When Lily began her dressmaking in the Waterside village, her brother Abel had just attained the highest object of his ambition. He had become a fellow of his college, and thus was provided at once with the means of living, and with a position which was doubly dear to him, in that it supplied his greatest want, a recognised standing-ground and social rank, such as it is. Nothing could be more honourable to a man than thus to have gained, by his own exertions, a position so entirely satisfactory; but there were elements involved which made his success very different from that of most of his contemporaries. He did not announce it to his family, or indeed give them the least hint of this new step in life, with all the advantages it brought. This was not because he wanted to be unkind, or from any mean desire to keep his prosperity to himself. Could he have sent to them anonymously, without risk of inquiry, a share of his income, he would have been glad to do so; but he did not know how to resume his intercourse with them in his changed circumstances. What pleasure could there be in any meeting now, he asked himself? It seemed to him that any contact with the rude homely habits of his own class would be intolerable: all the more intolerable that he could not deceive himself on the subject, or deny that the honest, thrifty peasant folk were a credit to him, as he, were he as good as they, would be a credit to them. It must be allowed in his defence that a young University man of distinguished talents and prospects, to whom the best society in the country might be open, and who was already on intimate terms with many young great people and dawning notabilities, had need be of heroic strain to be capable of confessing that his mother was a woman who sold eggs and butter in the market. And Abel was not heroic. He was excitable, susceptible, nervous, and visionary, doing little credit, so far, to his mountain breeding. Perhaps it was because the fact of his dependence, and the extreme goodness of the patron who had done so much for him, had been unduly impressed upon his young mind, that he was so anxious now to conceal his origin entirely, and shrank from his family and kind with so much dread and horror. But it is more difficult to explain how, doing this, he should yet have accepted the invitation which young Charley Landale, a much humbler member of his college, pressed upon him eagerly yet timidly. The Landales were well known to Abel, though they knew him only as a great scholar and "rising man," of whose friendship their son was proud. They were gentry of Waterdale, and it was thus to his own district, the very parish in which he had been brought up, that he was invited to go. It was madness to do so; yet he did it with rash excitement in consciousness of the danger, and foolish hankering after his birthplace: a kind of loyalty in disloyalty, very strange and unusual. Though the idea that his parentage might be found out alarmed him beyond measure, yet the thought of going "home" was sweet, in the most inconsistent way. Discovery would be death; but to dare discovery, to push danger to the very verge of ruin, was excitement, and made his heart beat. He liked the thrill of feeling, though it was pain, and might be destruction. His entire being seemed to be quickened with that mixture of pleasure, and wretchedness, and fear. And so it came to pass that just as Lily began to enter into the secret delight of having a lover who was "a gentleman," Abel reappeared in Waterdale, as the honoured guest of one of the best families in the district—he who had been a shepherd boy, a rough-shod, unkempt urchin, when he left the place. He was even told of the beauty of the village as he was driven through it, and directed to Miss Prentice's window. "There is such a pretty girl there!" Charley said, pointing with his whip as he drove past. How little he knew! Thus the brother and sister, unknown to each other, were brought together by the mysterious entanglements of fate.
The two greatest houses in the district were those of the Ridleys, who lived in the Castle, and were the oldest and furthest descended of all the gentry of the county; and the Featherstonhaughs, who, though probably of as old descent (for do not we all derive from Adam?), had come into importance only within the last four or five generations. Sir Richard, the present representative of the latter family, was still young, a man of five-and-thirty, and divided the suffrages of the district with Roger Ridley, the eldest son of the Squire, who was, though much younger, his natural rival in almost every way. Roger was the most popular of the two with the countryside generally, being what it is usual to call thoroughly English: a young man who threw himself into the popular life, was a bold rider, a fair shot, and ready to take his part in all the sports of his contemporaries, small or great. Sir Richard had his partisans more chiefly in his own class. He was not so frank and friendly, not so open to all comers as the young squire, but he was master of his own house and goods, whereas Roger Ridley was only second, and dependent on his father; and he was rich and entertained largely, which the family at Waterside Castle were not wealthy enough to do. This rivalry, however, had been apparently brought to an end by the betrothal of Sir Richard to Roger's sister, Mary Ridley, a young lady of whom Waterdale was proud. Mary was too good for Featherstonhaugh, the partisans of the Ridleys said; but it was a marriage so entirely suitable in every point of view, that no reasonable person could find a word to say against it, and all social difficulties and family contentions were settled by it. These details of local history Charley Landale told to his visitor when they strolled out, soon after Abel's arrival, "to see the neighbourhood," with which the stranger was so anxious to show no acquaintance. The Landales were within the charmed circle of county people, and highly esteemed in Waterdale, but they had no claim to approach the greatness of the Ridleys and Featherstonhaughs.
Landale took his friend to the water, and showed him with pride the beautiful lake, fringed by low hills, with lines of greater peaks in the distance. "There's the Castle on the right hand. I'll ask Ridley to show you all over it some day. It's a wonderful old place; and that is the chase, spreading along to the west. They have some of the finest oaks in the county there. The village lies lower down, but we passed through it, don't you remember? That's the beck, as they call it, meandering down from the hills. Do you see the road, like a white line, above the bridge? There's a most glorious view from that point. Oh yes, I suppose you who have been in Switzerland may despise it perhaps—but we are of a different opinion. I don't think anything in the world can be much finer—the lake in the foreground, and all the hills behind."
"You may be sure I shan't despise it," said Abel. How well he knew every point his good-humoured companion showed him!—Not a curve of the shore, not a little bay or inlet that was not far more familiar to him than to Charley. He had gone bird's-nesting in the chase before he was breeched. He had fished in the lake almost before he could speak. He had roamed out and in of all the wonders of the Castle, and could have guided the Ridleys themselves, not to say Charley Landale, about all its holes and corners. But nothing of this dared he to say. He stood and gazed like a man in a dream, feeling that it was unsafe to open his lips, and that even his eyes alone must betray him. But no one suspected him. The good Landales would as soon have believed he came from Jupiter as that he came under false pretences; and Charley believed in him as he believed in the British constitution or any of the other standards which are unquestionable by men of his simplicity of faith.
"Now look out," said Charley as they turned homeward, the dinner hour being near. They had made a long round to see the country, and had dropped in at the house of another college acquaintance five miles off for lunch. "Now look out—for if we have luck we may see the Lily, and she is worth looking at. It's an uncommon kind of face—not pink and white, like the usual village beauty; she's dark, as dark as you are, with eyes like two stars; you never saw such eyes. Come this way, it is not so dusty as the high road. This is the lover's lane—there's always a lover's lane close by a village; and by Jove, Murray, look out—here's a pair of lovers in it; bad luck for them, but rather fun for us. Why should two people always look so caught? They might put the best face upon it; they might have met by accident—they might be talking business. But they always betray themselves and look guilty. Hallo! upon my word; it is Lily herself—and," he added, with a low whistle of wonder and dismay, "Ridley, I do believe!—what an ass, in broad day!"
Murray looked at the two figures in the distance with strange intensity of interest. He remembered the young squire well, and all about him,—his lordly good-nature and liberality—the sixpences he would toss at a poor boy who held his horse, though himself very little older than that boy. He was interested to see him again, to note whether time had changed him much, even to run the risk of recognition; but how could Roger Ridley see in young Landale's companion the boy who had held his horse, and to whom he had chucked sixpences? Abel pressed on, somewhat eagerly, not listening to Charley, who had begun to think of retreat. "If we turn back they'll think no one has seen them," Charley was saying; "it's not a pleasant thing to be caught like this; suppose we turn back?"
"Is that your Lily?" said Abel. A great sudden flush had come to his face. They were not near enough to see her features distinctly, but there was something in her general air and aspect that struck him. Instead of paying any attention to Charley's suggestion, he went on with great strides. And by this time the pair had seen them, and Landale's precautions were of no further avail. Good-natured Charley did not perceive at the first moment that it was his friend's fault. He was compunctious as to his own share in it; but it was too late now to turn or go back.
"It is I that am an ass," he said; "a lover's lane ought to be sacred: but never mind, Murray, come along, there is no good in looking conscious now. Come along, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Oh, yes, it's Lily, sure enough. There, she's off, poor little dear! I dare say she hates you and me. See how ceremoniously he is taking off his hat to her; met by accident, of course. Hallo, Ridley! you have come this way, like ourselves, to avoid the dust, I suppose?"
"That is so," said Roger, coming up to them with the portentous gravity of a man who has something to conceal. "It is the short cut from Grimston, where I've just been for my father. He is in full cry after some excavations they have been making. You know his antiquarian turn; and look here—I dare say it's some new manufactured antiquity from Brummagem direct—no, not that," he said, with confusion, "I don't mean that," dropping a little gold locket of very modern form and resplendent newness. Murray stooped to pick it up, but was forestalled by the owner, who snatched at it, raising a flushed and excited countenance as he hid the toy in his hand. "It is this I mean," he cried, taking an old coin out of his waistcoat pocket. Then he stood facing the two young men uneasily. "I think it is the hottest day we have had this season," he said.
It was not Abel's part to speak. He was himself too much agitated to do so. He would have known the young squire anywhere, if he had met him at the end of the world, he felt; and the sudden shock of recognition drove out of his mind the more important question who the girl was. He bent his head over the coin which Ridley held out in his hand. Why should not he be recognised as easily as the other? He dared not face the defiant yet abashed eyes with which the young squire stared at him, responding with a hurried bow to Landale's introduction. But the coin was safe ground; he peered at it, bending towards it as if he had been short-sighted, and glad of the little learning that gave him something to say. "Have you Roman remains here?" he said. "I think the coin is genuine." Roger Ridley started slightly at the sound of his voice.
"That will please my father," he said, and looked at Murray again. There was some thrill of likeness in the voice—a tone which recalled to him the other voice which as yet had scarcely died out of his ear—a fantastic likeness, no doubt suggested by his own imagination, which was full of Lily. "I will tell him you vouch for it," he added, with a smile, "and if he agrees with you (which he is sure to do, for one always believes in Roman remains on one's own land), he will think you an oracle. Bring Mr Murray to see the Castle, Charley. And good-bye, for I must hurry home."
"Ay, ay, he'll hurry home now we have parted him from Lily," said Charley, nodding his head. "You see for yourself. That is what I told you. He will commit himself and do something foolish if he doesn't mind."
"Who is she?" said Abel: his heart was thumping against his side with many emotions. To have looked the young squire calmly in the face, whom he knew so well, and to have borne his gaze, was surely enough for one day.
"Oh, a country lass, I believe; the daughter of a woman up on the fells. By the way, her name's Murray, like yours. It's partly a Gipsy name, you know."
"Is it?" said Abel. This time he could not hear his own voice, so loud was his heart beating. But he added, "All Scotch names have a democratic wideness; the clan includes both high and low." This was what he meant to have said. And as Charley looked quite unmoved it is to be supposed he got it safely uttered; but his blood was running at such a force through his veins, and his heart going like the piston of a steam-engine, with such tumult and riot of sound, that whether he said these words or not, or said some others in place of them, he never knew.