A CHRISTMAS STORY.

Wellington Independent, Volume XVIII, Issue 2001, 26 December 1863, Page 2

A CHRISTMAS STORY.

} LORD MVERDALE'S REPENTANCE. r — By William J. Stewabt. s CHAPTEK I. The pale wintry sunlight was streaming in through the open doorway of the old church , eagerly, as though it were not sorry to find some refuge from the bitter cold without. Strange, c was it not, that, following it by tbe instinct " which holds us to the sunlight in tbis mid-winter **■ weather, it should have led him to her restingplace of all others here ? It almost seemed as B if it had divined the purpose of his coming, and a wsre bent upon guiding his doubtful footsteps to tbe very object of his search. It had mistaken his purpose, then ;he had no sucb in--6 ten tion iv coming here— he followed no suoh °„ search What was it to him whither they * brought her, disobedient, dishonored, child of ■•• his, even in memory, no longer f c So they had laid ber here, then at ber moe ther's feet. Little as it mattered to him, he * could not help its occupying his mind. He re--0 membered that when they senttohimand asked £ should she rest by her mother's side, he bad -*• answered tbem. angrily — no ! But he had '■> no power to forbid her a resting place among s her kith and kin ; and, since they might lay 9 her where else tbey pleased, they had brought T y her hither. It was clear tbey had little respect ' for any expression of his will which be bad oot 1 tbe power of enforcing. Well 1 there was no- | thing very strange in that, perhaps. Great man 1 as he was, wealthy, titled, passionate, his life ■ had tirugbt him that of tbe worlds deference we 1 can command just what love or money will purs chase vs — no more. He had little of the for* f mer, of the latter much, at bis service. What - it would buy he k iew from loog experience. & Smiles, caresses, that to-morrow would pass to - a higher bidder ; popularity, that rose and fell |> with the condition of his cellars, stables, and preserves ; obedience sometimes where rebellion 1 would he ruin ; respect the most profound from 3 those who wore his livery and fattened at bis 3 expense. But in all else tbis great Lord Rivert dale, who stood here, was as poor as tbe beg--1 gar who shivered at his gates this Christmas . weather. Poorer, perhaps ; for it was strange if , that wretch, low as he had fallen, had not rei tamed some one's love, who would have kindly i hinds to wipe tbe dew from his lips in bis 3 death agony, and tenderly, to close bis eyes. t It was strange and notable, too, how very little i real power he had possessed over the fate and 5 happiness of those to whom disobedience to bis r will was simply ruin. It was not from want of 3 inclination or resolution on his part either. He , was a good hater, he knew. Where be struck, i lie always looked for the most vulnerable part r of his adversary's harness, and aimed at it with 3 all the might of his ill hot-temper. But, after - all, it was very little barm be had tbe power of 3 inflicting. Upon her, for instance, who lay I there under lire sunshine, bis bitter wrath had 1 been poured out to very little purpose. True, she hud died, and young. But from no fault of bis, ) and, happily, among dear friends, and followed * to the grave by & hundred hearts mouruing for 1 the love lost lo them by death. [ But it was not to give the rein to thoughts : like these, be sure, that John, Lord Biverdale [ bad travelled hither this wintry day to the last 5 home of his lordly race. It had been along race, ■ although it would end in him. It began with . that Norman rider whose effigy lay there with L bis hands crossed upon bis bloodstained sword. < It had numbered men famous in other fields than t those of war. Many, the majority perhaps, had . done somewhat for tbeir marble tombs to com,'memorate. That Norman rider, for instance,

with the long sharp sword had carved a name and fortune tor bis race ; another, later, hac gained it a coronet; a third had lost the familj fortune in tbe service of a hapless master, bu' had won' it high honor ; while to his son, i famous lawyer, belonged the credit of having rebuiltitstrongerthan before. Butof him, whey it came his turn to join tbem, littlecould be said even if truth were unheeded, as on tombstone! it so often is. But if it were allowed to speal for once and shame the writers of all epitaph since chisels first were used on marble wha could it say, but that, seeking for nothing higher iv this world than the gratification of hi; will, he had failed altogether to enjoy it. By this time the wintry sunlight had gone and the old church felt very damp and chill With its loss had come a great and sudder change. The night closed in with stiange am startling rapidity; the shadows ofthe old tomb; and rare carved work were blotted out abruptly tbe western windows, a few moments back warm with a mellow light, grew chilly grey ; the rooks above the trees without ceased suddenly their jangle ; and a little gust of wind, tbat bad been brewed somewhere up in the old oak rool or among the stone framework of the tower, came sweeping down, as if commissioned by the baffled sunlight to chide him more effectually, He bad stood so long in tbat posture, leaning forward on his stick, that, when be essayed to move, his muscles were stiff and. declined to perform their office. For a moment, too, his brain reeled, and, but for the support of his Norman kinsman's tomb, be might bave fallen. It was clear that his blood — chilled from standing here so long — flowed but sluggishly in his veins. He bad been fatigued before he came, having travelled far that day and for many previous days from a land where flowers yet blossomed in the open air, where tbe winter might only look down from its far-away fastnesses upon valleys belonging to the sun which it dare scarcely even chill with its icy breath. For a momont, thinking of the utter solitude of the place, and that his servant, whom he bad purposely sent away, might not return, Lord Riverdale's self-possession failed bim. Before that moment had passed, or his fear had time to work any serious barm, a welcome step struck ou his ear ""nud a figure was seen advancing towards him. The figure was that or a tall and handsome man of middle age and upright healing, with a genial face, but lightly touched by tbe frost of time. His pace quickened when he caught sight of the solitary figure among the tombs. But upon a nearer approach he stopped abruptly, with an exclamation of surprise, almost alarm, and, but for Lord Riverdale's impatient gesture, would have fallen back. The old man's action, however, reassured him. "Ah I you^are no ghost, then, my Lord," he said. Tbe old Lord made another impatent gesture. " Quick, give me your arm, Goodall!" he said, "A ghost! yes. Knowing what John Riverdale was, and seeing how he comes before you, I wonder at your doubting it." "My Lord," said the other, still in great surprise and doublingly. I am glad to welcome you to England — to your horne — " He looked about hira with a strange smile. "My home! yes," he said. "It is nearly time I came here, Goodall. Little as my life bas bad in common with theirs, I always meant that my bones should rest among them." He paused, then looked back upon what had been the path of tbe wintry sunlight to his daughter's grave. " Goodall, it i< twenty years since you laid what had been blood of my blood there." "Twenty years, my Lord !" " But for you she might have laid in a pauper's grave, I suppose ?" he said—" she ! the daughter of the last Lord Riverdale !" His companion did not contradict him. "You helped and sheltered her, gave her a home, love, care, and Christian burial. I hated you for it ; punished you for it ; meant, had I possessed the power, to bave ruined you for it. Your hear me, Goodall ? And — and mark me ! — I have not said one word about repentance for it yet." The other smiled calmly. " I hare never beardof a Riverdale who was pleasod to confess himself in the wrong. And it is a fashion which I certainly do not expect your Lordship to initiate." "No ? you never were a flatterer, Goodall. Stay ! one moment more. In my anger with you— my just anger, I tell you— l took from you the charge oftho.se Riverdale estates which you and your fathers had held of me and mine for bearen knows how many previous years." "Tbat might bave ruined you?" " Indeed, it was a very well-intentioned blow, my Lord. " You smile! It did not, then ? You are no poorer for my enmity ?" "By a few pounds, yes. But I have been — am — rich in home, friends, and children — love, health, and happiness — that no malice of yours could rob me of, Lord Riterdale," He drew a short, hard breath that might very well bave been a sigh, and the hand that rested on his companion's arm felt suddenly heavier ; but his face showed no trace of emotion, wearing the same hard, scorn fulsmile. Strange, too, he said again, when they had walked on a little farther," tbat I should come to be glad of tbesamearmsheleantoD." He stopped suddenly; then said, io a heightened voice, " I tell you it is all accident, the merest, simplest, Goodall. I sent my man away. I could not stay in that eld church before my time"— " Sir," said the other, quietly, but not without a certain pride, " my arm has never been refused to age and need. As I give it to your Lordship, so it would be at the service of your Lordship's lackey wanting it " The old peer laughed. " You passed for a good man always, Goodall. Don't contradict me. I say you did, and that you made a distinct profession of it. But you bear malice man ! you bave not forgiven me?" "My Lord, upon my honor, for twenty yeasr I have not given as many moments' thought that was not of pity to you !" " Pity '." " The deepest, most profound. Lord Riverdale." The old man dropped the friendly arm with an angry gesture. "You insult me, Mr Goodall." " My Lord," said the other salmly, " I never knew the time when the truth from any mouth would not." The old angry face was white with passion, the feeble frame shook with it, as if palsy struck. " By heaven, Goodall," he cried, " You presume upon my age and weakness !" "Sir," said the younger man, bowing "at their mention I defer to them most willingly See. we are near my house. If you rest here for a few moments, I will relieve you of my presence, and dispatch a messenger for your servant." " Goodall," said the old Lord, in a changed voice, making no further effort to withdraw hiraself from the other's friendly arm, " I did not mean to quarrel with you. lam old, ill, and the damp of that church seems to have chilled me to the marrow See! I look to receive from you what I should never offer or return. But your are a good man, glad to forgive, as you hope to be forgiven. And I am not, Goodall." " My Lord," said tbe other smiling, " I bave used tbe privilege of free speech to you. You have. the same right, of course, and may ridicule "me and my life if you will." "Hush! Let me have your arm again, This home of yours — it bas not altered ? It ia still a cheerful happy one— eh, Goodall f—

s depending on no outer sunshine for its warmth I and cheer?" r He bowed. "I hope so, still, Lord Riveit dale" j "And I have need of both. See! if ynu r leave me I may be ill aud die. I cannot travel 1 farther in-night. Goodall, this is the season , isn't it, at which good superstitious souls like S you affect to have more than ordinary ruth and k pity for the homeless ? Show them to mo. s Take me to your home, Goodall. I have jn>t t come from Itally, and I perish for the sun r its English substitutes — happy faces, hearty 8 cheer, a warm fireside. You wil! not refuse me, Goodall ? Yon will not let so admirable , an opportunity escape you of heaping coals of . fire on your old enemy's head. I tell you, in&u, i you may and welcome, il tbey will but relieve 1 me of this deadly chill." 5 "My Lord," said the other, with a very ; startled face, " take you to my home, among my i children ! It is impossible-" > "Eh !" said the old lord, with a strange j laugh. "Do I show the cloven hoof? Hoby I must look to it ; he should he more careful. f But, hush ! I tell you, Goodall, it must be , made possible. They need uot know who I « am. Introduce me as an old client, come un- , expectedly from abroad on business of impor- . tance. It is no lie I tell you; call me by \ what name you will." i "O, my Lord, it is not possible !" he said ; again. i "Then the blood of a Riverdale be on your head! I tell you, Goodall, if'yon turn me , from this old bouse of yours to the village inn I shall most likely die to-night instead of a few weeks hence. It is full of draughts you know Goodall, and has never heard of such a thing as pale brandy." They were in sight of Mr Croodali's house by this time. A promise of warmth and cheer spoke to them from every gluwing window and the smoke that rose from its quaint chimney stacks into the wintry air. As fast as he could, Lord Riverdale hurried his unwilling companion toward it. "There? not another word," be said. "Tell them I am an old Berkshire agriculturist come about taking a farm here ; say that I am a former debtor come to balance accounts tbat we left unfinished twenty years ags. Give them what account of me you will ; and me — give me a glass of wine and the sight of a bright coal fire, Goodall, for pity's sake." CHAPTER 11. Mark Good ball's house required very little provocation at any time to put on a festive aspect, and just now it had received a great deal. To say nothing of its being Christmas time — when, from long force of habit the old house could scarcely help looking cheerful under the most adverse circumstances imaginable — it was tbe season of Rosalie Goodhall coining of age, in honour of which event tbe house-spirits hud resolved to make a great todo. For a double reason, hers and their own — \ theirs, because Rosulie was so dear to them," as well she might be ; hers, because upon her coming of age another yet more important event depended — viz., ber marriage - a matter which those same house spirits had all along liken under their own especial protection. " But I dare say, " remarked' Lord Riverdale's informant, a younger daughter of Mr. ' Goodhall, "that you don't believe in the existence of the poor house spirits at all. And il you are so unhappy, Sir, I am very sorry for you, but it's no use in the world my trying to convert you." The old man smiled. "My dear," he said, , " I am beginning to open my eyes to a good many pleasant things tbey have long been blind to; and why not to spirits among the rest. ? " . "Why not?" she echoed. "You know, Sir, it is an old German fancy that peoples every house with them, and gives them an interest in, if not an influence over, its iv mates. You know Germany, Sir ? " "Yes," he answered, " well. There are few countries, indeed, with which lam not familiar." "Ah ! you bave bsen a great traveller." " Yes," he told her, "a very great traveller." "And a merchant, papa said, I think ?" "Well — yes," he said, "a merchant, perhaps ; and the most unsuccessful possible." " Unsuccessful ! But you are very rich, Sir," she said ; " Papa told us so before we saw yon." " Rich, yes ; but one may possess the wealth of Golconda, and yet in the essential elements of success have failed most miserably." " I suppose so. But it must be pleasant to be wealthy too. One uever need know an unhappy hour theu." He laughed outright in his consciousness of a higher practical knowledge than hers. , "Indeed, my dear, "that remark only shows how little you know of the world." She looked at him gravely, a higher, more perfect knowledge shining from her dark eyes. ! " I mean," she sard, " while there is sorrow ' iv the world that money can minister to — poverty it may relieve. Aud I think t must be right, Sir, if it be true, as we are told, that oue of those calamities, at least, shall never cease out of the world.'' It was a sharp vebuke. He felt it, and was silent, watching her with a curious interest. Feigning more fatigue and feebleness thau he felt, the old Lord, upon being introduced to tbe pleasant family party, had withdrawn into a comer of the fireside out of the current of their gaiety, watching them, and asking questions of his young informant. "Your sister is very handsome?" be said, after a pause. " And so good and dear to all of us. Ah ! we shall miss her very much" George would be down to night, she went on to tell him ; he was expected every minute. " George is to be her husband ?" tbe old man asked. " Yes. Did I not teli you ? Ah ! you will be glid to know hira. He is a lising artist ; will be a great man some day, people say. But whether that ever comes to pass or no, he is a good fellow , worthy of Rosy and of Rosy's love." While they were speaking of him there was a sound of wheels without. The old Lord, looking for tbe entrance of tbe new comers keenly, laid his hand upon bis companion's arm. "Pardon me, stay with me a moment linger, if you please. Tbe slighter of those men, with the f.iir hair and happy face, is not George Cowper." " No ; be is my brother, his friend and old companion." " Yes," be muttered, in a r-»ice so low that she could not hear hira, " I might have seen that. I should have known that hot eye and proud lip anywhere." "You would like to know George, Sir," she said, " I will bring him to you." " Not to night, my dear," he said quickly. "I am growing weary. I shall soon retire. There will be other opportunities. I am to be your guest for some days, you know." Still further into the shade, with a yet greater show of weariness and feebleness, old Lord Riverdale fell back, shrinking from thei notice. But from bis reli-ement he watched tbe party intently, his eye following ever the tall figure of the young artist as he moved among them. . He seized au early opportunity of leaving uuperceived, and retired to his room ; but not , yet lo rest. Once there, he shook off without an effort that look of fatigue and age wbich bis form had worn below, and, pulling a chair i forward to the fire, sat in its welcome warmth, . busy with the past, tbe present, and the future.

He had been seated thus some t*v» hours, perhaps, when v knock was heard at the door, when his host entered. " Lord River dale," he said, "your seivaru told me ynu had not retired to rest. Cili you spare me half an hour," He nodded, "in the fust place, Goodall, let me thank you for giving meshelter, warmth, and plenty. In putting its proper value upou this obligation, I do not forget thatl have been — am still — your enemy" " My lord," said tlie oiher, " whether these words aie spoken seriously or lightly, I am afraid they are too true, It will be my misfortune to-night, I fear, to revive, aud it may be lo perpetuate, that enmity. " How, Godail ?" asked the old Lord. "It would have been right of me," said bis companion, yet more hesitating!}, "to have spoken before you crossed the threshold of my house or broke bread in it. But you were so bent on entering, your need seemed so urgent that I refrained : rightly or wrongly, you must do me the favor of deciding now." "Assuredly. Be seated£Goodall. So : you bave my attentiou." " Will your Lordship be pleased to carry it back to a period now twenty years ago?" " Soon done, and easily," he said. "It has been making the journey often lately." "And give me permission to speak of one who had the misfortune, in seeking her happiness"' "To destroy mine !" he cried. " But let that pass. It was her selfishness and my weakness whose paths crossed. Psba ! 'tis an old tale ; let us pass it by, I say again ." " Passing it by, then, my Lord, from no want of inclination or ability on my part to meet it, but at your wish, I desire to bring to your recollection the fact tbat when Lady Maria Cowper died in this house she left to mourn her, besides many dear friends, achild." He bowed. " Au only child, who, his father dead before her, grew up to manhood, his very existence unheeded by your Lordship aud your Lordship's family." " His very existence absolutely unnoticed by me, and, as a matter of course, by them, seeing Lord Riverdale is rich and heirless and may leave his wealth to such of his family as may show themselves most obedient to his whimsand will." " My Lord," said the other, smiling, " the unanimity of your tioble family was perfect and most admirable- Anyhow, young Cowper grew up among his father's friends. Of them perhaps I had been the chief." Tbe old Lord bowed again, watching the speaker closely, with a strange expression on his hard, strong f.ice. "It was ratural that he should be much at our home; natural that he should regard us as his best, aud nearest friends, and for some boyish wish to attach himself even yet closer to us." "Andnotunnaturalthat,young,inexperieuced ardent, he should be struck with Miss Rosalie, Goodall's charms." "Considering the provocation, my Lord," said the other with admirable composure, " it was most natural." "Not altogether without a precedent that her father should not object over much to secure Lord Riverdale's only grandson for his daughter's hand." " My Lord," said Mr Goodall, calmly, not a muscle of his proud handsome face stirring from shame or anger, " you know me and my principles of old, I think." I am not here to defend or justify them. Rank has no charm, no awe for me. My pulse beats no faster, my reverence is no more moved, addressing you Lord Riverdale, sitting tbere, than if you were the sweep who lust week cleaned this chimney. My Lord, I swear that your grandson's connection with you never influenced me one whit in ray consenting to give him the joy of my heart, tbe pride of by home." " No, Goodall ?" said tbe old Lord. " No. But I tell you, frankly, I was not fool nor coward enough to let it come between the sunshine and my darling. When I was convinced that they loved one another, and that their happiness depended upou my word, I was little likely to let you, my Lord, with all the peerage at your back, rob my darling of her life and future." " I dare say not, Goodall." " But the young man, your neglected grandson, was minded still more tborougly to separate himself from you and yours. Hitherto, although too proud to address or approach you, 1 think some thought of a time when you might relent towards bis mother, in him, and endow him with a part of your wealth, had kept him from hard, independent labour. But now, made betterby his houest love, stimulated fto win a woman's respect as well as a young j girl's fancy, he wonld ask of me no promise , until Rosalie should becojoe of age, determinr ing meanwhile to make a profession of what r had been the amusement of his leisure hours, f and win his way to competency and repute. I My Lord, this he has done, arrd he comes to night, no longer an aimless hanger-on to Fortune's skirt until she should be pleased to relent and smile upon him, but a man, stroug, honest, confident, 1^ claim of me the reward of his successful industry." "Very pretty, Goodall," said the old Lord, quietly. " Qiite alromance, upon my honor !" " And he shall have it at my hands, Lord Riverdale. It was tbis that I ought to have told you earlier that I tell you now. As an accomplished purpose of us all, remember that your presence among us shall have no power to prevent, even to retard." | " No Goodall V The other had risen in some excitement; his handsome face flushed with colour, his hands tight clenched. " No, I say ;by Heaven, no!" be ciied in a thick, hoarse voice. All at once, however, it broke, and his manner changed. " Ob, Lord Riverdale," he said " we are old men tbat we should quarrel. We had better drop our weapons — you, you do uot wish to hurt my darling do you ?" The old Lord had risen too, moved, if less than his companion. He grasped the other's hand. "Goodall," hesaid,"oldfiiend,be calm, I say. It is my temper, my old habit of contradiction, tbat kept me silent as to the purpose of my journey here. Goodall, I tell you, there has not been a week of these twenty years that I have lost sight if George, my grandson. If be had ever wanted friends or means I should have found them for bim. I knew he was to be here tonight and that I should meet him. But tbis is hard forme to say, Goodall, is it not? I had my wrongs. I have them still I cannot be expected to forget tbem and tbe past altogether. But you need not fear me ; lam not come in anger, Goodall; in sorrow, regret, that is but natural, but not in anger. I canuot but remember the past and my sometime hopes of the future in him, that are gone with the rest. But he shall have his will, such as it is. He cannot expect much from me. He must be satisfied ifl make him iudependent ofthe profession he has chosen and leave bim to his way in life. It cannot be mine, Goodall. Does that satisfy you? I have something of a heart, you see. So you will give me house-room for another day, and to-morrow you> may tell him all. Good-night!" When he had gone Lord Riverdale remained for a few moments deep in thought, then summoned bis servant. " Oh, Skrimsbire," he said, " you have a " Bradsbaw.' " It was brought him. "There is a nigbt train from tbis place to London." "At 1.30, my Lord, from Drayton, two miles off." J " Good ! Are you sleepy, Skrimsbire !"

i "Rather, my Lord." And Mr Skrimsbire i had quite a sharp struggle with a passing yawn. "That's a pity, for you will be good enough to catch that train, tolnight, Skrimsbire," aad return here, to-morrow evening." " Yes, my Lord." " You will take this letter to Messrs Michel, the jewellers, in Bond-street, and bring me their reply. And be careful if you please, with whom you form acquaintance on your journey down. I warn you, you will be worth robbing Skrimshire!" chapter in. All next day, although the old Lord watched tbem closely, he kept cautiously aloof from the young men, from George Cowper, bis grandson, epecially. In the profession that George had chosen, in the poor fruits of success with which he felt content— -nay, of which he was so proud — in the simple country girl whom he bad selected for his wife, were proof, if proof were wantiwg, that his neglected grandson was unfit, unworthy, of that high position to which he baa power to raise him if be pleased. But he would not. He would do something for the boy, he thought. It was hard, perhaps, that he should answer altogether for bis parent's faults. But be was of bis father's blood, it was certain not his — could never represent the old proud family of the Riverdales, nor fill his vacant place. Such a resolution was in bis mind when, most of the pleasant family party having retired for the night, the old Lord approached Rosalie, offered her bis conerratulations not ungracefully, and, taking a jewel-case from his pocket — brought that day from London by Mr Skrimshire — clasped a rich diamond bracelet on her arm. She started back, turning to bet father in natural wonder at the flash of the brilliants and the richness of the gift. "My dear," said the old Lord, then, kindly, " you are surprised, I dare say. I hare been guilty of a little plot, with your father's sanction of course. I have an interest in you, which you must let an old man express in bis own way." He turned to his grandson standing by. " Sir," he said, with no very great warmth of feeling in his tone or manner, " whatever power or influence I may be found to possess over you I am disposed to use, you see, to further your will and happiness." The young man was as much surprised as Rosalie. " The course in life which you have taken,'' continued tbe old peer, coldly, " is scarcely oue from which I am likely to derive personal gratification. But, never looking for gratification at your band, Sir, I cannot say that I am disappointed." They were looking from one to the other with even greater surprise and Mr Goodall was coming forward to explain, when the old Lord laid v hand upon his arm. " Your pardon, Goodall, let me speak still," and he turned to his grandson coldly again. " Sir, it will surprise you to hear that I am Lord Riverdale— your mother's father." " You !" cried George, starting forward ; " you are Lord Riverdale." " Yes." "My grandfather?" " Your grandfather, Sir !" "And you come here now, after all these years, claiming the right"—— "To interfere in no settled purposes of your life, Sir ; rather, in some small way to encourage, and further them" " Stay !" the young man said, in a thick, hoarse voice, " another moment, if you please. Let me understand you aright, Lord Riverdale. You are here to tell me that, not approving of my life, its objects, hopes, ambition, you do not care to express your disapproval of them ?" " Exactly," said the old Lord, calmly. "And that you are prepared even to further them, you say, to the extent" " Pardon me," he interrupted hira ; " do not let me mislead you. To no very great extent, 1 think? How far it might have reached had it seemed to me probable that you would have profited by and repaid any intentions of tbe sort Ido not say. But, as it is, you cannot be surprised, remembering the past, for which, understand, I lay no blame on you, tbat my purpose has very narrow bounds." " Stay again !" George cried, " Let there be no mistake between us. You purpose this in friendship to me, in condonation of that past of which you are pleased to say you hold me blameless, in exercise of that control which our relationship confers upon you." " You express my sentiments most admirably, Sir." "So far we understand oue another, then. Now, hear me, grandfather. It is true, Sir, that my" (his voice faltered) " poor mother, your only child, offended you most grievously." " Most grievously," he said. "And that you cast her off; left ber (my father dead, beyond the reach of your revengeful malice) to the pitying care of strangers." "It is true that she became to me as one dead while she was yet alive," said the old man slowly. " And that when, upon her death-bed, she sent to you, begging for 'your forgiveness and your presence in token of it, you turned a deaf ear to that pitiful message." "I have said that she was as one dead to me," the old peer repeated. "The voice which reached me I could not recognise as hers — would pay no heed to." " And now, twenty years later, addressing me, her child, to whom her wrongs have come with nothing of her patience, you have no single word of sorrow or repentance for those wrongs to utter?" " No single word, Sir," he said, with bis bard mocking smile. " But, as to a beggar, to me who have never sought your uugraeious bounty you fling it unasked ; over me who have never acknowledged your authority, who never will, you claim to exercise it." "This is no more than I might have looked for, Sir," the old man said with the same hard smile. "Your parents speak in you" "We say then," he cried, " I speaking for tbem, that I fling you back your bounty, Lord Riverdale, blush tbat any of your blood darkens my veins, repudiate an authority you have no claim to. You hear me old man ? I speak in no hot anger, but soberly, earnestly, from my heart. The time was that I might have crawled to your pioflered hand and taken its humiliating gifts. I know better now. Had you come to me representing those whom you have so cruelly wronged, aud, pleading passion, and the bad blood and example of your race in extenuation, asked my pardou for them, you might perhaps have had it." " Your pardon, Sir !" he cried botly. "Yes. I tell you it is for you to plead to me, not Ito bow to you, grandfather. But, as it is, see ! I fling your bounty back. And I tell you that, Heaven helping me, I would not accept life from your hand, held to me in your present temper." Lord Riverdale shrugged his shoulders, look- , ing round with the same mocking smile on bis ■ white lips. George Cowper appealed to them to. " I have spoken passionately," he said, in a calmer voice, " but not without thought and reason. Mi . Goodall— you who have been my father — I have you with me I think. Rosalie, whom 1 t deprive, perhaps, of worldly advantages this > poor hand may never be able to win for you, your heart beats with me, does it notf Yoiu j promise was to share a poor gentleman's life You would not thank him if he brought you wealth instead of honour."

She was clinging to bis arm as be spoke. " Dear George," she said, " with honour, with your own good heart, and strong, busy hand, how can we be poor?" She turned then to Lord Riverdale, standing near. " Sir," she said, "I do not altogether understand your quarrel. But he is my future lord, and I must go with him. I cannot take your diamonds." As she spoke she unclasped the bracelet and laid it on tbe table. His was not a pleasant position, stauding there the mark for every eye. He bowed to them with the same hard smile. " Miss Goodall," he said, " I am sorry for ray poor diamonds sake that they have lost a mistress worthy of them. Goodall, you will give me your hospitality for auother night ?" "Near the door stood George's friend, young Goodall. As the old Lord passed him he came forward, seeing that his step was weak, aod offered him bis arm. " I thank you, Sir," he said, "I do nut see my servant, and lam somewhat shaken. Your friend delivers his blows heavily." "My Lord," said tbe other, " 1 cannot blame bim. No one having your Lordship for an adversary would dream of sparing bis strength." " No. Well, I can bold my own against the world generally. But I Lad little inclination to engage with him. 1 thank you: these stairs are steep. He is a lad of spirit, too, your friend, Sir." " Indeed, my Lord, George Cowper is a very gallant fellow." " Aud he possesses somewhat of a very rare and valuable power, that of swaying others. A child, handsome and country-bred, and yet at tbe merest indication of bis will, she gave me back my diamonds as if they had been so much worthless glass." They were in Lord Riverdale's room by this, time. At the door, Goodall stopped. "Sir," said the old peer, "you are in a hurry to leave me ? Will you give me half an hour ? You smoke? Skrimshire has some good cigars, I think." Again, seated before the fire, the od Lwl could throw off tbe age and feebleness that had seemed to press so heavily upon hira below Leaning bis head upon his hand, he was natching his young companion with a curious smile. " You knew your friend's history before tonight, Sir ?" be asked. "So much as he pleased to tell me. It was not a great deal, my Lord." " He did not talk much of us then, this boy, he laid little store by his connection with us ?" " My Lord," said the other, laughing very heartily, "my old friend is, as you have seen to-night, of a rather hot, impulsive temperament." " Yes." "Where be loves he gives all his heart. And he is a good hater." " He is like us, then," said the old Lord with a grim sirile. " So tbat, you see, whenever he did talk of you it was with sentiments and in terms you would not thank me to repeat. "Ah ! You are his close companion, Mr Goodall ?" " I have been for years." "You know his affairs well?" " I have been told them ; but I have taken care to forget tbem." *' Of course; I understand you Mr Goodall," he said, with another grim smile; " and I will not intrude upon your confidence. But it is true — your friend is successful in'bis calling ?" " Successful •' Oh yes my Lord. He will do in time, I think." " Painters, nowadays, make large sums by their work ?" " Some of them — yes." " Your friend now, he can afford to be independent?" " No doubt." " He is rich in the exercise of his profession alone." Tbe young man laughed. " My Lord, reflect. George is not twentyfive years of age ; and he is a conscientious fellow and will only paint what he sees. But, so long as he has bread and cheese and enough tobacco, you would find it difficult to persuade him that be was poor." Tbe old Lord's face grew thoughtful. He was silent for a long while. "Mr Goodall," he said, " the world bas changed, I think ; or I may have been so long out of it as to have forgotten all about it. You will not have another cigar? No? Then good nigbt Sir, and thank you." Had the world's fashion changed since be was of it, he sat thinking. Or had he never seen, and did he know nothing, after all, of tbat world of honest labour and contentment in which these young men moved? If it were so — if such an unknown world existed — it must surely be a bright and happy one, tbat tbey should hold to it so closely, and be so proud of their position in it. It must be attractive, indeed, that one of .these its denizens, so poor as to be compelled to work bard for a bare subsistence, should fling back tbe wealth be bad offered bim, while another should as good as laugh at bim to his very face. He was not angry with her boy; be thought. All the while that George was taunting and defying him he had not felt one spark of anger inflame bis heart against him- He felt even proud of the gallant spirit that had reared itself so defiantly against his authority. His arm was an arm worth resting on, a heart worth winning. It was better finding bim so than if he had hastensd to accept his proffered bounty. He should have despised him then. Now he admired, could lore him even. Of course he would not tell his grandson so. All between them was over now for ever. He would be true to bis pride to the last, although its gratification could give no one but himself pain now. He bad dismissed his servant, and, as he sat there thinking of these things, the night wore on apace. The bouse was very quiet by this time. His room was in one wing of it, away from the rest, Sitting before the fire, he fell from time to time into a troubled sleep. Once, when awoke after one of these intervals of slumber, he found that the lamp was burning low and dim and that tbe fire was out. Rousing himself then, with a vague, uneasy sensation of nervousness, he was startled to find tbe still silence of the night broken by distant confused cries, the nearer sound of crackling timber, and the rush as of a mighty wind. Stumbling to the door, he unlocked and threw it open. A dense cloud of hot smoke swept up the staircase towards him. Merciful Heaven! the old house was on fire! CHAPTEB IV. He was a brave man, and it did not take bim long to collect his thoughts. A glance at the window was enough to show him that, unaided, escape by tbat way was hopeless. The staircase must be tried, then. His preparations were soon made. He took his papers, forced them with bis money into a pocket, and was '■ ready to make the attempt. But the few ' seconds he bad spent in doing this told against bim. As he opened the door, a figure in a strange ' undress flew past bim. It was his servant, Skrimsbire. He called, even caught at him, but the frightened man tore himself from his • grasp, With a grim smile the old Lord pref pared to follow bim. • Just theu a door below, opened perhaps by - his servant in his escape, let in a fresh draught > of air, and a great cloud of smoke and sparks ■ rushed up towards and enveloped him. It f would have been downright madness to have • fought a way through it, even had he known i the shape of the house below, and been sure that, once there, he would have been safe.

That was so clear tbat, nearly stifled as he was he stumbled back into bis room again. He was safe there for a little wbile, at all events. But not for long, he knew. He threw up the window and looked out again. Now 1 and then as the smoke cleared away, he could see below, and that tbe room was far too high for any ladders which the villagers were likely to possess to reach. Besides, their attention seemed directed to the body of the house. It was not unlikely tbat in tbeir confusion they had forgotten this wing had any inhabitant. He shut the window and came back to his seat. Death, then, bad overtaken bim at last. Not in the shape he had looked for its coming in, perhaps ; but be had expected it io some fashion or other for long, and he would not blanch before its presence now. It would not be a very painful death surely. That thick stiming smoke would be merciful ; he would be dead long before the fire's fierce tongue could reach him. Tbe enemy tbat was hastening towards him was little likely, he knew, to give him much - time for thought. But it is strange on such occasions bow quick and full it is. All tbat be bad to regret and repent of flashed before the old Lord's mind as he sat there. But what dwelt longest upon it was the last and freshest of all. Before he died he should bave liked to have elapsed that boy's hand in friendship if not in love, for once. Tbat band was nearer to bim at that moment than be dreamt. The thought of George so filled bis mind as for a moment to exclude all consideration of his danger. He Was recalled to it by a crashing blow upon tbe window, shattering it. His time had come, then. He turned to meet his death. The window was flung up then, ard not death, but George Cowper, with hope of life and rescue leaped into the room. The old man fell back. " Good Heaven !" he cried, "you here?" " Hush ! " he said ; " there is no time to lose. It was the only way of reaching you. We could not leave you to die without an effort" "And you have risked — may lose — your young life for a worthless one like mine ?" he eric. " Sir, it is not right. I cannot permit it. Qiick ' leave me, I tell you, and save yourself." "If you will •• • j .Im, Sir." he said, l i no life need be lost. If you arc not, then two are sped." He led him to the window and bade bim look out. Some yards off tbe old Lord saw a projecting ledge of roof, reached from below by otber similar ledges, upon which were gathered figures watching tbem. To tbis spot there ran beneath the window a narrow sloping ledge,' not a dozen inches wide, upon which there did not seem purchase for a goat, much less a human foot. But by tbat perilous path, clinging to the frail ivy boughs above him, George Cowper bad come to his aid. The old man's blood ran cold. " George !' be said, " I cannot walk along that ledge. I cannot stand here and see you do it. But you are young, brave, good. Leave me! There is no time to be lost! Give me your band. So, thank you ; and now, God aid and save you, my dear!" " Grandfather !"• he said, uwe go together or not at all! I will not leave you! Think you were a brave man once ! Where bas your courage gone ? It is the only chance between you and a fearful death. And look I have the means of making the path an easy one." He saw then that he had brought with him a cord. As he spoke be began to haul it in. It ended iv a thicker line, and next in a stout strong tope. He bound this firmly to one of the stanchions of the window. Made fast at the other end, it would bang within easy reach above their beads for tbem to cling to as tbey trod the perilous -path below. The old Lord's eyes glistened ; some of its old fire warmed bis heart. Life was worth making a fight for after all ; was better worth holding now, perhaps, thau it bad been for many a year, "I will try it, George," he said. "May Heaven help us !" "Courage, grandfather!" said the otber. a lf that rope holds there can be no danger. You must take off your boots ; you will find it easier clinging to tbe ledge." As he spoke he took . out a stout piece of cord, and began to bind it round one of tbe old man's wrists and bis. "What is this for, sir?" Lord Riverdale asked. "I must have both my bands free," be cried* " I am younger, stronger, than you are." " So that ifl stumble we both die, George," " You will not stumble, Sir," he cried. "No ? There is no need of tbis precaution, then. See ! Grasp my hand ; it is firm. I tell you I have faced death and danger so often that you may trust me now." He threw the cord aside. "Be it so !" he said. " You are leady, Sir. So, then, grasp my wrist firmly. Now I your foot is on the ledge. Have you bold of the rope? Step short and sure. Oue minute's courage, old man, and we are both safe together." When tbe two figures were seen to leave the window every sound below was stilled, each breath was held. A minute passed, another ; would tbat unnatural silence never end? It did all at onee — a great, glad sbout drowning the roaring of the flames and tbe rush of the smoke. A minute, more and as if in anger at the check tbey had sustained, tbe wing of the i old house from which they bad escaped gave J way and fell in with a fearful crash. With the fall of the wing the fire abated, and the rest of the old house was spared. Under its roof tbe characters of our story were gathered on the following morning, Lord Riverdale among them. " Oh ! Mr Skrimshire," the old man said to a gentleman with a scorched bandaged face who was passing by. " My Lord ! " " I am afraid your rest was rather disturbed again last nigbt." " Rather, my Lord." " You have escaped, I see. Let me caution you in future to close the door behind yon* The one you left open lest night was the cause of ray.being nearly suffocated," " Yes, my Lord/ " And, Skrimshire, excuse me, but were you not somewhat remiss in your duty last night ? You must have beard me call." "My Lord," said Mr Skrimshire, loftily, " I ' hope I know my profession aad that I am prepared to practice it where it does not interfere with— with" "Your duty to yourself, Skrimshire. Be plain, man !" , " My Lord," continued Skrimsbire, " when I accepted service with your Lordship I did not guarantee the possession of distinguished bravery. I know that I am a coward, My Lord; but I have not found it interfere with ray taking a very high position in my profession." The old Lord was laughing heartily. "George," he said, turning to bis grandson, " as this fellow left me in my need so would they all who have worn, ray livery and humored me . * for my means sake. You, nay frank, open enemy were willing to risk your life forme ; not more for me, I know, than for any other fellow* creature in tbe danger I was in. George, you 7will bless the life you have saved, and help me, y.\ to mend it? Nay, why hesitate"? It is L who A; A come to you as; a suppliant how. --You, said f £o\ yesterday that.spme such admission might en. Ayfi title me to you pardon and regard, t ma|te|it;||^ J George, with 'all my heart. I bave.re^r7^«l|j7|l the past for a '. ldrigArWhjle, altboughAl7#a|-|^i^gj proud to say so. .I# that/ enough;? -';^J^ft^i^ffl life— give me happiness, ''g^ndson^ttei"^{4;^ff^^