The Herons

Chapter I

A _____T_NG. Teœ soft perfumed dusk of a summer night hung over a wild hilly country, and veiled its bold outlines with out altogether hiding them. It had been raining nearly aU the day, though it had now ceased, and the deep narrow clefts between the hills were full of mist, faintly reflecting a pale gleam of light that must have been somewhere in the sky but was nowhere apparent when the eye sought for it. This is hardly perhaps a favourable moment in which to be introduced to a new neigh bourhood; but even Fancy cannot always choose her time for these aerial excursions. It was towards mid night on the fifteenth of July, and the tiny crescent moon had set behind the clouds that had hidden her light from her first rising, when the unchanging, ever lasting hiBs lent themselves as a background for the opening scene of the story I have now to tell.

And indeed (though none but an Irishman could call this a favourable light in which to view the country"} these bare hills are not least imposing in their man tle of soft half-darkness. They are long ridges, all b much of the same character, and have a kind of resem blance to huge couchant beasts, with heads all turned one way, as if waiting for their prey. Other narrower dales there are at right angles to the deep vales that lie between them ; rifts and gullies, choked with wood, that might answer to cuts and scars suffered by the earth-monsters in some primeval war. But for the time all these were veiled by darkness; ouly the bold rounded outlines could be seen above the mist, with here and there a patch of woodland black against the gray hillside. At such an hour and in such a place one might well expect uo living creature to be stirring, except the birds and beasts of night going stealthily as usual about their own affairs.

But along a field-path, that crossed the bare ridge of the hill at its highest point, a solitary figure was leisurely sauntering, as if the way was so familiar that the foot kept it by instinct. The path was but faintly marked at any time, and in the darkness the narrow stile to which it led could hardly have been visible at two yards' distance ; but the wanderer reached it, passed over it without an in stant's hesitation, and plunged into the black shadows of the little wood that lay beyond it with all tbe bold ness of perfect knowledge. The wood was but a mere belt, and when he came out at the other side of it the faint gray glimmer of earth and sky was just enough to partly show what manner of man this was who timed a summer stroll so strangely. A young man he seemed, tall and slender, with a light springing step and an easy upright carriage that in the present state of society is commonly held to indicate a member of one of the comparatively unbur dened classes.

His features were of course indistin guishable, except that one might judge from the contour of head and throat that they would be marked, spare, and probably somewhat aquiline. As he walked on, his head was sometimes bent as if in deep thought, but every now and then tossed back impatiently as if the thought was unwelcome or wearisome. And though he never came altogether to a standstill he lingered occasionally, looking over his shoulder towards the more open country at the foot of the hills, whose far horizon was faintly outlined by a dull red glow which he knew to be the furnace-fires of a great manufact uring city. His feet might be carrying him homewards almost without his knowledge, but he was plainly in no haste to reach his goal; though up the hillside on the soft night-breeze came the sound of a clock striking eleven, with the strangely solemn sound belonging to these church clocks which count the hours of the living on the same bell that tolls for the dead.

The tower where that bell hung, and the houses of the village clustered round it, were not far off as the crow flies; but between them and the bare brow of the hill lay a deep wooded gully, with a little brawling stream at the bottom of it, whose recesses a stranger would have thought twice about exploring even in the broad est daylight. Still the young man went on. He swung himself down the narrow precipitous path, crossed the brook at a bound, and pushed his way up the other side, taking with much equanimity the fragrant shower-bath that the dense hawthorn and dog-rose thickets bestowed on him as he passed; and so came out presently into the road that led to the village and through it into the wide world beyond. Just outside the village stood what was evidently the Squire's house, its great garden gates opening directly upon the quiet high-road, with somewhat of an air of taking possession of it, as if the king's highway (at least this particular ramification of it) existed solely for the convenience of one family.

Through the openings of the carved wooden doors could be seen the front of the house at no great distance, all the details of its architecture lost in the dimness, like the details of the surrounding scenery ; but with three broad squat gables black against the pale night-sky, and even the mullioned Tudor windows faintly indi cated by their white casements. The young man had reached his home, but the fact, when he realised it, did not seem to afford him any great satisfaction. He stood with his hand upon the half-open gate, scrutinising the front of the house with a careful eye, then softly closed the gate again and went on down the village street. Village — street; neither word conveys the impression of anything belonging to this little old-world place, so fast asleep among its hills, sheltered by them, yet high upon their bosom, out of hearing of the busy world.

Complete in itself it was, and iso lated like some tiny medieval town; but it had never been large enough to call itself a town, even in the days of that busier tide of life that had long since retreated to leave it stranded in peaceful loneliness. The little stone houses, huddled close against one another, had nothing of the model village; but from their tiny gardens came the rich summer scent of honeysuckle and roses and tall Madonna lilies; and in their midst a spring of pure water splashed and trickled into a stone trough by the wayside. Tall trees overhung the low wall of the churchyard, making a deeper darkness in the dark silent street. The young man paused beneath them by the closed lych gate, then crossed a stile that stood beside it and passed up the paved pathway between the graves, feeling his way rather than seeing it to where two great altar tombs stood in a corner beneath the tower.

The night-breeze whispered through the long grass and tall white daisies that clothed the humbler graves around, and the sigh in the heavy branches of the sycamores was like the distant voice of the sea; but neither these nor the tick of the clock close by seemed to break the utter stillness. The whim that had brought the young man to this place was strong enough to keep him there for the moment. He sat down upon a corner of one of the stones, swinging his foot and looking up at the wall above him, upon which a tablet or two could just be distinguished by an eye that knew where to seek them. These memorials could have little personal connection with any one then living, since the latest was nearly two hundred years old. Whatever had brought him there to meditate among the tombs, it did not seem to be a tender sentiment, for after apparently studying the invisible inscription on the lozenge-shaped tablet above his head for some minutes he broke off with an impatient movement, and a half-laugh that sounded like self-mockery rather than amusement.

The laugh was too low to wake any echoes in that quiet nook; but he seemed to check himself and listen, sitting motionless for an instant with folded arms and down-bent head. There ivas a sound, other than the sigh of the wind and the swing of the heavy pendulum in the tower, — a footstep passing along the village street, and lingering at the churchyard gate just as his own had lingered. In another moment the step crossed the stile and came slowly up the path towards the church. At that hour, and in that almost perfect stillness, there was something uncomfortable in the sound, as if the second comer were dogging the footsteps of the first. The young man listened for a moment intently, then sprang to his feet and walked briskly round the corner of the church. The step was not in the least like that of a drunken man, and he had lately seen the only public-house of the place apparently wrapped in peaceful and absolute repose.

Never theless, and despite his own example, he did not really expect to encounter any one but some inebriated rustic who had mistaken his way home, and might need alike guidance and reprimand. The new-comer was neither a rustic nor inebriated, and, what was more strange, he was, so far as the darkness permitted him to be seen, the exact counter part of the man who stepped forward to meet him. Height, figure, and gesture, all were the same, as if he saw his own reflection in a pool of dark still water; only who was to say here which was the reflection and which the substance? If anything, the new-comer was a trifle the more substantial of the two, with just that additional maturity of figure that a few more years might give; but the difference was almost too slight to be perceptible. Men rarely see a likeness to themselves, at least in its full extent; but to any one looking on just then the effect might have seemed a little ghastly, as if here among the tombs, in this dim light and at this witching hour, the young man had met his double, — himself, as a few more years might make him!

For an instant both were silent, looking, or trying to look, one another in the face through the baffling veil that was rather want of light than darkness. Then the young man who considered himself at home spoke first, in a clear courteous tone. " Are you looking for any one, may I ask? Can I assist you in any way?" Again, it was the very counterpart of his own voice that answered him. " Thank you. I can hardly say I am looking for any one. I should not have expected to meet with any living person here and at this hour. Nor can I say that I have lost my way, having just at present no way to lose. I am staying in this neighbourhood, that is all; and, finding myself restless and not inclined for sleep, came out to explore in the dark." "I beg your pardon. Good-night, then, and a pleasant walk."

The young man turned away, and was departing with a rapidity that seemed in accordance with the natural swiftness and lightness of all his movements. But the other followed him, speaking somewhat more hurriedly, and with a hardly veiled eagerness. "Stay one moment, please! Since I have so unexpectedly met some one here, if you are not pressed for time, I should be glad to ask you something." The young man paused and turned again, but did not answer, as the speaker perhaps expected him to do. "Excuse me," went on the other, after an instant; "I have been travelling all day, and walking nearly half of it. Shall we sit down for a moment? I will not detain you long." He stepped inside the porch, the young man follow ing him, and they sat down on one of the broad wooden benches, side by side. "I am a stranger in this part of the world, but friends of mine used to live here, and I know some names connected with it very well.

But first — I suppose I am right in believing this out-of-the-way little place to be Ernston? " "We call it so." " Ah ! I thought the directions I received should have enabled me to find my way here, even in the dark. It seems even smaller than I had been led to expect." " It is a small place, but not smaller than it used to be," answered the young man significantly. The stranger seemed to find a little difficulty in fram ing his next question. "Pardon me," he said at last; "I am doubly in the dark, and in these circumstances conversation is difficult. If, as I think, you belong to this part of the world, would you in the first place mind telling me your own name?" "Not at all; my name is Heron." "Ah! There was a Mr. Heron at the Hall here, I believe?" "There is still. He is my father." "I guessed as much.

So you are — Cosmo." He leaned slightly forward, as if trying to see a little more clearly, and the young man drew as much back ward. There was a suspicion of amusement in his voice as he answered, " I am certainly Cosmo. If you will tell me the name of the friend from whom you have got so much information concerning these parts, we can talk more on equal terms." " It is of no consequence. You are going to be good enough to answer me a few questions, and I shall ask none that you cannot easily answer. Is Mr. Heron well?" "Quite well, thank you." "And Mr. Anderson? No changes at the Vicarage, I suppose? " "None within the last twenty years. The Vicar is hale and hearty, and likely to reign over us in peace for many years to come." "And Mrs. Heron? Does she still live at Penni thorne?" "Yes."

The reply was very brief this time, but the speaker did not pursue the subject. He half sighed, and paused an instant. "I must not weary you by a string of questions. But the friend on whose behalf I am here would gladly know a little of local events and politics. Briefly, have there been any great events here of late? " "Nothing I think that would be likely to interest your friend. Births, deaths, and marriages there may have been, but none in the circle of which he would know anything. Up here, tell him, people rarely die, and never grow old." "What! Does time still go so slowly, then? Mr, Heron is well, you say? Is he changed at all?" "In the last eight years? No; neither in mind nor in body, thank Heaven." Something in the speech, perhaps the word eight, made the other start. But he went on with his inqui ries in a musing, retrospective tone.

"Let me see! My friend told me that the old Squire had a niece with him; I was to inquire after her. I suppose she will be nearly grown up by this time?" "Quite grown up, we will hope, considering that she is to be married to-morrow." "Married! Nonsense! Why, she was quite a child when — And who may be the happy man?" " Miss Heron is over twenty, if one may be allowed to speak with certainty as to a lady's age; and she is going to marry Mr. James Brotherton." "Ah, Jem Brotherton! And is he going to take her home to live with that grim old father and mother of his? " " No. John Brotherton of Ashurst is dead two years since, and James his son reigns in his stead." "And so he takes to himself a wife ! — and you two will be left alone at the Edge. Do you — Is anything ever heard of Mr. Heron's eldest son?"

"Nothing, as of course you know very well." The words were so full of quiet significance that the questioner started with a half-uttered exclamation, then checked himself, as if in the hope that even now a little presence of mind might avail him. "You overrate the amount of my information. My friend has indeed told me a good deal, but — " "Really, Edmund," said the younger man very quietly, "you have played your part so very badly throughout that you may spare your friend the trouble of any further appearance." " Why, Cosmo ! " cried the other, in amazement. "How did you come to guess?" " How could I fail to guess, you mean ! I was not a child when you went away." "You were little more. It is eight years since I went, and we saw little enough of one another for some time before. And in the darkness, too, I thought I was safe enough."

"Did you mean to go away, then, without making yourself known to me? If so, you should have managed better. Why, when you stepped into this dark porch in the certainty of finding a seat here, you made it plain enough that you were no stranger to the place. That made me suspect, and every word after that only made me more certain." "You were always a bright boy, Cosmo, and I am pleased to see that you have not belied the promise of your youth. I don't know whether I meant to reveal myself or not. It depended on what I should be able to elicit from you, I think. I wonder what you have been brought up to think of me? " "Nothing at all. No one has spoken of you, here or at Pennithorne." "Then I have been forgotten, I suppose — even by you?" "That I did not say. I could think of you, and did think of you, without being reminded."

"Then I wonder— I wish it were not so dark! I should like to see what sort of fellow you have grown into." The young man put his hand in his pocket, drew out a box of matches, and struck one. In the shelter of the porch the tiny waxen taper burned steadily enough,- and showed the two faces bent eagerly towards each other, each watching the other with the same expression of curious inquiry, almost of anxiety. At any other time the likeness between them might hardly have been so marked, since it consisted rather in figure and carriage than in feature or expression; but it was wonderfully strong just then, so strong that each seemed to see his own face, with a difference. Neither said a word, until the end of the match must have been burning Cosmo Heron's fingers, and then he flung it on the ground, and for a moment after the pale gray of the summer night seemed black as Egypt all about them.

Edmund Heron broke into a little laugh, as men do when a mingling of emotions, chiefly painful, defies ordinary expression. "You are just what you used to be," he said. "And yet, I suppose no one has ever told you how like you have grown to me? I hope you will make a better business of life than I have done so far." "No one has ever spoken of the likeness, but I have seen it myself sometimes. I have seen it in my father's eyes when he has been looking at me, though he has never spoken your name." "How bitter he must be against me still! And you — I wish that match had burned a little longer, that I might have read in your face whether you were glad or sorry to see me again." "I can strike another, if you like," said Cosmo, in the same curiously imperturbable fashion in which he had spoken throughout.

But after a moment he went on with a sudden change of tone. "If you could tell so much by looking at me, you would know more than I do myself. I remember you well enough. I remember, that is, that you were always very kind to me when I was a troublesome child, and that I was very sorry when I came home from school and found that I need not expect to meet you in the holidays any more. But I have always been with my father. I have every reason to take his side. He has never told me why you went away, or why your name is not to be men tioned; but a fellow does not come to my age without knowing that there must be some reason, and wondering what the reason may be." "You are right; there is a reason," answered the elder brother soberly. "It is a much simpler reason than you perhaps think, and yet one that would take too long to tell you now.

Perhaps you had better never know it." "I should prefer to know it. And surely, in the circumstances, I have the right." "Perhaps. Now, listen; I did not come here with any idea of seeking a reconciliation with my father, or even of a meeting with you. I only wanted to see the old place and to hear for myself how things were going. At the last I was afraid of being recognised, and so thought it better to come over from High Cross and feel my way about the familiar places, and make my inquiries afterwards at a little distance. Only, when you came upon me and I guessed who you were, I was tempted to learn more than a stranger could tell me." "And so were recognised, almost instantly. In justice to yourself you ought now to let me hear your version of the story, so that, if my father should at any time think well to tell me his, I should at least know the other side.

I know of course that he has his prej udices like the rest of us, and may have been mistaken; and if any one can make peace between you it might be my place to try." " It might. And I might tell my story to you, though not to any one else. But, — it will be hard work to tell it to so calm and judicial an inquirer." "I understand. You think I might have spoken more warmly, might have been more glad and surprised to see you again. But you did not take me by surprise so much as you thought; and I have told you that I don't know yet whether I am glad." "And you are a man, and not the affectionate harum scarum boy who was the only thing that ever made Herne's Edge endurable to me. Well, I have no right to complain of that; it is inevitable, I suppose." Cosmo Heron put out his hand and wrung his brother's with a grip that left it tingling.

" I don't forget those days, Edmund," he said, "or that you are my only brother and my father's eldest son. If I seem to judge more fairly than kindly — well, you may find in the end that I mean more kindly than appears. And you must not expect one of us to be easily moved to a melting mood." A very keen ear might have detected the faintest suggestion of complacency in the claim to a share of the family hardness, just that complacency with which people are apt to regard traits which in rt-ality are the very opposite of those they do possess. Whether Edmund Heron was acute enough to perceive the tone or guess its significance there was nothing in his next speech to show. "My father's son could hardly fail to be prejudiced against me. And yet, I had almost hoped that even he, after all these years — " "Must I tell you again that no one ever changes up here, least of all we at the Edge?

Seriously, Edmund, if you will show me that he ought to change, no one will be more glad than I. As a boy of course I did not realise how very strangely and unhappily our family is placed; but now, if I could do anything to bridge the gulfs and repair the breaches, I should be more than glad." "I fear that can hardly be expected; but you and I ought to be friends if possible. And as a step towards that I will tell you what my father has not thought fit to mention; but not here, or now. Can you meet me to-morrow, anywhere near High Cross?" "To-morrow is the wedding-day." "Ah, I had forgotten; Emily's wedding-day. Pretty little Emily, to think of her as a wife! Well, I hope she will be happy with Master Jem. But when can I see you?" "Things will be quiet enough at night, I suppose, after they are all gone.

If I meet you about nine o'clock by the big tree in Fiddler's Acre, will that do?" "Fiddler's Acre? Ay, I remember it. Is that great ash-tree standing yet? Yes; I will meet you there, if you think you can be out so late without exciting remark. I could not have done so, in my palmiest days of favour." "I please myself in these matters. Very often I am at Pennithorne, or am supposed to be there." "Ah! And are you supposed to be there now? What brings you wandering among the tombs instead, as if you were an outcast like me?" The speaker's voice was very pleasant. Whatever in the words might have sounded flippant was completely modified by the tone, eager, wistful, almost tender, as if it really concerned him much to know how things were with the younger brother from whom he had been parted so long.

"I was restless, to-night," answered Cosmo Heron, with what seemed a little effort. " The house has been distracted all day with preparations for the wedding; and change and disturbance of some kind seemed to be in the air. They are full of visitors, too, at Penni thorne, and I shall see more than enough of them to-morrow. So I have been airing my discontent up on the moor, and did not feel disposed to go home any sooner." As he ended, the bell in the tower clanged out twelve and Edmund Heron started to his feet. " There, " he said, "I must be off, like any other ghost. As it is, I don't know how I shall get admitted to my temporary shelter at High Cross. And as for you, you had better get to bed, I should think, in preparation for a hard day to morrow. Are you to be Jem Brotherton's best man?

" "Not exactly; but I suppose I shall have to be in the thick of all the fuss." "And you wish it was over, no doubt." Cosmo did not answer for a moment. If that second match for which his brother had wished had been lighted at that moment, it would have revealed a doubtful look upon his face, as if in this case also he was not quite sure of his own feelings. "I will not let it make me forget Fiddler's Acre, anyhow," he said at last. "Don't you forget, either. Good-night, Edmund." "Good-night, Cosmo," answered the elder brother, and the caressing accents of his voice lingered over the name as if he were thinking how long it was since they had exchanged nightly greetings. It was but a few paces to the gate, and while they spoke they had reached it together. Again their hands met, lingered, and parted.

Then Edmund Heron vaulted over the stile and walked at a brisk pace down the quiet street, where the echoes of his footsteps seemed like an outrage on the stillness. His brother stood for a moment, leaning against the tall stone pillar that divided the wide gate of ceremony from the stile of everyday use, looking, or rather listening, after him till all sign of him was lost in the night. Then the younger man too went his way in the opposite direction towards the Hall, not perhaps finding the restless excitement that had driven him to wander forth much mitigated by this strange meeting. And as he went the soft wind awoke again, and seemed to meet him with a sigh full of freshness and perfume, the very breath of the sweet summer night. Looking up, he saw that the clouds had thinned to the merest veil of gauze, and everywhere the stars were gleaming through. o Orion's studded belt was just distinguishable, and the seven glittering points of Charles's Wain were plain to be seen above the dark rounded hilltop, where he had seen them rise so often that the stars and the hill seemed to belong to each other.

Chapter II. The Wedding

Theke is little doubt that a rich childless widow of between fifty and sixty is happier for having a com panion, to share her travels if she is disposed to wander, or to lessen the dulness of her solitary existence at home. And a lady in this position usually contrives to provide herself with such an appanage, whether by modest payment to some decayed gentlewoman, by adopting some niece or cousin, or by inviting some friend, old or young, to share the luxuries aud necessi ties of life with her upon equal terms. Mrs. Ingleby, widow of the late Thomas Ingleby Esquire, Q.C., chose the latter alternative. Some three years before she is introduced to the reader she had invited Miss Evelyn Armitage, the orphan daughter of an old friend, to live with her as unpaid companion and friend. The arrangement had worked very well.