Read Ebook: Harry Joscelyn; vol. 1 of 3 by Oliphant Mrs Margaret

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This was the question which at present agitated the house. Each of the sons as he established himself in life had done so with a quarrel, often a series of wranglings; but they had all taken it more easily than Harry. Certainly Harry was the one most like his mother. Her heart yearned over him. She took a little pride in him too, more than it was possible to take in Tom and Will and their rough affairs. A merchant in Liverpool sounded better, and Harry in his black coat looked, his mother thought, more like a gentleman than any of the others. For the first time for all these years she had been able to recall to her mind what a gentleman looked like, and the pride which had been natural to a well-connected person, a clergyman's daughter, had begun to dawn faintly, timidly, once more within her. Supposing that the baronet, who was the head of her family, should ever inquire into the fortunes of his humble relation, Harry was the one she had always thought who could be put forward. "One of her sons is a merchant in Liverpool," how often had she taken refuge in this as a thing that might be said to Sir John, if ever at long and last he should make inquiries after Liddy Brotherton. The others, alas! were not very presentable; but Harry and Liddy might, if the inquiry came soon, while they were yet young and amenable, show themselves with the best. These were the secret thoughts in Mrs. Joscelyn's heart. She had not given up yet; she was always ready to begin again; day by day her hope renewed itself, her disappointments went out of her mind. And thus she went on daily laying herself open to fresh disappointments because of these new hopes.

And thus life had gone on for five-and-thirty years. The number of miseries that can be borne in that time is incalculable, as wonderful as the tenacity with which human nature can support them, and rise every morning to a consciousness of them, yet go on all the same, scarcely less vigorous, in some cases more vigorous, than those to whom existence is happiness. No one in the White House was happy after the age of childhood, but nobody minded much except the mother, who had this additional burden to bear that the expectation of at least some future happiness in her children, never died out of her. Perhaps being no wiser than her neighbours she missed some legitimate if humble happiness, which she might have had, by not understanding how much real strength and support might have been found in the stout and homely affection of her eldest daughter, who was not in the least like her, and did not understand her, nor flatter her with any sympathy, yet who stood steadfastly by her and shielded her, and furthered her wishes when they could be divined, with a friendly, half compassionate, sometimes impatient support. But Joan had been critical from her very cradle, always conscious of the "fuss" which her mother only became conscious of making when she saw it in the half-mocking question in her children's eyes. No, Mrs. Joscelyn would have said to herself, Joan was a good girl--though it seemed a misnomer to call her a girl, so mature as she was, in some indefinable way older than her mother--a good girl; but not one that was like her, or understood her, or knew what she meant. Perhaps Harry might, if she could get any good of him, if she did not always live in terror of a deadly quarrel between him and his father which would drive her last boy from the house; and Liddy, little Liddy would--no doubt Liddy would when she came back from her school. But all her other children had been Joscelyns, not one of them like her. She was even tremblingly conscious that Harry was growing less like her side of the house every day; but she clung to her little girl as her perfect representative, a last hope and compensation for the uncomprehended life she had led all these weary years.

THE YOUNGEST SON.

Harry himself for his part was not very grateful to Uncle Henry for his education. He would rather have been at home riding the colts, in the middle of all the fun. And he was not very fond of the education, any more than of the old man who gave it to him. He saw the disadvantages much more than the advantages of his position, as most people, and especially most young people, do. He had no fervid desire for learning, though his mother thought so; and to be as quiet as a mouse in that carefully arranged bachelor's house was not half so pleasant as rushing in and out after his own fancy at home. He obeyed while he was a boy, but he was not grateful; and when he began to be a young man and the end of his studies approached, he was neither grateful nor obedient. He went in for all the sports in the neighbourhood, and persistently, though without any temper, defied his uncle. The result was that instead of being sent to Cambridge and made a scholar of and Uncle Henry's avowed heir, which was all on the cards at one time, Harry was placed in the office in Liverpool where Uncle Henry had made his money. It was "a fine opening," the old man said; but it did not much please anybody concerned. Mrs. Joscelyn felt as if she had tumbled from the top of the stairs to the bottom when she heard that all her hopes were to come to nothing better than this. And Harry himself who had begun to be proud of his education, though he did not love it, went about with a very grave countenance, furtively examining the faces of all concerned, that he might see what hope there was of an alteration in his fate. But his father had too many sons to quarrel with any provision for the youngest of them, and his mother had no power whatever, and there was nobody else who could help him. So he went to Liverpool at last, notwithstanding his own and his mother's reluctance, and once there soon began to appreciate the advantage of his liberty and an income of his own. He had been frugally bred, and had never known what it was to have money before. His income seemed a fortune at first, but after a while Harry did not consider it in this light; and to tell the truth his application to his father for funds to push his fortune, to get advancement and a partnership, meant also a something, a little margin to pay sundry debts which his inexperience had been beguiled into, and which appalled him as soon as he had discovered that his income was less inexhaustible than he thought; and he had come home for his yearly holiday with the determination, by hook or by crook, to get this change in his position effected, and to be done with debt for ever and ever.

The house in Liverpool where Uncle Henry had made his fortune was by no means a great house. It had gone on very steadily since the old man retired from it, and now there was a need for new blood. Harry had explained all this when he went to see his uncle, and had done all that was possible to do short of asking for the money to show to Uncle Henry how highly expedient it was to "come forward" on such an occasion. But the old gentleman had not taken the hint. And then Harry had spoken to his mother, urging her to make an effort to get her own little fortune, if possible, from his father's hands, and invest it in the business. To get it from his father's hands! it would have been as easy to get him the moon out of the skies. Mrs. Joscelyn would have set out on any journey, would even have consented to be shot out of a big cannon, like the hero of M. Jules Verne, in order to get her boy what he wanted. But get it from his father! She sank back upon herself at the mere suggestion. Nothing in heaven or earth was less possible.

Then Harry had taken it in hand himself. He was not one who had ever "got on" with his father. Notwithstanding his long absence from home, as soon as they met it seemed that they could not avoid jangling. An impulse to contradict everything his father said seemed somehow the first thing in Harry's mind; and Joscelyn himself, always dogmatical, was never so much so, never so impatient of any expression of opinion as when it was his youngest son who made it. It may be imagined then if Mrs. Joscelyn had reason for her alarm when Harry at last took the bull by the horns, as he said, and ventured to propound to his father the tremendous idea that he wanted money. The young man was a little alarmed by it himself. He took the bull by the horns with a weak rush at last, his mind so deranged by the traditions of the house and the alarming presence of his father, that his appeal was quite wanting in the business-like form he had intended to give it. What he meant to say was, that here was an excellent opportunity for investing a little money, that it would bring in good interest, and would be perfectly safe, and would give him a great step in life--all these things together. But instead of this he blundered and stumbled, and gave his father to understand that his mother was quite willing and anxious that her money should be employed in this way, and that the return would be far better if it were put into his hands than any other possible use of it could give.

"So you've been plotting with your mother," Joscelvn had said. "What the blank has she to do with it? What the dash does she mean by interfering? I've a good mind to kick you out of the house--both her and you."

"It is her money," said Harry, confronting his father; though, indeed, had it not been for necessity and opposition the idea of anything belonging to his mother was the last thought that would have occurred to him.

"I have never cost you a penny," he said; "the others have all got something out of you. You have never spent a penny upon me."

And then the veins swelled upon Joscelyn's forehead. He swore half a million of oaths, cursing his son by every possible mode of imprecation.

"And do you mean to say," cried Harry, indignant, "that you will sacrifice my prospects to show your independence of my uncle? I could believe a great deal of you, father , but I couldn't have believed anything so bad as that."

And then it was that Joscelyn pushed back his chair, and clenched his fist, and gave his son to understand what he thought of him.

"There's not one of the others but is worth two of you," he said, "they're a bit like Joscelyns; you're your mother's breed, you white-faced shop-keeping cur. And ask me to put my money in a filthy concern across a counter, me that have the best blood in all Cumberland in my veins, and my name to keep up; I'll see you at--Jericho first; I'll see you in the churchyard first. D'ye think I want you to keep up the family? If you were the heir there might be something to be said. Heir, yes! and something worth being heir to: Joscelyns. Put your finger on one blessed peerage in the country that has as good blood as mine to go with it; but I've plenty of lads worth counting on, I don't want anything to say to you."

"Blood won't do much for us, without a little money," Harry said.

"What do you mean?" cried Harry, springing to his feet. He had held himself in so long that now his passion would have vent, though he knew very well it was upon a fictitious occasion. "What do you mean?" he cried; "do you mean to slander my mother?" and faced this domestic tyrant with blazing eyes.

Joscelyn laughed scornfully.

"You can take it as you please," he said. "You're of her breed, not mine. Flare up as you like, it don't touch me. You're a poor, weakly piece of goods to carry a big name, but I can't take it from you. Only mind you what I say, don't ask a penny from me, for you'll not get it; not a sixpence, not a farthing from me."

"I'll never trouble you again, that you may be sure. It is now or never," cried Harry, worked to a pitch of passion which he could not restrain. And again, Joscelyn laughed, with a shout that blew into Harry's indignant face, and moved his hair.

This sensation half maddened the young man. He pushed away his chair, throwing it down with a clang that rang over all the house, and crying, "That's settled, then!" darted out and flung himself forth, out of the flush and heat of the quarrel into the cool and wintry freshness of the night.

Other interviews before this had ended in the same way. It is the worst of domestic quarrels that they are endless and full of repetition. What would be decisive between two friends is not decisive between two members of the same family, who are forced to meet again, and go over the same ground for scores of times. Harry Joscelyn had felt the same tingle and thrill as of fire in his veins before now, the same determination to fling out of sight, out of recollection of this tyrant who was his father, and who became periodically insupportable to him. He plunged out into the cold without any upper coat, his body all tingling with heat and shame, as his mind did. Indeed, he was at a pass in which body and mind so sympathize with each other as to feel like one. He sped along the familiar road in the white soft mist of the moonlight. The great slope of the Fells behind was the only object that loomed through that faint vaporous atmosphere, in which the light seemed diffused and disintegrated into a woolly confusing veil. The road lay between two grey dykes; there were no trees or bushes to interrupt or throw shadows into the general haze. He seemed to breathe it, as well as move in it; and after the first minute it chilled him to the very marrow of his bones. The whiteness made it colder, cold without and within, in the body and in the mind. And gradually it had upon the heated youth the effect of a cold bath, quenching out the warmth in him. His steps grew less hurried, he began to be able to think, not only, with a furious absorption over all his father's words and ways, but with a recurring thought of his overcoat, and all the comfort he might have got out of it, which, though it was not a great matter, still gradually set up something to balance the other matter in his mind.

He walked quickly, his rapid youthful steps warning whosoever might be out and about, of his approach. There was no doubtfulness in these steps; he was not wandering vaguely, but had a certain end before him, the parlour of the "Red Lion," which had made his mother wring her hands as much as all the other painful circumstances of the night. He had persuaded himself, as soon as the first novelty of his return home was over, that he had nowhere else to go. To sit between his mother and Joan in the parlour, they could not suppose that a young fellow would do that. Women are unreasonable; they had supposed it, not knowing in their own accustomedness and unexpectancy how dull it was. There was nothing very lively going on at the "Red Lion," and a mother and sister might have been excused for wondering what charm there was in the dull and drowsy talk, the slow filling of glasses, the rustic opinions and confused ideas of the company there. Harry did not find much charm in it, but it was more congenial than sitting with the women. He was angry when his father assailed his mother, feeling it a kind of assault upon his own side, but his father's ceaseless scorn of her, which he had known all his life, had influenced him in spite of himself. To sit at home with two women in a parlour was out of the question. The other parlour was not entertaining, but it was not home, and that was always something. The "Red Lion" was in the middle of the village, which lay on a considerably lower level than that of the White House, clustered upon the stream which divided the valley. It was quite a small stream ordinarily, but at present it was swollen with spring rains and with the melted snow, and made a faint roar in the night as it swept under the bridge, with here and there a gleam of light reflected in it from the neighbouring houses. It was not with any very highly raised expectations that Harry turned his eyes towards these lights. He would get out of the cold, that was one thing, and into the light, and would see something different from his father's furious countenance, or his mother's pale one, or Joan's eyes, that paid attention to everything but her knitting. How strange it is that home, which is paradise at five, and so pleasant a place at fifteen, should be intolerable at five-and-twenty! As he approached the corner at which, coming from his exile at Wyburgh, he had first caught sight of the lights in the White House, he could not help remembering the shout of delight he used to send forth. How pleasant it had been to come home from Uncle Henry's prim old place! but what was home to him now? at the best a duty, a weariness. As he began to think of this a kind of desire, a longing to go far away came over him. Why shouldn't he go away? His mother would not like it, but nobody else would mind. His mother was the only creature, he reflected, whom he cared for at home; and of course it was his duty to come and see her from time to time. But an hour at the utmost exhausted what he had to say to her; indeed, he had never had so much to say to her as it would take an hour to tell. Half-an-hour, perhaps, now and then--that he would like to keep up, just to please her; and it would please himself too. But he did not care for any more. As for all the rest, he did not mind, not he! if he never saw the White House again.

Thus he was thinking as he hastened along the road, his hasty feet ringing upon the path notwithstanding that it was somewhat damp and the atmosphere dull, giving forth no particular echo. Some one else was coming along the Wyburgh Road, a small uncertain blackness in the white atmosphere. Harry knew very well at the first glance who it was, as familiar a figure as any in the country side. Anybody would have known him by his step even, that peculiar step as of one springy foot and one shuffling one which gave a one-sided movement to the man, and an unmistakable rhythm to the sound of him. Perhaps he knew Harry's step too, for he paused at the corner, turning his face in the way the young man was coming.

"Who will that be?" he said, in the obscurity, "if I'm no mistaken an angry man--"

"It's I, Isaac," said Harry, "angry enough if that would do me any good."

"It's you, Mr. Harry! that was what I thought. No, it does little good; but so long as you wear it off in the feet of ye, my lad, and keep it out o' th' other end--"

"It's very easy talking! Keep it out of the other end! I would like to know for my part," cried the young man, glad of utterance, "why old folks should go against young folks in the way they do. It's like a disease, as if they couldn't help it. The more reasonable a thing is, the more they don't see it. It's enough to make a fellow break with everything, and take himself off to the end of the earth."

"There might be sense in that--if the ends of th' earth would take ye from yoursel', Mr. Harry. But that's queer talking for the like of you that have always had your own gate." He had come close up to the young man and was gazing keenly up at him. "Have you no had your ain gate? I dreamt it then. T' auld maister was o' that mind."

"Uncle Henry?--Isaac, you're a good old fellow--you've always been kind to me; but don't talk nonsense, if you please. Uncle Henry of that mind! did he ever let me do anything I wanted to do? from the day I went to him till the day I left."

"Tut, tut, Mr. Harry, he always wished you weel--always weel; and if you have patience, you'll get it all, every penny; just have patience," the new-comer said, patting Harry's arm coaxingly. And then he drew a little closer, still with his fingers on Harry's arm. "And where may you be going, my braw lad, at this hour of the night with your face turned from home?"

"Going? what does it matter where I am going. I don't mind if it was into the river there, or out of the world. Well, if you will have it, I'm going to the 'Red Lion' to rest a bit and come to myself."

At this Isaac shook his head; he went on shaking it as if he had been a little mechanical figure, which could not stop itself if once started. "T'auld maister would never have allowed that," he said.

"What do I care for the auld master? I'm my own master, and nobody shall stand in my way," cried Harry, putting his hand in his turn on Isaac's arm, and swinging him out of the path. He was impatient of the interruption. "I'll go where I have a mind and bide where I have a mind, and I would like to know who'll stop me," he cried.

Isaac thus suddenly wheeled about and taken by surprise, went spinning across the road, recovering himself with an effort. But he did not show any anger. He stood looking after the young man as soon as he had recovered his balance with a "Tck--tck--tck" of his tongue against the roof of his mouth. "It's my duty to see after him," old Isaac said, at length, slowly shuffling along in the young man's steps. There was a certain satisfaction in his tone. The "Red Lion" was forbidden ground--still if there was a motive, a suitable reason for it. "Ay, ay," said Isaac to himself, "a plain duty; so far as I can tell, there's never a one to look the gate he's going but only me."

"THE RED LION."

The parlour of the "Red Lion" was a room with a sanded floor, protected on the side next the door by wooden barriers with seats fixed into them, which acted the part at once of settles, and screens to keep out the draught. There was a bright fire which kept it in a blaze of ruddy light, outdoing the lamps, which were not remarkable for their brilliancy. This fire was the great attraction of the place. The very distant prospect of it, gleaming out into the night, warmed and cheered the passer-by. It was like a lantern ever so far down the river side, on which the back window, partially veiled with a bit of old red curtain which let the light shine through and added a tone of warmth the more, looked out. You saw this window from the Wyburgh Road, and from all the cold flats of the water-side. The poor women at the Smiddy-houses, which was the name of the hamlet to the west, thought it a snare of Satan, and compared it vindictively to the red glaring eye of some evil spirit lying in wait to devour the unwary. But unfortunately the men were not of that opinion. Old Isaac, who was on his way home when he encountered Harry, and who was perfectly sincere in his opinion that nothing could be worse for his young master than to go to such a place, felt, notwithstanding, in his own person a thrill of internal satisfaction when he saw that it was his duty to follow and watch over the young fellow. It was wrong--but it was exhilarating: instead of trudging another slow mile home, to get into the corner of one of those wooden settles and feel the glow of the generous fire, and imbibe slowly a glass of "summat," and suck slowly at the tube of a long clay pipe, and make a remark once in five minutes to one of the neighbours, who each of them took an equally long time to produce an original observation--had all the delight of dissipation in it. Most strange of enjoyments! and yet an enjoyment it was. To Isaac's eye Mr. Harry did not, by any means, get the same good out of it. He asked for "summat," to be sure, like the others, but swallowed it as if it had been medicine; and, instead of reposing on the settle, sat with his head in his hands poring over an old local paper, or walked restlessly about the room, now looking out at the window, now penetrating into the bar; a disturbing influence, interfering fatally with the drowsy ease of the place. Isaac was a man who had a just confidence in his own power of setting things straight and giving good advice, and had boldly faced temptation in his own person in order to do a moral service to the young man, for whom he felt a certain responsibility. But having done so much, he could not but feel that the young sinner whom he had risked his soul for, should have enjoyed it more. All the influences about the fire, the rest, the pipe, the glass of "summat," were adapted to produce a certain toleration and deadening of the moral sense. Still the "Red Lion" was wrong; Isaac knew that his missis gave forth no uncertain sound on this point, and, for himself, he was also of opinion that it was wrong; but there could be no doubt that it was pleasant. Mr. Harry, however, was not taking the good of it as a man fully aware of the attractions of the place ought to do, and this gave Isaac energy after a while to address certain remonstrances to him. He went so far as to get up at last out of that most desirable place in the corner of the settle near the fire. To abandon that was a piece of self-denial that proved his sincerity in the most striking way to himself, and could not fail, he thought, to overcome even the scepticism of his missis. "I got a fine warm corner just by t' fire, wi' a lean to my back and a table to hand, and aw as a mon could desire; but I oop, and I's after Mr. Harry. 'Mr. Harry,' says I"--involuntarily this plea shaped itself in Isaac's mind, as after much hesitation he rose. He took a long pipe from the table, not caring to give up his own, and put it in the corner to keep his place, though with many doubts of the efficacy of the proceeding; for how could it be expected that a new-comer, with the chill of the night upon him, would abstain from taking possession of the coveted place when protected only by so slight a sign of previous rights? "Keep an eye on t' glass, will ye?" he said to his neighbour in the other corner--hoisting himself up with a suppressed groan. His clothes were hot to the touch with the intense glow of the fire; but a labouring man who has been at work in the cold all day can brave a great deal of warmth afterwards. Then he went up to Harry, who just then had thrown himself into a chair near the window, and tapped with his long pipe upon his arm.

"Mr. Harry--summat's amiss more than ornary. Nobody blongin' would approve to see ye here; but bein' here, it's expeckted as you'll take the good on it--and you're getting no good on't, Mr. Harry. Lord bless ye, what's gone wrong?"

"Nothing you can help me in, Isaac," said the young man.

"Maybe no; but aw the same, maybe ay. I've put mysel' in the way of harm to be of service to you, Mr. Harry. I hope it'll no be counted again' me. I've done what I donno do, not once in a three months. Not as there's much harm to be got here; but it's exciting, that's what it is--carries a man off his feet that isn't just settled and knows what he's doing. And when you made a sacrifice for a friend," said Isaac, with a wave of his pipe, "you donno like to think as it's to be no use."

All this time the drone of the slow rural talk was going on, now and then with an equally slow chuckle of laughter; a pipe waved occasionally to help out a more than usually difficult delivery; a glass set down with a little noise in the fervour of an address accomplished; a low tranquil hum, provocative of slumber than excitement one would have said; but Isaac thought otherwise. At a table in the room a few card-players were gathering. And somebody with a new newspaper full of novel information--the last was more than a week old--had just come in. The young fellow, gloomy behind backs, and his Mentor, who was so kindly devoting himself to his service, were losing all that was going on. To make a little moral slip like this, and yet lose all the advantage of it, was distracting.

"Come, come, Mr. Harry," Isaac said, probing him in the shoulder with his pipe, partly encouraging, partly threatening, "out with it, man; or else let it a be and take your pleasure--take your pleasure, bein' here. It's not a place I'd bid you come--far from it. It's running your head into temptation, that's the truth; but Lord bless us, bein' in for't take the good on't--that's what I say."

The man with the paper was hovering about Isaac's seat; but he was not so habituated to extremes of temperature as Isaac. "No, no," he said with a chuckle, "I'm not a-going to roast yet a bit. Maybbe that'll come after; but I dunno who'd make a cinder of hissel' as long as he can help it. No, no, I'll keep my distance; it's like the fiery furnace in the Bible--that's what it's like."

"You think he might as well get tipsy when he's about it? I am much obliged to you for your advice, but I don't think I'll take it, Isaac," said Harry. "Mind yourself, my old man, or there's no telling what the missis may say."

"Isaac--t'auld maister as you call him--is he at home?"

"That's nonsense," said Harry, sharply. "I hope I know his ways as well as you do. I'll go and see him to-morrow and have it out."

"A man may change his ways," said Isaac, oracularly. "Now and again he'll start off--givin' no notice," he added, with gradual touches of invention; "restless like--old folks do get restless, and nobody can deny that." Then he paused, shuffling and embarrassed. "I wouldn't, Master Harry, if I was you," he added, in a lower tone and with great earnestness. "I wouldn't, Master Harry, if I was you. T'auld master's a droll un. He's fonder of you than e'er another; but he'll never be drove--what he's going to do he'll do right straight away. He'll not be asked. How do I know as you're going to ask him for aught? I donno, and that's the truth; but I wouldn't if I was you. Hev patience, just hev a bit of patience, and ye'll get it all. But he'll never do what he's bid to do. You was always his pet, bein' named for him, and so on. He'll leave you all he's got if you'll hev patience; but ask him and he'll not give a penny, not for the best reasons in all the world."

"Who said I wanted a penny from him?" said the young man, piqued. "You are too fond of guessing, Isaac, my good fellow--you go too far."

Isaac made no immediate reply. He knocked out the ashes of his pipe carefully against the window-ledge. "I'm maybe good at guessing," he said at length, slowly, with a grave countenance, "and maybe no. But I'm your friend, Master Harry, and I ken t' auld master. Them that meddles with him does it at their peril. Don't you go near him, that's my advice. You'll hev it all, every penny, if you'll hev a little patience. He's nearer eighty nor seventy, and he canno' last for evermore."

"Patience!" cried Harry, tilting back his chair against the wall. It was all very well for the elder people to have patience, for Uncle Henry, perhaps, who had nothing but Death to wait for that always comes too soon. But young Harry with life waiting for him, and advancement, and all that youth can give--youth that only comes once, and lasts but a little while; for him it was a very different matter. And his heart was hot with passion against his father, and against fate, which seemed to shut him in. He was too much excited to keep his voice under control as he had been doing. "Patience!" he cried. "Pah! if that's all, you can keep your advice to yourself."

"Ay, ay, master, a grand game," said two or three together, wagging their beards in civil backing up of the first speaker, who stood smiling at the table, running the cards through his hands like a stream of water. They all looked vaguely at Harry with a general look of invitation and goodwill in their eyes. The atmosphere of the "Red Lion" was against all strenuous action. The warmth which was so cheerful and bright made them all drowsy. They sat and blinked at it with pleasure and peacefulness, purring softly in the pervading warmth. What had young Harry to do in such a sleepy place? He let his chair come down to the floor with a noise that made the convives jump, and laughed, chiefly at himself. "Come along, then," he said; "I'll take a hand since there's nothing else to do."

So rapid were the young man's movements that Isaac, not so impetuous, was left, standing in the same spot looking at the chair now standing composedly on its four legs for a minute after Harry had taken his place at the card-table. Isaac was astonished, but he was relieved as well. He came back slowly to the corner of the settle, looking at his pipe with an air of remonstrance, but gradually feeling his cares relax, and the pleasure of coming back to the company. "I'm bound to say," was his first utterance, as he put himself once more into the corner and stretched his legs in front of the fire, "as people couldn't behave more honourable. I never expected to get my own place again."

"Sommat oop?" asked his neighbour on the settle, with a thrust of his elbow towards Harry. Isaac thrust up his shoulders to his ears, and shook his head.

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