getting up and breaking up the party And there was still a frown upon his face as he looked at his wife. 66 "You What is the matter with papa?" cried the girls in a breath. have been upsetting him. You have worried him somehow!" exclaimed Lydia, turning upon her stepmother. "And everything was going so well, and he was in such a good humour. But it is always the way just when we want a little peace and comfort. I never saw such a house as ours! he is not very unreasonable, not when you know how to manage him-papa.' And As for Mary she broke down and cried, but smiled again trying to keep up appearances. "It is nothing," she said; "your father is not angry. It will all be right in a moment. I suppose I am very silly. Run, little ones, and bring me some eau-de-cologne, quick! You must not think Sir Henry was really annoyed," she said, turning to Lady Stanton. "He is just a little impatient; you know he has all his old Indian ways; and I am so silly." "I don't think you are silly," said Lady Stanton, who herself was flushed and excited. "It was natural you should be disturbed, and I too. Sir Henry need not have been so impatient; but we don't know his motives," she added hastily with the habitual apology she made for everybody who was or seemed in the wrong. "Oh, how tiresome it all is," cried Lydia, stamping her foot, "when people will make scenes! Come along, Geoff; come with us and let us see what is to be done. Everything has to be done still. I meant to ask papa to give the orders; but when he is put out, it is all over. Do come; there are the nets to put up, and everything to do. Laura, never mind your tiresome presents. Come along! or the people will be here, and nothing will be done." "That is how they always go on," said Laura, following her sister with her lap full of her treasures. 'Come, Geoff. It is so easy to put papa out; and when he is put out he is no good for anything. Do come. I do not think this time, Lydia, it was her fault." Oh, it is always her fault," said the harsher sister; "and sending these two tiresome children for the eau-decologne! She always sends them for the eau-de-cologne. As if that could. do any good; like putting out a fire with rose-water. There, now, Laura, put your rubbish away, and I will begin settling everything with Geoff." The young man obeyed the call unwillingly; but he went with his cousins, having no excuse to stay, and did their work obediently, though his mind was full of very different things. He had put aside the Musgrave business since his visit to Penninghame, not knowing how to act, and he had not spoken of it to his mother; but now it returned upon him with greater interest than ever. Bampfylde he knew was the name of the girl whom John Musgrave had married, whom his brother Walter had loved, and whom the quarrel was about, and who with her mother had been accused of helping young Musgrave's escape. All the story seemed to reopen even upon him with the name; and how much more upon those two ladies who were so much more deeply interested. The two girls and their games had but a slight hold of Geoff's mind in comparison with this deeper question. He did what they wanted him, but he was distrait and preoccupied; and as soon as he was free went anxiously in search of his mother, who, he hoped, would tell him more about it. He knew all about it, but not as people must do who had been involved in the circumstances, and helped to enact that sad drama of real life. He found his mother very thoughtful and preoccupied too, seated alone in a little sitting-room up stairs, which was Lady Stanton's special sanctum. The elder Lady Stanton was very serious. She welcomed her son with a momentary smile and no more. "I have been thinking over that dreadful story," she said; It has brought everything back to me. That-and the name of this man." "You have never told me much about it, mother." "What was the use, my dear? You were too young to do anything; and then what was there to do? Poor Mr. Musgrave fled, you know. Everybody said that was such a pity. It would have been brought in only manslaughter if he had not escaped and gone away." "Then it was madness and cowardice," said Geoff. "It was the girl," said his mother. "No, I am not blaming her; perhaps she knew no better. And his father and all his family were so opposed. Perhaps they thought to fly away out of everybody's reach, the two together, was the best way out of it. When young people are so much attached to each other," said the anxious mother, faltering, half-afraid even to speak of such mysteries to her son, "they are tempted to think that being together is everything. But it is not everything, Geoff. Many others, as well as John Musgrave, have lost themselves for such a delusion as that." "Is it a delusion?" Geoff asked, making his mother tremble. Of whom could the boy be thinking? He was thinking of nobody till it suddenly occurred to him how the eyes of that little girl at Penninghame might look if they were older; and that most likely it was the same eyes which had made up to John Musgrave for the loss of everything. After all, perhaps this unfortunate one, whom everybody pitied, might have had some compensa tion. As he was thinking thus, and his mother was watching him, very anxious to know what he was thinking, Lady Stanton came in suddenly by a private door, which opened from her own room. She had a little additional colour on her cheeks, and was breathless with haste. "Oh, where is Geoff, I wonder?" she said; then seeing him ran up to him. "Geoff, there is some one downstairs you will like to see. If you are really so interested in all that sad story-really so anxious to help poor John——” "Yes, who is it? tell me who it is and I will go." "Elizabeth Bampfylde is down stairs," she said, breathless, putting her hand to her heart. "The mother of the man Sir Henry was speaking of the mother of the girl. There is no one knows so much as that woman. She is sitting there all alone, and there is nobody in the way." "Geoff! my dear, Geoff!" cried his mother running to the door after him, but for once Geoff paid no attention. He hurried down stairs, clearing them four or five steps at a time. The ladies could not have followed him if they would. The door of Sir Henry's business room stood open, and he could see an old woman seated like a statue, in perfect stillness, on a bench against the wall. She wore a large gray cloak with a hood falling back upon her shoulders, and a white cap, and sat with her hands crossed in her lap, waiting. She raised her eyes quickly when he came in with a look of anxiety and expectation, but when she found it was not the person she expected, bowed her fine head resignedly and relapsed into quiet. The delay which is always so irksome did not seem to affect her. There was something in the pose of the figure which showed that to be seated there, quite still and undisturbed, was not disagreeable to her. She was not impatient. She was an old woman and glad to rest; she could wait. "You are waiting for Sir Henry?" Geoff said, in his eagerness. "Have you seen him? Can I do anything for you?" No, sir. I hope you'll forgive me rising. I have walked far and I'm tired. Time is not of so much consequence now as it used to be. I can bide." She gave him a faint smile as she spoke, and looked at him with eyes undimmed, eyes that reminded him of the child at Penninghame. Her voice was fine too, large and melodious, and there was nothing fretful or fidgety about her. Except for one line in her forehead everything about her was calm. She could bide. And this is a power which gives its She rose slowly, paying no attention to the man-looking only at Geoff. "And you are my young lord?" she said with an intent look. There was a certain dignity about her movements, though she seemed to set herself in motion with difficulty, stiffly, as if the exertion cost her something. "I've had a long walk," she added, with a faint smile and half apology for the effort, "there's where age tells. And all my trouble for nothing!" "If I can be of any use to you I will," said Geoff. Then he paused and added, "I want you to do something for me." "What is this that old 'Lizabeth Bampfylde could do for a fine young gentleman? Your fortune? ay, I'll give you your fortune easy; a kind tongue and a bright eye carries that all over the world. And you look as if you had a kind heart.” "It is not my fortune," he said with an involuntary smile. "You're no believer in the like of that? May be you have never met with one that had the power. It runs in families; it runs in the blood. There was one of your house, my young lord, that I could have warned of what was coming. I saw it in his face. And oh, that I had done it! But he would not have been warned. Oh! what that would have saved me and mine, as well as you and yours!" "You think of my brother then when you see me?" he said, eager at once to follow out this beginning. She looked at him again with a scrutinizing gaze. "What had I to do with your brother, young gentleman? He never asked me for his fortune any more than you, he did not believe in the likes of me. It is only the silly folk and the simple folk that believe in us. I wish they would be guided by us that are our own flesh and blood—and then they would never get into trouble like my boy." "What has he done?" asked Geoff, thinking to conciliate. He had followed her out of the house, and was walking by her side through the shrubberies by the back way. "What has he done? Something, nothing. He's taken a fish in the river, or a wild beast in the snare. They're God's creatures, not yours, or Sir Henry's. But the rich and the great that have every dainty they can set their face to, make it a crime lad when he does that." for a poor if Geoff did not make any answer, for he had a respect for game and would not commit himself; but he said, "I will do anything I can for your son, you will help me. Yes, you can help me, and I think you know you can, Mrs. Bampfylde." "I am called 'Lizabeth," said the old woman with dignity, as if she had said I am called Princess. Her tone had so much effect upon Geoff that he cried, "I beg your pardon," instinctively, and faltered and coloured as he went on. "I want to know about what happened when I was a child-about my brother's death-about-the man who caused it. They tell me you know more than any one else. I am not asking for idle curiosity. You know a great deal, or so I have heard, about John Musgrave." "Hus-sh!" she cried, "it is not safe to say names-you never know who may hear." "But all the world may hear," said Geoff. "I am not afraid. I want him to come home. I want him to be cleared. If you know anything that can help him tell me. I will never rest now till I have got that sentence changed and he is cleared." The old woman looked at him, growing pale, with a sort of alarmed admiration. "You're a bold boy," she said, "very bold! It's because you're so young-how should you know? When a man has enemies we should be careful how we name him. It might bring ill-luck or more harm." "I don't believe much in ill-luck, and I don't believe in enemies at all," said Geoff, with the confidence of his years. "Oh!" she cried, with a long moan, wringing her hands. "Oh, God help you, innocent boy!" "No," Geoff repeated more boldly still, "neither in enemies nor in illluck, if the man himself is innocent. But I believe in friends. I am one; and if you are one-if you are his friend, his true friend, why, there is nothing we may not do for him," the young man cried, stopping to secure her attention. She paused too for a moment, gazing at him, with a low cry now and then of wonder and distress; her mind was travelling over regions to which young Geoff had no clue, but his courage and confidence had compelled her attention at least. She listened while he went on repeating his appeal; only to tell him what she knew, what she remembered -to tell him everything. It seemed all so simple to Geoff; he went on with his pleadings, following through the winding walk. It was all he could do to keep up with her large and steady stride as she went on, 'Certainly I will come," cried Geoff, feeling a delightful gleam of adventure suddenly light up his more serious purpose. "Certainly I will come; only tell me where I shall find you "You're going too fast, my young gentleman. I said if my boy gets free. Till I have talked to him I'll tell you nothing. And my bit of a place is a lonely place where few folk ever come near." 'I can find it," said Geoff. "I do not mind how lonely it is. I will cometo-morrow, whenever you please." "Not till my lad comes to fetch you," said 'Lizabeth, with a gleam of shrewd humour crossing her face for a moment. "I must see my lad first, and hear what he says, and then I'll send him to show you the way." "It would be better not to make it dependent on that chance," said Geoff, prudently. "He might not care to come; I don't know your son; why should he take so much trouble for me? He may decline to do it, or he may dislike my interference, or "Or he may not get free," said 'Lizabeth, stopping short, and dismissing her young attendant almost imperiously. "Here you and me part paths, my young lord. It will be soon enough to say more when my lad is free." Geoff was left standing at the outer gate, startled by the abruptness of his dismissal, but incapable he felt of resisting. He gazed after her as she sped along the road with long swift steps, half-appalled, greatly excited, and with a touch of amusement too. "I am to cheat justice for her and elude the law," he said to himself as he watched her disappearing along the dusty road. CHAPTER XVIII. Wild THE result of this interview was that Geoff, as was natural, threw himself body and soul into the cause of Wild Bampfylde. When he had once made up his mind to this, a certain comic element in the matter delighted him and gave him double fervour. The idea of defeating justice was delightful to the young man, not much older than a schoolboy. He talked to all the people he met about the case of this wild man of the woods, this innocent savage, to whom all the sylvan sins came by nature; and he engaged the best laywer who could be had to defend him, and if possible get the wild fellow free. Where was the harm? Bampfylde had never been guilty of violence to any human creature, he ascertained. It was only the creatures of the woods he waged war against, not even the gamekeepers. And when Sir Henry, coming home from Quarter Sessions, informed the party that Wild Bampfylde had managed to get off by some quibble, the magistrates being fairly tired of convicting him, everybody was delighted to hear of the safety of Geoff's protégé, except the two elder ladies, who showed no satisfaction. Neither of them were glad, notwithstanding that Geoff was much interested; Lady Stanton from a vague concern for her son, and Mary because of the prejudice in her which all her gentleness could not eradicate. She looked at Geoff with tears in her eyes. "You will have nothing to do with them," she said; "him nor any of them? Oh, Geoff, promise!" which was inconsistent, as it was she herself who had put the old mother in his way. But Geoff only laughed, and asked what he could have to do with them? and made no promise. This episode had not interfered with the business of life, with the |