Dene Hollow

Front matter

I LIBRARY OF CONGRESS.!

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Contents

Chapter

L— SIR DENE, 21

II.— HAREBELL FARM, 27

Chapter I. Sir Dene

A FAIR scene. Hone fairer throughout this, the fairest of all the Midland counties. Winter had turned. The blue of the sky was unbroken ; the sunshine shed down its bright and cheering warmth : it was the first day of real spring.

Standing on a somewhat elevated road, as compared with the ground in front, was a group of gentlemen, talking earnestly and noticing critically the points of the landscape immediately around. They stood with their backs to the iron gates of the lodge ; gates that gave admittance to a winding avenue leading^up to a fine old seat, Beechhurst Dene. Before them — the ground descending slightly, so that they looked down on it and saw all the panorama — were sunny plains and groves of towering trees, and sparkling rivulets ; a farm-house here and there imparting life to the picture. The little village of Hurst Leet (supposed to be a corruption of Hurst Hamlet) lay across, somewhat towards the right, as they gazed. Beyond it, at two or three miles’ distance, was the city of Worcester, its cathedral very conspicuous on this clear day, as well as the tapering spire of St. Andrew. Amidst other features of the beautiful scenery, the eye, sweeping around the distant horizon on all sides, caught the long chain of the Malvern Hills, the white houses (very few in those days) nestling at their base like glittering sea shells amidst moss. The hills, rising up there, looked very close, not much further off than Worcester. They were more than double the distance — and iU a totally opposite direction. Nothing is more deceiving than perspective.

A quick walker, taking the fields and the stiles ; that is, direct as the crow flies ; might walk to the village of Hurst Leet in ten minutes from the lodge gates of Beechhurst Dene. But if he went by the road — as he must do if he had either horse or vehicle — it would take him very considerably longer, for it 'was a round-about way, part of it very hilly. He would have to turn to his left (almost as though he were going from the village instead of to it) and sweep round quite three parts of a circle : in short make verj’- much like what Tony Lumpkin calls a circumbendibus. The question, occupying these gentlemen, was, whether a straighter and nearer road should not be cut, chiefly for the accommodation of the family residing at Beechhurst Dene.,

The chief of the group, and most conspicuous of it, was Beechhurst Dene’s owner — Sir Dene Clariwaring. By the Clanwaring family — and consequently b}^ others — it was invariably pronounced Clannering: indeed some of the branches had long spelt it so. Sir Dene was a tall, fine man of fifty years ; his features were noble and commanding, his complexion was fresh and healthy. He was of fairly good family, but nothing verij great or grand, and had won his baronetcy for himself after making his fortune in India. Eortunes were made in those by-gone days, when the East India Company was flourishing, quicker than they are in these. It was nothing for the soldier, resident

DENE HOLLOW.

there for long years, to unite with his duties the civilian’s pursuits, so far as niouey-inaking ^yent ; and Dene Clan- Waring had been one who did this. He was a brave man, had won fame as well as money, and at a comparatively early age he returned home for good, with a large fortune and a baronetcy. People told fabulous tales of his wealth — as is s.ure to be the case — augmenting it to a few millions. He himself could have testified that it was about six thousand pounds a year, all told.

Looking out, on his return from India, for some desirable place to settle down in for life, chance directed Sir Dene Clan waring to Beechhurst Dene. Whether it was the estate itself that r^tra^' dm, or whether it was the actidental fact that it bore his own name. Dene, certain it was that Sir Dene searched no farther. He purchased it at once, entailing it on his eldest son, John Ingram Clanwaring, and his heirs for ever.

Shortly after entering into possession of it, his wife. Lady Clanwaring, died. Sir Dene — standing there in the road before us to-day — is, as may be seen, in deep mourning. It is worn for her. He was ver}' fond of her and the loss was keenly felt. Close by his side, is his second son, Geofirey ; a tall, fair, goldenhaired, pleasant-iooking young fellow, who is in black also. Near to them, bends an old and curious-looking little man, very thin and undersized ; his hard features are pinched, his few gray hairs scanty. It is Squire Arde of the Hall. He wears a suit of pepper-and-salt ; breeches, waistcoat, gaiters, and coat ; with silver knee and shoe-buckles, and a white beaver hat. Over his clothes, is a drab great coat of some fluffy material, but the Squire has thrown it quite back, and it seems to lodge on the tips of his narrow shoulders. The onlj- other individual, completing the party, is Jonathan Drew, Sir Dene’s bailiff; a hard man also, but a faithful, trustworthy servant. Sir Dene took him over from the previous owner, Mr. Honeythorn, and had already found his value. Drew managed the land and the tenants well; though complaints were murmured of his severity. He was turned sixty ; a lean maypole of a man, in a long fustian coat and high-crowned brown hat, looking altogether not unlike a scarecrow in a cornfield. The bailiff was uncommonly ugly ; and appeared at the present moment more so than usual, from an access of ill-temper : which is plainly perceptible, as he addresses his master.

“ ‘ Make my duty to Sir Dene, Mr. Drew, please, and tell him that I can’t be turned out of my house nohow ; I’ve got the paper,’ says she to me. ‘ Then why don’t you perduce the paper, Mrs. Barber?’ says I, bantering at her.

‘ ’Cause I can’t find it, sir; I’ve mislaid it,’ goes on she. ‘ Mivslaid what you’ve never had,’ says I, as I flung away from her. And she never did have it. Sir Dene,” wound up Drew ; “ don’t believe it, sir. Obstinate old granny ! ”

“ When she sees that there are other cottages to be had ; when she knows that it will be to the advantage of all her neighbors, I must sa}’’ that I think it is unreasonable of her to refuse to go out,” remarked Sir Dene, his brow contracted, his face severe just then. Accustomed all his life to command, he brooked not opposition to his will.

“ Onreasonable, Sir Dene ! ” echoed Drew. “ It’s a sight worse nor onreasonable : it’s vicious.”

The new road, that Sir Dene purposed making to the village, had been the subject of much planning and consideration between himself and his agent. Drew. One or two sites had been thought of ; but the best attainable — there could be no doubt^f it — the most convenient and the shortest, was one that would open nearlj’’ immediately opposite his own gates. The line that would have to be cut through was his own property, every field of it, every hedge : and a foot- path w'ay, for a part of the road, seemed to point out its desirability. If they cut in this line, it would be at quite -a third less cost, both as to money and trouble, than an}^ other. Natuially Sir Dene ‘wished it to be fixed upon; and Drew, who was red-hot on the new scheme, knowing it must improve the property, would not tolerate any complaints against it.

But there was an obstacle. About a hundred yards down the path just mentioned, stood a cottage of the better class: a dwelling of five rooms, with masses of yellow jessamine climbing up its outer walls. It had once belonged to a small farmer-proprieto'r of the name of Barber. He had died in early life

SIR DENE.

(a great many years ago now), leaving a widow and two daughters. His affairs were found to be in disorder — that is, lie had died in hopeless debt. The widow and daughters took immediate steps to extricate themselves and uphold tlieir late father’s integrity. The cottage with 'the bit of land attaching it was sold to Mr. Honeythorn, then the owner of Beechhurst Dene, who had been long wishing to possess it. Widow Barber remained in the occupancy of the dwelling and one field as tenant, paying an eas}’- yearl}' rent: and she said that Mr. Honeythorn had given her a paper, or covenant, promising that she should not be turned out wliile she lived.

To make the road in the track contemplated by Sir Dene, this cottage would have to come down, for the line ran right through it. Drew, acting for Sir Dene, served Mrs. Barber with a formal notice to quit. Mrs. Barber met it by a verbal refusal (civilly and tearfully delivered) to go out; and an assertion to the above effect : namely, that she held the granted right to stay in the cottage for the term of her natural life, and that she posse.ssed a paper in Mr. Honey thorn's own writing to confirm this right. In fact, this paper alone constituted her right : for nothing in relation to it had been found amidst Mr. Honeytlioru’s effects, though his executors had searched minutely. Jonathan Drew told Mrs. Barber to hjj^r face that there had never been any such paper, save in her imagination : Mrs. Barber had retaliated, not onlj^ that there was such a paper, but that Drew knew of it as well as she did ; and that be had known of it at the time it was given. However, Mrs. Barber, search as she would, could not find this paper : she had either lost or mislaid it ; or else had never possessed it. Matters therefore stood at this point : and Mrs. Barber retained tlie notice to quit at Lady-Day — which was fast approaching.

The affair had vexed Sir Dene ; it was at length beginning't^ enrage him. Full}’’ persuaded — partly by Drew, partly by the fact of absolute non-evidence — that no such right had ever been conceded to the widow Barber, he could • not see why the old woman’s obstinacy should be let stand in the way of his plans. One dwelling-liouse was surel}' as good for her as another ! But he had not quite fully decided on this thing : he was standing out there now, talking it over with his son and Drew, with a view to arrive at some decision. Squire Arde had come up accidentally.

“ It would be but the work of a month or two,” cried Sir Dene in his enthusiasm, standing with his arms on the -fence, and looking across to the village. “ See, Mr." Arde, it seems but a stone’s throw.”

“And nothing in the way of it but' that dratted cottage !” put in Jonathan Drew.

Geoffry Cl an waring was sending his good-natured blue eyes roving here and there in the landscape, apparently in thought. Presently he addressed his father.

“Would it not be possible, sir, to carry the cutting a few yards on this side, (moving his right hand), and so leave the cottage standing ? ”

“Ho,” replied Sir Dene. “The road shall be cut straight ; or not at all.”

“ If you was to make a in-and-out road, like a dog’s leg, as good stick to the old un, Mr. Geoffry,” spoke uyj Drew. “ Besides, there’d be the stream in the way lower down. Ho : there ain’t no line but this — and Sir Dene ’ll hardly let a pig-headed old widow stand in tJie light of it.”

“ There’s the smoke a sprouting out of her chimney,” struck in Squire Arrle , — who in familiar life was not very particular in his mode' of speech, after the fashion of many country gentlemen of the period.

“A biling of h?r pot for dinner!” cried Drew. “ Miserable old cat ! ”

“ I mind me that something was said about that paper at the time,” resumed the Squire.

“ What paper ? ” asked Sir Dene, sharply. *

“ The one given her by Honeythorn.”

Sir Dene drew a long breath. He would never have committed an injustice in the teeth of facts.

“ TFas such a paper given to her ? ”

“ I don’t kqow myself,” replied Squire Arde, gazing out at the smoke with his watery eyes. “ Some talk on’t was abroad. ’Twas said Tom Barber’s widow had got such a paper — had got it out of Honeythorn. On t’other hand, it might lia’ been all lies. Drew, here, ought to know which way ’twas.”

DENE HOLLOW.

I’ve told Sir Dene -u’hich way ’tvvas — that there warn’t none,” spoke Drew, tilting his hat up on his bald head. “ Mr. Honeythorn did nothing o’ that kind without rne — not likely to. And if he had — put it that way : ought it to he binding on Sir Dene ? Whj’ in course not. Old Granny Barber’s one o’ them cantankerous idiots that thinks nobody’s turn is to be serv^ed but their own.”

“Well, 1 must be going — or I shall not get there and home again by two o’clock, and that’s my dinner hour,” observed the Squire, pulling his white coat forward over his contracted chest. “ I’ve got a goose to pluck with Black, up at the Trailing Indian. He was seen in my woods a night or two ago : and he’ll have to tell me the reason wh3\”

Drew threw back his long neck in a kind of mocker3^ “ If you can keep Kandy Black out o’ your woods, Squire, you’ll be cleverer nor other people.”

“Well, I’m going up to him to have a try at it,” was the old man’s answer. “ Good day to ye. Sir Dene.”

“A moment yet, Squire Arde,” said the baronet, detaining him. “ Tell me truly what j'our opinion on this subject is. Should I turn the old woman out, or not ? ”

But the curious little man seemed to shrink into himself at the question ; to become smaller than ever, if that were possible : as he avoided Sir Dene with a shake of the head.

“ No, no. Sir Dene Clanwaring — no good to ask me. I’ve lived long enough to know that to thrust one’s finger into 'one’s neighbor’s pie brings often nothing but heartburning in the long run. If I said to you ‘ turn her out,’ and you came to repent of it later, why 3mu’d lay the blame on me. ‘ Arde advised me,’ 3 0u’d be muttering to yourself night and morning, and give me anything but a blessing. Take t’other view. If I said to 3^11 ‘ Don't turn her out; make the road elsewhere,’ and jmu • took the advice, you’d be ever hankering after this track that you’d missed. The cottage would become an eyesore : you’d call yourself a fool, and a double fool, to have been guided by old Arde. No, no. You must act upon your own judgment. Sir Dene; not mine. It’s nothing to me. The old roads have done for me m3’’ time, and the3’’ll do to the end. Good da3\”

He moved away with brisk steps towards the left, stooping forward, as was his wont. Another minute, and thera met him three individuals : a gentleman and two }’oung ladies. At least, if a gentleman, at the first sight he looked like one. It was Kobert Owen ; a farmer who had but recently come to live in the neighborhood, rentir#^ a farm of Sir Dene’s. He was of notable appearance. Sir Dene was a handsome man, but* not so handsome as Robert Owen. He would have been of distinguished presence amidst kings. Of noble height, slender and upright, his face, with its clearl3’-cut features of the highest t3’pe, its pure complexion, bright even yet as a woman’s, and its very dark blue eyes, presented a picture beautiful to look upon. But what caused him to be more remarkable than aught else, was the fact that he had a soft, silvery white beard, falling over his white top coat : and in those da3’S beards were very uncommon. In years he might have numbered about as many as Sir Dene. His two daughters had inherited liis beauty — but not his height. Lovely girls they were, with dimpled, blushing cheeks, and of modest, simple, retiring manners, generally called, both in this neighborhood and the one they had left,

“ the prett3’’ Miss Owens.” IMaiy, the elder of them, had been a wife for some months now : George Arde, a relative of the Squire’s, had married her. Maria, the younger, was Miss Owen still.

“How do 3’e do, Owen?” cried the Squire, carelessl3".

Robert Owen touched his hat as he answered that he was well — and “ hoped the Squire was.” None could be more sensible than he of the social distance that lay between him and Squire Arde : he was but a humble, working farmer. The jmung ladies stood blushing : Mary not venturing to speak, unless the Squire should first notice her. They wore hooded scarlet cloaks, the fashion in those days, and white straw gips3' hats, their beautiful brown hair falling in curls underneath.

“ It’s you, is it ? ” cried he, nodding to Mary. “ How’s George ? ”

“ He is quite well, thank you, sir,” she replied, with a slight curtse3^

Over here ? ”

“No, sir. He is at home. My father, came into Worcester }’esterday and brought me back ; my mother is not

SIR DENE.

well. George is coming over for me to-morrow.”

With a slight general nod from the Squire, to which the j^ung ladies curtsied and the farmer again touched his hat, thej^ pursued their respective wa3's. The footsteps caused Sir Dene and his party to turn their heads, which were still bent over the fence. Jonathan Drew vouchsafed an ungracious nod to tlie farmer; Sir Dene a more pleasant one ; but Geoffrey Clanwaring went up, spoke cordially to the farmer in his free, good-natured wnj^ and shook hands with Mrs. Arde and Maria Owen.

It was but a slight episode. They went on, and Mr. Clanwaring returned to the fence again.

Hut Sir Dene had become tired of standing still; perhaps a little tired of his indecision. Saying something about business at Hurst Leet, he suddenly turned alone down the narrow path before-mentioned — which would take him straight b}'’ the cottage in dispute.

Perhaps few cottages could boast less of a look-out. This had none. The door nearlj' abutted on the path : tainl}^ there was not more than a yard and a half of ground between ; but that little space was redolent of sweet-scented gillyflowers — as they are called in Worcestershire. On the other side of the path, the bank rose as perpendicularly as/ though it had been'a cutting; a higji bank, whose elm trees, towering above it, threw the shadow of their branches over the cottage-roof. This fine grove of trees — which began at the top of the path, opposite Sir Dene’s gates — was the pride of Sir Dene’s heart. He’d not have had any one of the trees cut down for the world. The cottage — as Sir Dene walked — lay on his right hand, the bank and trees on his left. The door was standing open as he passed, and he caught a vision^ of a plump old woman inside it in grey stockings, who was stooping to skim a pan of cream in the passage.

Old mother Barber,” said Sir Dene to himself.

Old mother Barber,” hearing the footsteps, looked up. When she saw whose they were, a tremor, as if an iceshaft darted through her heart, took her, and she ran into her kitchen like a frightened hare. She wore a short black gown of rough flannel cloth, its sleeves cut off at the elbow; a cotton print handkerchief crossed upon her shoulders, the ends, back and front, confined under her check apron, and a mob-cap tied round with black ribbon, the bow in front. What little hair could be seen, was gray. A cleanlj’^-looking, but timorous old woman, five or six years past seventy. To be turned out of the cottage, in which she had been born, and had lived all her life, seemed ^o her the very worst evil that could by possibility fall on her in this world. The old cling to their resting places; and it is in the nature of age to exaggerate evils.

The kitchen window looked out upon a fair scene: it was just as pleasant as the front was dull : sunny plains near, Worcester iii fhe distance. Morning after morning, as that old woman awoke, her eyes had fallen on the familiar Malvern hills (for she could catch a glimpse of them slantwise from her front chamber), on the white dots of houses underneath themj^'glistening in the early sun, and on the^loping vale of wood and dale descend irtg in one great expanse.

^ Lord be good to me ! ” slie murmured, her hands crossed upon her bosom, that was bea^g so fast underneath the cott^iU'^^iandkerchief. “ Let not my poor homestead be ’reft from meit while I IfveJ ”

Her glance fell on her cherished outdoor belongings: on the one pig in the st}' ; on the coVv in the meadow, by whose produce, the milk, she was helped to live ; on the patch of cabbage and potato ground. The brook, winding along nearl}' close to her back door (and which brook perhaps caused Sir Dene’s difficulty in regard to taking the road a few yards further off, as his son had suggested, for the water, widening into a stream lower down to feed the mill, might not be interfered with) was dancing. in the sun, its gentle murmurings falling lightly on the ear. Time had been when that murmuring soothed her to peace : latterljq since this horrible fear had oppressed her, it seemed to suggest nothing but woe. Suddenl}’-, another sound drowned it — a sharp knock as with a stick at the front door. Looking out of her kitchen, she saw Sir Dene.

And whether she stood on her head or her heels, the poor woman could not have told had she lived to be a hundred.

DENE HOLLOW.

The sight scared her senses away. At the most favorable of times, and wlien she was a younger woman, slie would liave been struck into incapability at the presence of a great man like Sir Dene Clanwaring: regarding him now as a powerful enemy, it increased the feeling ten-fold. Saying he had stepped back to speak to her, he walked, of his own accord, into the open small front room, or parlor ; wjiich had a sanded floor, and a bright-painted tea-tra}'’ lodged against the side wall for ornament. She followed him in, curtseying and shaking visibly. Without any circumlocution. Sir Dene enquired whether she was in possession of the paper that she professed to be.

What with the abrupt question and its nature, what with her own startled fears, and her innate timidity, Mrs. Barber behaved like a lunatic. She could get out no answer at all. AVhen it did come, it was strangely hesitating, and given ill a whisper.

She “believed” she had got such a paper somewhere — and she hoped “ his honor ” would not be hard upon her.

Sir Dene Clanwaring curled his lip. An honorable man himself, he regarded deception as the worst fault on earth. This old woman ^)Lefore him was shaking from head to foot; her speech and manner were alike uncertain, and he believed she was telling him a falsehood. From that moment, he regarded the plea she had put forth, not as a mistake on her part, but a pure invention.

“ Look here, Mrs. Barber,” he said sternly. “ The road I purpose making will be of great benefit to myself and the public : it ought not to be stopped by any private interests. If you have the paper you speak of, bring it to me, and I will consider it — though I do not promise, and do not at present intend, mind, to be swayed by it. This is Tuesday : if, on Friday, I have not the papef before me, I shall give orders for the work to go on. Lady-Day will fall about a week afterwards: and I must request that you will be out of this on or before that day shall come. Good morning, ma’am.”

She closed the door after him with trembling hands, when he had got to a proper distance. And then she sat down on the nearest seat — which hapjjcned to be a milk-pail turned bottom upwards — and wiped her face with her apron.

Sir Dene went on down the path. In a short while it widened considerably and branched off into the open fields. Had the cottage stood as low down as this, there would have been no absolute necessity to raze it. But — it stood where it did stand : nothing more could be made of it thaa that. Bearing to the right, and passing his bailiff’s house, which was nearly hidden amidst some trees. Sir Dene crossed a stile at the end of the field, and the village was before him, the church Ijdng rather far beyond it. As^ he was passing the village stocks (used often then), the village doctor^ James Friar — a little man in spectacles, who looked ten years older than his real age, which was but thirty — crossed his path.

“ Have you decided about the new road, Sir Dene ? ” he asked, when they had talked for a minute or two.

“ Yes ; in a week’s time from this you will see it begun,” was the baronet’s firm answer, as he pursued his way.

Just a minute we must take to follow Drew, before closing the chapter. Not for any particular purpose as regards him, but to afford the reader a little more insight into the locality.

Mr. Jonathan then, when his master quitted him, and Geoffrj' Clanwaring had disappeared within his father’s gates, • betook himself about his business. He pursued the road to the right — in the opposite direction to that taken by Squire Arde. About here it was solitar^^ enough — but he soon came to some farmhouses and cottages. Some half-mile, or more, from the gates of Beechhurst Dene, there stood back on the left a substantial stone house ; with good gardens and farm-buildings around it. This was Arde Hall. The road h ere was open, and the village underneath (underneath, so to say, for the ground still sloped a little) could be more plainly seen. Here would have been the best spot to make the new road — if one mu&t have been made at all : but Squire Arde, to whom the ground belonged, would as soon have thought of making a bull-run. Jonathan Drew came to a standstill, as if tracing it out — for the road was what his thoughts were running upon.

“ Ay, this ’ud ha’ been the right track to hollow it through,” ran his reflections. “ Catch old Arde at it ! When Sir Dene does it, though, Arde wOnt be back’ard to reap the benefit. A down-

HAREBELL FARM.

right good move, it’ll be for Sir Dene’s property. My old bones ’ll be spared a bit, too, when I can ride straight up, ’stead o’ going round or trapesing it afoot. The Squire gets more niggardly as he gets older. Wonder who’ll come in for his savings — and his estate ? Shouldn’t wonder but he’ll leave all to a mad-house ! As to that cross-grained Granny Barber, who’s she, that she should put in her spoke again the public good ? One place is just as good as another, for the short time she’ll want a place at all. One foot must be in the grave now, and t’other hardly out on’t.”

With this, Mr. Drefw brought his comments to a conclusion. There was a pathway down to the village from hence, just as there was nearer Beechhurst Dene ; and he appeared undecided whether or not to take it. But finally lie continued his way on the road. We need not follow him : the highway took a sudden turn just above here, and branched off, between rich pasture lands, and homesteads large and small, far away from Hurst Leet.

Chapter II. Harebell Farm

In turning to the left, on emerging from the gates of Beechhurst Dene, the road continued to run in a tolerably straight line, for 'about the third of a mile. It then branched off, almost at right angles, in two directions : that to the right being the continuance of the road ; that to the left soon becoming notliing but a solitary lane. We may have occasion to follow the road later, so just now we will take the lane.

As dismal and shadowy a place at night, this Harebell Lane, as you would care to enter. On the right, lying back, stood a very moderate-sized dwelling, with its fold-yard, ricks, and barns. This was Harebell Farm : in the occupancy of Robert Owen. Hot far on, on tlie left, were two wooden gates side by side ; one for carts, one for people on foot — they were the back entrance to Beechhurst Dene. The land wound on, getting narrower and darker. Its banks were tolerably high ; its over-hanging trees shut out the daylight. But soon it widened considerably : in one part forming on the right-hand a capacious curve, in which la}^ a rather deep pool, green with slime within and rushes without; and known as “ Harebell Pond.” A plantation of firs was fenced in on the bank, rising immediately above it. Altogether, in spite of its space, this was the most dreary part of the lane. A few yards onwards, the lane, narrowing again, took a sharp turn to the right, and led direct to an inn of not too good reputation, called “ The Trailing Indian.” The man keeping this inn was named Randolf Black. His brother, Moses Black, had died about a twelvemonth ago at Harebell Farm. They had come strangers to the place some years back, evidently monied men ; at any rate, flush of ready money ; and became tenants of INIr. Honey thorn. Moses took Harebell Farm ; Randolf the solitary public house known then as “ The Plough ; ” but wliich he re-named The Trailing Indian.” After a few j^ears Moses Black died. Randolf immediately applied to Sir Dene Clanwaring (who had just become his landlord through the purchase of Beechhurst Dene) to be allowed to take the farm as well as the inn ; evincing unmistakable eagerness that it should be so. His character, how|ver, had developed itself by that time ; and Sir Dene, instructed on the point, refused. Robert Owen then presented himself as a tenant for the farm ; and to him it was let. A little beyond the Trailing Indian, Harebell Lane was crossed by a high road ; in fact, was terminated bj' it : and it was to the chance of the travellers on this high wa}^ turning aside to the inn that the Trailing Indian trusted — or assumed to trust — for its support.