never let me off, because, before I was taken, he somehow got to my bedside in the night, woke me, and put a rope round my neck."
vii.
To be taken and tried.
There can hardly be seen anywhere, a prettier village than Cumner, standing on the brow of a hill which commands one of the finest views in England, and flanked by its broad breezy com- mon, the air of which is notorious for clearness and salubrity. The high road from Bring, for the most part abut in by the fences of gentle¬ men’s seats, opens out when it readies this common, and, separating from the Tcuelms road, ascends in a north-westerly direction till it comes in sight of Cumner. Every step is against the collar, yet so gradual is the ascent, that you scarcely realise it until, turning, you behold the magnificent panorama spread around and beneath. The village consists chiefly of one short street j of somewhat straggling houses, among which you observe its little post-office, its police station, its rustic public-house (the Dunslan Arms), whose landlord also holds the general shop across the way; and its two or three humble lodging-houses. Facing you as you enter the street, which is a cul-de-sac, is the quaint old church, standing not more than a bow-shot from the Rectory. There is something primitive and almost patriarchal iu this quiet village, where the pastor lives surrounded by his flock, and can scarcely move from his own gate without finding himself in the midst of them. Cumner Common is skirted on three sides by dwellings, varying in size and importance, from the small butcher’s shop standing in its own garden, and under the shadow of its own apple- trees, to the pretty white house where the curate lodges, and the more pretentious abodes of those who are, or consider themselves, gentry. It is bounded on the east by the low stone wall and gateway of Mr. Malcolmson’s domain; the modest dwelling of Simon Fade, that gentleman’s bailiff, half covered with creepers, the autumnal hues of which might, rival the brightest specimens of American foliage; lastly, by the high brick wall (with its door in the centre), which completely shuts in Mr. Gibbs’s “ place.” On the south side runs the high road to TeneUns, skirting the great Southangcr property, of which Sir Oswald Uunstan is proprietor. Hardly could the pedestrian tourist, on his way from Dring, fail to pause at the rustic stile nearly opposite the blacksmith’s forge, and, resting upon it, gaze down on the magnificent prospect of wood and water spread at his feet— a prospect to which two ancient cedars form no inappropriate foreground. That stile is not often crossed, for the footpath from it leads only to the farm called the Plashetta; bpt it is very constantly used as a resting-place; Many an artist has sketched the view from it; many a lover has whispered tender words to his mistress beside it j many a weary tramp has rested his or her feet on the worn stone beneath. This stile was once the favourite resort of two young lovers, inhabitants of the district, and soon to be united. George Eade, the only son of Mr. Malcolmson’s bailiff, was a stalwart good-looking young fellow of some six- and-twenty, who worked for that gentleman under his father, and was in the receipt of liberal wages. Honest, steady, and fond of self-cultivation, he was capable, if not clever —persevering, if not rapid—an excellent spe¬ cimen of an honest English peasant. But he had certain peculiarities of disposition and temper, which served to render him con¬ siderably less popular than his father. lie was reserved; feeling strongly, but with difficulty giving expression to liis feelings; susceptible to, and not easi’y forgiving, injuries ; singu¬ larly addicted to self-accusation and remorse. His father, a straightforward open-hearted man of five-and-forty, who had raised himself by sheer merit from the position of a labourer to that of the trusted manager of Mr. Malcolmson’s pro¬ perty, was highly respected by that gentleman, and by the whole country-side. His mother, feeble in health, but energetic of spirit., was one of the most excellent of women. This couple, like many of their class, had married imprudently early, and had struggled through many difficulties in consequence: bury¬ ing, one after another, three sickly children in the little churchyard at Cumner where they hoped one day themselves to lie. On the one son that, remained t,o them their affections were centred. The mother, especially, worshipped her George with an admiring love that partook of idolatry. She was not without some of the weaknesses of her sex. She was jealous; and when she discovered the flame which had been kindled in the heart of her son by the soft blue eyes of Susan Archer, her feelings to¬ wards tiiat rosy-cheeked damsel were not t hose of perfect charity. True, the Archers were people who held themselves high, occupying a large farm under Sir Oswald Dunslan; ana they .were known to regard Susan’s attachment as a decided lowering of herself and them. That attachment had sprung up, as is not, un frequently the case, in the hop-gardens. The girl had been ailing for some time, anu her shrewd old doctor assured her father that there was no tonic so efficacious as a fortnight’s hop-picking in the sunny September weather. Now there were but few places to which so dis¬ tinguished a belle as Susan could be permitted to go for such a purpose; but her family knew and respected the Fades, and to Mr. Malcolm- son’s hop-grounds she was accordingly sent. The tonic prescribed produced the desired effect. She lost her ailments; but she lost her heart too. George Eade was good looking, and up to that time had never cared for woman. The love he conceived for the gentle, blue-eyed girl was of that all-absorbing character which natures stern and eoncentratea like his, are fitted to feel, and to feci but once in a lifetime It
