GUY FALCONER;

OR,

The Chronicles of the Old Moat House.

———————— A BATTLE OF FORTUNE. ————————

BY

L. E. G.

AUTHOR OF "THE OBJECT OF LIFE," "MYRA SHERWOOD'S CROSS," "HOMES MADE AND MARRED," ETC., ETC.

THIRD THOUSAND.

London:

SUNDAY SCHOOL UNION, 56, OLD BAILEY, E.C.

Hazell, Watson, and Viney, Printers, London and Aylesbury.

CONTENTS. ——————

CHAPTER I. ONLY A STROKE OF THE PEN

CHAPTER II. VILLAGE POLITICS

CHAPTER III. STILL UNDER THE ELM TREES

CHAPTER IV. THE TOMB BENEATH THE CEDARS

CHAPTER V. A LADY OF THE OLDEN TIME

CHAPTER VI. DAILY BREAD

CHAPTER VII. CASTLE BUILDING

CHAPTER VIII. THE PLACE OF THE BEAUTIFUL

CHAPTER IX. A CONSPIRACY

CHAPTER X. SCHOOLS OF THOUGHT

CHAPTER XI. DISENCHANTMENT

CHAPTER XII. "SEMPER EADEM"

CHAPTER XIII. A MISSING LINK

CHAPTER XIV. THE OLD BUREAU

CHAPTER XV. UNDER THE ELMS AGAIN

CHAPTER XVI. CLOUDS WITH SILVER LININGS

—————— ILLUSTRATIONS.

FRONTISPIECE-THE OLD MOAT HOUSE

THE STROKE OF THE PEN

VILLAGE POLITICS

THE MEETING ON THE ROAD

THE VISIT TO LONDON

THE PLOT

THE START

WEDDING BELLS

GUY FALCONER:

A BATTLE OF FORTUNE.

CHAPTER I.

ONLY A STROKE OF THE PEN.

"THE papers have arrived, sir, and the witnesses are ready. Only a stroke of the pen, and the thing is done. It will not fatigue you much."

The old gentleman to whom this was spoken in a tone of gentle entreaty turned himself with difficulty on his bed, and looked earnestly at the speaker.

"You have decided, then, Geoffry," he said; "you are sure you don't mind? You won't regret it by-and-by? I had thought that perhaps you had given it up."

"I have quite decided; I shall not regret it; and I never thought of giving it up, but it was of no use to talk about it until the requisite documents were prepared. Penacre has not been in a hurry, but what he does is well and safely done. Shall I read over the particulars to you?"

"No, no, I must trust to you. My debts will all be paid, as well as yours, and there will be no stain upon my name, that's one comfort," and he groaned as if other comforts just then were not many.

"Phœbe, Phœbe," said he as his son left the room; "what are you doing there?"

"Tinking, sar," and a dark face, trimmed round with white and yellow muslin, instantly appeared at the bed-side with the next cordial for the patient. "Thinking, eh? What are you thinking about pray?"

"Tinking about one bery bad debt, sar. Wondering if it's going to be paid along de rest."

"What do you mean, woman? How dare you think about my concerns, or listen to what I say to my son?"

"Couldn't help it, sar. 'Sides, if dat 'ar debt ain't paid, him leab a bery big stain dat never come out nohows."

"What debt, woman? You shall be paid well, for you've been a faithful nurse to me, Phœbe."

"Dat's noting, sar; Phœbe not tinking about pay down here, but de big bill up dere," and she pointed upward, "must be paid by somebody, sar. By de good Lord on His cross all blot out in His precious blood, or—don't disb'lieve it 'cause poor old Phœbe say it—or by massa his own self in de eberlasting prison, whar de poor debtors neber reach de end ob der 'count."

"Stuff and nonsense, woman," said the old man angrily.

"True as de Bible, sar. How's massa going to do 'bout it?" persisted the nurse.

"Do! Why I've nothing to do with it. I shall take my chance with you, I suppose."

"Phœbe havn't noting to do with chance, sar. De kind good Lord find poor lost sheep, an' He say, 'Come unto Me.' Den I say, 'What for poor Phœbe come?' He say, 'You know you a sinner,' and 'De wages ob sin is death,' but 'God so lub de world dat He gabe His only begotten Son, dat whosoever b'lieveth in Him should not perish, but hab eberlasting life."

"Ah, yes; I heard that years ago, Phœbe, when I was a child."

"Why you not mind it, den? Phœbe neber hear it till she got old, and she come, and she b'lieve, and now noting to do but go up to be eber wid de Lord one ob dese days; all her sins washed away, and sing hallelujah! No chance 'bout it."

"Well, you foolish old woman, if you like it so, have it so, but it doesn't suit me."

"Phœbe like it very much; just suit poor old sinner like Phœbe; suit eberybody dat wants to go to hebben white and clean. Better tink 'bout it, sar, 'fore you feels de grip ob Satan on yer soul; too late den, he'll neber leave go."

"There, go away; here's another sort of sermon coming, and I'm very tired. Oh, for some rest!" And the old man groaned wearily.

"'Come unto Me all ye dat are weary and heby-laden, and I will gib you rest,'" said the old nurse, as she straightened the pillows, and made way for the party just entering the room.

The parchments were spread, and the right place indicated. The old man, after a moment's bewilderment, did what he had to do with dignity and calmness. He signed his name legibly; his son followed; then the witnesses, two respectable clerks from the Government offices, and the business was settled to the satisfaction of, at least, one person concerned.

"Geoffry," said the old gentleman, when they were again alone, "you will not forget some provision for poor Guy's widow and children? You see, I spent all Guy's money that came of his mother's property; he had nothing but his commission out of it, poor lad, and it ought to be refunded to his family out of the estate; in fact, I think there's some deed or document to that effect somewhere."

"Very well, sir; it shall be sought and acted on."

"Very good, all right; for you see, Geoffry, what with debts at home, and the expenses of my establishment here, I have saved nothing; you understand, Geoffry, saved nothing."

"I must be stupid, indeed, if I do not, sir, for you have told me so fifty times this week."

"Have I? Well, but it's important to be remembered when you are settling things for them. They must remain there, you know, until you pay that money, due to Guy, out of the proceeds."

"You did not mention it until to-day, sir."

"No, I believe I didn't; but that old fool, Phœbe, reminded me somehow, with her talk of some bad debt, and I'm glad I've mentioned it, for they may want it, you know. Now let me rest."

As the son retired, the nurse stole softly in.

"Rest, poor massa; no rest 'cept you come to de dear Lord Jesus," said she softly. "'No rest,' saith my God, 'to de wicked;' and who's dey? Why, old Phœbe and eberybody, 'cause 'All hab sinned and come short de glory ob God,' but bless de Lord, for 'Behold de Lamb of God dat taketh away de sin ob de world.' 'Though your sins be scarlet, dey shall be white as snow.' Only b'lieve; dere's de blessed rest, dere's de peace ob God for Phœbe and eberybody who come; no more wicked den, but de Lord's own dear children welcome home! Poor massa! Hope him go dat way 'fore he die."

In the night there came a cry from the bed, "Mother, mother!"

Phœbe moved forward and knelt down.

"Oh, massa, goin' to be a child again, and listen to de words ob Jesus: ''Cept ye be as a little child ye shall not enter de kingdom ob hebben.'"

THE STROKE OF THE PEN.

"You are right, Phœbe; she says so, and the proud old man is wrong—lost, lost!"

"De dear Lord Jesus can save to de uttermost: him dat cometh He will in nowise cast out. Oh, come, dear massa! Look to Him."

"Too late—call Geoffry. I'm dying. I've lived without God, and now I must die without Him. It is just, and it is perdition. But let me tell my son."

They watched and ministered, and Phœbe wept and prayed unchecked for some hours while the mortal struggle lasted, and then there was rest,—for the body at least. The poor neglected soul was gone to its own experiences—somewhere, and the "stroke of the pen" that morning was to leave no pleasant experience of the last act on earth. For wonderful things a stroke of the pen can do. It can sign away an estate of hundreds of years of entailed possession; it can exile the widow and disinherit the orphan, and lay broad acres and stately oaks under the salesman's hammer. It can set idle clerks to work in attorneys' chambers, and make land agents and appraisers speak and look like "monarchs of all they survey."

But that stroke of the pen did a great deal more.

CHAPTER II.

VILLAGE POLITICS.

ONLY a signature! Nothing more, and only occupying two or three moments, but, nevertheless, it roused the scattered population of a certain quiet district in an island thousands of miles away, and caused more eyes to open in amazement, and more heads to be scratched in perplexity, than had been known within the memory of the oldest inhabitant.

The loyalty of England's people, and the stability of her government presented a happy contrast to the restless experiments which agitated all classes in a neighbouring country; the law of primogeniture still upheld the dignity of rank, while constitutional rights secured the liberty of all. Landowners and tenants mutually sympathised for the common welfare, and this exception on one side excited general surprise and indignation.

For there suddenly sprang up, at all points of the doomed estate that skirted a thoroughfare, huge boards, either hung to trees or mounted on poles, bearing large printed advertisements, which also placarded barn doors and wayside gateposts for miles in every direction, while newspapers echoed the eloquent praises of,—

"All that valuable, desirable, and fertile estate known as the Falcon Range, comprising every charm, indulgence, and delight that human taste, desire, or imagination could conceive or covet. Game for the sportsman, fish for the angler, views for the artist, and traditions for the poet; relics for the antiquary, and specimens for the naturalist."

In fact, an Eden of bliss for the happy purchaser, were he either of these accomplished amateurs, or all in one.

Even the dull wits of the villagers could not avoid connecting these strange advertisements with the appearance of a gentleman in a gig, with his clerk and a blue bag, who drove through the village street without stopping at the Falconer's Arms (as all respectable travellers invariably did), and up the avenue to the Moat House without favouring anyone with an idea of his business there.

It was a dismal day; the wind in the east, and provoking in the extreme that gentlemen with blue bags should presume to excite curiosity without satisfying it, especially when people felt out of sorts and had nothing particular to do.

So when towards evening the great placards began to appear, the cat had jumped out of the blue bag, and an endless theme of wonder and remark was provided.

"TO BE SOLD"

First caught the eyes of Mr. Spadeley, the village clerk and sexton, as he came past the gates of the principal entrance to the park.

He stopped, stared, put on his spectacles, and read carefully again, "To be Sold." Yes, there it was and no mistake.

"Why sure the old master must be mad, and Mr. Geoffry, too," said he to himself. "To be sold, indeed! How can they? How dare they?" And the very spade in his hand seemed to share his indignation as it bounced down upon the road with a cutting remark upon the hardness of the world and its ways.

Still more disgusted was he, as he approached his own peculiar province, to find one of the obnoxious placards stuck upon the churchyard gate without his leave asked or cared for! And an assembly of village urchins spelling out the whole particulars and slowly apprehending their meaning.

"Well," said Mr. Spadeley, clerk and sexton of Falcon Range, before whom the rising generation were not wont to play pranks, but on whose countenance there was something they construed sympathetically just now.—"Well, what do you think about it?" he asked.

"Do it mean selling her house over her head?" asked a sharp-looking lad at his elbow, and pointing towards the Moat.

"Yes, that's what it means, seemingly."

"Then here goes! I say, stand out of my way, will ye?"

And, with sudden inspiration in his legs, the boy clambered up the gate-post, balanced one foot on an iron spike, and tore down the great placard in shreds. The little rabble shouted and jumped about with energy and triumph, and dared some other presumptuous feats before Mr. Spadeley's eyes, while instead of clutching the hero by the hair, as had happened more than once, the sexton only patted him on the shoulder, quietly dropped a halfpenny into his dirty cap, and edged himself out of the noisy demonstration.

* * * * * *

The errand of the gentleman in the gig to the lady at the Moat House was not a pleasant one. He knew that he must look very like a deputy tyrant, and she like an innocent victim, and it required a wonderful amount of coolness and self-possession to face the gaze of pained inquiry which met the first unfolding of his mission.

"How lovely she is still," thought Mr. Penacre; "I wish my client had written direct, instead of thrusting his ugly errand upon me."

But, to his credit, he executed it with as much courtesy as it permitted, trying to veil the abominations of pride, malice, and covetousness, beneath professional technicalities, providential circumstances, and naturalization in a foreign land.

But threading her way through the maze and gloss of an eloquent peroration, Mrs. Falconer traced at last the real core of its meaning.

"Then I am to understand," said she calmly, "that the Moat House is to pass into other hands, and is no longer my home, or that of my children?"

"I regret to say that your view of the matter is correct, madam," replied the attorney bowing.

"But my son is presumptive heir, unless Mr. Geoffry Falconer were to have a son," said she thoughtfully.

"Not now, madam. I thought I had explained that the entail is cut off by a deed legally executed by the owner and his heir, old Mr. Falconer and his son Mr. Geoffry. This enables them to sell the estate."

"And is there no charge upon it on my late husband's behalf, sir?" asked the lady. "His father had appropriated a large sum due to him, and now of course due to his widow and children."

"I am instructed to say, madam,—hem!—a—it is difficult to explain these things to ladies unused to business; but my client's idea is this: that having had the benefit of a home at the Moat so long—somewhere about ten years, I think—any debt on the proprietor's part is cancelled by that tenancy, for which no rent has ever been paid. Moreover, the house is greatly dilapidated, and must be sold at a loss in consideration of repairs, which would have been exacted from any other occupant."

The lady seemed to comprehend at last, and her pale face became paler still, as some of the consequences of this cruel act began to loom into view.

"One thing more I have to add," said Mr. Penacre; "that you are at liberty to remove any articles of the family plate which bear Mr. Guy Falconer's initials. The rest will be sold with anything else that the purchaser of the estate may wish to dispense with, and a valuation is to be made immediately—that is, at your convenience, madam."

"Whenever you please," said the widow; "we shall not waste any time in opposition to this unexpected change, for armed with the authority you represent, it would be useless to remonstrate. I had thought, however, that during the life of my father-in-law—"

"Pardon me, madam, for interrupting you, but though the fact was not positively announced by the mail which brought my instructions, I have reason to believe that Mr. Falconer died even before the ship sailed. So that you perceive there is no redress—no hope, I mean, of any alteration of purpose."

"I will give orders that every attention is paid to you here, in the execution of your business, Mr. Penacre. Of course you will remain at the Moat until you have settled everything."

"If it is no intrusion, it would certainly convenience me much, and I shall be grateful for the hospitality."

"And in the meantime you will, I am sure, kindly excuse me."

Whereupon Mr. Penacre rose, and bowed solemnly.

The lady rose also, curtsied, and left the room, no more to re-enter it as the mistress of Moat House. The last item in the information conveyed that day was for a time first in her thoughts. Her husband's father was, probably, no more on earth, and what that fact might involve to him was a matter of trembling apprehension. Probably she would never know more until "the day should declare it." And now, in her worldly circumstances, she seemed at the mercy of one who knew little of sympathy or liberality, who disliked her with the mortified vanity of a selfish unforgiving spirit, because a younger brother had many years before been preferred to himself.

* * * * * *

Passing events had many commentators beside the demonstrative heroes of the rising generation, and Mr. Spadeley's meditations led him as usual to the society of his intimate friend, the landlord of the Falconer's Arms, whose sympathies had been born and grown up in, and were limited like his own to the region of the Falcon Range.

"Who'd have thought of him quartering himself on the Moat House with his mean pitiful business?" said Timothy Turnbull, shaking the ashes from his pipe, and replenishing his own and his companion's tankards with his best "own brewed." "It's just like her to allow it though."

"Just like her, as you say; but I reckon she don't understand all about it yet. You see it's a hard, shameful crush for the poor young gentleman, and they say, leastways the housekeeper told Mrs. Tribe, who told my daughter, and she told me, that he went into an awful rage when he heard it."

And Mr. Spadeley sipped his ale to drown his decided approbation of this particular rage, though known to advise people in general to keep their tempers under all provocation; for he made it a rule to confirm the opinions expressed in the pulpit as decidedly as those from the desk, more especially since the fact that the young minister who succeeded the old one not long deceased, had entirely hindered his little nap in his little den during the sermon, thus enabling him to follow up the exhortations with more practical impressiveness.

"Ah, yes, poor boy! I'm right sorry for them all," said Timothy.

And the two gossips shook their grey heads, and looked gloomily at each other, and up to the interlacing branches of the grand old elms that overshadowed their bench and table, the comfortable trysting-place where they had discussed the affairs and fortunes of their neighbours for more than a quarter of a century.

"We all hoped poor Mr. Guy's son was born to the honours as well as the name of his ancient house," he continued, glancing round at the sign of "The Falconer's Arms," which swung over the porch of the village inn behind him.

"You see," said the sexton, "when men can bring themselves to cutting off entails, there ain't much hope of the family hanging together. It's who's the highest bidder after that. I wonder who's to be highest bidder here?"

"There's one coming along who could tell us, if he'd a mind," said Timothy, lowering his voice, as a gentleman on horseback approached along the road, and stopping before the inn, permitted his horse to accept the refreshment ready in a moment from the ostler's pail.

It was the owner of the blue bag returning from a ride over the estate, and his authority would certainly be trustworthy in such a matter.

"Good evening, friends." said he pleasantly. "This is a pretty spot, this Falcon Range; some fine timber left yet; rich meadows, quite justifying the description given of it."

The landlord could never resist a cheery voice, or a civil speech, so he felt bound to speak.

"True, sir; more's the pity that it's got to change hands. I suppose nobody's offered yet—it would take all the county by surprise."

"It is a pity, and I'm very sorry for the family," said the stranger, rising instantaneously in the estimation of at least one of his hearers; "but if we get Mr. Hazelwood here, there will be nothing to regret in the matter of the landlord."

"Mr. Hazelwood! Squire Hazelwood of Hazel Copse! You don't say so!" said Timothy.

"Yes I do; he is anxious to purchase, seeing that the lease of Hazel Copse is running out, and he can't agree to terms of renewal."