The next event which I can recall clearly is that my mother and three brothers all fell ill of fever, owing, as I afterwards learned, to the poisoning of our well by some evil-minded person, who threw a dead sheep into it.

It must have been while they were ill that Squire Carson came one day to the vicarage.  The weather was still cold, for there was a fire in the study, and I sat before the fire writing letters on a piece of paper with a pencil, while my father walked up and down the room talking to himself.  Afterwards I knew that he was praying for the lives of his wife and children.  Presently a servant came to the door and said that some one wanted to see him.

“It is the squire, sir,” said the maid, “and he says he particularly wishes to see you.”

“Very well,” answered my father, wearily, and presently Squire Carson came in.  His face was white and haggard, and his eyes shone so fiercely that I was afraid of him.

“Forgive me for intruding on you at such a time, Quatermain,” he said, in a hoarse voice, “but to-morrow I leave this place for ever, and I wish to speak to you before I go—­indeed, I must speak to you.”

“Shall I send Allan away?” said my father, pointing to me.

“No; let him bide.  He will not understand.”  Nor, indeed, did I at the time, but I remembered every word, and in after years their meaning grew on me.

“First tell me,” he went on, “how are they?” and he pointed upwards with his thumb.

“My wife and two of the boys are beyond hope,” my father answered, with a groan.  “I do not know how it will go with the third.  The Lord’s will be done!”

“The Lord’s will be done,” the squire echoed, solemnly.  “And now, Quatermain, listen—­my wife’s gone.”

“Gone!” my father answered.  “Who with?”

“With that foreign cousin of hers.  It seems from a letter she left me that she always cared for him, not for me.  She married me because she thought me a rich English milord.  Now she has run through my property, or most of it, and gone.  I don’t know where.  Luckily, she did not care to encumber her new career with the child; Stella is left to me.”

“That is what comes of marrying a papist, Carson,” said my father.  That was his fault; he was as good and charitable a man as ever lived, but he was bigoted.  “What are you going to do—­follow her?”

He laughed bitterly in answer.

“Follow her!” he said; “why should I follow her?  If I met her I might kill her or him, or both of them, because of the disgrace they have brought upon my child’s name.  No, I never want to look upon her face again.  I trusted her, I tell you, and she has betrayed me.  Let her go and find her fate.  But I am going too.  I am weary of my life.”

“Surely, Carson, surely,” said my father, “you do not mean——­”

“No, no; not that.  Death comes soon enough.  But I will leave this civilized world which is a lie.  We will go right away into the wilds, I and my child, and hide our shame.  Where?  I don’t know where.  Anywhere, so long as there are no white faces, no smooth educated tongues——­”