His face was marked, not disfigured, by a scarcely- | have said, that I have no children, I have determined healed scar that he had brought back with him from the mysterious expedition we have mentioned. He was tall, and straight, though his stout, well-formed limbs took away slightly from his height. Very different was the figure that now entered the room. Roger Crane, although of the same age as Cyril, seemed twenty years his senior. His figure was bowed with long study, and deep furrows and lines, arising from the same cause, did not add beauty to a face that in itself was not pleasant. His hair was already grizzled, and his figure was lean and spare. At his knee toddled a little girl of about five years of agehis daughter for Roger was married, and though folks said he was a cruel husband, and a hard lawyer, it would have been difficult to have found a more kind and loving father. Putting the child on a chair, whence she could look out of the window down a long avenue of elms, where the little grey rabbits kept darting about from among the ferns on either side of the drive, Roger seated himself in an arm-chair, and waited for Cyril to speak. Cyril was striding up and down with a sort of desperate air, whistling the tune of one of his favorite songs, the first verse of which ran as follows: The stars were winking in the sky, And the moon went dancing along, Come carol us a carol oh !* Suddenly recollecting that perhaps Crane might not relish the ditty, he stopped short, threw himself into a chair, and filling a glass of claret, tossed it off, and began business. Roger, old friend, I've made up my mind to leave the old country. Odds fish, man! do you think that after swearing fealty to our good King James-whom God restore to his throne say I-I can turn about, weather-cock fashion, and bow down to a fat Dutch herring. Pshaw!" he continued, as he saw that Crane was about to protest against this abuse of William of Orange; "I do not often run a-tilt at your prejudices, but I must have my say out now, and you must e'en bear with me this once, for you may never see me again. While I was staying in London, I fell in with the worthy Penn, and have made up my mind to set out for his settlement, that he has named after himPennsylvania. Now seeing, Roger, that I have neither chit nor child, I bethought me of the old friendship of our families: and, albeit, since we left Oxford you have seldom come up here, still I have much friendship for my old college friend, and respect your scruples, though odd's life! I cannot see iniquity in cracking a joke, or a bottle of claret, or sin in singing a roaring song. But let that pass, old friend, we have all our hobbies. So now to tell you why I required to see you. Seeing, as I The inscriptions on the coins of Charles the Second, "Carolus a (arolo." to leave my estates in your hands, if you will undertake the charge, until I either settle down in the new country, as is most probable, or return to England. I will not insult you, old friend, by offering to pay you as a steward, but do you live on the income of the property as it falls in. Bring up your wife and youngster, and live here. By my soul, the old house wants some piety to air it, for it has been the scene of roystering and mirth these many long years. Well, what say you Roger? Will you undertake the trouble on these conditions ?" "In sooth, Cyril Burnley," answered Roger, "sith you wish it to be-though I like not the thought of being an hireling." "Pish, man," interrupted the Cavalier; "I do not ask thee to do so, but I had rather an old friend lived in my father's house, than a stranger or a steward, who would defraud me of the moneys that I offer you as a gift. So no more words to the bargain. If you will get ready your chattels, the house shall be vacant to-morrow at sunset." So saying, Cyril shook Crane by the hand, who, seeing that the other seemed to wish to say no more on the subject, did not oppose him longer. The Cavalier, having called together his servants, told them that he was about to set out for a far country, and amply paid them their wages, thanking them for their good services. There was many a moist eye among them, for rough and hot-headed though he was, there never breathed a kinder or better master. So the domestics packed up their baggage, and departed to their homes. The next day, Cyril and the Counsellor were walking up and down the avenue in deep conversation. Cyril now spoke more freely, and, the first plunge taken, seemed able to think and act more freely. "There is much to be feared, mind you," said Roger; "'tis marvellous unhealthy, this same America they tell me, where there be numbers of savage beasts, besides savage men, of which there be tribes, and exceeding fierce, too, for did they not kill my worthy uncle Joash Wax-confident-in-bonds, who went forth among them to preach the Gospel." "A man must die somewhere, and at some time," said Cyril, "and the bare idea of danger gives a smack to life, like the lemons in a rousing bowl of punch; besides, too, if I like it not, I shall return, and if aught brings me back, why I shall know where to find you, and will relieve you of the cares of the stewardship." "But you may never return, Cyril Burnley." "Well, if I do not, then you may have the lands, and welcome, for of all the world I shall then want barely six feet of earth, and I may not want even that if I be eaten by the savages, which, they tell me, be mighty eaters of human flesh." So, with a laugh, Cyril strapped the little valise (containing the money he intended to take with him), to the saddle-bow of his horse, which was just led out from the stable. Flinging himself on its back, he shook Roger warmly by the hand, and rode off at full speed, followed by a servant leading the horse that bore the rest of his baggage. Cyril did not turn back for a last glance-he could not trust himself to look again on his ancestral home. If he had turned he would have seen little, for in spite of his forced gaiety, there was a dimness before his eyes that might almost have been called tears. Without any adventure, Cyril reached London, and there embarked on board the John Key, a ship called after the first child born at the settlement of Philadelphia, who died, in 1767, an old man of eighty-five, having gone all his life by the name of First Born. After a long and tedious voyage, the vessel at length reached the Delaware, and sailing up, dropped anchor off the rising colony of Philadelphia. Here Cyril landed, and here we will leave him. The old Puritan settled down at Burnley Manor, and brought his child to dwell there-and the house became so familiar to him, that he looked upon it as his own, and forgot all about Cyril Burnley. CHAPTER II. YEARS passed by, and Roger, perhaps too readily believing Cyril to be dead, began to act as Lord of the Manor, altering and improving, selling, buying and exchanging at his own pleasure. While this was going on, poor Penn had been brought into disgrace by the false accusations of Fuller, and after years of neglect was only just reinstated in the king's favor and restored to his government. In the meantime, Cyril had found out how sadly he erred in coming to the settlement. He had bought a farm, which he did not know how to manage, and which, after a struggle of many long years, he was obliged to give up, broken in health and fortunes. During the first year after his arrival at Philadelphia, he began to discover that the customs of the rigidly simple and often fanatic inhabitants-for the most part men who for religious reasons had sought a new home -were little calculated to suit a roystering cavalier; so after vainly seeking for companions after his own heart, he took unto himself a wife, the daughter of a worthy old Dutchman, who parted with her for the slight consideration of a hogshead of tobacco. She, however, did not survive these nuptials many years. For some years before her death the farm had been going fast to rack, so at last the Cavalier, with a sigh, turned his back upon the settlement, and set out with an only son for England. Few would have recognized in him the fine hearty man who came there from the Old World. Indeed, one or two of the inhabitants confided as much to each other, as they watched him going off to the ship, as the vessel unfolded her white wings, and rounded the woody Cape. Poor Cyril! his hair was grey, and, in contrast to his face, tanned by exposure to the sun, seemed almost white. His limbs were shrunk and wasted, and he had lost his former erect carriage in a fever through which the homely, affectionate little Dutch woman had nursed him with unceasing care. When he reached London, Cyril left his little son in the care of the innkeeper's wife, and travelled with all speed to Burnley. It was a hot summer's day, and Roger Crane was seated at the open library window, watching his two girls tending the flowers on the lawn; for the ferns on either side of the avenue were gone, and with them the timid rabbits that used to flit among them. It was now a trim lawn, dotted over with quaintly-shaped beds filled with gorgeous flowers. Suddenly a figure sprang in at the window, and before Crane could distinguish who it was, his hand was seized in a firm grasp, and a voice that he knew only too well, altered though it was, exclaimed: "God bless you, Roger! God bless you! it is a comfort to see an old well-known face again. Odslife, but you're little changed with all these long years. Art tired of the stewardship? I have come to relieve you, for I have lost every farthing I had in that infernal old psalm-singing settlement, so I have come back to end my days in peace in the home of my childhood. But you shall not budge, man, there's room enough for us all, and your wife must be a mother to my boy, for I've been married, old friend, since I saw you last," and here his voice began to falter: "poor heart, she was a good woman, God bless her. But, by my soul, Roger!" he exclaimed, observing the cold look of astonishment with which Crane regarded him, "don't you remember me? Cyril, Cyril Burnley! your old friend! surely you've not forgotten ?" "In good sooth, no, my good man," said Crane, "I cannot have forgotten you in that I never knew you. and let me tell you that if you think to act Cyril Burnley, you will not find me very ready of belief." Burnley stood aghast. At first he thought Crane was joking, but there was that in his tone which showed him to be in earnest. At length he found words to speak. 66 Roger Crane, for Heaven's sake don't jest with me!" "Jest! sirrah! I advise you to beware how you carry your jest farther. If you do not get hence I will soon make you." The truth began to dawn upon Cyril; he pressed him again and again, until at length Crane exclaimed— "You must produce your papers. Doubtless you will find many living who will recognize in you the fine, hearty, roystering Burnley, of Burnley." "Heartless wretch!" exclaimed Cyril. "Now I can see your cold-blooded villainy; you know as God is judge between us, that I trusted my lands to you, as I would to my mother's son. I know that friendless and penniless as I am, I have no hope left. You may rob the son of your father's preserver of his birthright, but mark me, your ill-got riches shall not prosper you!" He was gone; but before his shadow had passed from the room, Roger Crane had fallen senseless to the ground: whether it was the excitement or the terror of that interview, or whether it was a direct punishment from Heaven, no one can tell; but from that hour one half of his body, from the crown of his head to the sole of his foot, was dead-paralyzed. Cyril went to London, and, embarking with his | like all other good fellows-he assured him that his young son, he sought a home in Holland among his daughters were "as pretty lasses as you might see wife's kindred; and it was there on his death-bed, some within fifty miles;" that the old fellow was a great woryears after, that he imparted to his son the facts that shipper of King William the Third; and that he drove our readers are already acquainted with. away all the "goodly youths that went a courting the two sisters by his crabbed ungainly ways." This son, Hugh, grew up into a fine youth, and obtained a commission in one of the Dutch regiments, where he passed by the name of Börnhagh. The thought struck him that in Captain Börnhagh, the young Dutch officer, few people would recognize the son of Cyril Burnley, of Burnley; so with all the romance of youth he determined to visit the place that should have been his own, and try to recover the estates which his father, worn out by long troubles and age, had too easily despaired of recovering. For a long time after Cyril's departure, Crane had been fearful lest he should strive to recover his estates, or perhaps, attempt to take personal vengeance. Conscience was not still, and the worm that never dies was not asleep, and the old man, as he went trailing one half of his body a dead weight about with him, would often curse himself and his fate, and long for death to release him from his sufferings. This and a thousand other things the host told his guest, though somewhat indistinct occasionally. Hugh sat up late that night, revolving plans of attack: first one and then another was adopted and thrown aside until he fixed upon one that pleased him. The next morning Crane was called out to meet a visitor, and leaning on the arm of Lilias, his youngest daughter, he crawled into his consultation room. As they entered, the stranger made a low bow to Lilias, in which his eyes certainly did the best to let her understand the impression she had made upon him; nor did they fail, if we are to believe the little fluttering blush that her cheeks hung out as an answering signal, as she left the room after returning Hugh's greeting with no small trepidation. As soon as she was gone, Hugh announced himself as "Captain Bornhagh." At the sound of his voice, the old man bent eagerly forward in his chair, his bony hands grasping the arms tightly, and his eye-balls glaring terribly. "Speak again," he murmured trembling, know that voice!" Hugh repeated his name more clearly, adding the reason of his visit-an imaginary case of some intricacy. The old man grew calm, giving his advice here and there, as the narration proceeded, with great shrewdness. His only delight was in his daughters; the younger, a fair, delicate-looking girl, quiet and meek, yet, as she proved afterwards, not without a little of her father's determined spirit, when roused. The elder was a dark" surely my ears deceive me. Quick! speak! I think I beauty, but her features bore an unpleasant resemblance to her father, as, indeed, did her character, for she was proud, and fierce, and unflinching, and if she was not wicked, like him, it was only because she had had no opportunity of being so. As time wore on, blindness was added to old Crane's other afflictions, and then his daughters became his only solace. They read to him, sang to him, and played to him, and became so necessary to his existence that the selfish old man would hardly suffer them to go out of his hearing, and drove away, by increasing churlishness, the suitors who had come to seek them in marriage. CHAPTER III. WHEN Hugh Börnhagh arrived at Burnley, he took up his quarters at the village inn--the "Cup and Capon," as the signboard gave out--and having ordered a good bowl of punch, he cleverly opened the campaign by inviting his host to partake of it with him. Hugh was sufficiently well versed in the tricks of the messtable to ply his host, without seeming to hang back himself, and at length, when the genial liquor began to take effect, and the victim became talkative and communicative, he led him round to the subject of the Counsellor, and got out of him all the information he had to impart. Mine host's opinion of Crane was perhaps less compliinentary, though assuredly not less candid than it would have been, had he not seen so deep into the punchbowl. After informing Hugh that the Counsellor was "just the queerest old fish that ever snored a psalm "-for the jolly host was at heart a real foe to the Roundheads, Hugh managed very cleverly in the course of his conversation to let fall, as if by accident, that he was a Dutchman, and a favored protégé of the king's. Crane took the bait readily, became very civil, and taking great interest in his case, invited the young man to partake of some refreshment. In a word, Hugh had opened the campaign successfully, and from that day became a frequent visitor. He followed up the advantages he had obtained, and in no long time made himself master of Lilias' heart. It was not until they had made their mutual confession of love that the lovers began to think how their attachment could be brought to a happy issue. Taking the Counsellor aside one evening, Hugh said, "My good sir, I'll give twenty gold pieces to the man who will solve for me a knotty point that entirely baffles my sagacity. Will you assist me in unravelling it?" "Gold pieces are not so plenty now-a-days," said Crane, "that I should think of refusing twenty of them for advice that it may not take me as many minutes to give you." "Well, then, sir, the case is this: Before I came here I was attached to a young lady of good family; in fact, sir, as far as ourselves were concerned, we were betrothed. I applied to her relatives for consent. I have just received their refusal, and from what I can judge, and from knowing them to be Jacobites, I fear that the king's favor, instead of assisting me, is the cause of my rejection. The first idea that presented had left for him at his inn, in which he thanked the old lawyer for his excellent advice, "that," as the letter said, "he would see was not thrown away." itself to me was to carry her off, but prudence reminded me that the young lady was not of age; in this perplexity, therefore, I thought that perhaps your great skill might assist me." "The thing's plain and easy enough," said the Counsellor, "get the young lady to carry you off!" "How do you mean?" inquired Hugh. "Why simply thus-Get your horse ready, strap a pillion on in front. Let the young lady mount first, and give you her hand to assist you to mount behind her. This done, nothing remains but for her to ply whip and spur and carry you off; and I defy all the judges in the world to lay a finger on you." CHAPTER IV. It would be folly to attempt to describe the Counsellor's rage when he saw how he had been outwitted. For several days he was so savage and surly that even his eldest daughter did not dare go near him. After a time, however, he grew calmer, and would even sometimes speak of Lilias, but he never uttered a word about Hugh. But from the hour she left him, he began to break up rapidly, and before the year was quite out he was seized with a violent attack, which laid him on a sick bed, and his life was then despaired of. For a Bridget gleaned, during his paroxysms, the tale of crime which is already known to the reader. When, as he drew near his end, he became calmer and more sensible, she questioned him about it, and he told her all. "Odslife, a most excellent plan!" cried Hugh, laughing more at the idea of old Crane's outwitting himself than anything else; so he paid the twenty pieces with-long time he lay raving and delirious, and from his lips out grudge, and bade the Counsellor "good night." When he left the house, instead of going down the avenue, he turned to the left, and keeping in the shadow of the house, crept round quietly to the back. The watch-dog came out of his kennel and shook and stretched himself, but after reconnoitring, turned round and coiled himself up to sleep again; so it seems that it was not the first time that Master Hugh had stopped under the little casement, at which he now tapped lightly with a long slender willow wand. At the first tap the window opened, and Lilias appeared, to whom he explained the advice he had received. To Lilias' credit be it said, that it was not until after considerable persuasion, and when she saw that there was no other way left, that she consented to fly with Hugh; but her scruples once overcome, she was ready to adopt any plan he might suggest. The next night found Hugh at the same place, but this time, instead of a willow wand, it was a ladder that he drew out from among the shrubs. Lilias opened the window, and stepping lightly down the ladder, found herself in her lover's arms. After wasting a few precious moments in joyful whispers and kisses that were perhaps too loud to be discreet, she mounted the horse, which was waiting at the end of the avenue, and went through the farce of assisting Hugh to mount behind her; for truth to tell, the only use he made of the hand she offered him was to press it to his lips as he bounded lightly to his seat. Before the next morning they were many miles away; and almost as soon as he discovered the loss of his daughter, old Crane received a note which Hugh THE At the first announcement of his illness his son-in-law hurried to the house, but no sooner had Hugh crossed the threshold than, with a loud yell, he sat upright in the bed, stretching out his arms as if to keep him off, screaming, "Cyril! Cyril Burnley! Spectre or devil— avaunt! Bridget, my child! protect me! drive him hence! Oh, Heaven! mercy! mercy!" He sunk back, his eyes closed, and in a moment he was motionless-dead! Hugh came up to the bedside, and looked the dead man in the face, and said, turning to Bridget, "It is too true-you see in me the son of Cyril Burnley, the man whom your father robbed of his birthright. I did not think to witness such a terrible scene. Heaven have mercy on his soul;" and with a shudder he turned away, and, mounting his horse, set out homeward. Gently he broke to his wife the news of her father's death, and the story of his wrongs. Poor Lilias! She had loved her father dearly, selfish and stern though he was, and it was a sad blow to her to know that he was guilty of so heartless a crime. After a time, she recovered her health and spirits, and her husband established his claim to the estates by an arrangement with the elder sister, who was at first very loth to give up the property, but at last consented when she found she had no means of proving her father's title. In their new home Hugh and his loving little wife lived long and happily together. PHILOSOPHIC NEAR the mouth of a large river, is a ferry about a mile across. An old man arrived at the ferry-house one bleak day in October, and knocked loudly for the ferryman. He wished to be conveyed over as quickly as possible. This old man was a great landed proprietor in the neighborhood, and was universally feared and hated. Woe to the tenant in arrear-woe to respectability FERRYMAN. shocking vagrants-woe to all over whom he possessed power! He was a magistrate; and in his hands the law gained nothing in loveliness. Without wife, without child, without friend, he stood alone in the world. To this landed aristocrat, on his summons, appeared the ferryman. He was a young man. From his earliest years he had lived in the ferry-house, where his father had lived before him. It was a lonely part of the country, and passengers were not very numerous. The boat was often idly moored; and this time the young ferryman employed in reading of that wonderful Civilization of which he had seen so little; of nobles, mobs, millionaires, paupers of manufacturing towns, where men are the creatures and slaves of steam-of great cities, where virtue and vice, wealth and poverty, knowledge and ignorance, happiness and misery, are mixed up in one preposterous and morbid mass. All this he read of, and much thought of; and, having no "properly-disposed" person to undeceive him, he came to very strange conclusions concerning the state of the world, and the existing notions of right and wrong. In particular, he acquired a habit of considering the tendency of every action to add to, or take away from, the sum of human happiness; and this he judged rigidly, apart from all other considerations whatever. As he believed the tendency of the action, so he approved, or disapproved, of the actor. He was poor, as a philosopher should be, and had a pretty, loving young wife, as a philosopher should have. Just as the ferryman and his passenger were about to embark, a little boy ran up in great haste--for he was in danger of being too late. His desire also was to be conveyed over. This boy was the son of a farmer near at hand. He had a ruddy, careless countenance, and frank, fearless manners. Meditation had not yet troubled him. He was very happy himself; and for aught he knew, every body else was happy too. He had heard of poor people starving for hunger, and rich people dining off gold; but had never seen either, and rather doubted it. He had been told of wicked men, who, if they escaped in this world, were sure to be punished in another; but they had never hurt him. He had a dim idea that illness was something painful; but he had been ill only once, and that long, long ago. He liked books, and story-books most of all. The rich proprietor and the farmer's son now stepped into the boat. The boatman set the sails, and they stood over to the opposite shore. The wind was blowing freshly, and the water flew merrily from the prow. The old man, the landed proprietor, is going to dun a tenant who owes him three quarters' rent. The last harvest was very bad, and the tenant was laid up with a fever, and the cattle died, and altogether matters went very crossly-which is the reason why the tenant owes three quarters' rent. His landlord intends now to apply to him in person, and, if this last resource fail, to serve him with an ejectment at once. The young man, the ferryman, is merely going to the opposite shore and back again. He will demand sixpence from each passenger, and will hasten home to his wife Kate, who is just about to broil a beefsteak for dinner. The boat dashed on. The rich proprietor sat buried in thought, without speaking; the boatman was watching the sails, rudder in hand; the boy was dipping his hand into the water, wetting the sleeve of his jacket, laughing and talking to the boatman. They had nearly reached the shore. Suddenly there came a blast of wind, so violent and so unexpected, that before the sheet could possibly be let go, the sail was overstrained, and in an instant the little boat was capsized. Passengers and boatman were thrown into the water, and left to struggle for their lives. The ferryman had been accustomed to the river from infancy, and was an expert swimmer; he floated at his ease. The proprietor and the young farmer sank like stones. The ferryman became then a judge of life and death. His two passengers had been thrown in opposite directions, far from each other-and they had struggled even farther. He feared that he could save but oneand which should it be? Calmly and fairly he tested these two human beings by his creed. The one more deserving of existence was he whose actions added more to, or took less from, the sum of human happiness: all other considerations must be set aside, and this alone must be the claim to preference. The deliberation and the decision were the work of an instant: he swam towards the boy. He seized him as he rose for the second time to the surface. Then, by great strength and dexterity, he contrived to right the small, light boat; and in this he And now that these three are travelling, let me tell placed the boy. The unhappy, tyrannical landlord had what object has brought each into the ferry boat. disappeared for ever. The boy, the farmer's son, is going to spend a week at the house of a playfellow. He anticipates much delight from the visit. There is a large, smooth field, the very thing for cricket, or trap-ball, or anything of that sort-and a capital pond to swim ships in-and a real painted target for bows and arrows-and "Neptune" to go out with them walking. So if the week do not pass pleasantly, it will be rather strange. He perished, the "greatest" of three. Had he been good, instead of great, or not had a philosopher for a boatman, he might have been saved; but he was sacrificed by a combination of circumstances. So, after all, the boy went to see his playfellow; and the young man went home to his wife Kate; but the old man did not eject his tenant, and his body was rolled by the river down into the sea. Or the arch of life, raised by fate from the banks of eternity across the stream of time, both piers are in the dust. When it was first flung forth by the decree of heaven, this destiny was announced to it--"Dust thou art, and to dust shalt thou return." Words, we might fancy, figurative of the curve the first and last lowliness, and the intermediate elevation hinted in the word "return." |