A Son of Hagar. Sir Hall Caine
the vale the shouts of the merrymakers and the music of a fiddle. Allan Ritson lifted his head, nodded it aside jauntily, and smiled feebly through the mist that was gathering about his eyes.
"There they are—wrestling and jumping. I mind me when there was scarce a man in Cummerlan' could give me the cross-buttock. That's many a lang year agone, though. And now our Paul can manish most on 'em—that he can."
The fiddle was playing a country dance. The old man listened; his face broadened, he lifted a leg jauntily, and gave a sweep of one arm.
Just then there came through the air a peal of happy laughter. It was the same heart's music that Hugh Ritson and Mr. Bonnithorne had heard in the road. Allan's face brightened, and his voice had only the faintest crack in it as he said:
"That's Greta's laugh! It is for sure! What a heartsome lass yon is! I like a heartsome lassie—a merrie touch, and gone!"
"Yes," said Mrs. Ritson, soberly; "Greta is a winsome girl."
It was hardly spoken when a young girl bounded down upon them, almost breathless, yet laughing in gusts, turning her head over her shoulder and shouting:
"Hurrah! Beaten, sir! Hurrah!"
It was Greta Lowther; twenty years of age, with fair hair, quick brown eyes, a sunny face lighted up with youthful animation, a swift smile on her parted lips—an English wild white rose.
"I've beaten him," she said. "He challenged me to cross Windybrowe while he ran round the Bowder stone, but I got to the lonnin before he had crossed the bridge."
Then, running to the corner of the lane, she plucked off her straw hat, waved it about her head, and shouted again in an accent of triumph:
"Hurrah! hurrah! beaten, sir, beaten!"
Paul Ritson came running down the fell in strides of two yards apiece.
"Oh, you young rogue—you cheated!" he cried, coming to a stand and catching his breath.
"Cheated?" said Greta, in a tone of dire amazement.
"You bargained to touch the beacon on the top of Windybrowe, and you didn't go within a hundred yards of it."
"The beacon? On Windybrowe?" said the girl, and wondrous perplexity shone in her lovely eyes.
Paul wiped his brow, and shook his head and his finger with mock gravity at the beautiful cheat.
"Now, Greta, now—now—gently—"
Greta looked around with the bewildered gaze of a lost lambkin.
"Mother," said Paul, "she stole a march on me."
"He was the thief, Mrs. Ritson; you believe me, don't you?"
"Me! why I never stole anything in my life—save one thing."
"And what was that, pray?" said Greta, with another mighty innocent look.
Paul crept up to her side and whispered something over her shoulder, whereupon she eyed him largely, and said with a quick smile:
"You don't say so! But please don't be too certain of it. I'm sure I never heard of that theft."
"Then here's a theft you shall hear of," said Paul, throwing one arm about her neck and tipping up her chin.
There was a sudden gleam of rosy, roguish lips. Old Allan, with mischief dancing in his eyes, pretended to recover them from a more distant sight.
"Er—why, what's that?" he said; "the sneck of a gate, eh?"
Greta drew herself up.
"How can you—and all the people looking—they might really think that we were—we were—"
Paul came behind, put his head over one shoulder, and said:
"And we're not, are we?"
"They're weel matched, mother, eh?" said Allan, turning to his wife. "They're marra-to-bran, as folks say. Greta, he's a girt booby, isn't he?"
Greta stepped up to the old man, and with a familiar gesture laid a hand on his arm. At the same moment Paul came to his side. Allan tapped his son on the back.
"Thou girt lang booby," he said, and laughed heartily. All the shadows that had hung over him were gone. "And how's Parson Christian?" he asked in another tone.
"Well, quite well, and as dear an old soul as ever," said Greta.
"He's father and mother to thee baith, my lass. I never knew thy awn father. He was dead and gone before we coom't to these parts. And thy mother, too, God bless her! she's dead and gone now. But if this lad of mine, this Paul, this girt lang—Ah, and here's Mr. Bonnithorne, and Hughie, too."
The return of the lawyer and Hugh Ritson abridged the threat of punishment that seemed to hang on the old man's lips.
Hugh Ritson's lifted eyes had comprehended everything. The girl leaning over his father's arm; the pure, smooth cheeks close to the swarthy, weather-beaten, comfortable old face; the soft gaze upward full of feeling; the half-open lips and the teeth like pearls; then the glance round, half of mockery, half of protest, altogether of unconquerable love, to where Paul Ritson stood, his eyes just breaking into a smile; the head, the neck, the arms, the bosom still heaving gently after the race; the light loose costume—Hugh Ritson saw it all, and his heart beat fast. His pale face whitened at that moment, and his infirm foot trailed heavily on the gravel.
Allan shook hands with Mr. Bonnithorne, and then turned to his sons. "Come, you two lads have not been gude friends latterly, and that's a sair grief baith to your mother and me. You're not made in the same mold seemingly. But you must mak' up your fratch, my lads, for your auld folks' sake, if nowt else."
At this he stretched out both arms, as if with the intention of joining their hands. Hugh made a gesture of protestation.
"I have no quarrel to make up," he said, and turned aside.
Paul held out his hand. "Shake hands, Hugh," he said. Hugh took the proffered hand with unresponsive coldness.
Paul glanced into his brother's face a moment, and said:
"What's the use of breeding malice? It's a sort of live stock that's not worth its fodder, and it eats up everything."
There was a scarcely perceptible curl on Hugh Ritson's lip, but he turned silently away. With head on his breast, he walked toward the porch.
"Stop!"
It was old Allan's voice. The deep tone betrayed the anger that was choking him. His face was flushed, his eyes were stern, his lips trembled.
"Come back and shak' hands wi' thy brother reet."
Hugh Ritson faced about, leaning heavily on his infirm foot.
"Why to-day more than yesterday or to-morrow?" he said, calmly.
"Come back, I tell thee!" shouted the old man more hotly.
Hugh maintained his hold of himself, and said in a quiet and even voice, "I am no longer a child."
"Then bear thysel' like a man—not like a whipped hound."
The young man shuddered secretly from head to foot. His eyes flashed for an instant. Then, recovering his self-control, he said:
"Even a dog would resent such language, sir."
Greta had dropped aside from the painful scene, and for a moment Hugh Ritson's eyes followed her.
"I'll have no sec worriment in my house," shouted the old man in a broken voice. "Those that live here must live at peace. Those that want war must go."
Hugh Ritson could bear up no longer.
"And what is your house to me, sir? What has it done for me? The world is wide."
Old Allan was confounded. Silent, dumb, with great staring eyes, he looked