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REBECCA.

PONTFILAS turnpike was wrecked

last night,' said Mrs. Rhys; and my maid tells me that our neighbour, Mr. Jones, bad all his new palings torn down, and his lawn and flower beds ruined by the horses' feet. They shouted like demons, and fired shots in the air. Did you hear them?'

'No, ma'am; I sleep very sound.' (I had heard them, though, very plainly.)

That courageous footman of Mr. Philips's, whom they maltreated in the horse-pond, is, I am glad to say, recovering. Really the state of the country is terrible: I hope Jack will come to-night.'

Why, auntie, should you be so alarmed?' said Mary F; ‘you never do anybody any harm, and you don't keep a turnpike: and besides, I for one feel quite safe so long as we have Mr. 's stout heart and strong arm here. I am sure you would die to defend us, wouldn't you, Mr. -?'

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I hastily said something in a confused way about 'honour,' you may rely upon me,' and so forth. Mary's eyes twinkled with malicious fun, the conversation ceased, and we went on with breakfast.

To make the above dialogue and the subsequent incidents of the story intelligible, I must necessarily explain matters a little. The reader will have to carry himself back to the latter part of the year 1843; and as since then seven-and-twenty years have elapsed, it is probable that very few of my younger readers have much knowledge about 'Rebecca' and her doings; a knowledge without which the story can scarcely be understood. I crave, then, the liberty of a short digression.

Every tourist must have noticed what capital roads Wales can boast. But the price paid for them was great; and in consequence the tolls are very heavy, and the turnpikes unpleasantly near one another. These tolls tell with severity upon the farmers who are obliged to use the roads; and in the year 1841 their murmurs about them became both loud and deep; but as they continued to pay the tolls, no one paid much attention to their grumbling, until Rebecca' took the matter up. At dead of night, the keeper of some obnoxious turnpike would be roused from slumber sweet to open the gate: he opened his house door, and found himself seized by several powerful women-if petticoats make the woman -who, with the rough voice of men,

These

bade him, by order of Rebecca, call up his family. The terrified pikeman of course complied, for he soon discovered that his captors were three or four hundred strong, most of them mounted, well armed and provided with tools, and all, disguised as women, under the command of one whom they called Rebecca, who, however, never came forward. At first, the rioters generally contented themselves with taking up the gate, with its heavy posts and railings, and hacking the whole to pieces: but after a while, when she found that a new gate was soon put up, Rebecca, now bolder grown, did her work more completely, and in a more alarming fashion. After the family had been got out of the house, and the furniture removed to a safe distance, the house itself, the gate, and all its belongings, were rapidly made into a big bonfire and destroyed. Rebecca's troop then, after a cheer or two, dispersed rapidly and silently in all directions. riotous proceedings continued for many months, and, singular to say, so thorough was the feminine disguise, and so well kept the secret, that no one was recognised and brought to justice. The resident magistrates were quite powerless against so formidable an array as Rebecca's, for at the best they could but bring together a few constables, ignorant of all discipline. Government at last determined to put down this lawlessness with a strong hand, and despatched troops to the disturbed principality. So good, however, was the organisation of the Rebecca bands, and so thorough their knowledge of the country, that their work was done and the band dispersed long before the slow-moving troops could get up; and not a capture was made, until the famous A division of London police were sent down to assist; and by the detective abilities of these last several hundreds were taken into custody, many of them respectable farmers and tradesmen. By the conviction and transportation of considerable numbers, Rebecca was quite vanquished, and the tolls paid grumblingly as before. 'Rebecca' does not seem to have been the soubriquet of any particular ringleader, but rather a note of defiance, a gathering cry, and the origin of it is unknown. The tolls were really so heavy a burden, that Rebecca's proceedings were at first regarded with considerable complacency by many who ought to have known better, and it was shrewdly

suspected that persons of some standing had been out with her. However that might be, many joined the bands out of pure love of mischief; and midnigl.t shouts and blazing turnpikes were often the prelude to outrage or plunder of private property. For Rebecca, as she grew bolder by impunity, set herself to redress other grievances besides turnpikes; and unpopular people suffered a good deal from smaller bands; while professional robbers, under the disguise of 'Rebecca's' daughters, took this golden opportunity for license, forcibly entered unprotected houses during the night, and plundered at discretion. So alarm through the principality was wide-spread and wellfounded; and it was during the early part of Rebecca's reign that I, who had heard nothing in our quiet village of this terrible state of things, had arrived to pay my visit.

Mrs. Rhys was an old schoolfellow of my mother's; and the two old friends had arranged to carry out a little plot, the issue of which was to be that I should fall in love with Mary, Mary with me-result-marriage, and general satisfaction. But there was a slight obstacle. Mrs. Rhys's only son, a great iron-master, great in person, for he was six foot four (I am but five foot six), and great in the magnitude of his business-had been brought up from childhood with Mary, who was Mrs. Rhys's orphan niece; and although no actual words had been spoken lately about matrimony-for Jack was not given much to love-making-it was perfectly understood between them, that when Jack thought proper, Jack would simply say, Well, Mary, shall we be married next month?" Mary would say, 'Yes,' and the thing would be settled. As the case was, everybody knew all about this except Mrs. Rhys, who had so long looked upon her son and her niece as brother and sister, that the idea of marriage between them never entered her head. Mary, with all a woman's quickness, had instantly seen through her aunt's plot, in a few hours reckoned me up, and discovered the peculiar weak point in my character.

I am brave as a lion. I love to read the deeds of high-souled heroes. I have stood beside Cocles as he kept the bridge in the brave days of old, and hurled the foeman into Tiber's dark stream. I often grip my charger with vice-like knees as I charge with the six hundred at Balaklava, just two strides ahead of the gallant Cardigan, sabre the gunners with the swoop of my fell sword, and rally my broken Light

Brigade to return from their deed of glory. But my favourite hero is Henri Quatre, with his white plume, at Ivry. On him is my utmost admiration bestowed, not because he was so great and wise, but because, though constitutionally timid, like myself, he always showed himself bravest of the brave. I am sure that no heroic person has been more brave, mentally, than myself. But any one might surpass me in corporeal bravery. I know that I had the reputation of being a dreadful little coward at school; but then schoolboys do not make abstruse studies of character. Indeed, very few persons, I am afraid, would think that pale cheeks, trembling legs, and chattering teeth, through which gasped out, I wo-o-o-n't fight Jones minor! could belong to a being who had a soul of courage high as Achilles. And yet it was so. The only difference I could ever see between Henri Quatre and myself was that his brave soul subdued his cowardly body; my poltroon of a body always gets the better of my dauntless mind. And Mary had found out all about this. I knew she had. And these Rebecca riots had been the occasion of many a little stab during the two days I had been there, such as that one at breakfast about strong arm,' which sent a shiver through my wretched body that I could not control for the life of me. She was brave enough, and was not at all frightened by the reports; but her auut was very nervous, and in the absence of Jack, who had been away at his ironworks for the last week, and whom therefore I had not yet seen, had caused the two men-servants to be armed and keep watch all night, one outside in the grounds, and the other in the kitchen, while I was to be called at the slightest alarm of malpractices.

As the day wore on, many reports were brought in of the past night's devastations. Rebecca, one might think, had been all round us: and Mary seemed to take a malicious pleasure in drawing out the one or two visitors who dropped in; for when anything was told more than usually horrible, she insisted upon having the story down to the minutest details, notwithstanding all her aunt's remonstrances. They took him out of the house, did they? What did they do to him-did they really cut off his ears? flogged him with stirrup leathers? horses trod upon him when they knocked him down? What does the doctor say-lame for life? How much nose was kicked off? Oh ! Mr. how glad I am you are here!" All this was very trying to my nerves:

but my inward courage rose high, though I could not conceal from myself that I did not look like it; and when I stammered out a few brave words in very faltering tones, my confusion terribly increased by the thought that Mary's penetration should have been so much deceived as to my true character. But then how could the dear girl think I was brave, when my looks so belied my words?

A dozen times that day I walked round the house, noting its capabilities for defence. It was an ordinary old manor-house, with centre and side wings: and I saw with concern that there was scarcely a shutter or a door in the house that could stand a good kick, and that half a dozen men with sledge-hammers might demolish the whole place without much trouble. Mary and her aunt slept in the north wing, and most of the servants on that side also. I had a room in the south wing, a part of the house, with the exception of a snuggery and a bedroom at the end-Jack's own den-reserved for visitors. Giving up all hope of keeping the enemy out of the house, I had determined at first to defend the top of the great stairs where the galleries branched. But the wing stairs would let in the crafty foemen upon my undefended flank! I gave up this, therefore, the only plan that suggested itself, and determined to rely upon the inspiration of the moment.

We retired to bed, as usual, about ten, and without any alarm; for Rebecca was not a bird of the day and early night; and after a last parting shot from Mary upon the stairs about 'devotion' and 'chivalry,' I went into my room, and eyed with much mental satisfaction and bodily tremors, a huge, bell-mouthed blunderbuss in the corner, loaded, as I knew, to the muzzle, and the yeomanry sword at the head of the bed. This blunderbuss had been a source of great torment to me. I knew that one discharge, if it were only held right, would be sufficient to kill half a regiment; but I had never been able to divest myself of the idea that it might go off in some spontaneous manner (I am not well acquainted with fire-arms), and the night before I had scarcely had any sleep, after the distant shouts of Rebecca's people had roused me, as a mouse kept moving about in the wainscot, and I had a notion that he might somehow cause the piece of ordnance to explode. To-night, however, I put my heavy trunk across the blunderbuss corner, and thus made it safer. I got into bed quickly, for it was a bitter

cold night, and my fire nearly out; and in spite of the excitements of the day, and expectations of what was to happen that night, in two minutes I was fast asleep.

I never dream of unpleasant things. I am never just tumbling down a precipice; I have never been hanged in a dream. I dream of battles, and I am a warlike lord, followed to the field by a regiment of attached tenantry: my charger caracoles through the streets of some ancient city of the Low Countries: I bend to my saddle as some fair one drops from her lattice a flower for the gallant leader; I am in a deep carouse with my comrades; we sing, and talk loudly of our success with the fair, and of hair-breadth 'scapes. I shout ha ha! amid the din of battle, as the foemen fall thick around; they fly; I pursue; I distance my followers; I am alone; the enemy is dispersed. hark! do they not rally in yon wood? is not that cheering in front? what yell was that to the left? a clatter of hoofs upon the paved road; another cry to the right; I am surrounded-I awake! And there is the sound of horse-hoofs, and shouting, and much strong language. Here they are!' I cry out-in perfect silence, for my tongue resolutely refused to speak

But

But

Now for the head of the stairs! my body instantly crept close to the wall away from the door. The shouting continued for some time, and the clatter of hoofs, till at length I heard a door or a window opened with some violence. By this time I was quite powerless, and after a vain struggle with my person to compel it to get out of bed, I resolved to wait the course of events, and if unable to display the courage of a hero, to suffer with the patience of a martyr. I heard steps

ascending the stairs: the tread was firm, and yet, to my surprise, it seemed that the step avoided all unnecessary noise. Was Thomas, the footman, overpowered? to save his craven life had he basely divulged about the blunderbuss? are they stealthily approaching my chamber to seize on me while I sleep, and disarm me? What revenge will they take for my intended slaughter? The steps approach; they seem to linger: again I hear the sound of hoofs in the court-yard. My heart beats wildly; the steps go on fartherfarther; a door is opened far away. Ah! whose? Dreadful thought! is it Mary's? is it Mrs. Rhys's? I listened for a shriek; I struggle with all the force of a mighty soul to move my inert body-it is useless-I cannot rush to

her aid. There is a dead silence, if it were not for the scratching of that horrid little mouse in the wainscot; I try to speak, to cough, to hem-not a sound can I make; nought can I hear but that horrid little mouse. At length a sound-the steps again! one-twothree-they stop at my door! The handle is turned gently, but the door is locked; fool that I was not to place those heavy drawers against it! There is a fumbling at the handle. I make one supreme effort to get out of bed, and rush to the blunderbuss;-my own safety, the safety of the ladies, is at stake;-even that thought nerves not my body; it feels limp and boneless. I lie perfectly still, and almost inanimate, I await the issue. More fumbling, a muttered curse in a deep voice -a crash-the door is burst open, and a gigantic Rebecca strode in, clothed, as I could just see in the faint light, from head to foot in white. He-sheadvanced instantly towards the bed, stooped, searched with one hand, as I thought, for my head, and then, just as my brain with the rest of my body sank rapidly into insensibility, I was dimly conscious that with one movement she tore off counterpane, blankets, sheet, all-and I remember no more.

When I recovered consciousness day was beginning to break. I was chilled

to the bone, the bedclothes all gone, the door wide open, the lock burst. There was a deep silence in the house. I got up, tried to recover my thoughts, and as my teeth chattered again with cold, hurried on some clothes, and then looked cautiously into the gallery; no signs of evil there; crept to the head of the stairs, down the north gallery-no signs. I went back to my room, dressed completely, and went down stairs. The front door was fastened securely; I unlocked it, and stepped out into the court; all was still my bewilderment became extreme. I returned to my room, sank into an arm-chair, and, racked with perplexity, dozed off until aroused by the sound of the breakfastbell. I hastily completed my toilet and went down.

When I reached the breakfast-room door, which was half open, I heard a deep voice exclaim, the tones of which I recognised instantly:

'I say, mother, I thought I never should make that fool of a groom hear me last night; and how jolly cold it was! I was obliged to go into the blue room (I started) and strip the bed of all the clothes, or I should have been starved.'

'Good heavens, Jack! that is Mr. -'s room!'

I stole away.

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A TALE OF TWO CHRISTMASES.

you're determined not to come

S and spend the Christmas Vac. with

us?'

'My dear old boy, if I do it's goodbye to my chance of a first, and therefore a long farewell to my hope of a fellowship.'

The first speaker was Walter Carew, heir to one of the richest baronetcies in wealthy Beeveshire, and gentleman commoner of St. Guthlac's College, Oxford, on which fine old foundation his friend Charlie Brandreth was a scholar.

'Well, then, at all events you'll come and stay somewhere handy, so that you can spend your Christmas and New Year's Day with us?

To have you come and chevy me off my work every day ?' said Brandreth.

'No; 'pon honour I won't. There's a farm of the governor's at Bishop's Climstoke, five miles from the nearest station, and that's an hour and a half from us. They're excellent people, and will put you up capitally, and for a moderate screw. Say yes, and I'll write to old Dimsdale about it by this evening's post.'

It is a tempting idea. Are you sure there is nothing about the locality to keep a fellow from reading?'

Not more than any other place on this jolly sphere. You know I'm no judge. As my old coach used to say, the only place where I should be likely to stick to reading would be Eddy stone Lighthouse, and then I should have to promise not to fish.'

Well, I confess, with all my anxiety for a class, I don't quite like the notion of Christmas Day in Oxford and solitude, so I'll say yes.'

The upshot of this conversation was that the beginning of the Christmas Vac. found Brandreth comfortably settled at Dovecote Farm, in the retired little village of Bishop's Climstoke. He found the Dimsdales very agreeable people, and rather superior to his notion of farmer life. The family consisted of old Dimsdale, an honest and energetic man, bis wife, a very homely and easygoing body, and Rose, their daughter, a girl of about eighteen, and pretty enough to deserve to be, what Brandreth soon discovered that she was, the belle of Bishop's Climstoke.

I.

Brandreth had been thrown on the world an orphan at an early age, with no kith or kin save an old bachelor uncle, who was his guardian until he came of age-an event which had taken place a couple of years before the date of this story. He had, therefore, never known womanly kindness or attention; and the care and thought which Rose bestowed on him as their visitor came upon him with no less novelty than enjoyment. She, on the other hand, having been all her life accustomed only to the awkward homage of rustic admirers, was charmed with the refined and respectful attention which Brandreth naturally paid to a woman.

It was hardly likely that such a state of feeling should remain at a fixed point, and it was scarcely probable that it would suffer diminution. It naturally deepened and strengthened. Brandreth, with a man's instinct of rivalry, could not bear to see a girl like Rose surrounded by such clowns as her village suitors; and taking advantage of his position as a visitor at her father's house, he contrived on all occasions to monopolize her, much to the chagrin of her rustic swains, but greatly to her satisfaction.

Poor Rose! her guileless and unsophisticated nature saw no wrong, no danger, no inequality in their love. How could she fail to believe and return what she supposed to be an honest and honourable passion? What else could his attentions mean?

And now it was Christmas Eve, and he was about to start for Sir Ranulph Carew's, to spend his Christmas. Poor girl, though the separation would only be for a day, it seemed as if it was to be for ages. It was her first experience of the bitters of love.

She stood in the hall, waiting to see him off, with a sad heart, which sorely hindered her in her appointed taskthe decoration of the old farmhouse with evergreens.

At last Brandreth came downstairs equipped for his journey, which was likely to prove a cold one, as the winter had begun to set in severely.

'Good-bye, Rosie! A merry Christmas to you,' said he, cheerfully.

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And to you too,' said she, but in no very merry tone.

'So you're doing the decorations,

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