The agent saw he had got on delicate ground; but they pressed him, and he could not very well escape. It then came out that Albert had paid sixteen hundred pounds in hard cash for the engines, by which, as the factory had been pressed for money, he got them at little more than two-thirds of the value, which was considered to be two thousand three hundred pounds.

The brothers were simply astounded. They went home and talked it over with the fourth son, who managed the Belthrop Farm. They could not understand how Albert came to have so much ready cash. At last the conclusion forced itself upon them--the three thousand pounds borrowed from Waldron must have been lent by their father to Albert. They remembered that something had been said of an opening Albert had heard of, to add another farm to his already large tenancy.

This was the secret--poor old Joseph, a bad accountant, had given the money to Albert, and, never thinking of dying, had postponed drawing up the proper deeds. Without a moment's delay they proceeded in a body to Albert's residence. He received them in an off-hand manner--utterly denied that he had had the money, challenged them to find the proof, and finally threatened if they set such a tale about the county to prosecute them for slander. This was too much.

It is wretched to chronicle these things; but they must be written.

High words were followed by blows; there was a fight between the eldest and the next in succession, and both being strong men, they were much knocked about. The other brothers, maddened with their loss, actually cheered on their representative, and stripped to take his place as soon as he should be fatigued. But at that moment poor old Mrs Joseph Herring, who had feared this, arrived, driving up in a pony-carriage, and sprang between the combatants. She received a severe blow, but she separated them, and they parted with menacing gestures.

Once back at Belthrop, a kind of family council was held. Merton was sent for, but nothing could be done. There was not a sc.r.a.p of proof that Albert had had the money. Mrs Joseph, went to him, reasoned with him, entreated him. He turned a deaf ear to her remonstrances, and cursed her to her face. The miserable woman returned to her despairing younger children, and never recovered the terrible blow which the selfish, and inhuman conduct of her eldest son had inflicted upon her.

Ruin stared them in the face. Waldron's loan was due, and everything was already advertised for sale.

VOLUME TWO, CHAPTER EIGHT.

How suddenly the leaves go in the autumn! They linger on the trees till we almost cheat ourselves into the belief that we shall escape the inevitable winter; that for once the inexorable march of events will be stayed, till some morning we wake up and look forth, and lo! a wind has arisen, and the leaves are gone.

Absorbed in the one miserable topic--the one thought of Waldron's terrible fate--Violet and Aymer spent several weeks almost unconsciously. When at last they, as it were, woke up and looked forth, the actual tangible leaves upon the trees had disappeared, and, like them, the green leaves of their lives had been shaken down and had perished.

Even yet they had one consolation--they had themselves. The catastrophe that had happened at the very eleventh hour, at the moment when their affection and their hope was about to be realised, after all had only drawn them closer together. She was more dependent upon him than ever.

There was no kind Jason to fly to now; the resources he could command were gone for ever. Had Aymer been as selfish as he was unselfish, that very fact would not have been without its pleasure. She could come to him only now in trouble, and she did come to him.

It may be that all that happy summer which they had spent together, strolling about, sketching under the beech and fir; all that happy winter, with its music and song; all the merry spring, with its rides, had not called forth such deep and abiding love between these two as was brought into existence by these weeks of sorrow, the first frosts of their year. They were constantly together; they were both orphans now; they had nothing but themselves. It was natural that they should grow all in all to each other.

There was one subject that was never alluded to between them, and that was the interrupted marriage. It was too painful for Violet, too delicate a subject for Aymer to mention. It was in both their minds, yet neither spoke of it. They were, and they were not, married. In a sense--in the sense of the publication of the banns; in the sense of the public procession to the church, the sanction of friends, the presence of the people--in this sense they were married. But the words "I will"

had never left Violet's lips, however willing they were to utter the phrase; and, above all, the ring had never been placed upon her finger.

Nor could that ring be found. They were half married.

It was a strange and exceptional case, perhaps unequalled. Morally, Violet felt that she was his legally, Aymer feared that she was not his.

He feared it, because he knew that it would be impossible to persuade Violet to undergo the ceremony a second time, till the memory of that dreadful day had softened and somewhat faded. It might be months, perhaps years. The disappointment to him was almost more than he could bear. To be so near, to have the prize within his reach, and then to be dashed aside with the merciless hand of fate.

It would not be well that the ancient belief in destiny should again bear sway in our time; it is contrary to the thought of the period, and yet hourly, daily, weekly, all our lives, we seem to move, and live, and have our being amidst circ.u.mstances that march on and on, and are utterly beyond our power to control or guide. "Circ.u.mstances beyond my power to control" is a household phrase--we hear it at the hearth, on the mart, in the council-chamber. And what _are_ circ.u.mstances? Why are these apparently trivial things out of our power? Why do they perpetually evolve other circ.u.mstances, till a chain forms itself--a net, a web--as visible, and as tangible, as if it had been actually woven by the three sisters of antique mythology.

The unseen, awful, inscrutable _necessity_ which, heedless alike of G.o.ds and men, marches with irresistible tread through the wonderful dramas of Sophocles, seems to have survived the twilight of the G.o.ds, survived the age of miracles and supernatural events. Of all that the ancients venerated and feared, necessity alone remains a factor in modern life.

What can our brightest flashes of intelligence, our inventions, our steam engine and telegraph, effect when confronted with those "circ.u.mstances over which we have no control?" It is our nineteenth-century euphemism for the Fate of the ancient world.

It is not well that we should scrutinise too closely the state of poor Aymer's mind. His joy and elation before that terrible day were too great not for the fall to be felt severely. The iron of it entered into his soul. For one moment he almost hoped against hope.

The clergyman who had officiated at the interrupted bridal came daily to see Violet, and his true piety, his quiet parental manner, soothed and comforted her. He whispered to Aymer that it would be well if the marriage ceremony were completed in private, as could be done by special licence.

Aymer naturally grasped at the idea. He had still twenty pounds left of the gift which had been sent to him anonymously. He was eager to spend it upon the special licence, but he confessed that he dared not mention it to Violet.

The vicar undertook that task, but failed completely. Violet begged him to spare her--to desist; she could not--not yet.

After that day she was more and more tender and affectionate to Aymer, as if to make up to him for his loss. She said that he must take heart--they had no need to be unhappy. In a little while, but not yet-- not yet, while that fearful vision was still floating before her eyes.

But Aymer must be happy. They had sufficient. _He_ had left them all he had. That was another reason why they should wait, in affection for his memory. They could see each other daily--their future would be together. And Aymer, miserable as he was, was forced to be content.

Merton had not been to The Place. Not one word had he said about the difficulty in Herring's affairs, and the loss of the three thousand pounds. Violet was utterly ignorant that her fortune was gone. She spoke very bitterly of Merton. "If he had loved poor papa," she said, "he would never have persecuted his faithful servant," for nothing could shake her belief in Jenkins' innocence, and she did all she could to comfort the poor gardener's desolate wife.

Merton, on his part, did not care to approach her after the share he had had in the commitment of Jenkins, and because he hesitated, he dreaded to face her, and to tell her that her fortune, entrusted to his hands, was gone. He blamed himself greatly, and yet he would not own it. He ought to have hastened to Herring's death-bed. Had that dying man but left one written word, to say that Albert had had the money, all would have been well.

In the fierce attempt to revenge his old friend, he had irreparably injured that friend's daughter, and he dreaded the inevitable disclosure. He put it off till the last, hoping against hope, and doing all that his lawyer's ingenuity could suggest to recover some part of the amount. In endeavouring to succeed in this, he pressed hard--very hard--upon the Herring family. He pushed them sorely, and spared not.

He was bitterly exasperated against them. Unjustly, he openly accused them of a plot to rob his client and dishonour him.

He abused the dead man as one who had repented too late upon his death-bed. He would take everything--down to the smallest article.

Neither the persuasions of the sons, the tears of the daughters, nor the silent despair of the widow could move him. Of all this Violet knew nothing.

It happened that one evening not long after the lamp had been lit at The Place, that there was heard a slight tapping or knocking at the front door. Now, this door was close to the window where the terrible deed had been committed. By this door the bride had stepped forth in all her gay attire; by this door the corpse of her father had been carried forth. Villagers, and all isolated people, are superst.i.tious; the beliefs of those days, when all people were more isolated than they are now, linger amongst them. By common consent, this door was avoided by day and night. A dread destiny seemed to hang over those who pa.s.sed beneath its portal. It had been kept locked since the funeral--no one had used it.

Violet and Aymer, sitting in the breakfast-parlour--which was the most comfortable room in the house--were reading, and looked up mutually at the sound of those unwonted knocks. They listened. There was a pause; and then the taps were repeated. They were so gentle, so m.u.f.fled, that they doubted the evidence of their ears--and yet surely it was a knocking.

The servants in the kitchen heard the taps, and they cowered over the fire and looked fearfully at each other.

One thing was certain--no person who knew The Place, no one from the village, would come to that door. If it was any mortal man or woman, it must be a stranger; and the last time a stranger had crossed the "green," all knew what had happened. If it was not a stranger, then it must be the spirit of poor "master." They were determined not to hear.

The taps were repeated. Violet and Aymer looked at each other.

Something very like a moan penetrated into the apartment. Aymer immediately rose and went to the front door. He asked if any one was without; there was no answer. He opened the door; the bitter wind, bearing with it flakes of snow, drove into his face. For a moment, in the darkness, he could distinguish nothing; the next, brave as he was, he recoiled; for there lay what looked like a body at his feet.

Overcoming his dread he stooped and touched--a woman's dress. He lifted her up--the form was heavy and inanimate in his hands.

"Violet, dear!" he said, "it is a woman--she has fainted; may I bring her in?"

Violet's sympathies were at once on the alert. The woman was carried in and laid upon the rug before the fire, the servant came crowding in to render a.s.sistance brandy was brought, and the stranger opened her eyes and moaned faintly. Then they saw that, although stained with travel and damp from exposure to the drifting snow her dress was that of a lady.

Under the influence of the warm fire and the brandy she soon recovered sufficiently to sit up. She was not handsome nor young her best features were a broad, intellectual looking forehead, and fine dark eyes. So soon as ever she was strong enough to speak she turned to Violet, and begged to be alone with her for a little while.

Aymer, with all a lover's suspicions, demurred, but Violet insisted, and he had to be content with remaining within easy call.

He had no sooner left the room than the lady, for such she appeared to be, fell upon her knees at Violet's feet, and begged her for the sake of her father's memory to show mercy.

"Oh! spare us," cried the unhappy creature, bursting into tears, and wringing her hands, "spare us--we are penniless. Indeed we did not do it purposely. We never knew--I am Esther Herring!"

It was long before Violet could gather her meaning from these incoherent sentences. At last, under her kind words and gentle questions, Esther became calmer and explained the miserable state of affairs. Violet sighed deeply. In one moment her hopes were dashed to the ground: her money was gone; how could she and Aymer--

But she bore up bravely, and listened patiently to Esther's story. How the widow's heart was breaking, how the sons were despairing, and the daughters looking forward to begging their bread. How the sale approached--only five days more; and that thinking, and thinking day and night over the misery of it, Esther had at last fled to Violet for mercy--to Violet, who was ignorant of the whole matter. Fled on foot-- for all their horses were seized--on that wild winter afternoon, facing the bitter wind, the snow, and the steep hills for ten long miles to World's End. Fled to fling herself at Violet's feet, and beg for mercy upon the widow and the fatherless children. The fatigue and her excitement had proved too much, and she had fainted at the very door.

Esther dwelt much upon Mr Merton's cruelty, for his insults had out her to the quick.

Violet became very pale. She went to the door and called softly, "Aymer." He came, and Esther attempted to dry her tears. Violet told him all, and took his hand.

"This cannot be," she said; "this surely must not be. I will do--we will do--as of a surety my father would have done. The innocent shall not suffer for the guilty. We, Aymer and I, will give up our claim.

Tell them at your home to be comforted and to fear not."

Esther saw that her mission was accomplished, and the reaction set in.

She became ill and feverish. Violet had her taken upstairs and waited upon her. Aymer was left alone. He walked to the window, opened the shutters, and looked forth. The scud flew over the sky, and the wan moon was now hidden, and now shone forth with a pale feeble light. The heart within him was very bitter. He did not repent the renunciation which he had confirmed; he felt that it was right and just. But it was a terrible blow. It cut away the very ground from beneath his feet.

The poor fellow--he was poor Aymer again now--looked forward to the future. What could he do? The talents he possessed were useless, or nearly useless, in a pecuniary sense. Unable to earn sufficient to support himself, how could he marry Violet? The thought was maddening.

To continue in the old, old life at Wick Farm without a prospect was impossible. To wander a beggar from door to door would be preferable.

When he found that Violet could not leave Esther, he walked home to Wick Farm; over the wild and open Downs, and his heart went up in a great and bitter cry.

The blow that had struck down poor Waldron had struck him down also. It is ever thus with evil. The circle widens, and no man knows where it will end. Yet he did not falter.