Squire Cleverdon did not often visit his sister. She was vastly proud when he did. What she would have liked would have been for him to drive up to her door in a coach and four, the driver cracking his whip on the box; but Squire Cleverdon did not keep a coach. Why should he? He had no womankind to consider in his household. Of the fair and inferior sex there was but Bessie, and Bessie never counted in old Anthony Cleverdon's calculations. Had his wife lived, he probably would have had his coach, like other gentlemen, not to please and accommodate her, but out of ostentation. But as his wife had departed to another world, and Bessie was too inconsiderable a person to be reckoned, he was glad to be able to spare his purse the cost of a coach, which he could hardly have purchased under a hundred pounds. As Magdalen Cleverdon could not see her brother drive up in a coach, she was forced to be satisfied to see him come as he would, on horseback, followed by two serving-men in his livery, and to be content that her neighbours should observe that the Cleverdons maintained so much state as to have men in livery to attend on the head of the house.

She was much surprised one day to see him come on foot without attendants. He was not a man to show his thoughts in his face, which was hard and wooden, but his eyes expressed his feelings when the rest of his face was under control—that is, when he did not screw down the lids and conceal them.

Accordingly Magdalen could not gather from her brother's countenance the purport of his visit, though she scrutinised it curiously.

He seated himself in one of her chairs, near the table, and laid his stick across his knees; Magdalen waited with the deference she usually paid him till he began the conversation; but he also, with unwonted hesitation, deferred his communication to allow her to open the ball.

The silence became irksome to her, and she was the first to interrupt it, and then with the remark that she was surprised to see him arrive alone, and on foot.

"One does not require to have all the town know I am here, and know how many minutes I remain," said he rudely, in reply.

Then again silence fell on both.

After another painful pause, Magdalen began: "Really, brother, I should like to know for what reason you have come to do me the honour, and afford me the pleasure of your company. The white witch has a crystal into which he looks, and in which he reads what he desires to know; but you veil your eyes, and I cannot discover, or attempt to discover, thence what your purport might be in coming hither."

Old Cleverdon fidgeted in his chair, dropped his stick, picked it up again, and blurted forth: "I suppose you get that disobedient son of mine tumbling in here every few days."

"Indeed, I do not, brother. Do you suppose that I countenance such rebellious conduct?"

"I did not know. I considered, as he might not show his face in Hall, that he came here for news about the place and me."

"I do not deny that I have seen him; but only rarely. He never did affect my company greatly, and I cannot say that he visits me more frequently since his marriage than he did before."

"I am glad to hear it. How is he getting on in his pigstye."

"I have not been there to see. He and she are content with it for a while, and make no doubt that in the end you will forgive them, and be the best of fathers."

"Do they?" exclaimed the Squire, with a harsh laugh and a flame on his cheek. "Do they think that I have a head of dough, to be moulded into what shape they list?" He struck the table with his stick, so as to startle his sister and make her jump in her chair.

"Good heavens, brother! How excitable you are," said Magdalen; "and I dare be bound you do not know that Mistress Penwarne is taken into the Rectory at Peter Tavy, as housekeeper to your most dutiful and respectful nephew Luke—an ancient harridan who, having set her daughter against you, now does her utmost to make wildfire between your son and you."

"What wildfire burns atwixt us is of his own kindling," said Squire Cleverdon. "And does she reckon on setting herself in my armchair, and ruling in my house, indeed! My son I might forgive had he married any other, but not for having taken Urith."

"One beggarly marriage is enough in the family," said Magdalen. The expression had slipped her tongue without consideration. She saw at once, by the twitching of her brother's muscles, that she had stung and enraged him. She hastened to amend her error by saying, "Yes, you were drawn in by their designing ways. You had not then the knowledge of the world that you now have. Having been entangled by unscrupulous and poor wretches yourself, you would not have your son fall a prey to the like—but he would sow his wild oats, and now must reap his crop."

"Yes," said old Anthony, "he must reap his crop, which will not grow one of oats, but of thistles and nettles. 'Tis a cruel shame that Kilworthy should go from the family."

"It has never been in it."

"That is true—never in actual possession, but so long in prospect as to almost constitute a claim."

"But gone it is. Gone past the possibility of your getting it."

"I am not so confident of that as you seem to be," said Old Cleverdon, snappishly. "In faith, sister Magdalen, you appear wondrous blind. Is there no way of it coming, nevertheless, to be joined to Hall?"

"None that I can see. If Fox took Bessie to wife, he could not bring Kilworthy with him, for that goes with Julian."

"Exactly. It goes with Julian; but who will take her?"

"You have no second son."

"No, I have not."

"Surely you do not dream of making Luke your heir, and marrying him to Julian Crymes?"

"Luke!—who defied me by marrying Anthony to that hussy?"

"I thought not, brother, but—as the Lord is my helper—I see no other way of compassing it."

"It has never lightened on your mind that I might take a second wife."

"You!"—Magdalen fell back in her chair, and raised her hands in amazement. "You, brother Anthony! You!"

"Even so," he answered, grimly. "I am not young, but I am lusty; I am a man of substance, and I reckon that Mistress Julian is not so besotted as was my son. She, I presume, has had a desire like to mine, that the two estates should be united, so as to make a large domain, and as she cannot effect this by marrying an unripe fool, she can gain the same end by taking me, a wise and mellow man of the world. The end is the same. The two properties are united, and Julian Crymes has ever struck me as having a clear and healthy mind. So—I doubt not—she will be as content to have me as that Merry Andrew and Jack o' the Green, who has thrown himself away at Willsworthy."

Magdalen's astonishment held her speechless for some time; at last, seeing that her brother was offended at the astonishment she exhibited, she said, "But, brother! has she given you any—hopes?"

"She has not. I have not approached her on the subject, but I thought that you, as a woman, might sound her. Yet, I am not without my reasons for believing that my suit would be accepted—though not immediately. Fox Crymes has given me reason to hope."

"Fox!—But what——"

"If you will have patience, Magdalen, and will allow me to conclude what I was saying, your mind will be more enlightened, and you will cease to express so unbecoming, such indecorous, so gross incredulity. You forget my position and my wealth. I am not, indeed, a Member of Parliament, as is my friend Crymes, but I might have been had my views been more favourable to the Catholic party. I have seen a good deal of Master Anthony Crymes, my godson, of late; he has been to Hall several times in the week, and then I threw out—in an uncertain way, and as if in sport—the notion that, as Anthony had proved false, and had disappointed Julian of her ambition to have the two estates united, that I would consider about it, and might persuade myself to accommodate her views by stepping into the position thrown up by my son."

"And what did he say?"

"He did not open his mouth and eyes into a stare unbecoming to the face, and impertinent to me. He accepted the proposition cordially. He saw nothing strange, preposterous, ridiculous in it. I should like to see," said the squire, working himself up into a white heat, "I should like to see anyone, you, sister Magdalen, excepted, who would dare to find anything strange, preposterous, ridiculous in me, or in any proposition that I make."

"I tender ten thousand excuses," said Magdalen, humbly. "But, brother, you entirely misunderstand me. If I gaped—"

"You did gape."

"I know I gaped and stared. I admit I opened my eyes wide, it was with astonishment at your genius, at the clever and unexpected way in which you overcame a great difficulty, and rallied after a great disappointment."

"Oh! It was that, was it?" asked the Squire, relaxing some of his severity and cooling.

"On my word as a gentlewoman. I never employed those words you attribute to me. Indeed I did not. The only expletives becoming are of a very different quality. So Fox agreed to the proposal?"

"Most heartily and warmly."

"But, brother, I misdoubt me if Fox has much influence with his sister. They are ever spitting and clawing at each other, and it hath appeared to me—and yet I may be wrong—that whatsoever the one suggests the other rejects; they make a point of conscience of differing from each other."

"All that," said the squire, "all that have I foreseen, and I have provided against it. The proposal shall not be covertly favoured by Fox. He shall, indeed, appear to set his face against it, but we shall make Bessie our means of breaking the ice, and drawing us together. I have some notion of letting Fox become Bessie's suitor—now, when he is accepted, and has——"

"But—brother!"

"What in the name of the seven stars do you mean by your buts thrown in whenever I speak? It is indecorous, it is insulting, Magdalen."

"I meant no harm, brother—all I ask is, has Bessie given her consent?"

"Bessie is not Anthony. What her father chooses, that she is ready to submit to. I have always insisted on her obedience in all things, and without questioning, to my will, and I have no reason to suppose that in this matter she will go against my interests."

"But—brother!"

Master Cleverdon impatiently struck the table. "Did I not tell you, sister Magdalen, that your buts were an offence to me? Will you join with Anthony in resistance and rebellion against me—me, the head of the house? I have not come here, pray understand, to discuss this matter with you, as though it needed to be considered and determined upon conjointly between us, but to tell you what I have decided upon, and to require you, as you value my regard, and look for any advantages to be gotten from your connection with Hall, to support me, and to exercise all your influence for me, and not against me."

"You cannot suppose for one moment, brother, that I would do anything against you."

"I cannot say. Since Anthony revolted I have lost all confidence in everyone. But I have no time to squander. Understand me. Persuade Bessie, should she show tokens of disobedience—which is catching as the plague—a dislike to submit herself in all things to my wishes, then you may hold up Anthony as a warning to her, and let her understand that as I have dealt by him, so I will deal by her if she resists me. Now you will see what is my intention. When Bessie is married to Anthony Crymes, they will live with me, for Anthony and Julian will be much forward and backward between the two houses, as Bessie is her best of friends; and thus she will come to see much of me and of Hall, and will be the more ready insensibly, so to speak, to slide into my arms, and into the union of the two estates. Not that I suppose at present she has any objection to me, but, as Fox says, she will require some justification before the world for taking the father after having been rejected by the son. If she is often over at Hall, why—all wonder will cease, and it will come about with the smoothness of an oiled wheel."

"I suppose so, brother—but——"

The Squire started up with an oath. "I shall regard you as an opponent," he said, "with your eternal objections. Consider what I have said, act on it, and so alone will you maintain your place in my regard."

Then he left the house, grumbling, and slammed the door behind him, to impress on his sister how ill-pleased he was with her conduct.

Time had not filled the cleft between Anthony and his father; and Fox Crymes had done his best to prevent its being filled or being bridged over; for he now saw a good deal of the old Squire Cleverdon, and he took opportunity to drop a corrosive remark occasionally into the open and rankling wound, so as to inflame and anger it. Now it was a reported speech of Anthony, showing how he calculated on his father's forgiveness; or a statement of what he would do to the house, or with the trees, when his father died and he succeeded to Hall; or else Fox told of some slighting remark on the beggary of everything at Willsworthy, made by a villager, or imagined for the occasion by himself.

The old man, without suspecting it, was being turned about the finger of the cunning young Crymes, who had made up his mind to obtain the hand of Elizabeth and with it Hall. So could he satisfy his own ambition, and best revenge himself on Anthony and Urith.

The wit and malice of Fox acted as a grinding-stone on which the anger of the Squire was being constantly whetted, as if it had not at the first been sharp enough.

The old man could not endure the idea of his property ever falling to the daughter of Richard Malvine—of Malvine blood ever reigning within the walls of his mansion.

He had not yet altered his will, and he could not resolve how to do this. He did not desire to constitute Bessie his heiress. He could not reconcile himself to the thought of Hall passing out of the direct line, of another than a Cleverdon owning the estate where his ancestors had sat for centuries, and which he had made into his own freehold. All the disgust he had felt when Elizabeth was born, and he found himself father of a daughter as his first-born, woke up again, and he could not bring himself to constitute her his heiress. Yet, on the other hand, it was equally, if not more, against his will that it should pass to his revolted son and the daughter of his mortal enemy. As he was thus tossing between two odious alternatives, the idea of marrying Julian himself lightened on his mind, and he seized it with desperate avidity; yet not without a doubt he refused to give utterance to, or permit in another. In a vague manner he hoped that the union of Fox and Bessie might pave the way to his own marriage with Julian.