The Squire of Sandal-Side

d was

ng himself desir

ystery

in the battli

feeble ear, he

t tunes the d

etest

n, marking a point in life from which every step is on the down-hill road to the grave. One day he had seemed even better than usual; the next morning he looked many years older. Lassitude of body and mind had seized the once eager, symp

he house with the air of a master; and, when he heard how rapidly the squire was failing, he congratulated himself on his prudent alacrity in the matter. The

een a lon

have you

It

lotte would dispute Harry's deed; but he wished not only to possess Seat-Sandal, but also the good-will of the neighborhood, and for this purpose he must show a clear, clean right to the succession. He had explained the matter to Sophia, and been annoyed at her want of enthusiasm. She feared that any discussion rel

been t

se

ry?

wished the conversation dropped or continued, he added, "He was i

! Eh?

othing but skin and bone and

es; then he asked in a slow, cons

al he wished to make me. I have accepted it-reluctantly accepted i

Harry want

here; and, as he had determined never under any circumstances to visit San

d y

, I

equivalent cou

for ten thousand pounds. A sum of money like that ought to give him

over my head, while I was still alive,

ought of it in that

or sister's wishes might be. Sold it away from his own child. My God! Th

ir

ve me. Leave my house. Do not enter it agai

for you first to

aper? E

shment. He has my money. I lo

ill sign no such paper,-no, n

strain upon him was terrible; he was using up

s only bare honesty. I gave the

Sandal, is not vested in you. It is in Harry's son. Whoever his mother may be, the little lad is heir of Sandal-Side; and I'll not be made

press his right to Sandal's signature by every argument he thought likely to avail. Sandal was a

ay out of this wrong, he will know the right way," he thought. But he had to rest a little ere he could give the necessary prompt instructions. Towards noon he revived, and asked eagerly for Stephen Latrigg. A messenger was at once sent to Up-Hill.

fear me, Steve, that the squire has come to 't

med o

rting the papers he left; and, as I watched his hands, he lifted his head and looked

the squire might rally again. In Mrs. Sandal's heart there was that resentful resignation which says to sorrow, "Do thy worst. I am no longer able to resist, or even to plead."

e corridor; she heard Steve's voice, strong and kind and solemn, and she divined what promises he was makin

rd more. If Harry should come

s foot. They that wrong Harry will wrong me, they that shame Harry will s

and irradiated his set gray countenance. "Stephen, tell him at death's doo

answer, Ducie gently put them both aside. "Wait in the corridor, my children," she said: "none but God and Sandal must hear my farewell." With the words, she closed the doo

s growing dark. We must g

rting soul stood still to listen. He was perfectly quiet until she ceased speaking; then, in a strange, unearthly tone, he uttered one word, "Happy." It was the last word that ever parted his lips. Between shores he lingered until the next daybreak, and then the loving wa

c of disapproval. Ducie and Mrs. Sandal and Charlotte were shocked and astounded at the revelation, and there was not a family in Sandal-Side who had that night a good word for Julius Sandal. He thought it very hard, and said so. He had not forced Harry in any way. He had taken no advantage of him. Harry was quite sa

, that as long as the late squire's widow was in the Seat, her own authority would be imperfect. "Of course, she did not wish to hurry her mother; but she would feel, in her place, how much more comfortabl

! What indignation she would have felt had one suggested that the time was coming when she would be glad to see a stranger in her father's place, and feel impatient to say to her mother, "Step down lower; I would be mistress in your room"! Alas! there are depths in the human heart we fear to look into; for we know that often a

andals of past centuries were welcome, they gave dignity to his claims; but the last squire, and his son Harry Sandal, only reminded him of circumstances he felt it more comfortable to forget. So, during the long, dreary days of midwinter, he and Sophia occupied themselves very pleasa

work under the old authority, had not a complaint to make under the new. For the present master and mistress of Sandal were not people who cared for complaints. "If you can do the work, Ann, you may stay," said Sophia to the dissatisfied cook; "if not, the squire will pay yo

ophia, nor yet himself, had felt able to request the late mistress to resign her seat at the foot of the table. And Sophia soon began to think it unkind of her mother not to see the position, and voluntarily amend it. "I do really think mother mi

tte at her side. Do you notice with what ostentatious obe

e my duty, Julius. But people hav

rds their

he really glanced upwards with the complacent air of one who expected

ngs cannot go on m

Mother must look aft

t month I want to begin and put the house into decent condition. I think I will write to Lond

ings, I don't think she wil

and sister, nor yet buy them with the place. Your mother has her recognized rights in the estate, and she ha

ll tell her yo

she sat at the head of the table. You ought to reflect, too, that the rooms they occupy are the best rooms in the house,-the master's rooms. I am going to have the oak walls polished, in or

r to understand that we expect

ay and stay, until that Latrigg young man has his house finished. Then Charlotte will expect to be married from here, and we shall have all the trouble

changes would cost, and the sum total had given him a slight shock. He was like many extravagant people, subject to passing spells of almost contemptible ec

tte took a pettish pleasure in refusing what she felt she was unwelcome to. Both left the table before Julius and Sophia had finished their meal; and

l after meal, in this way. Let us go at once. I have told you it would come to thi

and damp. It needs attention of every kind. If we could only stay

not marry until father has been dead at least a year. It would

arlotte, he knows the trouble we ar

us. Steve and I would not like to begin life wit

Charlotte, dear,

r to brave a little damp and disc

r home! It is full of memori

think you would wa

him, if I forgot him? Little you know how a mother loves, Charlotte. His father forgave

the difficulty of making an immediate change. For not only was the dower-house in an untenantable state, but the weather was very much against them. The gray weather, the gloomy sky, the m

his lowering brows, and insolence of proprietorship. To these things she had to add the intangible contempt of servants, and the feeling of constraint in the house where she had been the beloved child and the one in authority. Also she found the insolence which Stephen had to brave every time he called upon her

e girl ever since her engagement to Julius: it had first touched her thoughts, then her feelings; now its blighting influence had deteriorated her whole

t she was mistress of all the rooms in Seat-Sandal, she ignored the simple courtesy towards others. Consequently, when she entered, she saw the tears in her mother's eyes. They only angered her. "Why should the sorrows of others darken her happy home?" Sophia was one of those women whom long regrets fatigue. As for her father, she reflected, "that he had been well nursed, decorously buried, and that every propriety had been attended to. It was, in her

w cold and dreary you are! Mother, why don't you cheer up and d

x weeks ago, would you thin

at a shameful

you have just

r heard such a cruel thing. I

t; for Julius is

my own house in such a way. Speak t

ou come to s

pleasantly, to

were very rude and unkind. But if yo

arlotte and you seem so completely unhappy and dissatis

that you wi

words into

either regret or offence, Sophia.

manner even cold and indifferent. "If you wish us to go to-day, it is still possible. I can walk as far

will people say? And how can poor Julius defend himsel

no! Oh, no!-Charlotte, my

d; and she deigned Julius-who had been hastily summoned by

l the atmosphere, and made of daylight only a diluted darkness, in which it was hard to distinguish the skeletons of the trees which winter had stripped. The mountains had disappeared; there was no sky; a veil of chilling moisture and depressing gloom was over every thing. But neither Charlotte nor her mother was at that hour conscious of such inoffensive disagreeables. They were trembling

s. Sandal took it; and without a word she turned aside at a certain point, and through the long, rank, withered grasses walked straight to the squire's grave. It was yet quite bare; the snow had melted away, and it had a look as desolate as her own heart. She stood a few minutes speechless by its side; but the painfully tigh

ere Mrs. Sandal and Charlotte Sandal, was a supposition beyond the range of his life's probabilities. So, when they entered his room, he was for the m

down to rest in their comfort and seclusion. Charlotte did not find their friend as unprepared for the event as she supposed likely. Private matters sift through the

o her dying father,-all that she knew wrong of Julius, she told. It was a relief to do it. While he had been their guest, and afterwards while they had been his guests, her mouth had been closed. Week after week she had suffered in silence. The long-restrained tide of wrong flowed from her lips with a strange, pathetic eloque

! Hear him, talking of having lived so often! God have

ot let her. "Sit still, Charlotte," he said. "He has done his do, and you need not fear him any more. And dry your tears, my dearie; learn while you are young to squander nothing, not even grief." Then h

ire, what

ir. I am come here

I am here

ng no comment, and permitting no disputation. But, when Julius was finished, he answered with a certain stern warmth, "Say what you will, squire, y

man, rector; and I know h

gentleman? Tut, tut! in my office I know nothing about gentlemen. There are plenty of gentlemen with Be

yman, you have no right to s

re in danger'? Let me tell you, squire, you have committed more than one sin. Go home, and confess them to God and man. Above all, turn down a leaf in you

f me. I have always done my duty to t

e them. Don't always give them the white, and keep the yolk for y

e in this matter: make these silly women behave themselves.

r livery, squire; and I won't fight yo

ve a

sire. But it is a bad neighborhood, where a man can't say his prayers quietly." And he stood up

it read. Come, Charlotte, let us thank God, thank him twice, nay, thrice, not alone for the faith of Christ Jesus, but

ith you. My peace