CHAPTER III.

STILL UNDER THE ELM TREES.

"RATHER a pleasant sort of gentleman after all," remarked Timothy Turnbull, looking after the stranger, and rising respectfully to greet the new-comer, who, begging both the gossips to keep their seats, sat down on the opposite bench to rest, and leaning forward, began to trace lines in the dust at his feet with his walking stick, and to speak as if musing on the lawyer's parting words.

"Yes, quite true; our ancestors survived that storm, and it will be well for us if we are lodged in a better ark with a greater than he, and safe to outride the more awful storm which will some day sweep away the usurper's frail barriers and false distinctions, and restore the lost inheritance to its rightful heir."

"Sir!" said the landlord, taking out his pipe and gazing curiously at the speaker.

"Eh!" said the sexton, rubbing his forehead with a puzzled air. "Surely you think that poor Master Guy may come to his own again, sir?"

"I fear not, friends; but I hope he will come to something better—'an inheritance that fadeth not away,' and if his name and ours are 'written in heaven' in the Book of Life, it will matter very little where they stand in the pedigrees of men, and the title deeds of earth. So let us all see that we hold our own by the safe and lasting title."

"And what may that be, sir, to your way of thinking?" asked Timothy, feeling that he must say something to break an awkward pause.

"By faith in the Son of God; 'whosoever believeth,' that is the deed of transfer which makes eternal life and glory ours. And if we do cast in our lot with Him who gave Himself to be 'made sin for us, that we might be made the righteousness of God in Him,' we shall share the triumph of that hour for which all creation groans, when the once rejected King and Saviour shall come to assert His blood-bought rights, and receive His redeemed inheritance."

"Amen," said the clerk solemnly. "But, sir, we should like to hear what you think about this bad business of selling the property away from its right owners, for the whole village is downhearted about it."

"And justly so," said the young clergyman; "I am of the same mind in the matter, and it would do no good to attempt to excuse such a cruel, selfish act."

"I'm right glad to hear you say that, sir!" exclaimed Timothy, throwing down his pipe, and slapping his knees with both hands. "It's no true religion that makes black anything but black, is it Spadeley?"

"It does me good to hear things called by their right names," said Spadeley; "I thought you'd begin to preach about resignation and the like of that, and make it out somehow to be the right thing after all."

"But you see there are two aspects of the case, friends," said Mr. Herbert, determined to set himself right with the downhearted villagers in the matter, and aware that what he said would be repeated in many forms amongst them. "There is the side of the human actors in the circumstances which have occurred, and before God and man a great wrong is done, and the widow and the fatherless are oppressed. God is displeased, and will make it felt at the right time and way, so far as the oppressor is concerned; and He does not require us to close our eyes and hearts, and not see and feel with indignation and disgust, as honest, true men should. But as He has not seen it good to interfere and hinder their doings, we are constrained by the knowledge of His word and ways to the conclusion, that in His providence He has something better in view—some yet unseen benefit to work out for His troubled children, which shall far exceed and outvalue all they are losing now. And in this aspect we are bound to cultivate resignation and exercise patience. We are to trust God in fact, and be sure that He will never fail them that trust in Him."

"Amen," said Mr. Spadeley; "and is that the way the poor lady feels about it, sir?"

"Yes, I am glad to say that I have quoted nearly her own words, and what I am sure she wishes all her friends to feel. And it is the right view to take of all the disagreeable things of life when once we take our stand upon the 'Rock of Ages,'—eh, my friends?"

"Very good, sir," said the landlord; "and if one turns to making the best of it, it do seem as if the old place might have fallen into worse hands than Squire Hazelwood's."

"That is true, Mr. Turnbull; he will not let things go to ruin, and perhaps may help forward some of our little plans among his tenantry, so let us hold by God's promises and hope for the best. You know where to find them, for I saw the good old book upon your parlour table the other day. Ana you, Mr. Spadeley, must have much knowledge of them from your position and duties among us."

"Well, sir," said Mr. Spadeley graciously, "I do have to look out for pretty texts for the tombstones often, for you see when the country folk bring no verses of their own composing, and not boasting much of a gift that ways myself, I fall back upon the Bible, and we're sure to come at something comfortable. But that reminds me of poor old Hayes. Have you seen him lately, sir?"

"The gardener at the Moat? Yes, I see him every day, and a more true, simple-hearted believer in our Lord Jesus Christ does not lie ready for the summons home."

"Amen, and right, sir. Well, you see when I knew he wasn't going to get better, I thought I would ask him about his epitaph, for he must have a head-stone, and it shall be a good one, and I naturally wanted something nice to carve on it. And what do you think he chose, sir? It do downright get over me. None of the pretty verses I told him of would do."

"'Chief of sinners,'" suggested Mr. Herbert. "I know he feels like that."

"Well, he did name it, and I said out flat, No, I wouldn't put it; I'd have more words to make my work worth while. So he thought a bit, and then he said, 'Few and evil have the days of the years of my life been,' and there he's stuck ever since, and I can't move him, so I shall have to do it, I s'pose, for I wouldn't rile a passing spirit."

"And," said the clergyman, "since you don't mind the work, my kind friend, you shall add something to it at my expense whenever the time comes, and it shall be this, 'Blessed is he whose transgression is forgiven, whose sin is covered.' 'Unto Him that loved us, and washed us from our sins in His own blood, be glory and dominion for ever.' I feel sure our dear old brother will not object to that addition."

"Well, he's a real gentleman, our young parson is, though I say it, that's part of the profession in a way," said the clerk and sexton, resuming his pipe, as the clergyman bade them good-night and walked away.

"A real Christian, too, I should say," added Mr. Turnbull; "though they did say he'd been among the Methodies. Never mind that; he's the right sort to comfort the poor lady and her children in their troubles."

"Ah! Poor, dear lady!" ejaculated the sexton. "I mean to beg a last favour of her before she goes, that she'll be sure to come back to be buried in the old vault under the cedars,—for I shouldn't like anybody to do it for her but me, nor for her to lie anywhere but amongst her own kin, and I dare say our parson would like to read the service over her his own self. Good-night, and thank you, landlord; I shall just call in and see how Hayes does to-night, and tell him about the epitaph, and cheer him up a bit."

* * * * * * *

"Joe," said the landlord of the Falconer's Arms a few days after to his ostler and factotum,—"Joe, we've got to horse the carriage that's to carry away the family from the Moat, d'ye hear?"

"Yes, sir."

"Well, Joe, somebody must drive;" and the landlord smoothed his grey hair, and rubbed it up again, and looked perplexed, while Joe looked stolid.

"Joe, my lad, you must drive them," at last said the landlord, well knowing how hard a task he was setting to one whose whole family and lifetime had been comforted and helped by the kind lady at the Moat.

"Sir, master, don't ye now; I can't do it, indeed I can't. I'd sooner be thrashed." And poor Joe looked almost tearfully earnest.

"So would I, Joe, but I can't do it myself; and after all, it will be better for a friend to do it; they'll feel it less themselves than if I got a stranger, and they always like your driving, Joe; yes, you must do it, that's all about it."

After a pause, during which Joe might have been cogitating the possible consequences of a flat refusal,—

"Which 'osses, master?" said he gloomily.

"The black ones, Joe—black harness and all—just like a funeral. I shan't let my spanking bays go on no such an errand. And if Squire Hazelwood should be here, he'll see mourning, that's all."

"Mourning enough," thought Joe, walking off, and grumbling to himself. "The beautifullest, nicest, best lady in all the country round, and as good a pair of children as ever was set eyes on! What will us do to show our love and our trouble all at once, I wonder? Why, if ever poor Joe gets to heaven, it's cause she taught me the way. And I'm to drive her away from the only home she's got on earth! I wish I could take her straight to paradise among the angels she's like; wouldn't I! And never come back no more. Well, don't be a fool, Joe, but do your duty as she's bid you; that's the best way to show gratitude and love to her. But if we goes with them old black 'osses' funeral paces, we'll have all the village sobbing round us, and none of us can't stand that. I must drive and whip and shout my best for all sakes, and so you old 'osses must just step out for once."

"It's quite true, Joe," said his particular friend, Jane Spadeley, whom he met quite by accident as he went to look after the black horses in the lower meadow; "Squire Hazelwood has ended the bargain, and they say he's coming as soon as possible, so missus will be off in a day or two."

"But you are going with 'em, I suppose, Jane. As for Squire Hazelwood, I don't want to hear nought about him, but what about the missus, and poor Miss Maude, and Master Guy?"

"Why, Joe, they won't let me go with them, that's my trouble," and Jane's tears began to struggle into her eyes, though all through a trying interview with her mistress she had bravely bidden them back.

"Won't let you go?" said Joe in amazement; for the thing seemed incredible. He would have let her do anything she wished.

"No; and why they won't breaks my very heart to think of. They can't afford to keep a maid to wait upon them now. I've begged and begged, and I've offered to go without any wages, and eat next to nothing, but it's of no use; and missus cried, and took my poor hand as if I'd been a lady, and dear Miss Maude put her arms round me and kissed me, and we were all in a pretty state, when in burst Master Guy. He looked round for a moment, and though he seemed choking, he said,—

"'Cheer up, mother, cheer up all of you! We'll all come back to the old place some day when I'm a man,' and with a great stamp of his foot, he rushed away again. But it brought us to, and did us good, even to think of such a thing."

"Poor Master Guy! Poor dear lady!" said Joe. "What can we do for them?"

"Why, Joe, she says we can do the very best thing for them all—we can pray for them, and ask that they may say truly and honestly, 'Thy will be done.'"

"It's very hard," said Joe, slashing the grass with his whip, "and goes right agin the grain."

"It's part of the victory, she says," continued Jane, "and must be fought for, and won."

"Gee up, whoa," said Joe, throwing his halter over the neck of one of the calm black horses as he came up with the creature, out of which all frolicsome spirits had long departed. "Thee's got a bit of ugly work to do, so see thee does it kindly."

It was a bit of ugly work, enough to displease all the animal creation of the Falcon Range.

Captain Guy Falconer, the younger son of the late owner of the Moat, had come home from active service with his regiment abroad, to die in the prime of manhood of a neglected wound.

But not before having, both by precept and example, impressed all around him with the conviction that to him "to die was gain," and that his triumphant faith had enfolded the young wife and children whom he must leave behind, and placed them in his heavenly Father's arms, to be cared for, and brought to Him in due time.

And this treasured remembrance now soothed the pain of an uprooting from home and its associations, such as neither she nor her husband had ever contemplated. For the elder Mr. Falconer had long held a lucrative and honourable appointment abroad, and only used his inheritance at home to drain its resources, and to supply his own and his elder son's extravagances, leaving the mansion and grounds to the tenancy of Captain Falconer's family with the impression that the estate must one day follow its long antecedent history by descent in the male line to the lawful heir-presumptive, the only son of Guy and Blanche Falconer.

Mr. Geoffry, the elder son of the now deceased proprietor, had neither inclination nor health for the English climate, hated the responsibilities of a landlord, was childless, and devoid of affection or sympathy for the brother whose interests he did not scruple to set aside, and whose admired and devoted wife he rejoiced to humble and oppress.

The late turn of affairs had revealed something of this to the boy, who had hitherto considered himself born to a respectable though encumbered inheritance, and the tumult of feeling roused within taught him an unexpected lesson upon the very unsatisfactory foundation of earthly hope, and the treacherous failure of human character unsustained by Christian principle.

For Master Guy had found himself in several violent passions, had indulged in more unbecoming language concerning his uncle and grandfather than had ever been heard from his lips before, had flung his lesson books into a corner, trampled down the flowers in his own particular garden, shaken his young fist at the aggravating birds that sang on cheerily among the trees, and exhausted himself in a flood of tears, with his arms clasped round the neck of a sympathising pony.

The ferment of feeling among tenants and dependents did not serve to lessen his disgust and indignation; wherever he went, kind hearts resented, and thoughtless tongues commented, until poor Guy regarded himself as the most injured of mortals, and his own the most blighted of prospects, to say nothing of those of his mother and sister.

In a state of utter self-abandonment, dreading the event of the morrow, hating to think of the last night in the dear old home, the boy had wandered from spot to spot endeared by happy childish memories, until he could bear no more, and as if the tomb would be a desirable end to all his troubles, went last to the quiet resting-place beneath the cedars.

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