No Compromise ... New ... edition, etc

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P. 37 No Compromlsi NO COMPROMISE BY HELEN F. HETHERINGTON AND THE REV. DARWIN BURTON AUTHORS OF "t-AUL NUGENT, MATERIALIST" New and Chea-ber Edition, il ilh Frontispiece LONDON GRIFFITH, FARRAN & CO. NEWBERY HOUSE, 39 CHARING CROSS ROAD Published in Newbery^House Magazine, 1891-92. Published in Three Volumes, 1892. The flights of Translation and of Reproduction are reserved. CONTENTS. CHAP. PAGB Prologue — The Meeting at the " Miners' Rest " . 1 I. — A Return to Civilisation .... 20 II.— Home ...... 25 III.— "This New Man" 31 IV. — A Compromise with Conscience ... 35 V.— The Upas Tree ..... 42 VI.— Philanthropy gone Mad .... 48 VII. — The Rector speaks His Mind ... 55 VIII. — Taking care of Other People's Property . . 60 IX. — Prayer-Book Parade .... 66 X. — A Specimen of Modern Society . . .73 XI. — A Sunday Dinner-Party . . 78 XII.— "Only a Cab Accident" .... 87 XIII.— Amongst the Butterflies .... 93 XIV— A Water-Party . . . . .100 XV— " Better to Laugh than to Cry " . . .108 XVI. — Obstruction Better than Destruction . . 113 XVII.— The Parish of St Mary's, Dainton . . .122 XVIII.— The Priory and the Wilderness Cricket Match . 128 XIX.— Skirmishing . . . . .138 XX. — A Burning Question of the Day . . . 147 XXI. — Philanthropy in Its Sanest Form . . .157 XXII.— A Day's Sport ..... 166 XXIII.— An Example of the Church Militant . .174 XXIV.—" Mr Montague— Do stop a Moment !

" . . 184 XXV.— Across Country . . . . .191 XXVI.— "When Your Turn comes" . . .199 XXVH. — Reckless of Consequences .... 203 XXVIII.—" You know Some of Hia People " . .210 XXIX.— For His Sister's Sake . . . .219 XXX— The Next Morning ..... CONTENTS. CHAP. PAGE XXXI. — Miss Kingston in a New Aspect . . • 233 XXXII.— "My Own Poor Dick !" . . .239 XXXIII.— How to meet the Blow . . . .247 XXXIV.— Fighting Shy .... 255 XXXV. -The Poster on the Wall . . . ,263 XXXVI.— "Not Beaten yet" ..... 268 XXXVII.— "Isn't Dandy Poaching?" . . . .277 XXXVIII.— "The Delights of Canvassing" . . .283 XXXIX.— "The Best Fun in the World" . . .291 XL.— The Day of the Poll . . . .299 XLI. The Rector and Vicar stand to their Guns . . 307 XLII.— The Lumber Sale . .... 314 XLIII. — Peter Strangways makes a Move . . . 322 XLIV— The Greytowers Ball . . . .326 XLV— The Classes and the Masses. . . .335 XL VI. — Vivian speaks ..... 345 XLVII. — Cocotte's Fault . . . . .351 XLVIIL— A Name without a Spot . . . .355 XLXIX.— Under the Apple-Tree . . . .361 L.— Phil ....... 367 LI. — The Greatest Scamp that ever stepped this Earth ! ■0-

Prologue

. THE MEETING AT THE "MINER'S REST." A pretty, low, one-storied house, with quaint gables and corners, half buried in creepers ; built on the side of a gentle slope, and set like a gem in a wealth of flowering shrubs and dark green foliage. Behind it stood a grand maple, towering up and stretching out protecting arms over the low roof, adding further shade to that of the veranda, which almost surrounded the house. In front there was a garden, more like a blooming wilderness on which Nature had lavished all her glories of vivid colouring, than a garden overlooked by the eye of man. Here and there a winding walk appeared between the shrubs, gleamed and passed again into shade. Beyond the garden and the undulating meadow-land, dotted with fine trees, casting deep shadows in the fierce Virginian sunlight, and affording grateful shelter to lazy cattle, the eye caught the glint of a quiet, deep river, winding through the valley ; and, further still, the blue outline of a distant range of hills.

A place of perfect rest ; a very land of dreams ! In keeping with this quiet scene there were three men lounging in the coolness of the veranda. One of them was young — apparently about six-and-twenty, carefully dressed in an obviously English suit of light grey. A man hardly to be described as handsome, and yet Jack Montague was of sufficiently striking appearance — tall and well made, with strong arms, and large, fair hands, indicative of strength both of will and purpose ; a head well set on broad, square shoulders, with thick, A light hair, which in boyhood must have been golden ; a broad forehead, with a habit of contracting itself quickly into deep furrows ; eyebrows running into one another, and meeting over a nose which was prominent, but by no means straight; the mouth hidden by a crisp, soldierly moustache, and strong, somewhat heavy jaw and chin.

An English face, bold and yet refined, made eloquent by the eyes, which were really blue, with lashes a shade darker than his hair ; eyes set rather wide apart, which looked straight at any one to whom their owner spoke. They were quiet enough in repose — good-humoured, gentle, and honest, but capable of very sudden transitions, quickly flashing into anger, altering the whole face in a moment, and at such a moment dangerous eyes indeed. At Cambridge, among his intimate friends, Montague had been known as a man whom it would be safer not to " rag." On one memorable occasion, when a practical joker, confident in his own strength, after trying in vain to rouse his sleeping temper by foolish chaff, presumed to make some facetious remarks about a photograph lying on the table, he was astonished to find himself caught in a grasp of iron, bodily lifted from the ground, and hurled down upon the floor with a force from which it took him many days to recover, whilst over him stood Montague, with an ugly light flashing from his usually gentle eyes, and his whole face transformed as only a violent temper suddenly let loose could change it.

Sorry enough he was a moment after, and full of remorse, which found expression later on in reckless generosity towards the object of his anger. As he grew older these outbreaks of passion became rarer ; but his friends soon learnt that it was the reverse of wise to go too far with him, for it did not require much knowledge of character to guess that behind that generous face.withits pleasantsmile, there lurked a temper by no means to be trifled with. The companion sitting next him was a vastly different man — tall, lithe, with long arms out of all proportion to his body, a narrow face, by no means ugly, considered handsome by many, and by none more implicitly than himself ; eyes small and set close together ; nose straight and decidedly aristocratic; a cruel mouth, always moving quickly and nervously like his eyes ; altogether an untrustworthy face, with a generally hard expression.

His laugh was forced, whilst his voice was rather high ; and he talked fast in jerky sentences. Dick Moseley had once been the pride of a loving mother, and many a prayer had been offered by her to Heaven when he first started for University. He had begun in a good set at Trinity College, Cambridge, and had not been unpopular, for his culpable idleness and inordinate love of excitement, which led to his sitting up night after night playing loo till the small hours, were easily condoned by his friends. There were whispers, even in those early days, that he had a most enviable knack of never losing, yet no one could say that he had been anything but honest in play. Afterwards, when he lived faster and played deeper, these whispers grew louder. His friends in London were ill-chosen, for the most part men whom it was counted unwise to play with.

But even then he was never caught tripping ; still, the better class of men grew shy of him, and he dropped further and further out of good society, till at last he found it advisable to go. And so, with a little spare cash and plenty of wit, he started for America. For five years he wandered from place to place, always with some fresh scheme in his head ; now running a pleasure-garden with varied attractions for holiday-folk of a certain stamp, or a flash hotel where gambling went on from morning till morning, or editing a paper, or starting a tram-line. Excitement and speculation were the atmosphere of his life. For the last six months he had been hard at work trying to launch a switch-back railway ; and, whilst engaged in this congenial occupa tion, he met with Montague, who hailed him with delight, glad to see a face he knew in a country where all faces were strange.

On many occasions the two men dined to gether, and Moseley was able to give Montague much useful information about the business he had in hand. They had many a good talk over old Cambridge pranks, in which both had participated, until some sort of spuri ous friendship was established between them, although no two men could be imagined who were more unlike. Their tastes were very different, except for the one characteristic they had in common — namely, a deeprooted love of sport. But it is wonderful how firmly mutual reminiscence of happy days will bind two op posites together in a strange country. The casual ac quaintance of the past being magnified instead of lessened by distance, was responsible for the fact that Moseley and Montague were sitting side by side in that peaceful spot, engaged in friendly conversation with their host, Robert Stansfield.

Stansfield had left the old country several years before, and in due course married a Virginian lady of great beauty, and not too narrow means. He was thoroughly content with his wife, his only daughter, his home, and himself — a wise man, and, added to that, a perfect gentleman. He was short, thick-set and sturdy, with a quaint, grave and honest face. He was char acteristically dressed in a broad-brimmed, shady hat, a coloured shirt, and flannel trousers tucked into wide jack-boots, an old Norfolk shooting-jacket open in front — for the best of all reasons, because the buttons had gone — the very incarnation of careless ease ! For many years he had been a staunch friend of the Montagues, though separated from them by the Atlantic, and he was now delighted to have Jack — the son of his old friend, long since dead — a guest in his house.

It was not only pleasure, or even the wish to make acquaintance with Bob Stansfield, of whom he had heard so much from his mother, that had brought Jack Montague out to America, but family business. For many generations the Montagues had possessed lands in Virginia — at one time of considerable extent, as proved by ancient deeds, but the greater part of these were disposed of until only a small estate was left. At his father's death this estate came into Mrs Mon tague's hands, and for some years she worked it through agents at a considerable loss, until her solicitor advised her to sell the place and invest the money in English securities. Jack was delighted to have the opportunity of visiting America, and hoped to conclude the business in a month ; but, when week after week went by, and the matter seemed no nearer completion, he began to learn what was meant by " the law's delay."

Every obstacle, possible and impossible, was laid in his way, whilst Montague scolded and chafed — solacing himself meanwhile with the society and hospitality of Bob Stansfield and his pretty wife — a lot which he found by no means hard. Everything was new to him ; the life, so free and natural, was just to his taste, and, with a good horse to ride, and, lately, plenty of flappers to shoot, he could resign himself to any amount of delay on the part of Lawyer Sharpe and his colleagues. And when at last he held in his hand a blue paper entitled, " This indenture, dated, etc." — the conveyance of his mother's property, signed, sealed and delivered — it was with mingled feelings of joy and regret — joy that the business was well over, regret that his happy visit to Grange Farm had come to an end.

Robert Stansfield had ridden into town that morning with Montague, in order to see him bank the five thousand pounds realised by the property, and meeting Dick Moseley on the way out, had promptly asked him to ride over and dine — promising him a welcome and a shake down, after bachelor fashion. Mrs Stansfield and her daughter Verena had gone the day before on a short visit to her old home, whither her husband was to follow her as soon as he had sped the parting guest. " Well, Montague, I congratulate you on the com pletion of your business," said Stansfield, heartily; "and, let me tell you, you've done uncommonly well to screw so much out of that old flint, Sharpe — not but what I owe him thanks for keeping you prisoner in my dull house." " Very good of you to say so, dear old man, and upon my word I forgive him all, for I've never enjoyed myself so much before.

But, my goodness, the obstinacy of that confounded lawyer ! A pig's a fool to him." " You didn't half rush him," broke in Moseley. " He was only holding on to see how much he could beat you down; you should have stuck to the seven thou'. I would, I know." " Yes, and you would still have been pulling at the pig's leg, without the ghost of a hope of getting him over the stile." " Well, I've heard people say he's a clever man, and what's better still — an honest lawyer," rejoined Stansfield. "Honest he may be. I won't take his character away," replied Jack ; " but his cleverness I don't believe in. Never met a man before so hopelessly ignorant of ordinary matters, and yet he thinks himself cleverer than any one else — other lawyers included. However, I don't care so long as the mater's satisfied."

" I'll bet you ten to one the solicitor isn't, if she is," said Moseley. " Any way, let us drink the old buffer's health. I've no quarrel with him. I won twenty dollars from him in the club the other night, which nearly gave him a fit. And, Jingo ! Stansfield, your roads are dusty. My throat's like a limekiln." " Generally is," muttered Bob, as he shouted for Sambo, his factotum. " Now then, what is it to be ? What do you say, Montague ? " " I say with Byron, ' The future is a serious matter ; so let's have hock and soda-water.' Not a perfect quota tion, but as good as the original." " And you, Moseley ? " " A dash of brandy for me ; none of your hock — beastly, insipid, tasteless stuff." " Sambo, I'll follow Mr Montague — two hocks, one brandy, three sodas — quick ; and plenty of ice. Have a weed *.

No ? Well, then, pass the case to Moseley. I can't think how you can smoke those futile cigarettes, It's a bad habit, but each man to his taste. I tell you what, Monty, you will be grilled by the time you reach the Rockies — if this weather lasts. What are you going to do when you get there ? " " You had better ask Moseley. I'm in his hands. He tells me there is plenty of sport. Deer, grizzlies, mountain-lions, all sorts of small game, and a chance of adventures with marauding Indians, who might take a fancy to such an ornamental scalp as mine. They wouldn't be able to get hold of much on Moseley's head." " No, that's so ; and I've a notion it would be awkward to try. I've a knack of shooting sharp. By the way, Montague, have you got a pocket-gun amongst your battery ? " " Do you mean a six-shooter, or a Derringer ?

If the former, yes, I have, but a jolly sight too big to carry in my pocket. If the latter, no, and I don't intend to have it. I've no wish to end my life abruptly through an infernal machine going off inside my waistcoat. Besides, I've no more belief in Indians than in family ghosts." " No," said Moseley, drily, " no more have I ; and a Derringer wouldn't be of much use if I had. But I've known such a thing as a white man considering himself insulted, and evincing a most uncomfortable desire to drill a hole through the body of the first man that came handy. Personally, I prefer to do the drilling myself — it saves discomfort." Montague watched the smoke of his cigarette curling round a blossom of the passion-flower over his head, as he said slowly, " It takes a long time to shake off insular prejudice, but to me it seems the reverse of manly, just because you take offence at what is said, to pop at a man with a confounded little pistol through your trousers pocket, or to shoot him in the back, as I read of some blackguard doing in the States the other day.

Brute ! I'd treat him as a murderer, and hang him like a dog." " Yes, if you caught him ; but what would you do if the fellow started shooting, and you couldn't return it ? " " Do ? By Jove ! if he missed me, I'd make it rough for him." Aid his blue eyes blazed at the very idea. " I'm entirely of your opinion, Montague," Stansfield said heartily. " Thank goodness, the insolent bully who used to be so common in this country, is an almost extinct species. Doubtless, there are men of this sort still left, but it's not likely that you will meet with them. They are generally broken-down gamblers, who have become reckless ; and they are mostly to be found in low gambling hells in the Far West, or in the slums of our great cities. I hate the habit of carrying arms — every drunken young fool becomes a public danger.

By-the bye, I have asked a man to meet you to-night who could tell you strange tales of those early, wild days. There's hardly an Indian scrimmage he has not had a finger in, for he's death on Redskins — and no wonder. His whole life was ruined by them, and they say he has killed more than any man living. He is a nailing shot with rifle or pistol — and Octa vius Slocumbe is altogether a typical fron tier-man, with all his virtues, and a very few of his vices." " Slocumbe, did you say ? " asked Moseley, looking up quickly. " Yes ; do you know him ? " " No — that is — I know his name, and if you want to hear all particulars of sport in the Rockies, now's your chance. The old chap has spent most of his life at it, and if we can only get him to talk, which is difficult, he will keep us amused and astonished for hours."

"By Jove ! just the man I want to see. Where did you meet him, Moseley ? " " Meet him ? Who says I ever met him ? I've heard about him often enough, that's all," he said, carelessly. Whilst they were talking of him, Octavius Slocumbe was carelessly cantering a raw-boned thoroughbred up the dusty road. He was a small, wiry man, with a natural stoop from the shoulders, so often to be seen in those who are constantly in the saddle. His broad brimmed hat shaded a thin, sunburnt face, with sunken cheeks, a prominent, slightly hooked nose, a red-brown moustache which entirely covered his mouth ; thick bushy eyebrows, once red, but now tinged with grey; deep-set, small, light grey eyes, full of life and movement, round which the bird of time had left deep foot prints. The whole face was furrowed in strange lines and creases, and marked indelibly with the stamp which is only placed by Nature on those whose life has been exposed to the buffets of her storms, as well as to the heat of her smiles.

His existence from babyhood had been one long series of adventures. His father, one of the foremost pioneers of the Far West, had been killed and scalped by a party of marauding Sioux, and his mother with her infant son had only escaped the same fate by a miracle. His first recollections were of the rolling prairie, the vast herds of buffaloes, the wild, free life of a settler's home. He used to boast that he had been born on a horse with a rifle in hand ; and when only twelve years old he had broken through a line of Indians, and saved a whole caravan of emigrants from destruction by bringing a detachment of soldiers to their rescue. His mother was the daughter of an English journalist, who had persuaded his wife in a weak moment to run away from home, THE MEETING AT THE " MINER'S REST." 9 and share his fortunes in America — fortunes which came to an abrupt end through a bullet fired by a drunken digger through a bar-window.

She died when her boy was fifteen, and left him nothing but her blessing, the memory of her holy life and devoted love, and a Bible containing a paper descriptive of her own family and their place of abode in England. He treasured the book with a devotion almost amounting to superstition — a devotion which turned up trumps for him when, about thirty years later, a letter reached him addressed to " 0. Slocumbe, Esqre., Scout in U.S. Army," informing him that if he was the son of Octavius B. Slocumbe, who married Nellie Wilder, daughter of James Wilder, Esqre., journalist, and would apply to a well-known firm of London solicitors, he might " hear of something to his advantage." And so, armed with his Bible and the memory of his mother, he crossed " the streak of water," and, after much trouble and vexation, together with the consumption of an infinite number of cigars, found him self the possessor of a small income, as well as of some house-property in a provincial town, and a pretty cottage on the banks of the Derwent.

The houses he disposed of to the highest bidder, the cottage he let to the first tenant that made him an offer, and then hurried back to recruit his shattered nerves in the land of his heart, which contained his mother's grave, and those of his wife and baby-daughter. The old scout met with a cordial welcome when he pulled up in front of the Grange, and underwent a severe cross-examination as to his recent visit to England, and the good luck which had befallen him there. He declared that he could get no fresh air in the old country. So many people were crammed into so small a space, that it could only be had second-hand — a state of affairs which by no means suited him ; but he allowed, with an apologetic glance at Jack, that he had no doubt that even a used-up atmosphere might, under favourable circumstances, produce some fine specimens of man kind.

Jack laughingly assured him that he had not grown at all until after his advent into the freshness and purity of the American atmosphere ; but that during the last three or four weeks he had thriven to such an alarming extent, that he was afraid to go home lest his own mother should not recognise him. At this moment Sambo came to inform them, with much dignity, that dinner was served, and the four friends were soon hard at work with knife and fork. Throughout dinner the conversation turned on sport in the Rockies, and Jack Montague was not a little annoyed to find that Moseley's and Slocumbe's accounts scarcely coincided. However, he was consoled when he heard that there were still plenty of mountain-lions, wild goats, wapiti, and a few grizzlies, the latter being nearly extinct in Montana territory, along the upper Yellow stone, and further west, in California.

A good guide must be procured, and much time and trouble expended in finding and following the game, which Jack was thoroughly prepared to give, so he took heart. The scout gave him most valuable information about the country, and the battery which was requisite for sport ing purposes. The dangers from Indians he considered as nil, with proper precaution. Most accidents of a fatal character happened because of the reckless choice of companions in a country where life is held cheap, and the Derringer was often the only argument used to carry conviction. When dinner was over and cigars were lighted, Moseley sauntered out on to the veranda, and called Montague to come and play ecarte. " When do they start, Stansfield ? " asked Slocumbe. " To-morrow — up to New York — then right away West to Utah, to see the Salt Lake City, if they don't go to the Upper Yellowstone Mountains after your description."

" Is that Moseley going with him ? " " Yes. Why ? Do you know anything of him ? " " Well, I reckon I rubbed up against him out West in Sacramento, and if it was me — I should prefer a rattle snake for a pard." " I'm sorry to hear it. I can't stand the chap myself — drinks too much, and plays too high. I shall certainly warn Montague before he starts. Thank goodness, he's no fool. Where are you wandering off to, old lad ? " " Wal, I've business in Wyoming County, and shall kinder worry round California till I get used to being a man of property. After that, Lord knows where I shall go ; maybe back to England to get polished. Anyway, I guess I'll look you up next spring. Let's go and watch the play." Montague was just scoring. The two men were evidently intent on their game, and scarcely noticed the others as they moved out on to the veranda to watch them.

" That's fifty," said Moseley. " No, it's not — only forty-five," rejoined Montague. " It's as well to be accurate." " Ah ! I beg pardon, so it is. Forty-five. My deal." " Cards ? " " I mark the king, and play." " Well, I'm shot ! You always mark the king. You've the luck of the devil ! " Slocumbe, who had been standing in the window, now moved and leant against one of the slender iron supports of the veranda, immediately behind Moseley. The latter just glanced round, and went on playing. The play proceeded, but with a different result, for the king no longer favoured Moseley to the same extent, and at the end of an hour Montague had won five dollars. " Oh, I'm sick of this," exclaimed Moseley, throwing away the stump of his cigar, " let us stop. I hate play ing in the dark, and I detest any one looking over my hand.

It makes me nervous." " I should hardly have thought it, with your practice," remarked the scout, not moving from his position. Moseley turned sharply round, with the intention of saying something unpleasant, but as he encountered the steady gaze of the scout's little piercing eyes, he thought better of it, and sweeping up his money, slipped it into his pocket. Shortly afterwards, having refused the prof fered shake -down, and made all final arrangements about the morrow's start, he bade his host good-night, and rode off home. Before Jack went to his room, Stansfield took the opportunity of speaking to him about his projected trip, and whilst wishing him all manner of good luck and good sport, warned him not to be too intimate with Moseley. " Mind you," he said, " I have nothing against the man, only I know that I don't like him, and Slo cumbe let slip a hint to me to-night that he is, to say the least, a doubtful sort to have for a pard in any undertaking.

The scout's not a man to speak without reason, so you watch it, and if he isn't straight, cut adrift. If you take my advice, you'll not play too much with the fellow, either, for there's nothing breeds ill will sooner than cards, especially if the play is not quite on the square." Then, with many protestations of good-will, the two men parted for the night. In all the range of the Rocky Mountains, there is perhaps no scenery so grand, so completely overwhelming, as that of the Upper Yellowstone, Montana Territory. Vast forests of pine, storm-swept, dark and sullen, clothe the lower slopes, with thick, tangled undergrowth of dank grass and hardy thorn — piled high in some parts with the fallen trunks of former gaints, now rotting on the ground, forming a wild wilderness of decaying wood and vegetation — a place of dread, where the fierce mountain-lion prowls at night.

In the days long ago the Indian moved through these silent forests, with bated breath, in fear lest some hideous form should suddenly rush forth from the dark shades, and strike him dead for daring to venture into these solitary haunts. Superstition vanished before the pale-faced pioneers of civilisation, who, through untold dangers and unimagined difficulties — with axe, rifle and their own indomitable pluck, cut broad tracks through the forest, mastered the intricacies of the rocky passes — braved the cold blasts of snow and sleet — passed clean over the gloomy range into the rich land beyond, to catch the gold-fever which sent men mad, and turned even the noblest hearted into wild beasts, until in all that favoured land no law was known but that of force and fraud. Half-way up one of these rough passes, hewn by those pioneers of fortune across the mountains, a narrow bridle-path branches off through the woods, winds in and out the huge rocks tumbled from the mountain's side, gradually ascending until, at about five thousand feet above the level of the plain, it leads to a valley cleft in the very heart of the range by some throe of Nature, and known to the trapper and sportsman as the " Valley of Death."