and unsubstantial as if they could tremble in unison with every
thrill of the ether above them.
It was thus they looked, and thus the fells and the moors looked, one
day in July, eighteen months after the death of Squire William
Sandal,--his daughter Charlotte's wedding-day. From far and near, the
shepherd boys and lasses were travelling down the craggy ways, making
all the valleys ring to their wild and simple songs, and ever and anon
the bells rung out in joyful peals; and from Up-Hill to Seat-Sandal, and
around the valley to Latrigg Hall, there were happy companies telling
each other, "Oh, how beautiful was the bride with her golden hair
flowing down over her dress of shining white satin!" "And how proud and
handsome the bridegroom!" "And how lovely in their autumn days the two
mothers! Mistress Alice Sandal leaning so confidently upon the arm of
the stately Mrs. Ducie Sandal." "And how glad was the good rector!"
Little work, either in field or house or fellside, was done that day;
for, when all has been said about human selfishness, this truth
abides,--in the main, we do rejoice with those who rejoice, and we do
weep with those who weep.
The old Seat was almost gay in the sunshine, all its windows open for
the wandering breezes, and its great hall doors set wide for the feet of
the new squire and his bride. For they were too wise to begin their
married life by going away from their home; they felt that it was better
to come to it with the bridal benediction in their ears, and the
sunshine of the wedding-day upon their faces.
The ceremony had been delayed some months, for Stephen had been in
America seeking Harry; seeking him in the great cities and in the lonely
mining-camps, but never coming upon his foot steps until they had been
worn away into forgetfulness. At last the rector wrote to him, "Return
home, Stephen. We are both wrong. It is not human love, but God love,
that must seek the lost ones. If you found Harry now, and brought him
back, it would be too soon. When his lesson is learned, the heart of God
will be touched, and he will say, 'That will do, my son. Arise, and go
home.'"
And when Mrs. Sandal smiled through her tears, for the hope's sake, he
took her hand, and added solemnly, "Be confident and glad, you shall see
Harry come joyfully to his own home. Oh, if you could only listen,
angels still talk with men! Raphael, the affable angel, loves to bring
them confidences. God also speaks to his children in dreams, and by the
oracles that wait in darkness. If we know not, it is because we ask not.
But I know, and am sure, that Harry will return in joy and in peace. And
if the dead look over the golden bar of heaven upon their earthly homes,
Barf Latrigg, seeing the prosperity of the two houses, which stand upon
his love and his self-denial, will say once more to his friend,
'William, I did well to Sandal.'"