forefathers, and had permitted the chapel to fall into hopeless decay. It must also be said of them that they combined to cut off the entail, destroyed the timber, sold great portion of the Broadmede property, and left heavy encumbrances upon the estates for their successors to struggle with and pay off. Part of the Hadfield lands had indeed been already lost to the family during the Civil War, in which the Hadfield family were devoted partisans of the Stuarts. At the Restoration, a Court of Claims re-established the family in a large share of their possessions; but before they could recover the whole, an order of the King in Council dissolved the Court. In 1682, Thomas, the younger son of Sir Hugh,—to carve out for himself a fortune, or to repair the disasters of his family,—had sailed for America, and settled in Maryland, marrying there. In a last letter received from him, many years later, he had stated that his wife was dead and also one of his two children, and that having acquired a large fortune and sold his lands for 40,000l., he intended returning to England with all his money in specie, and his only surviving son, to introduce him to his relatives, and to be himself interred in the family mausoleum at Grilling Abbots. But nothing further had ever been heard of him, and it was supposed that he had been lost at sea with his son and all his property.
Carved over the park gateway and the porch on the terrace, but very worn now, and moss-grown, and with orange lichen patches over it, the crest of the Hadfields is still traceable. Let the history of the county state it heraldically:—"A dove, ar. beak and legs, gu. standing on a serpent rowed ppr. Motto, 'Soyez sage et semple.'" And in that beautiful chamber—(it is used as a library now, and it is the room in which the medical gentlemen had their consultation and their Madeira)—wainscoted with carved oak of rich and elaborate pattern and most skilful workmanship, is to be seen in admirable preservation an almost unequalled specimen of the richly-decorated withdrawing-room of the time of James I. The chimney-piece is decorated with the Royal arms and the initials of James, while amidst the thick crust of ornamentation on either side are to be found the bearings of Sir Hugh, the builder, and of the family of his wife, one of the Saxons of Hillshire.
Not all this did the schoolmaster narrate to the guests of the George—yet something of it—they could not have borne it all. For they grew giddy with going so far back, just as people are dizzied by a great height. They wouldn't let go the present to trust themselves with the past. There was a sort of magnetic attraction about the business before them. They were held to it as by a chain—they would stretch out to the limits of their links, but they always returned to the original position. Would we live to see his son?
Who remembered Mr. Wilford? Nearly all in the room. Why, it was seven years ago that he went away. No, man—no, not so much. Yes, just seven years. Mrs. Joyce, the landlady of the George, fixed the time to a day—almost to an hour. It was the day her son Jeremiah—her fifth child—was born. She was in bed at the time, as Dr. Fuller could certify, if he were there, which he wasn't. Jerry was born in November, at half-quarter-day. Nobody could gainsay evidence so circumstantial as this. The fact was generally accepted that Mr. Wilford had gone away little better than seven years ago. Lord, what a long time ago it seemed!
Why had he gone? Nobody liked this question. They shirked it; they shrugged their shoulders; they looked hard at the ceiling. They passed on the inquiry—they said: "Ah! why, indeed?" and each looked as though he expected some one else to answer. He was a fine young fellow; they were all agreed as to that. A very fine young fellow. A handsome boy, with a bright dark eye, and black hair, as thick as a horse's tail. Farmer Corbet had a story to tell about the young gentleman coming over the hedge, in among his oats, playing the devil and all with them, said the farmer. But he behaved well (he went on)—a lad of sperrit, and a gentleman, one of the old Hadfields, and as like as two peas to the picter up in the long room of the Grange of that one ever so long ago as went to Indy, and got lost. Amerikey, was it? Well, it was all the same. Poor young gentleman. Perhaps the old Squire was too hard with him, too quick and sharp. The old Squire could be at times, they all agreed. Mr. Wilford wasn't the one for that sort of treatment. He couldn't bear too much of it. He was of the old Hadfield blood, a fiery temper when he was once roused: and what a black frown came over his face! and he'd give back word for word, they agreed. Yes, and blow for blow, said some one; and then there was an awful silence.
They were like children playing at a game; they were growing gradually warmer, and soon warmer—warmer—hot—very hot—then the game was played out—they had reached the climax. They had touched the answer to the question. As they all knew, the story went that the separation of Mr. Hadfield and his eldest son was in this wise: Angry words had passed between them—the dispute raged violently. In his passion the father had struck his son, and the blow had been returned. They had never met since, and Wilford Hadfield had never since set foot in Grilling Abbots.
True or false, this story was the under-current explanation of the division between the Squire and his son. All knew it, though all shrunk from discussing it openly. It was one of the ghosts of Grilling Abbots, this narrative. To be alluded to very carefully, in whispers, with shut doors. True or false, it was a fact that, now on his death-bed, the Squire had sent for his son. Would Wilford Hadfield reach the Grange in time?—he was running a race with Death.
"Snawing fast," said William ostler, coming into the room, to light a lanthorn or a pipe, or on some such specious errand. In truth, perhaps, to get a little warmth from the fire, or to carry away a slice or so of the conversation of the large room to amuse him with in the dreadful solitude and tedium of his life in the stable loft, or to be asked to take a draught from somebody's mug, or may-be a sip from somebody else's rummer.
