"What is the meaning of this?" asked Fox. "Are these wedding-guests invited to help to make merry?"

Old Cleverdon looked at Fox, then at the door, in which, behind his son-in-law, entered the stranger from Exeter.

"This is Master French," said the Squire.

"I do not care what be his name, but what his business?" said Fox, rudely. "Come in, Master French, and let us have this load winnowed. You had better go." The last words were addressed to Bessie.

"This is what I have come about," said the stranger, entering: "The bill for foreclosure has been filed; and, unless the mortgage-money be paid within fourteen days, then, Master Cleverdon, you stand absolutely debarred and precluded from all rights, title, suit, and equity of redemption in or to the premises, which thenceforth become the absolute property of the mortgagee."

"And this," exclaimed Fox—"this is the meaning of my being constituted heir to Hall! Come, Squire, you must take me into council; for, please to know that now you have hooked me into your family and house, I must eat off the same trencher as you. You don't suppose I married Bess for her beauty, do you? What have you there?"

The old man had gone to his desk, and unlocked it.

Fox pressed after him, put his hand on his shoulder, and thrust him aside. "Let me see your accounts, your mortgages, and whatever you have beside stuffed into that cabinet of mysteries."

"Is there no means of raising the requisite money?" asked French. "Times are bad; but—still money is to be had somewhere. You must have friends and relatives who can help."

"Relatives—none," said the old man. "Friends—I have but Justice Crymes."

"And he is away," said Fox, looking over his shoulder "Away, putting his head into a noose."

"You have a fortnight," said French. "I was sorry for you, but—I must perform my duty. If in a fortnight the sum be not forthcoming——"

"A pretty sum it is!" shouted Fox, who had got hold of the mortgage. "And this is what my father is to be cajoled into finding? That is the meaning of all the hurry and scramble of the marriage?"

"I have debts due to me, but I cannot get the money in—in time," said old Cleverdon.

"If not in time, then as well never," said Fox. "Come, you French, tell me all about it."

The stranger—an attorney from Exeter—looked at Mr. Cleverdon, who nodded his head. He knew that eventually the whole matter must be made known to his son-in-law, but he had not reckoned on it coming to a crisis so soon.

Mr. French plainly stated all the circumstances. A large sum had been borrowed on the property some years ago when purchased by Anthony Cleverdon, the elder, and this sum had been called in. His client, the mortgagee, was dead, and the executors were resolved, obliged, in fact, to realise the estate, and could not be put off. Mr. Cleverdon had been given due notice, and had neglected to attend to it; the mortgage money had not been paid, consequently a bill had been filed in Chancery, and unless the entire sum were forthcoming within fourteen days, the Cleverdons would have to leave the place, which would pass over to the executors, who would sell it.

Fox followed what was said with close attention, and without interruption. The only token of his feelings was the contraction and twitching of his hard sandy eyelashes. When Mr. French ceased speaking, he laughed aloud, hoarsely and hysterically, and became deadly white. His eyes turned to old Cleverdon, and with lips curled and livid over his teeth, he looked at him in speechless rage for some minutes. He was like a mean and angry beast, driven to bay, and watching his opportunity to fly out and bite.

Then all at once, with a voice half in a scream, half-choked, he poured forth reproaches on the Squire.

"By heaven! I did suppose that no one could get the better of me; but I had not reckoned on the craft of an old country farmer, in whom sharp dealing has gone down from father to son, and roguery has been an heritage never parted with, never diminished, always bettered with each generation. And I have had to take this scurvy name of Cleverdon so as to involve me in the disgrace of the family, and mated with it to a maid with an ugly face and no wit—all to get me entangled so that I must with my own hands pull the Cleverdons—the Cleverdons," he sneered and spat on the floor, "pull with my hands, these Cleverdons out of the ditch into which they have tumbled, or lie down and be swallowed up in the mire with them. I will not do it. I will neither help you nor go into the dirt with you. I will leave you to yourselves, and laugh till my sides crack when you are turned out of the house. Where will you go—you and your beggarly daughter? Shall I see if there be room in the poorhouse at Peter Tavy? Listen!" he screamed and turned to the attorney, "listen to what this man, this old grey-haired rascal has done. He comes of a breed of sheep-dealers, accustomed to get a wether between the knees and sheer her; got horny hands from the plough-tail, boots that smell of the stables, arms accustomed to heave the dung-fork—this is what they have been, and he goes and buys Hall with other folks' money, and buys himself a coat of arms with other folks' money, and builds a mansion in place of his old tumble-about-the-ears farmhouse with other folks' money, and puts what money he will into the hands of that brag and bombast talker, his son, to humble and insult the young gentles of good blood and name—and, mark you, it is other folks' money—and then—then he offers to make me his heir if I will take his daughter, whom no one else will look at and give a thank-you for, and assume his name—his name that reeks of the stable-yard. When I do so, then I find I am heir to nothing but beggary!" He shrieked with rage, and held out his hands threateningly at the old man.

The Squire became at first purple with rage; he rose from his seat slowly. His eyes glittered like steel. He was not the man to be spoken to in this manner, to be insulted in himself and his family! His hand clenched. Old though he was, his sinews were tough and his hands were heavy.

Fox came at him with head down between his shoulders, his sharp chin extended, his hand like the claws of a hawk catching the air.

The attorney stepped between them, or father and son-in-law would have done each other an injury. He laid hold of Fox by the shoulder and thrust him back, and bade him cease from profitless abuse of an unfortunate man, who was, moreover, his father, and to collect his thoughts, consider the situation, and decide whether he and his father would find the money and save Hall.

"Find the money!" said Fox. "Do you not hear that my father is away on a fool's errand, gone to join the rebels; was taking them money, several hundreds of pounds, when he was robbed by the way." He burst into harsh, hysterical laughter once more. "My father will not be home for a fortnight if he does come home at all. How am I to find the money? Kilworthy is not mine. It belongs to my sister."

"Cannot your sister assist you?"

"She would not if she could, but she can touch nothing, it is held in trust, and my father is trustee. Let Hall go, and the Cleverdons along with it. What care I?"

"You are now yourself a Cleverdon," retorted the Squire.

"By heavens," gasped Fox, "that I—that I should be outwitted, and by you!" Then he swung through the door and disappeared.

The old man remained standing with clenched hands for some minutes. The sweat had broken out on his brow, his grey hair, smoothed for the wedding ceremony, had bristled with rage and shame, and become entangled and knotted on his head. If it had not been for the convulsive twitching of the corners of the mouth, he might have been supposed a statue.

Presently he put his hands down on the arms of his chair, and slowly let himself sink into the seat. The colour died out of his cheeks and from his brow, and he became ashen in hue. His hands rested on the chair-arms, motionless. His lips moved as though he were speaking to himself; and he was so—he was repeating the insolent words—the words wounding to his pride, to his honour, that had been shot at him from the envenomed heart of Fox; and these hurt him more than the thoughts of the disaster that menaced.

"Do not be overcome by his spite," said French. "He is disappointed, and his disappointment has made him speak words he will regret. He must and will help you. My clients would not deal harshly with you—they respect you, but are forced to act. They do not want your estate but their money—that they are compelled to call together. If this young gentleman be your son-in-law and heir, it is his interest to save the property, and he will do it if he can. His father can be found in a couple of days, and when found can be induced to lend the money, if he has the means at his disposal. Perhaps in a week all will be right."

Squire Cleverdon did not speak.

"And now," said French, "with your consent I will refresh myself, and leave you to your own thoughts. It is a pity that you did not take steps earlier to save yourself."

"I could not—I could not. I was ashamed to ask of any one. I thought, that is, I never thought the demand was serious."

Fox had gone forth to the stable to saddle a horse; finding no one about in the yard, he seated himself on the corn-box, and remained lost in thought, biting his nails. All the men connected with the farm were in the kitchen having cake and ale, and drinking the health of the bride heartily, and secretly confusion to the bridegroom, whom they detested, both for his own character, which was pretty generally judged, and also, especially, because he had stepped into the place and name of their beloved young Anthony, who, though he had tyrannised over them, was looked up to, and liked by all.

All was silent in the stable save for the stamp occasionally of a horsehoof and the rattle of the halters at the mangers. Bessie's grey was nearest to Fox, and the beast occasionally turned her head and looked at him out of her clear, gentle eyes.

Fox put his sharp elbows on his knees, and drove his fingers through his thin red hair. He was in a dilemma. He was married to Bessie, and adopted into the family. As the old man had said to him, he was now a Cleverdon. It had cost him a large sum to obtain this privilege, and he could not resume his patronymic without the cost of a fresh grant from the College of Arms. Moreover, that would not free him from his alliance.

Nothing, perhaps, so galled the thoughts of Fox as the consciousness that he had been over-reached—he who had deemed himself incomparably the shrewdest and keenest man in the district; who had despised and laughed at old Cleverdon—never more than when luring him on with the hopes of winning Julian. He had done this out of pure malice, with the desire of making the old man ridiculous, and of enjoying the disappointment that was inevitable. He had played his trick upon his father-in-law; but the tables had been turned on him in compound degree.

His father-in-law was right—he was a Cleverdon, and his fortunes were bound up with Hall. If Hall were lost, he had lost all but the trifle he was likely to receive from his father. If Hall was to be saved, it must be saved by him; and, had he known that it was likely to be sold, he would never have encumbered himself with a wife—with Bessie—and degraded himself to take the name of Cleverdon instead of his own ancient and honourable patronymic. He would have waited a fortnight; and, if he could get the money together, would have bought Hall, and enjoyed the satisfaction of turning the Cleverdons out of it.

It was now too late. He must decide on his course of conduct. He did not think of doing what Mr. French supposed he would—ride in quest of his father. He would not venture himself near the quarters of Monmouth, and run the risk of being supposed to have any sympathy or connection with the rebellion. Moreover, he very much doubted whether his father could, if he would, assist in this matter.

Presently he stood up, went to the grey, saddled her, and rode to Kilworthy.

On reaching that place he put up the horse himself, and stole up the steps to the first terrace, on which grew a range of century-old yews, passed behind the yews to the end of the terrace, where was an abandoned pigeon-house, a circular stone building, with conical roof. The door was open, and Fox went in. The wooden door had long disappeared, for the pigeon-house had been given up. Within were holes in tiers all round the building, in which pigeons had formerly built and laid. But the owls and rats had so repeatedly and determinedly invaded this house, and had wrought such havoc among the pigeons, that at last it had been abandoned wholly, and the pigeons were accommodated in the adjoining farm-yard, on casks erected on the top of poles, where, if not out of reach of owls, they were secure from rats. The neglected pigeonry was too strongly built to fall to ruin, but the woodwork was rotted away, and had not been replaced. It was a dark chamber, receiving its light from the door, and was not used for any purpose.

Into this, after looking about him cautiously, Fox entered. A short ladder was laid against the wall, and this he took, and after carefully counting the pigeon-holes, set the ladder, and after ascending it, thrust his hand into one of the old resting-places, and drew out a canvas bag. It had been sealed, but the seal was broken. It had been opened and then tied up again. Then Fox went to the next pigeon-hole, and felt in that, and again drew forth a bag similar to the first.

"Here is the money," muttered he. "Enough to save Hall, but whether I shall risk doing it is another matter."

Suddenly the place was darkened—the light entering by the door was intercepted.

Fox's heart stood still. For a moment only he was in darkness. He fell rather than climbed down the ladder, hastily put it back where he found it, and ran outside.

At the further end of the terrace was Julian. As he caught sight of her he attempted to withdraw, but she had seen him, and she beckoned, and came to him with quick steps.

"Why, Fox! you here!—and you were married but an hour or two agone! Why here? Why not at the side of Bessie at table answering the toasts?"

"Where have you come from?" retorted Fox, uneasily.

"Nay? that is for me to ask. I have but just come to walk up and down for air, and you—you spring out of the earth. What has brought you back? Quarrelled already with your bride?"

"I have returned for you, Julian. Bess is pained and aggrieved that you have not come to Hall to be with her. She has none as a friend but you."

"What! you have come after me?"

"For what else should I come?"

"Nay," laughed Julian; "who can sound thy dark and deep thoughts, and thread thy crooked mind? I cannot believe it."

"I have ridden Bess's own mare."

"That may be. And you came here to fetch me? And for that only?"

"I did."

"I won't go." Julian looked at Fox with twinkling eyes. "Oh, Fox! I do love and pity Bess too greatly to bear to see her at thy side. So you came for me? You came out here on the terrace after me?"

"I have told you so. How long have you been here?"

"But this minute. I took one walk as far as the old pigeon-house and back, and then—saw you. Did you come up the other way? From the yard?"

"I did."

"Oh! I will not go with you. Return to Bess. Tell her I love her and wish her well, but I cannot see her; I cannot now, I love her too well. Get thee gone, Fox."