GOOD AS GOLD;

OR,

THE OLD TOLL-HOUSE.

CHAPTER IV.

THE misty shadows of an autumn evening of no common beauty surrounded the Sandown landscape as with a sea, gray, dim, distant, and dreamy, appearing the more distant and dreamy as one by one a few red lights shone out here and there from cottages and farms, reminding one of Keat's

"Charmed magic casements, opening on the

foam

Of perilous seas, in fairy lands forlorn." Everything in the scene looked unreal, strange, fantastic.

The Grange and the old towers presented masses of sombre shade sublimely exaggerated against a light background of sky of the most delicate tints conceivable. Nothing could be more exquisite than the beauty of the contrast of this pure soft heaven, and the dark objects projected against it. Here and there a cottage stood out with a spectral whiteness amidst trees whose outlines were so curiously distinct, that the form of every

Istem, and twig, and leaf was sharply traced as by the hand of a mighty master in art. The peculiar character of each tree and shrub was grotesquely intensitified, so as to form most novel pictures. Never was seen to greater advantage the crooked, twisted boughs of the oaks, the tower-like elevations of the quaint elms, with the close green garniture of their lofty trunks, and the palm-like outspreading of the branches at the summits of the venerable patriarchs of that race. By the side of these lords of the leafy world, the more graceful and fragile trees appeared minutely and beautifully developed, as timid dependants and attached companions.

Over this magic scene shone brilliantly from the first decline of day one southern star; but as the gloom of coming night shed every moment a greater solemnity, and the air grew more deathly still, another and another star came forth, and then the full moon rolled forth from her cloudy hills in all the majesty of her loveliness, and the Autumn Evening was no more!

During its evanescent reign, a pleasure-boat floated down the Holm Moss stream on its way to the sea.

It was a light and graceful cutter, with white sails spread, in hopes to catch a favouring breeze, but no breeze came; the weather was a dead calm.

On the deck were two seamen and a boy, and two passengers-a gentleman and a lady.

The former wore a long and large travelling cloak, with a deep collar buttoned high over the chin, and a furedged velvet cap tied down over the ears. Of his face very little was to be seen.

The lady wore a close bonnet and thick veil. Her figure was enveloped in shawls and mantles as a defence against nightchills.

The bronzed helmsman sang of "The Saucy Arethusa;" the boy fell asleep on a coil of ropes; the respectable old mariner who was captain and owner of the cutter, sat by the mast, watching the water and the clouds with a critical, thoughtful eye.

The two passengers remained on the deck, the lady silent, or speaking only in monosyllables, and in tremulous tones, while her companion talked to her long and earnestly, and with most persuasive arguments, striving to calm her fears, and animate her with hopes of the future. The full moon had reached the highest point of her heavenly ascent, and still the cutter was sailing on, now more swiftly, over swelling waves of molten silver.

But soon the wind freshened the queen of the night was obscured by wildly drifting clouds-and the little vessel began to toss to and fro fearfully.

The two passengers descended to the cabin, where the lady, in an agony of illness and of terror, alternately screamed, wept, prayed, and entreated wildly to be taken back to the shore, and to be restored to her home.

Vainly her companion tried to soothe her, to show her the impossibility of return, and to encourage her with assurances that the French harbour would soon be reached, and that the seamen were fully equal to the safe management of the cutter, even through a much worse gale than they were likely to experience at present.

"Oh, no, no! we shall be drowned!"

she repeated, wringing her hands. It was the faithless Beauty of Sandown, whom the treacherous Ferris had ensnared to be the companion of his flight from England, while George Fielding was detained in London, as his employer had planned he should be.

With the dawn of day the wind rose tremendously. Many a person, safe on land, was roused from sweet sleep by the noise of the rushing wind, as it seemed to strike the sides of their dwelling and threaten to annihilate it, and then "God protect the ships at sea!" was their natural prayer.

But how could that treacherous fugitive from justice-how could that faithless breaker of her sacred promises hope for God's protection in their imminent peril.

Ferris neither hoped for it, nor asked for it; the cold sceptic was a sceptic in danger as in security; he hoped nothing, and feared nothing. The sneer that was so familiar to his face was there when the victim of her own vanity and his villany exclaimed that the storm was a judgment on her, she knew it was, and insisted on being taken back home.

All day after the gallant little cutter battled with stormy wind and wave, and had almost reached the French coast at nightfall, when a furious billow suddenly dashed over the mast-head-and when that awful wave had disappeared in the white foam, the boat had disappeared with it!

While the cutter was commencing its last fatal trip, the toll-keeper of Sandown and the landlord of the "Jolly Farmer" were holding one of their usual gossips by the road gate.

The innkeeper's troublesome gout had confined him much in-doors of late, but it was better now, and he enjoyed getting out to the seat under the hollow elm, to smoke his pipe, listen to the creaking sign, and look out for guests.

He had been put to much inconvenience and some loss in his business by the absence of George, which he grumbled about now and then, especially when he was in pain. His family said that he missed his son very much indeed, and was altered in his temper.

"If it's for the lad's good, I don't mind, not I," he said to John Adams; "but I'm none satisfied about him.” The innkeeper stared hard at his gouty leg, with lips pursed up, and brows knitted. "I tell thee, friend John, I'm none satisfied about the lad. He writes of his grand prospects, this way and t'other, but talks random; for, look you here, if Mr. Ferris is doing so well by 'un, and has made a Sectary of him (whatever that may mean he knows best), I want to know why doant he stick to his Sectary business, and send for thy Nelly, and get settled in a Christian way, like other honest folk. But he says nought of that yet, to thee nor me, nor to Nelly either, as I hear, only muddles his poor head still over writing books and plays, and that like; and what good will all that rubbish do him or Nelly? It was all very well of a gentleman like Mr. Ferris to make speeches about the Redbridge librey and playhouse; but I'd give twice the valley of my corn crop if George had never seen a librey, nor read a book, nor larned to handle a pen. Then he would be here now, minding the horses and the cattle, and the brewing and the reaping. Give me the Bible and a chalk score, that's all I want. Don't tell me, friend John, about edication and enlightenment; I say there never was such wickedness in the world when you and I were boys as there is now, and reading and writing have done it all."

But how

"George was down here Sunday week after he left us," said the toll-keeper. Ay, and aff again same day." "He couldn't help that. friskish he looked, and held his head high, and wore a new London suit, fitting him as if he had grown to the things."

"And a satin waistcoat, and fine kid gloves, and such boots!"

"He was better dressed than you or I when we went to church to be married, Fielding."

"That's true. What a change, to be sure, in eight days! I told him he must feel ashamed of his vulgar kith and kin." "But he's a good lad for all that." "I'm none satisfied about him, John, nor about thy Nelly either. Where is she now ?"

"At her cousin's, at Redbridge." "And her mother ?"

"Yes. They went together yesterday." "They went there last week."

"And the week before. They are always going there now-more often than I like, for Cousin Sophy is too giddy and worldly to please me. When her husband the baker died, she was in the Methodist Connexion, and a class used to meet at her house; but she has taken up with a sea captain for her sweetheart, and now she lives for the world, and nothing but its poor perishing vanities will please her. A sad falling off!"

"I'm no Methodist, but I don't like Cousin Sophy: and if I had my will, Nelly should not go visiting there two or three days at a time."

"I am a Methodist, neighbour, and I like Cousin Sophy no more than you do; but you know my wife and Nelly will go where they like, and when they like. But they promised to come back home last evening, and I am angry with both of them."

"You angry! Never in your life, John."

Angry or not, the toll-keeper's face showed that he was very uneasy about his wife and daughter, especially as it was fair-time at Redbridge, and they would have to return over eight miles of lanes and field-paths traversed by all sorts of characters-sober and otherwise-returning from the festivites. Adams was thinking of leaving the toll to Fielding's care, while he went to meet them, when Farmer William, looking hot and flurried, rode up at a round trot on his black horse, and, without dismounting, said, in considerable excitement

"Father, I've had a letter from George; and he sends for me to come up to him by to-morrow morning. Summut must have happened, for I shall have to travel all night to get up to Lunnun by to-morrow forenoon, and sharp work it will be to get there. He says at twelve o'clock at noon I shall be wanted, and must spare no expense to reach him by that hour. I'm off now. I shall ride on my good mare the eighteen miles to meet the train, and I shall go up by the fastest, cost

what it may. I shall send word what's the matter as soon as ever I can. I have heard there are some queer folk on the tramp to-night, coming home from the fair, so I carry a loaded pistol for safety, and you need not worry about me. Goodbye.'

So, while the cutter was tossing on the foaming waves of the sea, on its doomed path to the French coast, Nelly's brother was riding hard along the moonlit country roads towards London, bravely and affectionately resolved, at any sacrifice, to comply with his friend's urgent request. Indeed, so great was Farmer William's regard for George Fielding, that he would have hastened to his assistance had the journey been ten times as long or inconvenient.

William rode from the toll-gate to the Holm Moss Ferry, waited for the ferryboat, crossed in it the broad stream, reached Redbridge in an hour, stopped at the door of the baker's widow in the High-street, and there knocked loudly with his heavy riding-whip. At last, after a long delay, Sophy Blyth, a bold, handsome young widow, made her appearance, and cordially invited him in.

"Why, William, where be riding to this time of night? Your mother said you was not a coming to the fair this

season."

"No more I am; my pigs are bound for another market, I can tell thee."

He had alighted, left his horse standing alone, and strode heavily in his high top boots into Sophy's cosy sitting-room (the widow was not left with empty house or empty purse), where he asked for a glass of the best home-brewed (Sophy brewed good ale) and a mouthful of bread and cheese, which he took standing, with his long whip tucked under his arm, and his white hat nearly touching the low ceiling.

"Father told me to call and look after mother and Nelly. What the dickins have you been keeping them here for so long? They have done nothing lately but visit you."

"Cousin William, there's a secret to come out about Nelly. It won't be a secret long, though."

"Here, and often.

Bless me, man

alive, can't you believe? Mr. Ferris has met your sister and mother here almost every time they came to see me, and they are married, and are away to France for a few weeks. Your mother is going back home in the morning, and I should just like to see how your father takes it. It would be such fun."

Merrily the black-eyed widow laughed, regardless of William's dismay and indignation. But he was incredulous still. He suspected the joking tendencies of his lively relative, which he knew by experience to be considerable.

So he insisted on seeing his mother, and went to the door to pat his horse and see his pistol all right in the saddle pocket, while Sophy Blyth tripped up stairs to fetch her.

Directly William saw his mother coming reluctantly down the stairs, his impa tience broke out in a stormy demand to know what nonsense had been going on there.

William Adams by no means inherited the passive temper of his father; and if

there was a person of whom Mrs. Adams had a wholesome dread, it was her son William: The colour fled her face, and the usual confidence of her deportment vanished when his animated face and massive figure were before her.

To confront William at present was a sharp trial, and perhaps there was a little -just the least in the world-of misgiving in her shallow understanding as to the rectitude of her motherly conduct.

His voice was loud and startling to her nerves when he asked, "Where is my sister ?"

"Don't be so violent."

"Where is Nelly? No hesitation, mother. Tell me the truth. Out with it."

able for my girl. If a beauty like her was not to be married well, I'd like to know who is ?"

"Had you no respect for her promise to George ?"

"No. I always wanted Nelly to look higher."

'Mother, just answer me this: How did Mr. Ferris know where and when to meet Nelly ?"

"It was all planned between me and him. He fell in love with her the first time he saw her, and I was very glad of it. Nelly will be back in Sandown in four or five weeks, and then Mr. Ferris will buy Ashbrook Hall for her, and have it fitted up for her in grand style. And she is to bring back from France the most beautiful presents for us all. You

"Bless me !" interposed Widow Blyth, "haven't I told you, she and her husband are away to France, and your mother has got the wedding certificate ?" "Is that true, mother ?" "Yes, William, it is." "You don't mean it ?" "As true as that I stand here."

She coughed loudly to get her courage up, then shook her portly person, and as William stood gazing on her in excess of astonishment, mingled with rage, she applied her handkerchief to her eyes.

"Mother! mother! are you not ashamed ?" he sternly exclaimed. "Yes, of you, to speak to your mother so cruelly."

"Don't cry. But really you must feel ashamed of yourself."

"I should be, indeed, if I had lost a good match like this. I hope I am the best judge of what husband is most suit

are to have a new gold watch." The last was an invention on the spur of the moment, but it was lost on William. "Give me the certificate," said he, "and I'll go and carry this precious piece of news to poor George-and give him your love with it, shall I ?"

"Oh, I don't wish him any harm. But I was not going to let my girl put up with the man, when she might have the master."

"Silence mother," said William sternly; "and when you say your prayers, just bethink you a little. There is need."

"Need of what ?"

"Of repentance, if you did but see it." "Thank goodness, I don't."

"But you may, perhaps, one day, if Nelly should ever have to upbraid you for learning her how to be false, and betray a fond, true heart."

"True!" sneered Mrs. Adams. "Very