Zillah. A romance

Front matter

Z I L L A H : 2 "Soutanes. BY THE SAME AUTHOR. i. ELRAD THE HIC. A Romance os the Sea of Galilee. 2. JABEZ EASTERBROOK. A Religious Novel. WARD, LOCK, BCAVDEN & CO. " 'Forgive me!' she said." ZillahT] [Page 106. ZILLAH. a IRomance BY JOSEPH HOCKING, IA Author of " Elrad the Hie,' "Jabez Easterbrook," &c. "They were flying from a bad, desperate man." (Page 349.) WARD, LOCK, BOWDEN AND CO., LONDON ; WARWICK HOUSE, SALISBURY SQUARE, E.C. NEW YORK: EAST I2TH STREET. MELBOURNE: ST. JAMES'S STREET. SYDNEY: YORK STREET, 1892. {All rights re sen ed.) Ea % fflcmorg of My Father and Mother, TO WHOSE TRUE TEACHING AND BEAUTIFUL LIVFS I OWE MORE THAN I AM ABLE TO TELL, I rjrtn'cnte THIS WORK OF MY HEART AND BRAIN, IT IS AN UNWORTHY OFFERING, CUT MY HEART'S LOVE AND MY DEEPEST GRATITUDE ACCOMPANY IT. 1: CONTENTS. TAGE Introduction i

Introduction

. "The wintry west extends his blast And hail and rain does blaw ; Or the stormy north sends driving forth The blinding sleet and snaw. While tumbling horn, the burn comes doun And roars frae bank to brae, And bird and beast in covert rest, And pass the heartless day. " — Burns, I. LET my readers picture to themselves an old house. It has been built at least three hundred years, and is covered with lichen, while the ivy grows thickly on its strong stone walls. Immediately surrounding it are gardens, ornamental and vegetable, while beyond are broad fertile lands, which are dotted with giant trees. These, as you look on their grey barks and mighty trunks, tell you that they have faced the storms of many generations. Beyond these broad lands, which we English people usually designate as " parks," are miles of woods, some of tall stalwart oak and beech, and others of stubbly undergrowth.

These woods are broken here and there by a few green fields, which have been cultivated by some industrious cottager, and ' B ZILLAH. 2 again by a cluster of cottages, which nestle amidst their woody surroundings, homely but picturesque. About half a mile from the house a river runs, not rapidly, but smoothly and gently, as though its waters did not wish to hurry away from such inviting surroundings. At one place the river broadens into a lake, which, bordered as it is with tall, waving trees, becomes beautiful beyond expression. This is a scanty but faithful portrait of the place which I hope my readers see as plainly as I do. Not that I have much to say about it at present. After these introductory remarks have been written, many and many a page will have to be penned before, together, we revisit this old house, surrounded by such rich undulating land, beautified by the luxuriant growths which a beneficent Creator has so bountifully provided.

Still, it is necessary that we have some idea of the place, especially as we shall immediately enter it, and seeing that a great deal of interest will encircle around it by-and-by, i.e., if you have the patience to read the end of — what I trust will be — an interesting story. As we enter the lodge gate on the southern side of the house, we are immediately struck with the fact that the drive is grass-grown and neglected. There are but few evidences of life anywhere. The old man at the lodge looks at us wonderingly, and then returns to his fireside — for it is winter time— to smoke his pipe and think of the glory of the days that are gone. For the first half-mile we follow the winding road through the silent woods, hearing only now and then a snatch of music which the river dis courses to us as it flows near the road, in following the course of its stony bed.

After leaving the wood, we see the old house, grey and bold, and then we hasten on until we come to the main entrance. We will not stay there, however, for our business is within.

INTRODUCTION.

. 3 In one of the smallest rooms of the house, evidently intended by the original owner for a " snuggery," sit an old man and woman. A sad, disappointed look rests on their faces. And no wonder ! These two live alone in this great house, with the exception of a few old servants. Josiah Inglewood, owner of Inglewood Park, has long since passed his prime, while his wife Susannah is scarcely younger. In his young days, Josiah was called "the merry squire," so full of joviality was he, while his wife was a fit partner for such a man. That was before, their son, their only child, grew to manhood. But where is their son now ? Let us listen to their conversation, and we shall soon know all that they are able to tell us. " Susannah," says the old man, " the days go by, and still there is no news."

" No news," repeats the old lady sadly, " no news. I give up hope sometimes. I am afraid we shall never see our son again." " And yet we acted for the best." " You did, I am sure," she answered. " You were anxious to do the best for our boy. You longed for him to take a high position in the county, to be universally respected, and finally become one of the county members. And so you wanted him to marry the daughter of one of our neighbours, a true, pure, English girl, who would be at once his help, his inspiration, and his comfort. You wanted the family to remain without a stain upon its name. You were unselfish in all this. I was not. I cared only to keep him with me, and yet I agreed with all you did." "Yes, God knows that although I was proud, I thought of his happiness and his future success.

Then again, Henry Leicester had often talked over the matter with me ; we both agreed that nothing could be better than that our Josiah should marry his Mary. We are the oldest and best ZILLAH. 4 known families in the county, and our united lands would make the finest estate for many a mile around, and so when he laughed at my proposition I was angry, very angry, especially because I knew I was thinking of his good." " Yes," replied the wife, " and Josiah ahvays had a hasty temper, and so he went away for a month's wandering. I did not mind that so much ; but when he came back, saying he loved a strange woman, the daughter of the chief of a tribe of gipsies, it made us more angry." " It did, and yet I've often wondered if we did right. He was so earnest, so sincere, and he pleaded so hard ; but I could not consent.

How could I see a gipsy woman here ? And so I refused him angrily. Ah, Josiah was never like other young men, he cared nothing for name or prestige, nothing suited him better than a roving life. He was ever on the look-out for adventures, ever taking un heard of measures." " I've often wished we had asked him to bring her here that we might have seen her," murmurs the mother. "It might be that we could have loved her, and my heart has always yearned for a daughter." "Yes, I too have often regretted our hastiness of speech. But we drove him away, and he declared we should never see his face again. Ah, it is very hard. Nothing would have given my old heart more joy than to see my son with a wife and little ones. Methinks it would have made us both young again, could it have been so." " I am afraid," murmurs the old lady, " that he is dead.

Sjrely he would have let us know before now if he were alive. It is five long years since he left us, and we have never heard a word about him. Oh, it is terrible that we should lose our only son, and he given to us in our old years 1 "

INTRODUCTION.

. 5 " It is terrible • and I am told that my cousin is waiting to pounce upon my property. He gloats over our childless old age, because he is next of kin. He has a son too, a lad a few years old. But he shall never have the Ingle wood lands. He never shall ! " And the old man lifts his clenched fist, and brings it down heavily on the table by his side. "But what can you do?" asks his wife. "If you die childless, the lands must revert to the heir-at-law. True, your cousin is a low-bred, dissolute man, and most likely his son will follow in his footsteps, but I cannot see how you can hinder him inheriting it when — when we die." " Then I'll make it worthless to them. I'll borrow money on the estate to the utmost farthing of its worth. I'll — but what's the use of talking ? We shall receive news of Josiah soon.

Nay, I am expecting him tiome daily, and when he comes, why, Susannah, we will forgive him, and receive his wife, whoever she may be. We are too old and too lonely to reject our only means of comfort — and, perhaps, who knows, we may see our grandchildren trot ting around the house, and their merry chatter shall make music in our declining years." "God grant that it maybe so, Josiah," she murmurs, " and yet I fear very much ; but, husband," and she comes close to him, " if ever a message comes from our boy, or if any one belonging to him makes a request, promise that you will grant it." " Grant it ! " answers he, "grant it ! As though he could breathe a wish now, and I refuse. No, no, there is no fear of that. If my boy will make any sign, any advance, his foolish old father will meet him more than half-way.

And, oh, how my heart yearns for our boy, our only boy, given to us in our old years ! " And now they converse in whispers, so that we cannot ZILLAH. hear them ; but we see as the evening shades descend, and the room becomes dark, that they, in their loneliness and sorrow, clasp each other's hand as though they were voting lovers. Soon after, they give a start, for the dinner gong sounds through the great house, and then silently, side by side the old couple find their way to the great dining hall, where long years before joyous companies gathered, but which is now a fit emblem of their cheerless lives. II. Another scene. The month is December, bleak and cold. The biting wind is swirling the sleet and snow in every direction. The night is coming on rapidly, and man and beast alike are looking forward towards shelter through the coming darkness.

The houses here are few and far between — it is a purely agricultural district — and in the wildness of the storm one shudders at the thought of being out alone. The tall fir trees mournfully shake off the snow crystals that gather upon their dark foliage, while the wind howls dismally as it finds its way up the valleys and through the sombre woods. Rapidly the short evening passes away. The sun, which has been hid by the snow clouds all the day, has sunk behind the western hill, and the dim twilight begins to lose itself in the darkness of night. Still the wind moans, and still the snow and sleet fall, while colder and colder grows the air. " God be merciful to all poor wanderers who are without shelter to-night," is our prayer, and we wonder if there is any poor desolate soul battling with the storm.

Is there one ? Struggling along the road is a man, a young man. There is still light enough for us to get an idea of his appearance. He is neither tall nor short, and yet he has a striking

INTRODUCTION.

. 7 appearance. His eyes burn with a bright light, his features are finely chiselled, his mouth is proud, yet tender. His every movement indicates that he is a gentleman, both by birth and education, and yet his clothes are stained and worn, and he looks as though he had, on foot, travelled many miles. On closer examination we see that he is extremely deli cate, indeed we should not be surprised if we were told he would soon die of consumption. And yet he bravely walks along the road in the teeth of the biting wind and driving snow. " It must be five more miles yet," he says, " nearly four to the lodge gates. If I can only get there I don't care ; but I'm afraid I can't go much further on a night like this. And yet I must get there. I must do all that can be done for my little darling. I am sure father will forgive me, and receive her gladly when I tell him of my sorrow, and as for mother, there's no fear of her."

" I know I have not done right," he goes on. " I was hasty — passionate. Had I given father time, he would have repented, and then I should not have suffered these long years of exile, and, perchance, I should not have had this sorrow — the sorrow that is killing me. But I would submit to no reproach, and so, madly, I left home, and property, and everything. I don't think I would have humbled myself now, but for my darling, but as it is I can hold out no longer. Besides I do not think I shall live long. Ah, how my side aches, and how faint I feel ! " Still he plods on, thinking that he is alone, and wonder ing what he shall do. But he is not alone. Not far behind him is another man, about thirty-five years of age. He is well and warmly dressed, and walks briskly. He is strong and well built too, and never seems to trouble about the cold night.

He has not a good face. No onewould ZILLAH. be led to trust him because of it. On the other hand, it is repellent. There is a wicked glare in his eyes, a cynical smile ever playing around his mouth, and as he trudges on he watches the man in front of him with an eagerness which seems mingled with fear. " No, Josiah, my boy," he mutters. " I must not lose sight of you yet. It would be easy to get rid of you on such a night as this, but I don't know that it would pay. Still it's lucky I've had my eye on you for some time, for evidently you are on your way to the old home, and if you get there it will be U.P. with yours truly. But you won't get there, Josiah, my boy ; so make no mistake. I really can't afford it. However, I needn't trouble, for by the way you are staggering, you don't look as though you can go much further, and when that time comes I must make my plans.

It's lucky though that the snow keeps the night from being right dark, for if it were I might have difficulty in following. Whew ! how the wind bites, though ! I'll take a drop of comfort," and he pulls a brandy flask from his pocket. Meanwhile the man in front staggers on. " I can't hold out much longer," he murmurs ; " and it's a terrible night. How strange it is that I, who am the heir of thousands, should be alone and destitute like this. But it is my own fault. I gave it all up for a mad fancy, and yet I loved her — oh, how I loved her ! " He begins to cough, and the cough reveals the state of his health. Truly he ought to be tenderly nursed in a warm room, instead of being out on such a night. When it comes to an end he seems have lost hope. " I shall never get there," he cries. " I shall never see my father and mother again, and my child will be deprived of what is rightfully the property of the bonnie bairn. But I must, I will get on. I will see my parents, and obtain their

INTRODUCTION.

. 9 forgiveness. I will provide for the little one, who, though some may say is lowly born, is still my child and the lawful inheritor of Inglewood. "But stop! What is that? A light— ah yes, I remember now the little wayside inn. I am saved ; now, I don't mind — ah, thank God, all will be well ! " He moves forward with more steady step, while the man behind draws closer to him. " I forgot the old alehouse," he mutters. " Josiah must not get there, or my game is difficult. Luckily the old inn keeper doesn't live there now, and won't know my worthy cousin, still he had better not enter." He goes forward at a more rapid rate, but not fast enough to hinder the one in front from fulfilling his design, for just before he reaches him, he utters a wild cry. Instantly the door of the inn opens, and two men rush towards him and lead him towards the house.

Ill Shortly after, the sick, weary traveller is lying on a warm bed, in the best room of the little wayside inn. Poorly dressed as the innkeeper saw he was when he entered, he recognised him as a gentleman, and then, without a question as to his ability to pay for his hospitality, he proceeded to do his best to assist him. And now he lies on the warm bed. For some time he has been in a half-fainting condition, and has not been able to make known either his name or his wishes. Presently, however, he gains strength, and is able to speak. " Am I very ill ?" he asks. " Very," replies the -landlord's wife, who has established a reputation in the vicinity as an accomplished nurse and amateur doctor. "You don't think I could travel to-night?" ZILLAH. " It would kill you in less than an hour if you were to try," says the woman firmly.

A look of despair comes into his eyes. " It is so important," he mutters. " Oh, I must let them know somehow." "What is it? "asks the woman; "if we can send any message we will be glad to do it." A look of doubt comes into his eyes. " I do not like revealing my identity to these people," he murmurs to himself, "and yet I don't know what to do. I feel so strange ; I do not think I shall live long. Oh, to see mother and father before I die ! " " What is that you are saying ? " asked the landlord's wife. " How far is it to Inglewood Park ? " he asks. " Four miles." " Could you arrange for a message to be taken there ? " " It's a long way, and a terrible night. Wouldn't it do to wait until the morning ? " " Morning ! I may not live to see the morning ! Surely it could be taken to-night. The messenger would be well paid."

" Is the message to the Squire ? " " To the Squire — yes." " Perhaps ■ Yes, it shall be done. What is the mes sage? " " It had better be written," he mutters thoughtfully. " Is there any one in the house who can write ? " " Yes, my son can write ; shall I send for him ? " "Yes, send for him — quickly." A servant who has been standing by her mistress immediately goes into the little bar parlour belowy-rmd gives the message. "A message to Squire Inglewood," says the landlord.

INTRODUCTION.

. 11 " Why, perhaps this is the old Squire's son who we've heard so much about. Go, William my boy, and write it care fully." The man who followed the sick man along the road sits by the fire, and looks at the landlord askance. Then, when the youth has left the room, he says to the host, — " Well, I must be gone." " Gone, to-night ? " says the landlord. " Why, it's a terrible night." "Nevertheless, I must get to Wortenvale," he answers slowly. " Ah, that's a pity, for it's right away from Inglewood. You might have been company for the lads I must send with the message. It's a long walk to Wortenvale." " But I must get there ; so fill my flask at once with your best. I shall need some warming on my journey." Meanwhile, the sick man in the room above is dictating his message, while the youth, with labouring hand, slowly writes it down.

It runs as follows, — " I should have been with you to-night had I not been so ill and weak. I wanted to ask your forgiveness. I am in great sorrow. The one I left you for is dead " He has got so far when he sits up in bed. " I am strong enough to write myself," he says excitedly ; " give me the pen and ink, and put a book on the bed, so that I can rest the paper on it. Prop me up too — there, that's better." He grasps the pen as one accustomed to write, and al though his hand is weak and nerveless, he writes far more rapidly than the youth. " Dearest Father and Mother, — It is your sorrowful boy Josiah that sends you this. I am here, at the Cross Lane Inn. I intended to have reached home to-night, but ZILLAH. 12 I was too weak to do so. I do not think I shall live long, so I am sending you this.

My darling wife, for whom I left you, is dead. She died in my arms, and my sorrow has been terrible. I have been ill a month, and got off a sick bed to go to you. I should have died of a broken heart, but for the little child — a little girl, who was born to us. She is a beautiful child and, although she has black eyes, like her mother, she strongly resembles our family. Father and mother, will you take her home, and let her be to you as she should be ? There is no deceit about this. I was lawfully married in the parish of Dingleford, in the county of , and the marriage was duly registered in the parish register. Our darling's birth was registered in the same parish. She is now with the caravan in Deepdale Valley. You know where it is — we have both gone there hunting. The chief, who is my wife's father, will give her up to you on application.

Also the marriage certificate. " I ain writing this because I am afraid I shall not live until the morning. If I do, and you can come to me, I will tell you everything. "I do not ask your forgiveness, I feel you have forgiven me, but I grieve for my undutiful conduct. I am sure God has forgiven me too. Come as soon as you can ! Be kind and loving to my darling. I know you will. I feel sure mother will train her to be a pure and holy Christian even as she is. We called her Susannah Inez, after my mother and her own. — Your loving, yet repentant and sorrowing son, " Josiah Inglewood." When he has folded it up and addressed it, he lays back faint and exhausted. "The messengers are safe?" he questions faintly. " Quite safe." " Tell them to give the letter to no one but my — my— that is the Squire," he murmurs.

INTRODUCTION.

. 13 The landlord's son takes the letter and goes downstairs, while a strange look comes into his eyes, and for a quarter of an hour he stares vacantly; then he raises his head eagerly. " The message will never reach my father," he gasps. "Ah, I see them struggling. My father and mother will not get it — it is wrested from them — ah ! " " What is it ? What is it ? " asks the landlady. " My letter is vain ; but — but send for Squire Inglewood, tell him — tell him to look in Dingleford register. I — I was married there — to — to — he knows. Our baby was registered there — tell him — Inez — Chief — Deepdale Valley — I — -his — SON ! " He lies back unconscious, to all appearances dead, al though the woman who nurses him says he still breathes. Did he see anything as he uttered these excited words?

Was his vision keener than that of those who watched him ? For an answer to this let us go back a few minutes. The man who has followed the one signing himself "Josiah Inglewood" leaves the house as soon as the land lord has filled his flask. When he has got out into the road he stands still and mutters, — "Josiah sends a message, eh? Well, the old man must never get it. It's to be in writing, so it's all the better for me, for I shall know just what to do." He loiters around the house for some time, and then starts as he sees two youths come out. He stands behind a huge tree while they pass him, then grasping his heavy stick, with a murderous gleam in his eye, he creeps after them. " No, Josiah Inglewood," he mutters, " I can't afford, I positively can't afford for you to see your son's letter to night."

Chapter I

, jack harcourt's fancy " Nay, Mis not as we fancied it, This magic world of ours ; We thought its skies were only blue, Its fields all sun and flowers. But clouds came up, with gloom and shade Our sky was overcast, The hot mist threw its blight around, Sunshine and flowers went past." — Bonar r I "'HE introduction having now been written, it behoves X us to make a leap over several years, if this story is to be made interesting. Not that nothing happened during those years. Far from it. There seems to be very little connection between a lonely wayside inn and an express train sweeping into Paddington Station, yet that is the sudden transition which is about to be made. Seated in one of those broad-gauge carriages, which abound on the Great Western Railway, is a young man, apparently about twenty-three years of age.

I did think of trying to describe his features, and presenting a full-length portrait of him to the reader, but on second thoughts have ■4 refrained. He is not easy to describe, because there is so much evident contradictoriness in his nature. For ex ample, his mouth betrays an exceedingly tender and sensi tive disposition, and indicates that he would be easily led ; but, on the other hand, his chin is square and determined, and tells us plainly that he possesses an exceptionally strong and determined will. Again, sometimes his eyes look trust ful and confiding, but while you are thinking how easily he could be deceived by a lying but plausible story, they change, and become questioning and sceptical. Then at times he appears to be a happy-go-lucky sort of fellow — if the reader will allow me to be familiar — and at others, he reveals a deep, passionate nature.

But I find I have been hinting at the nature of the man himself rather than telling anything about his general ap pearance, i.e., from the novelist's usual standpoint. Seeing, however, that I have been so unsuccessful in what I have attempted, I will give up trying. Besides, if I succeeded, I doubt if I should do much good. I am sure my young lady critics would not call him " fine looking," or even " good looking," while my young men critics would possibly shrug their shoulders and dub him as commonplace ; the older folk and children " caring for none of these things." And yet I would not have, any one think him poor looking or commonplace. I would not have attempted to have written an important part of his life had this been the case ; because I am a firm believer in the fact that a face is largely an index to the character.

Had his face been poor looking, as I regard it, and commonplace, I doubt if his career would have been worth the writing. Nay, his face, although not pretty — I hate pretty men — and certainly not handsome, is nevertheless an interesting one, and reveals boundless possibilities as to the daring and strength of its possessor. Perhaps I had best first of all explain why he is in this ZILLAH. 16 Great Western carriage, which is nearing Paddington, and give a short sketch of his life, then the reader will be some what acquainted with him. Jack Harcourt, for that is the name of the young man, is the son of the late Rev. William Harcourt, M.A., a minister of the Episcopalian Church, who held a living in one of the agricultural counties. He was a liberal, sympathetic man, widely read, and well versed in the various intricacies of the "isms" of the day.