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 common,
the air of which is notorious for clearness
and salubrity. The high road from Dring, for
the most part shut in by the fences of gentlemen's
seats, opens out when it reaches this
common, and, separating from the Tenelms 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
of somewhat straggling houses, among which
you observe its little post-office, its police
station, its rustic public-house (the Dunstan
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 in 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 Eade,
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
Tenelms, skirting the great Southanger property,
of which Sir Oswald Dunstan 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 Plashetts; but 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; 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
specimen of an honest English peasant. But
he had certain peculiarities of disposition and
temper, which served to render him
considerably less popular than his father. He was
reserved; feeling strongly, but with difficulty
giving expression to his feelings; susceptible
to, and not easily forgiving, injuries; singularly
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
property, 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: burying,
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 to 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
towards that rosy-cheeked damsel were not those
of perfect charity. True, the Archers were
people who held themselves high, occupying
a large farm under Sir Oswald Dunstan; and
they were known to regard Susan's attachment
as a decided lowering of herself and them.
That attachment had sprung up, as is not
unfrequently the case, in the hop-gardens. The
girl had been ailing for some time, and 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
distinguished a belle as Susan could be permitted
to go for such a purpose; but her family knew
and respected the Eades, and to Mr. Malcolmson'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 concentrated like his, are fitted
to feel, and to feel but once in a lifetime. It