 
Transcriber's Notes:
COURT NETHERLEIGH.
COURT NETHERLEIGH.A Novel.
BY | ||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
CONTENTS | |
| CHAPTER | |
| I. | Miss Margery. |
| II. | The Shot. |
| III. | Left to Robert. |
| IV. | At Chenevix House. |
| V. | Lady Adela. |
| VI. | All Down-hill. |
| VII. | Desperation. |
| VIII. | Perversity. |
| IX. | Joseph Horn's Testimony. |
| X. | A Costly Mania. |
| XI. | With Madame Damereau. |
| XII. | A Lecture. |
| XIII. | Folly. |
| XIV. | Lady Adela. |
| XV. | The Day of Reckoning. |
| XVI. | The Diamond Bracelet. |
| XVII. | Driven into Exile. |
| XVIII. | An Unpleasant Rumour. |
| XIX. | Flirtation. |
| XX. | A Present of Coffee. |
| XXI. | Given into Custody. |
| XXII. | "That it may be well with us in after-life." |
| XXIII. | Tracing the Notes. |
| XXIV. | A Disagreeable Expedition. |
| XXV. | Sir Turtle Kite. |
| XXVI. | Infatuation. |
| XXVII. | Separation. |
| XXVIII. | On the Way from Blackheath. |
| XXIX. | A Dreary Life. |
| XXX. | Last Words. |
| XXXI. | In the Old ChÂteau. |
| XXXII. | Adela Startled. |
| XXXIII. | Despair. |
| XXXIV. | On Lady Livingstone's Arm. |
| XXXV. | Light at Last. |
| XXXVI. | Visitors at Moat Grange. |
| XXXVII. | An Alarm. |
| XXXVIII. | Robert Dalrymple. |
| XXXIX. | Lady Adela. |
| XL. | At Court Netherleigh. |
| XLI. | Conclusion. |
COURT NETHERLEIGH.
CHAPTER I.
MISS MARGERY.
In the midst of the Berkshire scenery, so fair and wealthy, this pleasant little place, Netherleigh, nestled in a sylvan hollow. It was only a small, unpretending hamlet at its best, and its rustic inhabitants were hard-working and simple.
On a wide extent of country, surrounded on all sides as far as the eye could reach, with its forests, its hills and valleys, its sparkling streams, sat many a noble mansion of ancient or modern architecture, and of more or less note in the county. Farm homesteads might be seen, surrounded by their outbuildings, their barns and substantial hayricks. Labourers' cottages were dotted about; and the men themselves toiled at their several occupations.
Flanking the village, and looking down upon it from its eminence, rose the stately walls of Court Netherleigh: an imposing and beautiful edifice, with which none of the other mansions in the distance could compare. It was built of red brick, curious but bright-looking, and its gables and angles were quaint and picturesque in a high degree. Winding upwards from the village, you came upon the entrance-gates on the left of the road—great gates of wrought iron, with two smaller gates beside them. The lodges stood one on each side the gates, roses and honeysuckles adorning the porches and lower windows. In one of these lodges, that on the left as you entered, lived the gatekeeper and his family; in the other the head gardener. Let us, in imagination, enter the gates.
It is Monday morning, the first of October, and a lovely day—warm and sunny. The gatekeeper's wife, a child clinging to her apron, runs to the door at the sound of steps, lest, haply, the great gates should need to be thrown open. Seeing only a foot-passenger, she drops a curtsy. Winding onwards through the drive that surrounds the park, we see the house itself—Court Netherleigh; a wide, low, picturesque house: or perhaps it is only its size that makes it look low, for it is three stories high. At the back, hidden by clustering trees, are the stables and out-offices. Extensive gardens lie around, which show a profusion of luscious fruits and choice vegetables, of smooth, green lawns, miniature rocks, and lovely flowers. Fine old trees give shade to the park, and the deer may be seen under their spreading branches. Altogether, the place is noble, and evidently well-cared for. Whosoever reigns at Court Netherleigh does so with no sparing hand.
We shall soon see her, for it is a lady. Ascending the three broad stone steps to the entrance-hall, rooms lie on either hand. These rooms are not inhabited this morning. We must make our way to the back of the hall, go down a passage on our right, and open a door at the end.
A rather small room, its walls white and gold, its furniture a pale, subdued green, glass doors standing open to the outer air—this arrested the eye. It was called Miss Margery's room, and of all the rooms in Court Netherleigh it was the one that Miss Margery loved best.
Miss Margery was seated in it this morning, near the table, sewing away at a child's garment, intended probably for one of the inmates at the lodge, or for some little waif in the hamlet. Miss Margery was not clever at fine work, she was wont to say, but at plain work few could equal her, and she was never idle. She was a little woman, short and small, with a fair complexion and plain features, possessing more than her share of good sense, and was very active and energetic, as little people often are. She always wore silk. Her gown this morning was of her favourite colour, violet, with a large lace collar fastened by a gold brooch, and black lace mittens under her lace-edged sleeves. She wore also a white clear-muslin apron with a braided border. The fashion of these aprons had come in when Miss Margery was a much younger woman, and she would not give them up. She need not have worn a cap, for her hair was still abundant; but in those days middle-aged ladies wore caps, and Miss Margery was turned fifty. She wore her hair in ringlets, also the custom then, and her lace lappets fell behind them. This was Miss Upton, generally in the house called Miss Margery, the owner of Court Netherleigh and its broad lands.
The glass doors of the French windows opened to the lawn, on which were beds of mignonette and other sweet-scented flowers, a fountain playing in their midst. At the open window, one of them just outside, the other within, stood two young girls in the first blush of womanhood. The elder, Frances, had light hair and a piquant, saucy face; it had no particular beauty to recommend it, but her temper was very sweet, and her manner was charming. Hence Frances Chenevix was a general favourite. Her sister, one year younger than herself, and just nineteen, was beautiful. Her hair and eyes were of a bright brown, her features faultless, and the colour on her cheeks was delicate as a blush-rose. The sisters were of middle height, graceful and slender, and eminently distinguished in bearing. They wore morning dresses of pink cambric—a favourite material in those bygone days.
The elder, standing outside, had her hand to her eyes, shading them from the light while she looked out steadily. The window faced the open country on the side farthest from the village, which lay on the other side of the house. About half-a-mile away might be seen the irregular chimneys of an old-fashioned house, called Moat Grange, with whose inmates they were intimate; and in that direction she was gazing.
"Do you happen to have some opera-glasses, Aunt Margery? she suddenly asked, turning to the room as she spoke.
"There are some in the blue drawing-room. Adela can fetch them for you. They are in the table-drawer, my dear. But what do you want to look at, Frances?" added Miss Upton, as Adela went in search of the glasses.
"Only at a group in the road there. I cannot make out whether or not they are the people from the Grange. If so—they may be coming here. But they seem to be standing still.
"Some labourers mending the road," quietly spoke Miss Upton.
"No, Aunt Margery, I don't think so; I am almost sure I can distinguish bonnets. Something is glittering in the sun."
"Do bonnets glitter, Frances?"
Frances laughed. "Selina has some sparkling grass in hers. Did you not notice it yesterday in church?"
"Not I," said Miss Upton; "but I can take your word for it. Selina Dalrymple is more fond of dress than a Frenchwoman. Want of sense and love of finery often go together," added Miss Upton, looking off her work to re-thread her needle: and Frances Chenevix nodded assent.
She stood looking out at the landscape: at the signs of labour to be seen around. The harvest was gathered, but much outdoor work lay to hand. Waggoners paced slowly beside their teams, with a crack now and again of the whip, or a word of encouragement to the leading horse. At this moment the sound of a gun was heard in the direction of Moat Grange. Frances exclaimed—
"Aunt Margery, they are shooting!"
"Well, my dear, is that anything unusual on the first of October?" spoke Miss Upton, smiling. "Robert Dalrymple would think it strange if he did not go out today to bag his pheasants—poor things! I dare say it was his gun you heard."
"And there's another—and another!" cried the young lady. "They are shooting away! Adela must have run away with the glasses, Aunt Margery."
Adela Chenevix had gone, listlessly enough, into the blue room: one of the magnificent drawing-rooms in front, its colours pale blue and silver. She opened the first table-drawer she came to; but did not see any glasses. Then she glanced about in other directions.
"Janet," she called to a maid-servant passing the door, "do you know where the opera-glasses are?"
"The opera-glasses," returned the girl, entering. "No, I don't, my lady."
"Aunt Margery said they were in this room."
"I know Miss Margery had them a few days ago. She was looking through them at the rick that was on fire over yonder. I'll look in the other rooms, my lady."
Adela, sat down near the window, and fell into a train of thought. The maid came back, saying she could not find the glasses: and the young lady forgot all about them, and sat on.
"Well," said Miss Margery, interrupting her presently, "and where are the glasses you were sent for, Adela? And what's the matter?"
Adela started up; the blush-rose on her cheek deepening to a rich damask.
"I—I am afraid I forgot all about them, Aunt Margery. I can't find them."
Miss Upton walked to the further end of the large room, opened the drawer of a small table, and took out the glasses.
"Oh," said Adela, repentantly; "it was in this table that I looked, Aunt Margery."
"No doubt. But you should have looked in this one also, Adela. I hope the child has not got that Captain Stanley in her mind still, worrying herself over his delinquencies?" mentally concluded Miss Upton for her own private benefit.
They went back to the other room together. Frances Chenevix eagerly took the delayed glasses, used them, and put them down with a disappointed air.
"They are road labourers, Aunt Margery, and nothing else."
"To be sure, my dear," calmly returned Miss Upton, settling to her sewing again.
The owner of Court Netherleigh, preceding Miss Margery, was Sir Francis Netherleigh; his baronetcy being of old creation. Sir Francis had lived at the Court with his wife, very quietly: they had no children: and if both of them were of a saving, not to say parsimonious, turn of mind, the fact might be accounted for, and justified by their circumstances. Some of his ancestors had been wofully extravagant: and before he, Sir Francis, was born, his father and grandfather had contrived together to out off the entail. The title had of course to go to the next male heir; but the property—what was left of it—need not do so. However, it was eventually willed in the right direction, and Francis Netherleigh came into the estate and title when he was a young man. He married a prudent, good woman, of gentle but not high lineage; they cheerfully set themselves to the work of repairing what their forefathers had destroyed, and by the time Sir Francis was five-and-fifty years of age, the estate was again bringing in its full revenues of fifteen thousand a-year. Lady Netherleigh died about that time, and Sir Francis, as a widower, continued to live the same quiet, economical, unceremonious life that he and his wife had lived together. He was a religious, good man.
Naturally, the question, to whom Sir Francis would bequeath the estate, became a matter of speculation with sundry gossips—who always, you are aware, take more interest in our own affairs than we take ourselves. The title would lapse; that was known; unless indeed Sir Francis should marry again and have a son. The only relatives he had in the world were three distant female cousins.
The eldest of these young ladies in point of years was Catherine Grant; the second was Margery Upton; and the third was Elizabeth Cleveland. Margery and Elizabeth were cousins in a third degree to one another; but they were not related to Catherine. The young ladies met occasionally at Court Netherleigh; for Sir Francis invariably invited all three of them together; never one alone. They corresponded at other times, and were good friends. The first to marry was Catherine Grant. She became the wife of one Christopher Grubb, a merchant of standing in the City of London. That, you must understand, was thirty years before this month of October we are writing about: and this again was many years prior to the present time.
In those days, to be in trade, no matter of how high a class it might be, was looked upon by the upper classes as next door to being in Purgatory. For all social purposes you might almost as well have been in the one as the other. Trading was nothing less than a social crime. Opinions have wonderfully altered now; but many will remember that what I state is true. Therefore, when Catherine Grant, who was of gentle blood, so far forgot what was due to herself and her friends as to espouse Mr. Grubb, she was held to have degraded herself for ever. What with the man's name, and what with his counting-house, poor Catherine had effectually placed herself beyond the pale of society. A few sharp, severe letters were written to her; one by Sir Francis Netherleigh, one each by the two remaining young ladies. They told her she had lost caste—and, in good truth, she had done so. From that hour Mrs. Grubb was consigned to oblivion, the fate she was deemed to have richly merited: and it may really be questioned whether in a few years she was not absolutely forgotten. As the daughter of a small country rector, Miss Grant had not had the opportunity of moving in the higher ranks of society (except at Sir Francis Netherleigh's), and the other two young ladies did move in it. She had, consequently, been already privately looked down upon by Elizabeth Cleveland—whose father, though a poor half-pay captain, was the Honourable Mr. Cleveland: and so, said Elizabeth, the girl had perhaps made a suitable match, after all, according to her station; all which made it only the more easy to ignore Catherine Grubb's existence, and to forget that such a person had ever inhabited the civilized world. The next to marry was Elizabeth Cleveland. Her choice fell upon a spendthrift young peer, George Frederick Chenevix, Earl of Acorn: or, it may be more correct to say, his choice fell upon her. Margaret Upton remained single.
Years went on. Lord and Lady Acorn took care to keep up an intimacy with Sir Francis Netherleigh, privately hoping he would make the earl his heir. The earl needed it: he was a careless spendthrift. But Sir Francis never gave them, or any one else, the slightest sign of such intention—and Lord Acorn's hopes were based solely on the fact that he had "no one else to leave it to;" he had no male heir, or other relative, himself excepted. He, the earl, chose to consider that he was a relative, in right of his wife.
Disappointment, however, as all have too often experienced, is the lot of man. Lord Acorn was fated to experience it in his turn. Sir Francis Netherleigh died: and, with the exception of legacies to servants and sundry charities, the whole of his property was left unconditionally to Margery Upton. Miss Upton, though probably as much surprised as any one else, accepted the large bequest calmly, just as though it had been a matter of right, and she the heiress-apparent; and she took up her abode at Court Netherleigh.
This was fourteen years ago; she was eight-and-thirty then; she was two-and-fifty now. Miss Upton had not wanted for suitors—as the world will readily believe: but she only shook her head and sent them all adrift. It was her money they wanted, not herself, she told them candidly; they had not thought of her when she was supposed to be portionless; they should not think of her now. Thus she had lived on at Court Netherleigh, and was looked upon as a somewhat eccentric lady; but a thoroughly good woman and a kind mistress. And the Acorns? They had swallowed their bitter disappointment with a good grace to the world; and set themselves out to pay the same assiduous court to Miss Upton that they had paid to Sir Francis. "I don't think hers will be a long life," Lady Acorn said in confidence to her lord, "and then all the property must come to us; to you and to me: she has no other relative on earth."
The world at large took up the same idea, and Lord Acorn was universally regarded as the undoubted heir to the broad lands of Netherleigh. As to the peer himself, nothing short of a revelation from heaven would have shaken his belief in the earnest of their future good fortune; and, between ourselves, he had already borrowed money on the strength of it. There never existed a more sanguine or less prudent man than he. The young ladies now staying with Miss Upton were his two youngest daughters. In the gushing affection professed for her by the family generally, the girls had been trained to call her "Aunt Margery:" though, as the reader perceives, she was not their aunt at all; in fact, only very distantly related to them.
"Tiresome things!" cried Lady Frances, toying with the glasses still, but looking towards the distant group of labourers. "I wish it had been the Dalrymples on their way here."
"You can put on your hats and go to Moat Grange, as you seem so anxious to see them," observed Miss Upton. "And you may ask the young people to come in this evening, if you like."
"Oh, that will be delightful," cried Frances, all alert in a moment. "And that young lady who was at church with them, Aunt Margery—are we to ask her also? They called her Miss Lynn."
"Of course you are. What strangely beautiful eyes she had."
"Thank you, Aunt Margery," whispered Adela, bending down with a kiss and a bright smile, as she passed Miss Upton. Not that Adela particularly cared for the Dalrymples; but the days at Court Netherleigh were, to her, very monotonous.
The girls set forth in their pretty gipsy straw hats, trimmed with a wreath of roses. It was not a lonely walk, cottages being scattered about on the way. When nearing the Grange they met a party coming from it; Selina and Alice Dalrymple, the latter slightly lame, and a young lady just come to visit them, Mary Isabel Lynn: a thoughtful girl, with a fair, sweet countenance, and wonderful grey-blue eyes. Gerard Hope was with them: a bright young fellow, who was a Government clerk in London, and liked to run down to Moat Grange for Sundays as often as he could find decent excuse for doing so.
"So you are here!" cried Frances to him, in her offhand manner—and perhaps the thought that he might be there had been the secret cause of her impatience to meet the Dalrymples. "What have you to say for yourself, Mr. Gerard—after protesting and vowing yesterday that the earliest morning train would not more certainly start than you."
"Don't know what I shall say up there," returned Mr. Hope, nodding his head in what might be the direction of London. "When I took French leave to remain over Monday last time they told me I should some day take it once too often."
"You can put it upon the shooting, you know, Gerard," interposed Selina. "No barbarous tyrant of a red-tape martinet could expect you to go up and leave the pheasants on the first of October. Put it to him whether he could."
"And he will ask you how many pair you bagged, and look round for those you have brought for himself—see if he does not," laughed Mary Lynn.
"But Gerard is not shooting," commented Frances.
"No," said Gerard, "these girls kept me. Now, Selina, don't deny it: you know you did."
"What a story!" retorted Selina. "If ever I met your equal, Gerard! You remained behind of your own accord. Put it upon me, if you like. I know. It was not for me you stayed."
Frances Chenevix glanced at the delicate and too conscious face of Alice Dalrymple. Mr. Gerard Hope was a general admirer; but these two girls, Frances and Alice, were both rather dear to him—one of them, however, more so than the other. Were they destined to be rivals? Frances delivered Miss Margery's invitation; and it was eagerly accepted: but not by Gerard. He really had to start for town by the midday train.
"Will Miss Margery extend her invitation to Oscar, do you think?" asked Alice, in her quiet voice. "He is staying with us."
"To be sure: the more, the merrier," assented Frances. "Not that Oscar is one of my especial favourites," added the outspoken girl. "He is too solemn for me. Why, he is graver than a judge."
They all rambled on together. Gerard Hope and Frances somehow found themselves behind the others.
"Why did you stay today?" the girl asked him, in low tones. "After saying yesterday that it was simply impossible!"
"Could not tear myself away," he whispered back again. "For one thing, I thought I might again see you."
"Are you playing two games, Gerard?" continued Frances, giving him a keen glance. In truth she would like to know.
"I am not playing at one yet," answered the young man. "It would not do, you know."
"What would not do? As if any one could make anything of your talk when you go in for obscurity!" she added, with a light laugh, as she gave a toss to her pretty hat.
"Were I to attempt to talk less obscurely, I should soon be set down; therefore I never—we must conclude—shall do it," spoke he, in pained and strangely earnest tones. And with that Mr. Hope walked forward to join the others, leaving a line of pain on the fair open brow of Lady Frances Chenevix.
CHAPTER II.
THE SHOT.
They had brought down the pheasants: never had a first of October afforded better spoil: and they had lingered long at the sport, for evening was drawing on. Robert Dalrymple, the head of the party and owner of Moat Grange—a desolate grange enough, to look at, with the remains of a moat around it, long since filled in—aimed at the last bird he meant to hit that day, and missed it. He handed his gun to his gamekeeper.
"Shall I load again, sir?"
"No; we have done enough for one day, Hardy: and it is getting late. Come, Robert. Oscar, are you satisfied?"
"He must be greedy if he is not," broke in the hearty voice of the Honourable and Reverend Thomas Cleveland, the Rector of Netherleigh, who had joined the shooting-party, and who was related to Lady Acorn, though very distantly: for, some twenty years ago, the Earldom of Cleveland had lapsed to a distant branch.
"You will come home and dine with us, Cleveland?" spoke Mr. Dalrymple, as they turned their faces towards the Grange.
"What, in this trim? Mrs. Dalrymple would say I made myself free and easy."
"Nonsense! You know we don't stand upon ceremony. James will give your boots a brush. And, if you insist on being smart, I will lend you a coat."
"You have lent me one before now. Thank you. Then I don't care if I do," concluded the Rector.
He had not time to go home and change his things. The Rectory and the Grange stood a good mile apart from each other, the village lying between them—and the dinner-hour was at hand. For the hours of that period were not the fashionable ones of these, when people dine at eight o'clock. Five o'clock was thought to be the proper hour then, or six at the latest, especially with unceremonious country people. As to parsons, they wore clothes cut as other people's were cut, only that the coats were generally black.
"Look out, Robert," cried Mr. Cleveland to young Dalrymple. "Stand away." And, turning round, the Rector fired his gun in the air.
"What is that for?" demanded Oscar Dalrymple, a relative of the family, who was staying for a day or two at the Grange.
"I never carry home my gun loaded," was Mr. Cleveland's answer. "I have too many young ones to risk it; they are in all parts of the house at once, putting their hands to everything. Neither do I think it fair to carry it into the house of a friend."
Oscar Dalrymple drew down the corners of his mouth; it gave an unpleasing expression to his face, which was naturally cold. At that moment a bird rose within range; Oscar raised his piece, fired and brought it down. "That," said he, "is how I like to waste good powder and shot."
"All right, Mr. Oscar," was the Rector's hearty answer. "To use it is better than to waste it, but to waste it is better than to run risks. Most of the accidents that happen with guns are caused by want of precaution."
"Shall I draw your charge, Mr. Robert?" asked Hardy; who, as a good church-going man, had a reverence for all the Rector said, in the church and out of it.
"Draw the charge from my gun!" retorted Hardy's young master; not, however, speaking within ear-shot of Mr. Cleveland. "No. I can take care of my playthings, if others can't, Hardy," he added, with all the self-sufficiency of a young and vain man.
Presently there came up a substantial farmer, winding across the stubble towards his own house, which they were passing. He rented under Mr. Dalrymple.
"Famous good sport today, hasn't it been, Squire?" cried he, saluting his landlord.
"Famous. Never better. Will you accept a pair, Lee?" continued Mr. Dalrymple. "We have bagged plenty."
The farmer gladly took the pheasants. "I shall tell my daughters you shot them on purpose, Squire," said he, jestingly.
"Do," interposed Robert, with a laugh. "Tell Miss Judith I shot them for her: in return for her sewing up that rent in my coat, the other day, and making me decent to go home. Is the fence, where I fell, mended yet?"
"Mended yet?" echoed Mr. Lee. "It was up again in an hour after you left, Mr. Robert."
"Ah! I know you are the essence of order and punctuality," returned Robert. "You must let me have the cost."
"Time enough for that," said the farmer. "'Twasn't much. Good-afternoon, gentlemen; your servant, Squire."
"Oh—I say—Lee," called out Robert, as the farmer was turning homewards, while the rest of the party pursued their way, "about the mud in that weir? Hardy says it will hurt the fish to do it now."
"That's just what I told you, Mr. Robert."
"Well, then—— But I'll come down tomorrow, and talk it over with you: I can't stop now."
"As you please, sir. I shall be somewhere about."
Robert Dalrymple turned too hastily. His foot caught against something sticking out of the stubble, and in saving himself he nearly dropped his gun. He recovered the gun with a jerk, but the trigger was touched, he never knew how, or with what, and the piece went off. A cry in front, a confusion, one man down, and the others gathered round him, was all Robert Dalrymple saw, as through a mist. He dropped the gun, started forward, and gave vent to a cry of anguish. For it was his father who had fallen.
The most collected was Oscar Dalrymple. He always was collected; his nature was essentially cool and calm. Holding up Mr. Dalrymple's head and shoulders, he strove to ascertain where the injury lay. Though very pale, and lying with closed eyes, Mr. Dalrymple had not fainted.
"Oh, father," cried Robert, as he throw himself on his knees beside him in a passion of grief, "I did not do it purposely—I don't know how it happened."
"Purposely—no, my boy," answered his father, in a kind tone, as he opened his eyes. "Cheer up, Charley." For, in fond moments, and at other odd times, they would call the boy by his second name, Charles. Robert often clashed with his father's.
"I do not believe there's much harm done," said the sufferer. "I think the damage is in my left leg."
Mr. Dalrymple was right. The charge had entered the calf of the leg. Oscar cut the leg of the trouser round at the knee with a penknife, unbuttoned the short gaiter, and drew them off, and the boot. The blood was running freely. As a matter of course, not a soul knew what ought to be done, whether anything or nothing, all being profoundly ignorant of the simple principles of surgery, but they stumbled to the conclusion that tying it up might stop the blood.
"Not that handkerchief," interposed Mr. Cleveland, as Oscar was about to apply Mr. Dalrymple's own, a red silk one. "Take mine: it is white, and linen. The first thing will be to get him home."
"The first thing must be to get a doctor," said Oscar.
"Of course. But we can move him home while the doctor is coming."
"My house is close at hand," said Farmer Lee. "Better move him there for the present."
"No; get me home," spoke up Mr. Dalrymple.
"The Squire thinks that home's home," commented the gamekeeper. "And so it is; 'specially when one's sick."
True enough. The difficulty was, how to get Mr. Dalrymple there. But necessity, as we all know, is the true mother of invention: and by the help of a mattress, procured from the farmer's, with impromptu bearings attached to it made of "webbing," as Mr. Lee's buxom daughter called some particularly strong tape she happened to have by her, the means were organized. Some labourers, summoned by Mr. Lee, were pressed into the service; with Oscar Dalrymple, the farmer, and the gamekeeper. These started with their load. Robert, in a state of distraction, had flown off for medical assistance; Mr. Cleveland had volunteered to go forward and prepare Mrs. Dalrymple.
Mrs. Dalrymple, with her daughters and their guest, Mary Lynn, sat in one of the old-fashioned rooms of the Grange, they and dinner alike awaiting the return of the shooting-party. Old-fashioned as regarded its construction and its carved-oak panelling—dark as mahogany, but handsome withal—and opening into a larger and lighter drawing room. Mrs. Dalrymple, an agreeable woman of three or four and forty, had risen, and was bending over Miss Lynn's tambour-frame, telling her it was growing too dusk to see. Selina Dalrymple sat at the piano, trying a piece of new music, talking and laughing at the same time; and Alice, always more or less of an invalid, lay on her reclining sofa near the window.
"Here is Mr. Cleveland," cried Alice, seeing him pass. "I said he would be sure to come here to dinner, mamma."
Mrs. Dalrymple raised her head, and went, in her simple, hospitable fashion, to open the hall-door. He followed her back to the oak-parlour, and stood just within it.
"What a long day you have had!" she exclaimed. "I think you must all be tired. Where are the others?"
"They are behind," replied the clergyman. He had been determining to make light of the accident at first telling; quite a joke of it; to prevent alarm. "We have bagged such a quantity, Mrs. Dalrymple: and your husband has asked me to dinner: and is going to accommodate me with a coat as well. Oh, but, talking of bagging, and dinner, and coats, I hope you have plenty of hot water in the house; baths, and all the rest of it. One of us has hurt his leg, and we may want no end of hot water to bathe it."
"That is Charley, I know," said Selina. "He is always getting into some scrape. Look at what he did at Lee's last week."
"No; it is not Charley for once. Guess again."
"Is it Oscar?"
"Oscar!" interposed Alice, from her sofa. "Oscar is too cautious to get hurt."
"What should you say to its being me?" said Mr. Cleveland, sitting down, and stretching out one leg, as if it were stiff and he could not bend it.
"Oh, dear!" exclaimed Mrs. Dalrymple, running forward with a footstool. "How did it happen? You ought not to have walked home."
"No," said he, "my leg is all right. It is Dalrymple's leg: he has hurt his a little."
"How did he do it? Is it the knee? Did he fall?" was reiterated around.
"It is nothing," interrupted Mr. Cleveland. "But we would not let him walk home. And I came on to tell you, lest you should be alarmed at seeing him brought in."
"Brought in!" echoed Mrs. Dalrymple. "How do you mean? Who is bringing him?"
"Hardy and Farmer Lee. Left to himself, he might have been for running here, leaping the ditches over the shortest cut; so we just made him lie down on a mattress, and they are carrying it. Miss Judith supplied us."
"Has he sprained his leg?"
"No," carelessly returned Mr. Cleveland. "He has managed to get a little shot into it; but——"
"Shot!" interrupted Mrs. Dalrymple, in frightened tones. "Shot?"
"It is nothing, I assure you. A very slight wound. He will be out with us again in a week."
"Oh, Mr. Cleveland!" she faintly cried. "Is it serious?"
"Serious!" laughed the well-intentioned clergyman. "My dear lady, don't you see how merry I am? The most serious part is the leg of the trousers. Oscar, taking alarm, like you, decapitated it at the knee. The trousers will never be fit to wear again," added Mr. Cleveland, with a grave face.
"We will turn them over to Robert's stock," said Selina. "I am sure, what with one random action or another, half his clothes are in ribands."
"How was it done?" inquired Alice.
"An accident," slightingly replied Mr. Cleveland. "One never does know too well how such mishaps occur."
"We must send for a doctor," observed Mrs. Dalrymple, ringing the bell. "However slight it may be, I shall not know how to treat it."
"We thought of that, and Robert is gone for Forth," said the Rector, as he turned away.
In the passage he met Reuben, a staid, respectable manservant who had been in the family many years; his healthy face was ruddy as a summer apple, and his head, bald on the top, was sprinkled with powder. Mr. Cleveland told him what had happened; he then went to the back-door, and stood there, looking out—his hands in the pockets of his velveteen coat. Selina came quietly up; she was trembling.
"Mr. Cleveland," she whispered, "is it not worse than you have said? I think you have been purposely making light of it. Pray tell me the truth. You know I am not excitable: I leave that to Alice."
"My dear, in one sense I made light of it, because I wished to prevent unnecessary alarm. But I assure you I do not fear it is any serious hurt."
"Was it papa's own gun that went off?"
"No."
"Whose, then?"
"Robert's."
"Oh!—but I might have known it," she added, her shocked tone giving place to one of anger. "Robert is guilty of carelessness every day of his life—of wanton recklessness."
"Robert is careless," acknowledged Mr. Cleveland. "You know, my dear, it is said to be a failing of the Dalrymples. But he has a good heart; and he is always so sorry for his faults."
"Yes; his life is made up of sinning and repenting."
"Sinning!"
"I call such carelessness sin," maintained Selina. "To think he should have shot papa!"
"My dear, you are looking at it in the worst aspect. I believe it will prove only a trifling injury. But, to see him borne here on a mattress, minus the leg of his pantaloons, and his own leg bandaged, might have frightened some of you into fits. Go back to the oak-parlour, Selina; and don't let Alice run out of it at the first slight sound she may chance to hear."
Selina did as she was told: Mr. Cleveland stayed where he was. Very soon he distinguished the steady tread of feet approaching; and at the same time he saw, to his surprise, the gig of the surgeon turning off from the road. How quick Robert had been!
Quick indeed! Robert, as it proved, had met the surgeon's gig, and in it himself and Dr. Tyler, a physician from the nearest town. They had been together to a consultation. Robert, light and slim, had got into the gig between them. He was now the first to get out; and he began rushing about like a madman. The clergyman went forth and laid hands upon him.
"You will do more harm than you have already done, young sir, unless you can control yourself. Here have I been at the pains of impressing upon your mother and sisters that it is nothing more than a flea-bite, and you are going to upset it all! Be calm before them, at any rate."
"Oh, Mr. Cleveland! You talk of calmness! Perhaps I have killed my father."
"I hope not. But I dare say a great deal depends upon his being kept quiet and tranquil. Remember that. If you cannot," added Mr. Cleveland, walking him forward a few paces, "I will just march you over to the Rectory, and keep you there until all fear of danger is over."
Robert rallied his senses with an effort. "I will be calm; I promise you. Repentance," he continued, bitterly, "will do him no good, so I had better keep it to myself. I wish I had shot off my own head first!"
"There, you begin again! Will you be quiet?"
"Yes, I will. I'll go and stamp about where no one can see me, and get rid of myself in that way."
He escaped from Mr. Cleveland, made his way to the kitchen-garden, and began striding about amidst the autumn cabbages. Poor Robert! he really felt as though it would be a mercy if his head were off. He was good-hearted, generous, and affectionate, but thoughtless and impulsive.
As the gamekeeper was departing, after helping to carry the mattress upstairs, he caught sight of his young master's restless movements, and went to him.
"Ah, Mr. Robert, it's bad enough, but racing about won't do no good. If you had but let me draw that there charge! Mr. Cleveland's ideas is sure to be right: the earl's always was, afore him."
Robert went on "racing" about worse than before, clearing a dozen cabbages at a stride. "How did my father bear the transport home, Hardy?"
"Pretty well. A bit faintish he got."
"Hardy, I will never touch a gun again."
"I don't suppose you will, Mr. Robert—not till the next time. You may touch 'em, sir, but you must be more careful of 'em."
Robert groaned.
"This is the second accident of just the same sort that I have been in," continued Hardy. "The other was at the earl's, when I was a youngster. Not Mr. Cleveland's father, you know, sir; t'other earl afore him, over at t'other place. Two red-coat blades had come down there for a week's sport, and one of 'em (he seemed to us keepers as if he had never handled a gun in all his born days) got the shot into the other's calf—just as it has been got this evening into the Squire's. That was a worse accident, though, than this will be, I hope. He was laid up at the inn, close by where it happened, for six weeks, for they thought it best not to carry him to the Hall, and then——"
"And then—did it terminate fatally?" interrupted Robert, scarcely above his breath.
"Law, no, sir! At the end of the six weeks he was on his legs, as strong as ever, and went back to London—or wherever it was he came from."
Robert Dalrymple drew a relieved breath. "I shall go in and hear what the surgeons say," said he, restlessly. "And you go round to the kitchen, Hardy, and tell them to give you some tea; or anything else you'd like."
Miss Lynn was in the oak-parlour alone, standing before the fire, when Robert entered.
"Oh, Robert," she said, "I wanted to see you. Do you fear this will be very bad?—very serious?"
"I don't know," was the desponding answer.
"Whose gun was it that did the mischief?"
"Whose gun! Have you not heard?" he broke forth, in tones of fierce self-reproach. "MINE, of course. And if he dies, I shall have murdered him."
Mary Lynn was used to Robert's heroics; but she looked terribly grieved now.
"I see what you think, Mary," he said, being in the mood to view all things in a gloomy light: "that you will be better without me than with me. Cancel our engagement, if you will. I cannot say that I do not deserve it."
"No, Robert, I was not thinking of that," she answered. Tears rose to her eyes, and glistened in the firelight. "I was wondering whether I could say or do anything to induce you to be less thoughtless; less——"
"Less like a fool. Say it out, Mary."
"You are anything but that, and you know it. Only you will act so much upon impulse. You think, speak, move and act without the slightest deliberation or forethought. It is all random impulse."
"Impulse could hardly have been at fault here, Mary. It was a horrible accident, and I shall deplore it to the last hour of my life."
"How did it happen?"
"I cannot tell. I had been speaking with Lee, gun in hand, and was turning short round to catch up the others, when the gun went off. Possibly the trigger caught my coat-sleeve—I cannot tell. Yes, that was pure accident, Mary: but there's something worse connected with it."
"What do you mean?"
"Mr. Cleveland had just before fired off his gun, because he would not bring it indoors loaded. Hardy asked if he should draw the charge from mine, and I answered him, mockingly, that I could take good care of it. Why did I not let him do it?" added the young man, beginning to stride the room in his remorse as he had previously been striding the bed of cabbages. "What an idiot I was!—a wicked, self-sufficient imbecile! You had better give me up at once, Mary."
She turned and glanced at him with a smile. It brought him back to her side, and he laid his hands on her shoulders and looked into her eyes by the light of the fire.
"It may be to your interest," he whispered, in agitation. "Some day I may be shooting you, in one of my careless moods. What do you say, Mary?"
She said nothing. She only leaned slightly forward and smiled. Robert threw his arms around her, and strained her to him in all the fervency of a first affection. "My darling, my darling! Mary, you are too good for me."
They were nice-looking young people, both of them, and in love with one another. Robert was three-and-twenty; she only nineteen; and the world looked fair before them. But, that she was too good for him, was a greater truth than Mr. Robert thought.
Stir was heard in the house now; the medical men were coming downstairs. Their report was favourable. The bleeding had been stopped, the shots extracted, and there was no appearance of danger. A little confinement, perfect quiet, and proper treatment, would, they hoped, soon set all to rights again.
Dinner had not been thought of. When the cook had nearly succumbed to despair, and Mr. Dalrymple had dropped into a calm sleep, and the anxious ones were gathered together in the oak-parlour, Reuben came in, and said the soup was on the table.
"Then I will wish you all a good appetite, and be gone," said the Rector to Mrs. Dalrymple.
"Indeed you will not go without some dinner."
"I am in a pretty state for dinner," said he, "and I can't worry Dalrymple about coats now. Look at me."
"Oh, Mr. Cleveland do you think we shall regard your coat! Is this a time to be fastidious? We are not very much dressed ourselves."
"No?" said the Rector, regarding them. "I am sure you all look well. You are not in shooting-jackets and gaiters and inch-thick boots."
"I am going to sit down as I am," interrupted Robert, who had not changed a thing since he came in. "A fellow with a dreadful care at his heart has not the pluck to put on a dandy-cut coat."
Mrs. Dalrymple ended the matter by taking the Rector's arm and bearing him off to the dining-room. The rest followed. Oscar met them in the hall—dressed. He was a small, spare man, cool and self-contained in all emergencies, and fastidious in his habits, even to the putting on of proper coats. His colourless face was rather unpleasing at times, though its features were good, the eyes cold and light, the in-drawn lips thin. Catching Selina's hand, he took her in.
It was a lively dinner-table, after all. Hope had arisen in every heart, and Mr. Cleveland was at his merriest. He had great faith in cheerful looks round a sick-bed, and he did not want desponding ones to be displayed to his friend, Dalrymple.
Before the meal was over, a carriage was beard to approach the house. It contained Miss Upton. The news of the accident had spread; it had reached Court Netherleigh; and Miss Upton got up from her own dinner-table and ordered her carriage. She came in, all concern, penetrating to the midst of them in her unceremonious way. "And the fault was Robert's!" she exclaimed, after listening to the recital, as she turned her condemning eyes upon the culprit. "I am sorry to hear that."
"You cannot blame me as I blame myself, Miss Upton," he said ingenuously, a moisture dimming his sight. "I am always doing wrong; I know that. But this time it was really an accident that might have happened to any one. Even to Oscar, with all his prudence."
"I beg your pardon, young man; you are wrong there," returned Miss Upton. "Oscar Dalrymple would have taken care to hold his gun so that it could not go off unawares. Never you fear that he will shoot any one. I hope and trust your father will get well, Robert Dalrymple; and I hope you will let this be a lesson to you."
"I mean it to be one," humbly answered Robert.
Miss Upton carried the three young ladies back to Court Netherleigh, leaving Oscar and Robert to follow on foot: no reason why they should not go, she told them, and it would help to keep the house quiet for its master.
"Will it prove of serious consequence, this hurt?" she took an opportunity of asking aside of Mr. Cleveland, as she was going out to the carriage.
"No, I hope not. I think not. It is only a few stray shots in the leg."
"I don't like those stray shots in the leg, mind you," returned Miss Upton.
"Neither do I, in a general way," confessed the Rector.
Thinking of this, and of that, Miss Upton was silent during the drive home. But it never did, or could, enter into her imagination to suppose that the fair girl, with the sweet and thoughtful grey-blue eyes, sitting opposite her—eyes that somehow did not seem altogether unfamiliar to her memory—was the daughter of that friend of her girlhood, Catherine Grant.
CHAPTER III.
LEFT TO ROBERT.
The eighth day after the accident to Mr. Dalrymple was a day of rejoicing, for he was so far recovered as to be up for some hours. A sofa was drawn before the fire, and he lay on it. The symptoms had all along been favourable, and he now merrily told them that if any one had written to order him a cork leg, he thought it might be countermanded. Mr. Cleveland, a frequent visitor, privately decided that the thanksgiving for his recovery might be offered up in church on the following Sunday—such being the custom in the good and simple place. They all rejoiced with him, paying visits to his chamber by turns. Alice and Miss Lynn had been in together during the afternoon: when they were leaving, he beckoned the latter back, but Alice did not notice, and went limping away. Any great trouble affected Alice Dalrymple's spirits sadly, and her lameness would then be more conspicuous.
"Do you want me to do anything for you?" asked Mary, returning, and bending over the sofa.
"Yes," said Mr. Dalrymple, taking possession of both her hands, and looking up with an arch smile: "I want you to tell me what the secret is between you and that graceless Robert."
Mary Lynn's eyes dropped, and her face grew scarlet. She was unable to speak.
"Won't you tell me?" repeated Mr. Dalrymple.
"Has he been—saying anything to you, sir?" she faltered.
"Not he. Not a word. Some one else told me they saw that he and Miss Lynn had a secret between them, which might possibly bear results some day."
She burst into tears, got one of her hands free, and held it before her face.
"Nay, my dear," he kindly said, "I did not wish to make you uncomfortable; quite the contrary. I want just to say one thing, child: that if you and he are wishing to talk secrets to one another, I and my wife will not say nay to it: and from a word your mother dropped to me the last time I was in town, I don't think she would either. Dry up your tears, Mary; it is a laughing matter, not a crying one. Robert is frightfully random at times, but he is good as gold at heart. I invite you and him to drink tea with me this evening. There."
Mary escaped, half smiles, half tears. And she and Robert had tea with Mr. Dalrymple that evening. He took it early since his illness; six o'clock. Mary made the tea, and Robert waited on his father, who was then in bed. When tea was cleared away, Mary went with it; Robert remained.
"This might have been an unlucky shot, Charley," Mr. Dalrymple suddenly observed.
"Oh, father! do not talk about it. I am so thankful!"
"But I am going to talk about it. To tell you why it would have been unlucky, had it turned out differently. This accident has made me remember the uncertainty of life, if I never remembered it before. Put the candles off the table; I don't like them right in my eyes; and bring a chair here to the bedside. Get the lotion before you sit down."
Robert did what was required, and took his seat.
"When I married, Robert, I was only the second brother, and no settlement was made on your mother: I had nothing to settle. The post I had in London in what you young people are now pleased to call the red-tape office, brought me in six hundred a-year, and we married on that, to rub on as we best could. And I dare say we should have rubbed on very well," added Mr. Dalrymple, in a sort of parenthesis, "for our desires were simple, and we were not likely to go beyond our income. However, when you were about two years old, Moat Grange fell to me, through the death of my elder brother."
"What was the cause of his death?" interrupted Robert. "He must have been a young man."
"Eight-and-twenty only. It was young. I gave up my post in town, and we came to Moat Grange——"
"But what did Uncle Claude die of?" asked Robert again. "I don't remember to have heard."
"Never mind what. It was an unhappy death, and we have not cared to speak of it. Moat Grange is worth about two thousand a-year: and we have been doing wrong, in one respect, ever since we came to it, for we have put nothing by."
"Why should you have put by, father?"
"There! That is an exemplification of your random way of speaking and thinking. Moat Grange is entailed upon you, every shilling of it."
"Well, it will be enough for me, with what I have," said Robert.
"I hope it will. But it would have been anything but well had I died; for in that case your mother and sisters would have been beggars."
"Oh, father!"
"Yes; all would have lapsed to you. Let me go on. Claude Dalrymple left many debts behind him, some of them cruel ones—personal ones—we will not enter into that. I—moved by a chivalrous feeling perhaps, but which I and your mother have never repented of—took those personal debts upon me, and paid them off by degrees."
"I should have done the same," cried impulsive Robert.
"And the estate had of course to be kept up, for I would not have had it said that Moat Grange suffered by its change of owners, and your mother thought with me; so that altogether we had a struggle for it, and were positively less at our ease for ready-money here than we had been in our little household in London. When the debts were cleared off, and we had breathing time, I began to think of saving: but I am sorry to say it was only thought of; not done. The cost of educating you children increased as you grew older; Alice's illness came on and was a great and continued expense; and, what with one thing and another, we never did, or have, put by. Your expenses at college were enormous."
"Were they?" returned Robert, indifferently.
"Were they!" echoed Mr. Dalrymple, almost in sharp tones. "Do you forget that you also ran into debt there, like your uncle Claude?"
"Not much, was it, sir?" cried Robert, deprecatingly, who remembered very little about the matter, beyond the fact that the bills had gone in to Moat Grange.
"Pretty well," returned Mr. Dalrymple, with a cough. "The sum total averaged between six and seven hundred a-year, for every year that you were there."
"Surely not!" uttered Robert, startled to contrition.
"It seems to have made but little impression on you; you knew it at the time. But I am not recalling this to cast reproach on you now, Robert: I only wanted to explain how it is that we have been unable to put by. Not a day after I am well, will I delay beginning it. We will curtail our expenses, even in things hitherto considered necessary, no matter what the neighbourhood may think; and I shall probably insure my life. Your mother and I were talking of this all day yesterday."
"I can do with less than I spend, father; I will make the half of it do," said Robert, in one of his fits of impulse.
"We shall see that," said Mr. Dalrymple, with another cough. "But you do not know the trouble this has been to me since the accident, Robert. I have lain here, and dwelt incessantly upon the helpless condition of your mother and sisters—left helpless on your hands—should I be called away."
"My dear father, it need not trouble you. Do you suppose I should ever wish to disturb my mother and sisters in the possession of their home? What do you take me for?"
"Ah, Robert, these generous resolves are easily made; but circumstances more often than not mar them. You will be wanting a home of your own—and a wife."
Robert's face took a very conscious look. "Time enough for that, sir."
"If you and Mary Lynn can both think so."
"You—don't—object to her, do you, sir?" came the deprecating question.
"No, indeed I don't object to her: except on one score," replied Mr. Dalrymple. "That she is too good for you."
Robert laughed. "I told her that myself, and asked her to give me up. It was the night of the accident, when I was so truly miserable."
"Well, Robert, you could not have chosen a better girl than Mary Lynn. She will have money——"
"I'm sure I've not thought whether she will or not," interrupted Robert, quite indignantly.
"Of course not; I should be surprised if you had," said Mr. Dalrymple, in the satirical tone his son disliked. "Commonplace ways and means, pounds, shillings and pence, are beneath the exalted consideration of young Mr. Dalrymple. I should not wonder but you would set up to live upon air tomorrow, if you had nothing else to live upon."
"Well, father, you know what I meant—that I am not mercenary."
"I should be sorry if you were. But when we contemplate the prospect of a separate household, it is sometimes necessary to consider how its bread-and-cheese will be provided."
"I have the two hundred a-year that my own property brings in—that Aunt Coolly left me. There's that to begin with."
"And I will allow you three or four hundred more; Mary will bring something and be well-off later. Yes, Robert, I think you may set up your tent, if you will. I like young men to marry young. I did myself—at three-and-twenty: your present age. Your uncle Claude did not, and ran into folly. And, Robert, I should advise you to begin and read for the Bar. Better have a profession."
"I did begin, you know, father."
"And came down here when you were ill with that fever, and never went up again. Moat Grange will be yours eventually——"
"Not for these twenty years, I hope, father," impulsively interrupted Robert. "You are spared to us, and I can never be sufficiently thankful for it. Why, in twenty years you would not be an old man; not seventy."
"I am thankful, too, Robert; thankful that my life is not cut off in its midst—as it might have been. The future of your mother and sisters has been a thorn in my side since I was brought face to face with death. In health we are apt to be fearfully careless."
"Hear me, father," cried Robert, rising, and speaking with emotion. "Had the worst happened, they should have been my first care; I declare it to you. First and foremost, even before Mary Lynn."
"My boy, I know your heart. Are you going down? That's right. I think I have talked enough. Bring a light here first. My leg is very uneasy."
"Does it pain you?" inquired Robert, who had noticed that his father was getting restless. "How tight the bandage is! The leg appears to be swollen."
"The effect of the bandage being tight," remarked Mr. Dalrymple. "Loosen it, and put plenty of lotion on."
"It feels very hot," were Robert's last words.
The evening went on. Just before bed-time, the young people were all sitting round the fire in the oak-parlour, Mrs. Dalrymple being with her husband. So assured did they now feel of no ill results ensuing, that they had grown to speak lightly of it. Not of the accident: none would have been capable of that: but of the circumstances attending it. Selina had just been recommending Robert never in future to touch any weapon stronger than a popgun.
"I don't mean to," said Robert.
"What a long conference you had with papa tonight after Mary came down," went on Selina. "What was it about, Robert? Were you getting a lesson how to carry loaded guns?"
"Not that," put in Oscar Dalrymple: "Robert has learnt that lesson by heart. He was getting some hints how to manage Moat Grange."
Robert looked up quickly, almost believing Oscar must have been behind the chamber wall.
"Your father has come so very near to losing it," added Oscar. "A chance like that brings reflection with it."
"Only to think of it!" breathed Alice—"that we have been so near losing the Grange! If dear papa had died, it would have come to Robert."
"Ay, all Robert's; neither yours nor your mother's," mused Oscar. "I dare say the thought has worried Mr. Dalrymple."
"I know it has," said Robert, in his hasty way. "But there was no occasion for it."
"No, thank Heaven!" breathed Selina.
"However things had turned out, my father might have been easy on that score. And we were talking of you," added Robert, in a whisper to Mary Lynn, while making believe to regard attentively the sofa cushion at her ear. "And of setting up our tent, Mary; and of ways and means—and I am to go on reading for the Bar. It all looks couleur-de-rose."
"Robert," returned Alice, "should you have sent us adrift, had you come into the old homestead?"
"To be sure I should, in double-quick time," answered he, tilting Alice's chair back to kiss her, and keeping it in that position. "'Sharp the word and quick the action' it would have been with me then. I should have paid a premium with you both, and shipped you off by an emigrant ship to some old Turkish Sultan who buys wives, so that you might never trouble me or the Grange again."