only that it is generally conceived that in such a history as is this the writer of the tale should be able to make his points so clear by words that no further assistance should be needed, i should be tempted here to insert a properly illustrated pedigree tree of the marrable family. the marrable family is of very old standing in england, the first baronet having been created by james i., and there having been marrables,—as is well known by all attentive readers of english history,—engaged in the wars of the roses, and again others very conspicuous in the religious persecutions of the children of henry viii. i do not know that they always behaved with consistency; but they held their heads up after a fashion, and got themselves talked of, and were people of note in the country. they were cavaliers in the time of charles i. and of cromwell,—as became men of blood and gentlemen,—but it is not recorded of them that they sacrificed much in the cause; and when william iii. became king they submitted with a good grace to the new order of things. a certain sir thomas marrable was member for his county in the reigns of george i. and george ii., and enjoyed a lucrative confidence with walpole. then there came a blustering, roystering sir thomas, who, together with a fine man and gambler as a heir, brought the property to rather a low ebb; so that when sir gregory, the grandfather of our miss marrable, came to the title in the early days of george iii. he was not a rich man. his two sons, another sir gregory and a general marrable, died long before the days of which we are writing,—sir gregory in 1815, and the general in 1820. that sir gregory was the second of the name,—the second at least as mentioned in these pages. he had been our miss marrable’s uncle, and the general had been her father, and the father of mrs. lowther,—mary’s mother. a third sir gregory was reigning at the time of our story, a very old gentleman with one single son,—a fourth gregory. now the residence of sir gregory was at dunripple park, just on the borders of warwickshire and worcestershire, but in the latter county. the property was small,—for a country gentleman with a title,—not much exceeding ￡3000 a year; and there was no longer any sitting in parliament, or keeping of race-horses, or indeed any season in town for the present race of marrables. the existing sir gregory was a very quiet man, and his son and only child, a man now about forty years of age, lived mostly at home, and occupied himself with things of antiquity. he was remarkably well read in the history of his own country, and it had been understood for the last twenty years by the antiquarian, arch?ological, and other societies that he was the projector of a new theory about stonehenge, and that his book on the subject was almost ready. such were the two surviving members of the present senior branch of the family. but sir gregory had two brothers,—the younger of the two being parson john marrable, the present rector of st. peter’s lowtown and the occupier of the house within the heavy slate-coloured gates, where he lived a bachelor life, as had done before him his cousin the late rector;—the elder being a certain colonel marrable. the colonel marrable again had a son, who was a captain walter marrable,—and after him the confused reader shall be introduced to no more of the marrable family. the enlightened reader will have by this time perceived that miss mary lowther and captain walter marrable were second cousins; and he will also have perceived, if he has given his mind fully to the study, that the present parson john marrable had come into the living after the death of a cousin of the same generation as himself,—but of lower standing in the family. it was so; and by this may be seen how little the sir gregory of the present day had been able to do for his brother, and perhaps it may also be imagined from this that the present clergyman at loring lowtown had been able to do very little for himself. nevertheless, he was a kindly-hearted, good, sincere old man,—not very bright, indeed, nor peculiarly fitted for preaching the gospel, but he was much liked, and he kept a curate, though his income out of the living was small. now it so happened that captain marrable,—walter marrable,—came to stay with his uncle the parson about the same time that mary lowther returned to loring.

“you remember walter, do you not?” said miss marrable to her niece.

“not the least in the world. i remember there was a walter when i was at dunripple. but that was ten years ago, and boy cousins and girl cousins never fraternise.”

“i suppose he was nearly a young man then, and you were a child?”

“he was still at school, though just leaving it. he is seven years older than i am.”

“he is coming to stay with parson john.”

“you don’t say so, aunt sarah? what will such a man as captain marrable do at loring?”

then aunt sarah explained all that she knew, and perhaps suggested more than she knew. walter marrable had quarrelled with his father, the colonel,—with whom, indeed, everybody of the name of marrable had always been quarrelling, and who was believed by miss marrable to be the very—mischief himself. he was a man always in debt, who had broken his wife’s heart, who lived with low company and disgraced the family, who had been more than once arrested, on whose behalf all the family interest had been expended, so that nobody else could get anything, and who gambled and drank and did whatever wicked things a wicked old colonel living at portsmouth could do. and indeed, hitherto, miss marrable had entertained opinions hardly more charitable respecting the son than she had done in regard to the father. she had disbelieved in this branch of the marrables altogether. captain marrable had lived with his father a good deal,—at least, so she had understood,—and therefore could not but be bad. and, moreover, our miss sarah marrable had, throughout her whole life, been somewhat estranged from the elder branches of the family. her father, walter, had been,—so she thought,—injured by his brother sir gregory, and there had been some law proceedings, not quite amicable, between her brother the parson, and the present sir gregory. she respected sir gregory as the head of the family, but she never went now to dunripple, and knew nothing of sir gregory’s heir. of the present parson john she had thought very little before he had come to loring. since he had been living there she had found that blood was thicker than water,—as she would say,—and they two were intimate. when she heard that captain marrable was coming, because he had quarrelled with his father, she began to think that perhaps it might be as well that she should allow herself to meet this new cousin.

“what do you think of your cousin, walter?” the old clergyman said to his nephew, one evening, after the two ladies, who had been dining at the rectory, had left them. it was the first occasion on which walter marrable had met mary since his coming to loring.

“i remember her as well as if it were yesterday, at dunripple. she was a little girl then, and i thought her the most beautiful little girl in the world.”

“we all think her very beautiful still.”

“so she is; as lovely as ever she can stand. but she does not seem to have much to say for herself. i remember when she was a little girl she never would speak.”

“i fancy she can talk when she pleases, walter. but you mustn’t fall in love with her.”

“i won’t, if i can help it.”

“in the first place i think she is as good as engaged to a fellow with a very pretty property in wiltshire, and in the next place she hasn’t got—one shilling.”

“there is not much danger. i am not inclined to trouble myself about any girl in my present mood, even if she had the pretty property herself, and wasn’t engaged to anybody. i suppose i shall get over it some day, but i feel just at present as though i couldn’t say a kind word to a human being.”

“psha! psha! that’s nonsense, walter. take things coolly. they’re more likely to come right, and they won’t be so troublesome, even if they don’t.” such was the philosophy of parson john,—for the sake of digesting which the captain lit a cigar, and went out to smoke it, standing at one of the open slate-coloured gates.

it was said in the first chapter of this story that mr. gilmore was one of the heroes whose deeds the story undertakes to narrate, and a hint was perhaps expressed that of all the heroes he was the favourite. captain marrable is, however, another hero, and, as such, some word or two must be said of him. he was a better-looking man, certainly, than mr. gilmore, though perhaps his personal appearance did not at first sight give to the observer so favourable an idea of his character as did that of the other gentleman. mr. gilmore was to be read at a glance as an honest, straightforward, well-behaved country squire, whose word might be taken for anything, who might, perhaps, like to have his own way, but who could hardly do a cruel or an unfair thing. he was just such a man to look at as a prudent mother would select as one to whom she might entrust her daughter with safety. now walter marrable’s countenance was of a very different die. he had served in india, and the naturally dark colour of his face had thus become very swarthy. his black hair curled round his head, but the curls on his brow were becoming very thin, as though age were already telling on them, and yet he was four or five years younger than mr. gilmore. his eyebrows were thick and heavy, and his eyes seemed to be black. they were eyes which were used without much motion; and when they were dead set, as they were not unfrequently, it would seem as though he were defying those on whom he looked. thus he made many afraid of him, and many who were not afraid of him, disliked him because of a certain ferocity which seemed to characterise his face. he wore no beard beyond a heavy black moustache, which quite covered his upper lip. his nose was long and straight, his mouth large, and his chin square. no doubt he was a handsome man. and he looked to be a tall man, though in truth he lacked two full inches of the normal six feet. he was broad across the chest, strong on his legs, and was altogether such a man to look at that few would care to quarrel with him, and many would think that he was disposed to quarrel. of his nature he was not quarrelsome; but he was a man who certainly had received much injury. it need not be explained at length how his money affairs had gone wrong with him. he should have inherited, and, indeed, did inherit, a fortune from his mother’s family, of which his father had contrived absolutely to rob him. it was only within the last month that he had discovered that his father had succeeded in laying his hands on certainly the bulk of his money, and it might be upon all. words between them had been very bitter. the father, with a cigar between his teeth, had told his son that this was the fortune of war, that if justice had been done him at his marriage, the money would have been his own, and that by g—— he was very sorry, and couldn’t say anything more. the son had called the father a liar and a swindler,—as, indeed, was the truth, though the son was doubtless wrong to say so to the author of his being. the father had threatened the son with his horsewhip; and so they had parted, within ten days of walter marrable’s return from india.

walter had written to his two uncles, asking their advice as to saving the wreck, if anything might be saved. sir gregory had written back to say that he was an old man, that he was greatly grieved at the misunderstanding, and that messrs. block and curling were the family lawyers. parson john invited his nephew to come down to loring lowtown. captain marrable went to block and curling, who were by no means consolatory, and accepted his uncle’s invitation.

it was but three days after the first meeting between the two cousins, that they were to be seen one evening walking together along the banks of the lurwell, a little river which at loring sometimes takes the appearance of a canal, and sometimes of a natural stream. but it is commercial, having connection with the kennet and avon navigation; and long, slow, ponderous barges, with heavy, dirty, sleepy bargemen, and rickety, ill-used barge-horses, are common in the neighbourhood. in parts it is very pretty, as it runs under the chalky downs, and there are a multiplicity of locks, and the turf of the sheep-walks comes up to the towing path; but in the close neighbourhood of the town the canal is straight and uninteresting; the ground is level, and there is a scattered community of small, straight-built light-brick houses, which are in themselves so ugly that they are incompatible with anything that is pretty in landscape.

parson john, always so called to distinguish him from the late parson, his cousin, who had been the rev. james marrable, had taken occasion, on behalf of his nephew, to tell the story of his wrong to miss marrable, and by miss marrable it had been told to mary. to both these ladies the thing seemed to be so horrible,—the idea that a father should have robbed his son,—that the stern ferocity of the slow-moving eyes was forgiven, and they took him to their hearts, if not for love, at least for pity. twenty thousand pounds ought to have become the property of walter marrable, when some maternal relative had died. it had seemed hard that the father should have none of it, and, on the receipt in india of representations from the colonel, walter had signed certain fatal papers, the effect of which was that the father had laid his hands on pretty nearly the whole, if not on the whole, of the money, and had caused it to vanish. there was now a question whether some five thousand pounds might not be saved. if so, walter would stay in england; if not, he would exchange and go back to india; “or,” as he said himself, “to the devil.”

“don’t speak of it in that way,” said mary.

“the worst of it is,” said he “that i am ashamed of myself for being so absolutely cut up about money. a man should be able to bear that kind of thing; but this hits one all round.”

“i think you bear it very well.”

“no, i don’t. i didn’t bear it well when i called my father a swindler. i didn’t bear it well when i swore that i would put him in prison for robbing me. i don’t bear it well now, when i think of it every moment. but i do so hate india, and i had so absolutely made up my mind never to return. if it hadn’t been that i knew that this fortune was to be mine, i could have saved money, hand over hand.”

“can’t you live on your pay here?”

“no!” he answered her almost as though he were angry with her. “if i had been used all my life to the strictest economies, perhaps i might do so. some men do, no doubt; but i am too old to begin it. there is the choice of two things,—to blow my brains out, or go back.”

“you are not such a coward as that.”

“i don’t know. i ain’t sure that it would be cowardice. if there were anybody i could injure by doing it, it would be cowardly.”

“the family,” suggested mary.

“what does sir gregory care for me? i’ll show you his letter to me some day. i don’t think it would be cowardly at all to get away from such a lot.”

“i am sure you won’t do that, captain marrable.”

“think what it is to know that your father is a swindler. perhaps that is the worst of it all. fancy talking or thinking of one’s family after that. i like my uncle john. he is very kind, and has offered to lend me ￡150, which i’m sure he can’t afford to lose, and which i am too honest to take. but even he hardly sees it. he calls it a misfortune, and i’ve no doubt would shake hands with his brother to-morrow.”

“so would you, if he were really sorry.”

“no, mary; nothing on earth shall ever induce me to set my eyes on him again willingly. he has destroyed all the world for me. he should have had half of it without a word. when he used to whine to me in his letters, and say how cruelly he had been treated, i always made up my mind that he should have half the income for life. it was because he should not want till i came home that i enabled him to do what he has done. and now he has robbed me of every cursed shilling! i wonder whether i shall ever get my mind free from it.”

“of course you will.”

“it seems now that my heart is wrapped in lead.” as they were coming home she put her hand upon his arm, and asked him to promise her to withdraw that threat.

“why should i withdraw it? who cares for me?”

“we all care. my aunt cares. i care.”

“the threat means nothing, mary. people who make such threats don’t carry them out. of course i shall go on and endure it. the worst of all is, that the whole thing makes me so unmanly,—makes such a beast of me. but i’ll try to get over it.”

mary lowther thought that, upon the whole, he bore his misfortune very well.