George Manville Fenn (continued 3)

“I have not been deceived in her. She is all that is beautiful, and good, and true. Of course, I believe in her, and so do you at heart, only you are half mad now, and deceived.”

“Yes, half mad, and deceived!”

“Yes. There is something behind all this—I know,” cried Jenny, wildly. “They have persecuted her so, and encouraged that wretched boy to pay her attentions, till in despair she has run away to take refuge with some other friends.”

“With Claud Wilton!” said Pierce, bitterly.

“Silence, sir! No. Women are not such weak double-faced creatures as you think. No, it is as I say; and oh! Pierce, dear, he was out late last night, and when he got back found her going away and followed her.”

“Fiction—imagination,” he said bitterly. “You are inventing all this to try and comfort me, little woman, but your woven basket will not hold water. It leaks at the very beginning. How could you know that he was out late last night?”

Jenny’s cheeks were scarlet, and she turned away her face.

“There, you see, you are beaten at once, Jenny, and that I have some reason for what I have said about women; but there are exceptions to every rule, and my little sister is one of them. I did not include her among the weak ones.”

To his astonishment she burst into a passionate storm of sobs and tears, and in words confused and only half audible, she accused herself of being as weak and foolish as the rest, and, as he made out, quite unworthy of his trust.

“Oh! Pierce, darling,” she cried wildly, as she sank upon her knees in front of his chair; “I’m a wicked, wicked girl, and not deserving of all you think about me. Believe in poor Kate, and not in me, for indeed, indeed, she is all that is good and true.”

“A man cannot govern his feelings, Sissy,” he said, half alarmed now at the violence of her grief. “I must believe in you always, as my own little girl. How could I do otherwise, when you have been everything to me for so long, ever since you were quite a little girl and I told you not to cry for I would be father and mother to you, both.”

“And so you have been, Pierce, dear,” she sobbed, “but I don’t deserve it—I don’t deserve it.”

“I don’t deserve to have such a loving little companion,” he said, kissing her tenderly. “Haven’t I let my fancy stray from you, and am I not being sharply punished for my weal mess?”

She suddenly hung back from him and pressed her hair from her temples, as he held her by the waist.

“Pierce!” she said sharply, and there was a look of anger in her eyes, “he is a horrid wretch.”

“People do not give him much of a character,” said Leigh bitterly, “but that would be no excuse for my following him to wring his neck.”

“I believe he would be guilty of any wickedness. Tell me, dear; do you think it possible—such things have been done?”

“What things?” he said, wondering at her excited manner.

“It is to get her money, of course; for it would be his then. Do you think he has taken her away by force?”

Leigh started violently now in turn, and a light seemed to flash into his understanding, but it died out directly, and he said half pityingly, as he drew her to him once again:

“Poor little inventor of fiction,” he said, with a harsh laugh. “But let it rest, Sissy; it will not do. These things only occur in a romance. No, I do not think anything of the kind; and what do you say to London now?”

Chapter Seventeen.

“What are you going to do, James, dear?” said Mrs Wilton.

“Eh?”

“What are you going to do, dear? Oh, you don’t know what a relief it is to me. I was going to beg you to have the pike pond dragged.”

James Wilton’s strong desire was to do nothing, and give his son plenty of time; but there was a Mrs Grundy even at Northwood, and she had to be studied.

“Do? Errum!” He cleared his throat with a long imposing, rolling sound. “Well, search must be made for them directly, and they must be brought back. It is disgraceful I did mean to sit down and do nothing, but it will not do. I am very angry and indignant with them both, for Kate is as bad as Claud. It must not be said that we connived at the—the—the—what’s the word?—escapade.”

“Of course not, my dear; and it is such a pity. Such a nice wedding as she might have had, and made it a regular ‘at home,’ to pay off all the people round I’d quite made up my mind about my dress.”

“Oh, I’m glad of that,” said Wilton, with a grim smile. “Nothing like being well prepared for the future. Have you quite made up your mind about your dress when I pop off? Crape, of course?”

“James, my darling, you shouldn’t. How can you say such dreadful things?”

“You make me—being such a fool.”

“James!”

“Hold your tongue, do. Yes, I must have inquiries made.”

“But do you feel quite sure that they have eloped like that?”

“Oh, yes,” he said, thoughtfully; “there’s no doubt about it.”

“I don’t know, my dear,” said Mrs Wilton, plaintively. “It seems so strange, when she was so ill and in such trouble.”

“Bah! Sham! Like all women, kicking up a row about the first kiss, and wanting it all the time.”

“James, my dear, you shouldn’t say such things. It was no sham. She was in dreadful trouble, I’m sure, and I cannot help thinking about the pike pond. It haunts me—it does indeed. Don’t you think that in her agony she may have gone and drowned herself?”

“Yes, that’s it,” said Wilton, with a scowl at his wife.

“Oh! Horrible! I was having dreadful dreams all last night. You do think so, then?”

“Yes, you’ve hit it now, old lady. She must have jumped down from her window on to the soft flower-bed, and then gone and fetched the ladder, and put it up there, and afterwards gone and called Claud to come down and go hand in hand with her, so as to have company.”

“Jumped down—the ladder—what did she want a ladder for, James, dear?”

“What do people want ladders for? Why, to come down by.”

“But she was down, dear. I—I really don’t know what you mean. You confuse me so. But, oh, James, dear, you don’t mean that about Claud?”

“Why not? Depend upon it, they’re at the bottom of that hole where the pig was drowned, and the pike are eating bits out of them.”

“James!—Oh, what a shame! You’re laughing at me.”

“Laughing at you? You’d make a horse laugh at you. Such idiocy. Be quiet if you can. Don’t you see how worried and busy I am? And look here—if anyone calls out of curiosity, you don’t know anything. Refer ’em to me.”

“Yes, my dear. But really it is very shocking of the young people. It’s almost immoral. But you think they will get married directly?”

“Trust Claud for that. Fancy the jade going off in that way. Ah, they’re all alike.”

“No, James; I would sooner have died than consented to such a proceeding.”

“Not you. Now be quiet.”

“Going out, dear?”

“Only round the house for a few minutes. By the way, have you examined Eliza—asked her what Kate has taken with her?”

“Yes, dear. Nothing at all but her hat, scarf, and cloak. Such a shabby way of getting married.”

“Never mind that,” said Wilton; and he went into the hall, through the porch and on to the place where the ladder had been found.

There was little to find there but the deep impressions made by the heels, except that a man’s footprints were plainly to be seen; and Wilton returned to his wife, rang the bell, and assuming his most judicial air waited.

“Send Miss Kate’s maid here,” he said, sternly.

“Yes, sir.”

“Stop. Look here, Samuel, you are my servant, and I call upon you to speak the whole truth to me about this matter, one which, on further thought, I feel it to be my duty to investigate. Now, tell me, did you know anything about this proceeding on Mr Claud’s part?”

“No, sir; ’strue as goodness, I didn’t.”

“Mr Claud did not speak to you about it?”

“No, sir.”

“Didn’t you see him last night?”

“No, sir; I went up to his room to fetch his boots to bring down and dry, but the door was locked, but when I knocked and asked for them he did say something then.”

“Yes, what did he say?”

Samuel glanced at his mistress and hesitated.

“Don’t look at me, Samuel,” said Mrs Wilton; “speak the whole truth.”

“Yes; what did he say?” cried Wilton, sternly.

“Well, sir, he told me to go to the devil.”

Wilton coughed.

“That will do. Go and fetch Miss Wilton’s maid.”

Eliza came, looking red-eyed and pale, but she could give no information, only assure them that she did not understand it, but was certain something must be wrong, for Miss Kate would never have taken such a step without consulting her.

And so on, and so on. A regular examination of the servants remaining followed in quite a judicial manner, and once more Kate’s aunt and uncle were alone.

“There,” he said; “I think I have done my duty, my dear. Perhaps, though, I ought to drive over to the station and make inquiries there; but I don’t see what good it would do. I could only at the most find out that they had gone to London.”

“Don’t you think, dear, that you ought to communicate with the police?”

“No; what for?”

“To trace them, dear. The police are so clever; they would be sure to find them out.”

Wilton coughed.

“Perhaps we had better wait, my dear. I fully anticipate that they will come back to-night—or to-morrow morning, full of repentance to ask our forgiveness; and er—I suppose we shall have to look over it.”

“Well, yes, my dear,” said Mrs Wilton. “What’s done can’t be undone; but I’m sure I don’t know what people will say.”

“I shall be very stern with Claud, though, for it is a most disgraceful act. I wonder at Kate.”

“Well, I did, my dear, till I began to think, and then I did not; for Claud has such a masterful way with him. He was always too much for me.”

“Yes,” said Wilton dryly; “always. Well, we had better wait and see if they come back.”

“I am terribly disappointed, though, my dear, for we could have had such a grand wedding. To go off like that and get married, just like a footman and housemaid. Don’t you remember James and Sarah?”

“Bah! No, I don’t remember James and Sarah,” said Wilton irascibly.

“Yes, you do, my dear. It’s just ten years ago, and you must remember about them both wanting a holiday on the same day, and coming back at night, and Sarah saying so demurely: ‘Please, ma’am, we’ve been married.’”

Wilton twisted his chair round and kicked a piece of coal on the top of the fire which required breaking.

“James, my dear, you shouldn’t do that,” said his wife, reprovingly. “You’re as bad as Claud, only he always does it with his heel. There is a poker, my dear.”

“I thought you always wanted it kept bright.”

“Well, it does look better so, dear. But I do hope going off in the night like that won’t give Kate a cold.”

Wilton ground his teeth and was about to burst into a furious fit of anger against his wife’s tongue, but matters seemed to have taken so satisfactory a turn since the previous day that the bite was wanting, and he planted his heels on the great hob, warmed himself, and started involuntarily as he saw in the future mortgages, first, second and third, paid off, and himself free from the meshes which he gave Garstang the credit of having spun round him. As for Claud, he could, he felt, mould him like wax. So long as he had some ready money to spend he would be quiet enough, and, of course, it was all for his benefit, for he would succeed to the unencumbered estates.

Altogether the future looked so rosy that Wilton chuckled at the glowing fire and rubbed his hands, without noticing that the fire dogs were grinning at him like a pair of malignant brazen imps; and just then Mrs Wilton let her work fall into her lap and gave vent to a merry laugh.

“What now?” said Wilton, facing round sharply. “Don’t do that. Suppose one of the servants came in and saw you grinning. Just recollect that we are in great trouble and anxiety about this—this—what you may call it—escapade.”

“Yes, dear; I forgot. But it does seem so funny.”

“Didn’t seem very funny last night.”

“No, dear, of course not; and I never could have thought our troubles would come right so soon. But only think of it; those two coming back together, and Kate not having changed her name. There won’t be a thing in her linen that will want marking again.”

“Bah!” growled Wilton. “Yes, what is it?” he cried, as the footman appeared.

“Beg pardon, sir, but Tom Jonson had to go to the village shop for some harness paste, and it’s all over the place.”

“Oh, is it?” growled Wilton. “Of course, if Mr Tom Jonson goes out on purpose to spread it.”

“I don’t think he said a word, sir, but they were talking about it at the shop, and young Barker saw ’em last.”

“Barker—Barker? Not—”

“Yes, sir, him as you give a month to for stealing pheasants’ eggs. That loafing chap.”

“He saw them last night? Here, go and tell Smith to fetch him here before me.”

Samuel smiled.

“Do you hear, sir? Don’t stand grinning there.”

“No, sir; certainly not, sir,” said the man, “but Tom Jonson thought you’d like to see him, sir, and he collared him at once and brought him on.”

“Quite right. Bring him in at once. Stop a moment. Put two or three ‘Statutes at Large’ and ‘Burns’ Justice of the Peace’ on the table.”

The man hurriedly gave the side-table a magisterial look with four or fire pie-crust coloured quartos and a couple of bulky manuals, while Wilton turned to his wife.

“Here, Maria,” he growled, in a low tone; “you’d better be off.”

“Oh, don’t send me away, please, dear,” she whispered; “it isn’t one of those horrid cases you have sometimes, and I do so want to hear.”

“Very well; only don’t speak.”

“No, my dear, not a word,” whispered Mrs Wilton, and she half closed her eyes and pinched her lips together, but her ears twitched as she sat waiting anxiously for the return of the footman, followed by the groom, who seemed to have had no little trouble in pushing and dragging a rough-looking lout of about eighteen into the room, where he stood with his smock frock raised on each side so as to allow his hands to be thrust deeply into his trousers pockets.

“Take your hat off,” said Samuel, in a sharp whisper.

“Sheeawn’t!” said the fellow, defiantly. “I arn’t done nothin’.”

Samuel promptly knocked the hat off on to the floor, which necessitated a hand being taken slowly from a pocket to pick it up.

“Here, don’t you do that ag’in,” cried the lad.

“Silence, sir. Stand up,” cried Wilton.

“Mayn’t I pick up my hat? I arn’t done nothin’.”

“Say ‘sir’,” whispered the footman.

“Sheeawn’t. I arn’t done nothin’, I tell yer. No business to bring me here.”

“Silence, sir,” cried Wilton, taking up a pen and shaking it at the lad, which acted upon him as if it were some terrible judicial wand which might write a document consigning him to hard labour, skilly, and bread and water in the county jail. The consequence being that he stood with his head bent forward, brow one mass of wrinkles, and mouth partly open, staring at the fierce-looking justice of the peace.

“Listen to me: you are not brought here for punishment.”

“Well, I arn’t done nothin’,” said the lad.

“I am glad to hear it, and I hope you will improve, Barker. Now, what you have to do is to answer a few questions, and if you do so truthfully and well, you will be rewarded.”

“Beer?” said the lout, with a grin.

“My servant will give you some beer as you go out, but first of all I shall give you a shilling.”

The fellow grinned.

“Shall I get the book and swear him, sir?” said Samuel, who was used to the library being turned into a court for petty cases.

“There is no need,” said Wilton austerely. “Now, my lad, answer me.”

“Yes, I sin ’em both last night.”

“Saw whom?”

“Young Squire and his gal.”

“Young Squire” made Mrs Wilton smile; “his gal” seemed to set her teeth on edge.

“Humph! Are you sure?” said Wilton.

“Sewer? Ay, I know young Squire well enough. Hit me many a time. Haw-haw! Know young Squire—I should think I do!”

“Say ‘sir,’” whispered Samuel again.

“Sheeawn’t,” cried the fellow. “You mind your own business.”

“Attend to me, sir,” cried Wilton, in his sternest bench manner.

“Well, I am a-try’n’ to, master, on’y he keeps on kedgin’ me.”

“Where did you see my son and—er—the lady?”

“Where did I sin ’em? Up road.”

“Where were you?”

“Ahint the hedge.”

“And what were you doing behind the hedge—wiring?”

“Naw. On’y got me bat-fowling nets.”

“But you were hiding, sir?”

“Well, what o’ that? ’Bliged to hide. Can’t go out anywhere o’ nights now wi’out summun watching yer. Can’t go for a few sparrers but some on ’em says its pardridges.”

“What time was it?”

“Hey?”

“What time was it?”

“I d’know; nine or ten, or ’leven. Twelve, may-be.”

“Well?”

“Hey?”

“What then?”

“What then? Nothin’ as I knows on. Yes, there weer; he puts his arm round her waist, and she give him a dowse in the faace.”

“Humph! Which way did they go then?”

“Up road.”

“Did you follow them?”

“What’d I got to follow ’em for? Shouldn’t want nobody to follow me when I went out wi’ a gal.”

Wilton frowned.

“Did you see any carriage about, waiting?”

“Naw.”

“What did you do then?”

“Waited till they was out o’ sight.”

“Yes, and what then?”

“Ketched sparrers, and they arn’t game.”

The lout looked round, grinning at all present, as if he had posed the magistrate in whose presence he was standing, till his eyes lit on Mrs Wilton, who was listening to him intently, and to her he raised his hand, passing the open palm upward past his face till it was as high as he could reach, and then descending the arc of a circle, a movement supposed in rustic schools to represent a most respectful bow.

“Ah, Barker, Barker!” said the recipient, shaking her head at him; “you never come to the Sunday school now.”

“Grow’d too big, missus,” said the lad, grinning, and then noisily using his cuff for the pocket-handkerchief he lacked.

“We are never too big to learn to be good, Barker,” continued Mrs Wilton, “and I’m afraid you are growing a bad boy now.”

“Oh, I don’t know, missus; I shouldn’t be a bad ’un if there was no game.”

“That will do, that will do,” said the Squire, impatiently. “That’s all you know, then, sir?”

“Oh, no; I knows a lot more than that,” said the lad, grinning.

“Then why the deuce don’t you speak?”

“What say?”

“Tell me what more you know about Mr Claud and the lady, and I’ll give you another shilling.”

“Will yer?” cried the lad, eagerly. “Well, I’ve seed’d ’em five or six times afore going along by the copse and down the narrow lane, and I sin him put his arm round her oncet, and I was close by, lying clost to a rabbud hole; and she says, ‘How dare you, sir! how dare you!’ just like that I dunno any more, and that makes two shillin’.”

“There; be off. Take him away, Samuel, and give him a horn of beer.”

“Yes sir—Now, then, come on.”

But the lad stood and grinned, first at the Squire and then at Mrs Wilton, rubbing his hands down his sides the while.

“D’yer hear?” whispered the footman, as the groom opened the door. “Come on.”

“Sheeawn’t.”

“Come on. Beer.”

“But he arn’t give me the two shillings yet.”

“Eh? Oh, forgot,” said the Squire.

“Gahn. None o’ your games. Couldn’t ha’ forgetted it so soon.”

“There—Take him away.”

Wilton held out a couple of shillings, and the fellow snatched them, bit both between his big white teeth, stuffed one in each pocket, made Mrs Wilton another bow, and turned to go; but his wardrobe had been sadly neglected, and at the first step one of the shillings trickled down the leg of his trousers, escaped the opening into his ill-laced boot, rattled on the polished oaken floor, and then ran along, after the fashion of coins, to hide itself in the darkest corner of the room. But Barker was too sharp for it, and forgetting entirely the lessons he had learned at school about ordering “himself lowly and reverently to all his betters,” he shouted: “Loo, loo, loo!” pounced upon it like a cat does upon a mouse, picked it up, and thrust it where it could join its fellow, and turned to Mrs Wilton.

“Hole in the pocket,” he said, confidentially, and went off to get the beer.

“Bah! Savage!” growled Wilton, as the door closed. “There, Maria, no doubt about it now.”

“No, my dear, and we can sleep in peace.”

But Mrs Wilton was wrong save and except the little nap she had after dinner while her husband was smoking his pipe; for that night, just before the last light was out—that last light being in the Squire’s room where certain arrangements connected with hair and pieces of paper had detained Mrs Wilton nearly half an hour after her husband had announced in regular cadence that he was fast asleep—there came a long ringing at the hall door bell.

It was so utterly unexpected in the silence and solitude of the country place that Mrs Wilton sprang from her seat in front of the dressing-glass, jarring the table so that a scent-bottle fell with a crash, and injuring her knees.

“James—James!” she cried.

“Eh, what’s the matter?” came from the bed, as the Squire sat up suddenly.

“Fire! Fire! Another stack burning, I’m sure.”

Wilton sprang out of bed, ran to the window, tore aside the blind, flung open the casement, and looked down.

“Where is it?” he shouted, for he had more than once been summoned from his bed to rick fires.

“Where’s what?” came in a familiar voice.

Wilton darted back, letting fall the blind.

“Slip on your dressing gown,” he said, hastily, “and pull out those confounded things from your hair. They’ve come back.”

“Oh, my dear, and me this figure!” cried the lady, and for the next ten minutes there was a hurried sound of dressing going on.

“Look sharp,” said Wilton. “I’ll go down and let them in. You’d better rouse up Cook and Samuel; they’ll want something to eat.”

“I won’t be two minutes, my dear. Take them in the library; the wood ashes will soon glow up again. My own darlings! I am glad.”

Mrs Wilton was less, for by the time the heavy bolts, lock, and bar had been undone, she was out of her room, and hurried to the balustrade to look down into the hall, paying no heed to the cool puff of wind that rushed upward and nearly extinguished the candle her husband had set down upon the marble table.

“My own boy!” she sighed, as she saw Claud enter, and heard his words.

“Thankye,” he said. “Gone to bed soon.”

“The usual time, my boy,” said Wilton, in very different tones to those he had used at their last meeting. “But haven’t you brought her?”

“Brought her?”

“Yes; where’s Kate?”

“Fast asleep in bed by now, I suppose,” said the young man sulkily.

“Oh, but you should have brought her. Where have you come from?”

“Fast train down. London. Didn’t suppose I was going to stop here, did you, to be kicked?”

“Don’t say any more about that, my boy. It’s all over now; but why didn’t you bring her down?”

“Oh, Claud, my boy, you shouldn’t have left her like that.”

“Brought her down—Kate—shouldn’t have left,” said the young man, excitedly. “Here, what do you both mean?”

“There, nonsense; what is the use of dissimulation now, my boy,” said Wilton. “Of course we know, and—there—it’s of no use to cry over spilt milk. We did not like it, and you shouldn’t have both tried to throw dust in our eyes.”

“Look here, guv’nor, have you been to a dinner anywhere to-night?”

“Absurd, sir. Stop this fooling. Where did you leave Kate?”

“In bed and asleep, I suppose.”

“But—but where have you been, then?”

“London, I tell you. Shouldn’t have been back now, only I couldn’t find Harry Dasent. He’s off somewhere, so I thought I’d better come back. I say, is she all right again?”

“I knew it! I knew it!” shrieked Mrs Wilton. “I said it from the first. Oh, James, James!—The pond—the pond! She’s gone—she’s gone!”

“Who’s gone?” stammered Claud, looking from father to mother, and back again.

“Kate, dear; drowned—drowned,” wailed Mrs Wilton.

“What!” shouted Claud.

“Look here, sir,” said his father, catching him by the arm in a tremendous grip, as he raised the candle to gaze searchingly in his son’s face; “let’s have the truth at once. You’re playing some game of your own to hide this—this escapade.”

“Guv’nor!” cried the young man, catching his father by the arm in turn; “put down that cursed candle; you’ll burn my face. You don’t mean to say the little thing has cut?”

Chapter Eighteen.

James Wilton stood for a few moments staring searchingly at his son. Then, in a sudden access of anger, he rushed to the library door, flung it open, came back, caught the young man by the shoulders, and began to back him in.

“Here, what are you doing, guv’nor? Leave off! Don’t do that. Here, why don’t you answer my question?”

“Hold your tongue, idiot! Do you suppose I want all the servants to hear what is said? Go in there.”

He gave him a final thrust, and then hurried out to hasten upstairs to where Mrs Wilton stood holding on by the heavy balustrade which crossed the hall like a gallery, and rocking herself to and fro.

“Oh, James, I knew it—I knew it!” she sobbed out. “She’s dead—she’s dead!”

“Hush! Hold your tongue!” cried her husband. “Do you want to alarm the house? You’ll have all the servants here directly. Come along.”

He drew her arm roughly beneath his, and hurried her down the stairs into the library, thrust her into her son’s arms, and then hurried to the hall table for the candle, ending by shutting himself in with them.

“Oh, Claud, Claud, my darling boy!” wailed Mrs Wilton.

“If you don’t hold your tongue, Maria, you’ll put me in a rage,” growled Wilton, savagely. “Sit in that chair.”

“Oh, James, James, you shouldn’t,” sobbed the poor woman, “you shouldn’t,” as she was plumped down heavily; but she spoke in a whisper.

“Done?” asked Claud, mockingly. “Then, now p’raps you’ll answer my question. Has she bolted?”

“Silence, idiot!” growled his father, so fiercely that the young man backed away from trim in alarm. “No, don’t keep silence, but speak. You contemptible young hound, do you think you can impose upon me by your question—by your pretended ignorance? Do you think you can impose upon me, I say? Do you think I cannot see through your plans?”

“I say, mater, what’s the guv’nor talking about?” cried Claud.

“She’s dead—she’s dead!”

“Who’s dead? What’s dead?”

“Answer me, sir,” continued Wilton, backing his son till he could get no farther for the big table. “Do you think you can impose upon me?”

“Who wants to impose on you, guv’nor?”

“You do, sir. But I see through your miserable plan, and I tell you this. You can’t get the money into your own hands to make ducks and drakes of, for I am executor and trustee and guardian, and if there’s any law in the land I’ll lock up every shilling so that you can’t touch it. If you had played honourably with me you would have had ample, and the estate would have come to you some day, cleared of incumbrances, if you had not killed yourself first.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” cried Claud, angrily. “Who’s imposing on you? Who’s playing dishonourably? You behaved like a brute to me, and I went off to get out of it all, only I didn’t want to be hard on ma, and so I came back.”

“Oh, my darling boy! It was very, very good of you.”

“Be quiet, Maria. Let the shallow-brained young idiot speak,” growled Wilton. “Now, sir, answer me—have you gone through some form of marriage?”

“Who with?” said the young man, with a grin.

“Answer my question, sir. Have you gone through some form of marriage?”

“I? No. I’m free enough, guv’nor.”

“You have not?” cried Wilton, aghast. “You mean to tell me that you have taken that poor girl away somewhere, and have not married her?”

“No, I don’t mean to tell you anything of the sort. Here, mother, is the pater going mad?”

“Silence, Maria; don’t answer him.”

“Yes, do ma. What does it all mean? Has Kitty bolted?”

“She’s drowned—she’s drowned, my boy.”

“Nonsense, ma! You’re always thinking someone is drowned. Then she has bolted. Oh, I say!”

“No, sir; she has not bolted, as you term it in your miserable horsey slang. You’ve taken her away—there; don’t deny it. You’ve got her somewhere, and you think you can set me at defiance.”

“Do I, guv’nor?”

“Yes, sir, you do. But I’ve warned you and shown you how you stand. Now, look here; your only chance is to give up and do exactly as I tell you.”

“Oh, is it?” said the young man mockingly.

“Yes, sir, it is. Now then, be frank and open with me at once, and I may be able to help you out of the miserable hole in which you have plunged us.”

“Go ahead, then. Have it your own way, guv’nor.”

“No time must be lost—that is, if you are not deceiving me and have already had the ceremony performed.”

“I didn’t stand on ceremony,” said Claud, with a laughing sneer; “I gave her a few kisses, and a nice row was the result.”

“Will you be serious, sir?”

“Yes, I’m serious enough. Where has she gone?”

“Where have you taken her?”

“I haven’t taken her anywhere, guv’nor.”

“Do you mean to tell me, sir, that you did not go up a ladder to her window?”

“Hullo!”

“Bring her down and take her right away?”

“I say, guv’nor,” cried Claud, with such startling energy that his father’s last suspicion was swept away; “is it so bad as that?”

“Then you didn’t take her off?”

“Of course I didn’t. Take her off? What, after that scene? Likely. What nonsense, guv’nor! Do you think she’d have come?”

“Claud, you amaze me, my boy,” cried Wilton, who looked staggered, but his incredulity got the better of him directly. “No; only by your effrontery,” he continued. “You are trifling with me; worse still, you are trifling with a large fortune. Come, it will pay you best to be frank. Where is she?”

“At the bottom of the pike pond, for all I know—a termagant,” cried Claud; “I tell you I haven’t seen her since the row.”

“Then she is drowned—she’s drowned.”

“Be quiet, Maria!” roared Wilton. “Now, boy, tell me the truth for once in a way; did you elope with Kate?”

“No, guv’nor, I did not,” cried the young man. “I never had the chance, or I’d have done it like a shot.”

Wilton’s jaw dropped. He was quite convinced now, and he sank into a chair, staring at his son.

“I—I thought you had made short work of it,” said Wilton, huskily.

“Then she really has gone?” said Claud in a whisper.

“Yes, yes, my dear,” burst out Mrs Wilton. “I knew it! I was right at first.”

“Where has she gone, then, mother?”

“Hold your tongue, woman!” cried Wilton, angrily. “You don’t know anything about it—how could she get a ladder there? Footsteps on the flower-bed, my boy. A man in it. I thought it was you.”

“And all that money gone,” cried Claud.

“No, not yet, my boy. There, I beg your pardon for suspecting you. It seemed so much like your work. But stop—you are cheating me; it was your doing.”

“Have it your own way, then, guv’nor.”

“You were seen with her last night.”

“Eh? What time?” cried Claud.

“I don’t know the time, sir, but a man saw you with her. Come, you see the risk you run of losing a fortune. Speak out.”

Claud spoke in, but what he said was his own affair. Then, after a minute’s thought, he said; “I say, would it be old Garstang, guv’nor?”

“No, sir, it would not be John Garstang,” cried Wilton, with his anger rising again.

“No; I have it, guv’nor,” cried Claud, excitedly. “I went up, meaning to have a turn in town with Harry Dasent, but he was out. That’s it; he hasn’t a penny in the world, and he has been down here three times lately. I thought he’d got devilish fond of her all at once; and twice over he let out about Kitty being so good-looking. That’s it; he’s got her away.”

“No, no, my dear; she wouldn’t have gone away with a man like that,” sobbed Mrs Wilton. “She didn’t like him.”

“No; absurd,” cried Wilton.

“But he’d have gone away with her, guv’nor.”

“You were seen with her last night.”

“Oh, was I? All right, then. If you say so I suppose I was, guv’nor, but I’m going back to London after ferreting out all I can. You’re on the wrong scent, dad,—him! I never thought of that.”

“You’re wrong, Claud; you’re wrong.”

“Yes, mother, deucedly wrong,” cried the young man fiercely. “Why didn’t I think of it? I might have done the same, and now it’s too late. Perhaps not. She’d hold out after he got her away, and we might get to her in time. No, I know Harry Dasent. It’s too late now.”

“Look here, Claud, boy, I want to believe in you,” said Wilton, who was once more impressed by his son’s earnestness; “do you tell me you believe that Harry Dasent has taken her away by force?”

“Force, or some trick. It was just the sort of time when she might listen to him. There; you may believe me, now.”

“Then who was the lady you were seen with last night? Come, be honest. You were seen with someone. Who was it?”

“Mustn’t kiss and tell, guv’nor,” said Claud, with a sickly grin.

“Look here,” said Wilton huskily. “There are a hundred and fifty thousand pounds at stake, my boy. Was it Kate?”

“No, father,” cried the young man earnestly; “it wasn’t, ’pon my soul.”

“Am I to believe you?”

“Look here, guv’nor, do you think I want to fool this money away? What good should I be doing by pretending I hadn’t carried her off? I told you I’d have done it like a shot if I had had the chance; and what’s more, you’d have liked it, so long as I had got her to say yes. I did not carry her off, once for all. It was Harry Dasent, and if he has choused me out of that bit of coin, curse him, if I hang for it, I’ll break his neck!”

“Oh! Claud, Claud, my darling,” wailed Mrs Wilton, “to talk like that when your cousin’s lying cold and motionless at the bottom of that pond!”

Chapter Nineteen.

For the better part of two days Pierce Leigh went about like one who had received some terrible mental shock; and Jenny’s pleasant little rounded cheeks told the tale of the anxiety from which she suffered, while her eyes followed him wistfully, and she seemed never weary of trying to perform little offices for him which would distract his attention from the thoughts which were sapping his vitality.

The life at the quiet little cottage home was entirely changed, for brother and sister were playing parts for which they were quite unsuited in a melancholy farce of real life, wearing masks, and trying to hide their sufferings from each other, with a miserable want of success.

And all the time Leigh was longing to open his heart to the loving, affectionate little thing who had been his companion from a child, his confidante over all his hopes, and counsellor in every movement or plan. She had read and studied with him, helped him to puzzle out abstruse questions, and for years they had gone on together leading a life full of happiness, and ready to laugh lightly over money troubles connected with the disappointment over the purchase of the Northwood practice through a swindling, or grossly ignorant, agent.

“Don’t worry about it, Pierce dear,” Jenny had said, “it is only the loss of some money, and as it’s in the country we can live on less, and wear out our old clothes over again. I do wish I could cut up and turn your coats and trousers. You men laugh at us and our fashions, but we women can laugh at you and yours. Granted that our hats and dresses are flimsy, see how we can re-trim and unpick, and make them look new again, while your stupid things get worn and shiny, and then they’re good for nothing. They’re quite hopeless, for I daren’t try to make you a new coat out of two old ones.”

There was many a merry laugh over such matters, Jenny’s spirits rising, as the country life brought back the bloom of health that had been failing in Westminster; and existence, in spite of the want of patients, was a very happy one, till the change came. This change to a certain extent resembled that in the yard of the amateur who was bitten by the fancy for keeping and showing those great lumbering fowls—the Brahmas, so popular years ago.

He had a pen of half-a-dozen cockerels, the result of the hatching of a clutch of eggs laid by a feathered princess of the blood royal; and as he watched them through their infancy it was with high hopes of winning prizes—silver cups and vases, at all the crack poultry shows. And how he tended and pampered his pets, watching them through the various stages passed by this kind of fowl—one can hardly say feathered fowl in the earlier stages of their existence, for through their early boyhood, so to speak, they run about in a raw unclad condition that is pitiful to see, for they are almost “birds of a feather” in the Dundreary idea of the singularity of plumage; and it is not until they have arrived pretty well at full growth that they assume the heavy massive plumage that makes their skeleton lanky forms look so huge. These six young Brahmas masculine grew and throve in their pen, innocent, happy, and at peace, till one morning their owner gazed upon them in pride, for they were all that a Brahma fancier could wish to see—small of comb, heavy of hackle, tail slightly developed, broad in the beam, short-legged, and without a trace of vulture hock. “First prize for one of them,” said the owner, and after feeding them he went to town, and came back to find his hopes ruined, his cockerels six panting, ragged, bleeding wrecks, squatting about in the pen, half dead, too much exhausted to spur and peck again.

For there had been battle royal in that pen, the young birds engaging in a furious melée. For what reason? Because, as good old Doctor Watts said, “It is their nature to.” They did not know it till that morning, but there was the great passion in each one’s breast, waiting to be evoked, and transform them from pacific pecking and scratching birds into perfect demons of discord.

There was wire netting spread all over the top of their carefully sanded pen, and till then they had never seen others of their kind. It was their world, and as far as they knew there was neither fowl nor chicken save themselves. The memory of the mother beneath whose plumage they had nestled had passed away, for the gallinaceous brain cavity is small.

That morning, a stray, pert-looking, elegantly spangled, golden Hambro’ pullet appeared upon the wall, looked down for a moment on the pen of full-grown, innocent young Brahmas, uttered the monosyllables “Took, took!” and flew away.

For a brief space, the long necks of the cockerels were strained in the direction where that vision of loveliness had appeared for a brief instant; the fire of jealous love blazed out, and they turned and fought almost to the death. It would have been quite, had there been strength.

The owner of these six cripples did not take a prize.

So at Northwood, women, save as sister or friend, had been non-existent to Pierce Leigh. Now the desire to rend his human brother was upon him strong.

Jenny knew it, and for more than one reason she trembled for the time that must come when Pierce should first meet Claud Wilton, for it had rapidly dawned upon her that the long-deferred grand passion of her brother was the stronger for its sudden growth.

In her anxiety, she went out during those two days a great deal for the benefit of her health, but really on the qui vive for the news that she felt must soon come of Claud’s proceedings with his cousin; and twice over she had started the subject of their projected leaving, making Leigh raise his eyebrows slightly in wonder at the sudden change in his sister’s ideas. But it was not till nearly evening that, during her brother’s temporary absence, she heard the news for which she was waiting.

One of Leigh’s poor patients called to see him—one of the class suffered by most young doctors, who go through life believing they are very ill, and that it is the duty of a medical man to pay extra attention to their ailments, and lavish upon them knowledge and medicine to the fullest extent, without a thought of payment entering their heads.

Betsy Bray was the lady in question, and as was her custom, Jenny saw the woman, ready to hear her last grievance, and tell her brother when he returned.

Betsy was fifty-five, and possessed of the strong constitution which bears a great deal of ease; but in her own estimation she was very bad. From frequenting surgeries, she had picked up a few medical terms, and larded her discourse with them and others of a religious tendency, her attendance at church dole-giving, and other charitable distributions being of the most regular description.

“Doctor at home, miss?” she said, plaintively, as she slowly and plumply subsided upon the little couch in the surgery, the said piece of furniture groaning in all its springs, for Betsy possessed weight.

“No, Mrs Bray. He has gone to call on the Dudges, at West Gale.”

“Ah, he always is calling on somebody when I’ve managed to drag my weary bones all this way up from the village.”

“I am very sorry. What is the matter now?” said Jenny, soothingly.

“Matter, miss? What’s allus the matter with me? It’s my chronics. Not a wink of sleep have I had all the blessed night.”

“Well, I must give you something.”

“Nay, nay, my dear; you don’t understand my troubles. It’s the absorption is all wrong; and you’d be giving me something out of the wrong bottles. You just give me a taste of sperrits to give me strength to get home again, and beg and pray o’ the doctor to come on and see me as soon as he comes home, if you don’t want me to be laid out stark and cold afore another day’s done.”

“But I have no spirits, Mrs Bray.”

“Got none? Well, I dessay a glass o’ wine might do. Keep me alive p’raps till I’d crawled home to die.”

“But we have no wine.”

“Dear, dear, dear, think o’ that,” said the woman fretfully. “The old doctor always had some, and a drop o’ sperrits, too. Ah, it’s a hard thing to be old and poor and in bad health, carrying your grey hairs in sorrow to the grave; and all about you rich and well and happy, rolling in money, and marrying and giving in marriage and wearing their wedding garments, one and all. You’ve heard about the doings up at the Manor House?”

“Yes, yes, something about them, Mrs Bray; but I’ll tell my brother, and he will, I know, come and see you.”

“Yes, you tell him; not as I believe in him much, but poor people must take what they can get—He’s come back, you know?”

“My brother? No; he would have come straight in here.”

“Your brother? Tchah, no!” cried the woman, forgetting her “chronics” in the interest she felt in the fresh subject. “You’re always thinking about your brother, and if’s time you began to think of a husband. I meant him at the Manor—young Claud Wilton. He’s come back.”

“Come back?” cried Jenny excitedly.

“Yes; but I hear he arn’t brought his young missus with him. Nice goings on, running away, them two, to get married. But I arn’t surprised; he fell out with the parson long enough ago about Sally Deal, down the village, and parson give it him well for not marrying her. Wouldn’t be married here out o’ spite, I suppose. Well, I must go. You’re sure you haven’t got a drop o’ gin in the house?”

“Quite sure,” said Jenny quickly; “and I’ll be sure and tell my brother to come.”

“Ay, do; and tell him I say it’s a shame he lives so far out of the village. I feel sometimes that I shall die in one of the ditches before I get here, it’s so far. There, don’t hurry me so; I don’t want to be took ill here. I know, doctors aren’t above helping people out of the world when they get tired of them.”

“Gone!” cried Jenny at last, with a sigh of relief; and then, with the tears rising to her eyes, “Oh, what shall I do? What shall I do? If they meet—if he ever gets to know!”

She hurried upstairs, put on her hat and jacket, and came down looking pale and excited, but without any very definite plans. One idea was foremost in her mind; but as she reached the door she caught sight of her brother coming with rapid strides from the direction opposite to that taken by the old woman who had just gone.

“Too late!” she said, with a piteous sigh; and she ran upstairs hurriedly, and threw off her things.

She had hardly re-arranged her hair when she heard her brother’s voice calling her.

“Yes, dear,” she said, and she ran down, to find him looking ghastly.

“Who was that went away from here?” he said huskily.

She told him, but not of her promise to send him over.

“I’ll go to her at once,” he said.

“No, no, Pierce, dear; she is not ill. Pray stay at home; there is really no need.”

“Why should I stay at home?” he said, looking at her suspiciously.

“I—I am not very well, dear. You have been so dull, it has upset me. I wish you would stay in with me this evening; I feel so nervous and lonely.”

“Yes, I will,” he said; “but I must go there first.”

“No, no, dear; don’t, please, don’t go,” she pleaded, as she caught his arm. “Please stay. She is not in the least ill, and I want you to stop. There, I’ll make some tea directly, and we’ll sit over it and have a long cosy chat, and it will do us both good, dear.”

“Jenny,” he cried harshly, “you want to keep me at home.”

“Yes, dear, I told you so; but don’t speak in that harsh way; you frighten me.”

“I’m not blind,” he cried. “Don’t deny it. You’ve heard from that old woman what I have just found out. He has come back.”

“Pierce!” she cried; and she shrank away from him, and covered her face with her hands.

“Yes,” he said wildly, and there was a look in his ghastly face which she had never seen before. “I knew it; and you are afraid that I shall meet him and wring his miserable neck.”

“Oh, Pierce, Pierce,” she cried piteously, as she threw herself at his feet; “don’t, don’t, pray don’t talk in this mad way.”

“Why not?” he said, with a mocking laugh. “It is consistent. There, get up; don’t kneel there praying to a madman.”

She sprang up quickly and seized him by the shoulder, and then threw herself across his knees and her arms about his neck.

“It is not true,” she cried passionately. “You are not mad; you are only horribly angry, and I am frightened to death for fear that you should meet and be violent.”

“Violent! I could kill him!” he muttered, with a hard look in his eyes. “Good God, what a profanation! He marry her! She must have been mad, or there has been some cruel act of violence. Jenny, girl, I will see him and take him by the throat and make him tell me all. I have fought against it. I have told myself that she is unworthy of a second thought, but my heart tells me that it is not so. There has been some horrible trick played upon her; she would not—as you have said—she could not have gone off of her own will with that miserable little hound.”

“Yes, yes, that is what I think,” she said, hysterically. “So wait patiently, dear, and we shall know the truth some day.”

“Wait!” he cried, with a mocking laugh. “Wait! With my brain feeling as if it were on fire. No, I have waited too long; I ought to have gone off after him at once, and learned the truth.”

“No, no, dear; you two must not meet. Now then, listen to me.”

“Some day, little bird,” he said, lifting her from his knee, as he rose; then kissing her tenderly he extricated himself from her clinging hands as gently as he could, and rushed out.

“O, Pierce, Pierce!” she cried. “Stay, stay!”

But the only answer to her call as she ran to the door was the heavy beat of his feet in the gloom of the misty evening.

“And if they meet he’ll find out all,” she wailed piteously. She paused, waiting for a few moments, and then searched in her pocket and brought out a tiny silver whistle, which she placed in the bosom of her dress, after flinging the ribbon which was in its ring over her head.

A minute later, with her cloak thrown on and hood drawn over her head, she had slipped out of the cottage, and was running down the by-lane in the direction of the Manor House.

Chapter Twenty.

The soft light of the moon attracted Kate to her bedroom window, where she drew up the blind, and after standing gazing at the silvery orb for some minutes, she unfastened and threw open the casement, drew a chair forward, to sit there letting the soft air of the late autumn night give its coolness to her aching brow.

For the silence and calm seemed to bring rest, and by degrees the dull throbbing of her head grew less painful, the strange feeling of confusion which had made thinking a terrible effort began to pass away, and with her eyes fixed upon the skies she began to go over the events of the day, and to try and map out for herself the most sensible course to pursue. Go from Northwood she felt that she must, and at once; though how to combat the will of her constituted guardian was not clear. Garstang, in his encounter with Wilton, had put the case only too plainly, and there was not the vestige of a doubt in her mind as to the truth of his words. It had all been arranged in the family, and whatever might have been her cousin’s inclinations at first, he showed only too plainly that he looked upon her as his future wife.

She shuddered at the thought; but the weak girl passed away again, and her pale cheeks began to burn once more with indignant anger, and the throbbing of her brow returned, so that she was glad to rest her head upon her hand.

By degrees the suffering grew less poignant, and as the pain and mental confusion once more died out she set herself to the task of coming to some decision as to what she should do next day, proposing to herself plan after plan, building up ideas which crumbled away before that one thought: her uncle was her guardian and trustee, and his power over her was complete.

What to do?—what to do? The ever recurring question, till she felt giddy.

It seemed, knowing what he did, the height of cruelty for Garstang to have gone and left her, but she was obliged to own that he could do nothing more than upbraid his relatives for their duplicity.

But he had done much for her; he had thoroughly endorsed her own ideas as to her position and her uncle’s intentions; and at last, with the tears suffusing her eyes, as she gazed at the moon rising slowly above the trees, she sat motionless for a time, thinking of her happy life in the past; and owning to herself that the advice given to her was right, she softly closed the casement, drew down the blind, and determined to follow out the counsel.

“Yes, I must sleep on it—if I can,” she said softly. “Poor Liza is right, and I am not quite alone—I am never alone, for in spirit those who loved me so well must be with me still.”

There were two candles burning on the dressing-table, but their light troubled her aching eyes, and she slowly extinguished both, the soft light which flooded the window being ample for her purpose.

Crossing the room to the side furthest from the door, she bent down and bathed her aching forehead for a few minutes before beginning to undress, and was then about to loosen her hair when she was startled by a faint tap outside the window which sounded as if something had struck the sill.

She stopped, listening for a few minutes, but all was still, and coming to the conclusion that the sound had been caused by a rat leaping down somewhere behind the wainscot of the old room, she raised her hands to her head once more, but only for them to become fixed as she stood there paralysed by terror, for a shadow suddenly appeared at the bottom of the blind—a dark shadow cast by the moon; and as she gazed at it in speechless fear, it rose higher and higher, and looked monstrous in size.

She made an effort to cast off the horrible nightmare-like sense of terror, but as she realised that to reach the door she must pass the window it grew stronger.

The bell!

That was by the bed’s head, and for the time being she felt helpless, so completely paralysed that she could not even cry for help.

What could it mean? Someone had placed a ladder against the window sill and climbed up, and at the thought which now flashed through her brain the helpless feeling passed away, and the hot indignation made her strong, and gave her a courage which drove away her childish fear.

How dare he! It was Claud, and she knew what he would say—that he had come there when all was still in the house and no one could know, to ask her forgiveness for the scene that day.

Drawing herself up, she was walking swiftly towards the door, with the intention of going at once to Liza’s chamber, when there was a fresh movement of the shadow on the blind, and the dread returned, and her heart throbbed heavily.

Claud was a short-haired, smooth-faced boy—the shadow cast on the blind was the silhouette of a broad-shouldered, bearded man.

It was plain enough now—burglars must be trying to effect an entry, and in another moment she would have cried aloud for help, but just then there was a light tap on one of the panes, the shadow grew smaller and darker, as if the face had been pressed close to the window, and she heard her name softly uttered twice.

“Kate! Kate!”

She mastered her fear once more, telling herself it must be Claud; and she went slowly to the door; laid her hand upon the bolt to turn it, but paused again, for once more came the low distinct voice—

“Kate! Kate!”

She uttered a spasmodic cry, turned sharply round, and half ran to the window with every pulse throbbing with excitement, for she felt that the help she had prayed for last night had come.

Chapter Twenty One.

There was no hesitation on the part of Kate Wilton. The dread was gone, and she rapidly drew up the blind and opened the casement window.

“You?” she said quickly, as she held out her hands, which were caught at once and held.

“Yes; who should it be, my child? Were you afraid that insolent young scoundrel would dare to do such a thing?”

“At first,” she faltered, and then quickly, “I hardly knew what to think; I was afraid someone was going to break in. Oh, Mr Garstang, why have you come?”

He uttered a little laugh.

“For the same reason, I suppose, that would make a father who knew his child was in peril act in the same way.”

“It is very, very kind of you; but you will be heard, and it will only cause fresh trouble.”

“It can cause no greater than has come to us, my child. I was half-way to London, but I could not go on; so I got out at a station ten miles away, walked into the village close by, and found a fly and a man to drive me over. I wanted to know how you were getting on. Have you seen them again?”

“No. I came straight to my room, and have not left it since.”

“Good girl! That was very brave of you. Then you took my advice.”

“Of course.”

“And Master Claud?”

He felt her start and shudder.

“Don’t talk about him, please. But there, I am very grateful to you for being so kind and thoughtful, and for your brave defence.”

“Brave nonsense, my child!” he said bluntly. “I did as any man of right feeling would have done if he found a ruffian insulting a weak, helpless girl. Kate, my dear, my blood has been boiling ever since. I could not go back and leave you in this state; I was compelled to come and see you and have a little consultation about your future. I felt that I must do it before seeing James Wilton again. Not a very reputable way, this, of coming to a man’s house, even if he is a connection of mine; not respectful to you, either, my child, but I felt certain that if I came to the door and asked to see you I should have been refused entrance.”

“Yes, yes,” said Kate, sadly. “I should not have been told of your coming, or I would have insisted upon seeing you.”

“You would! Brave girl! I like to hear you speak out so firmly. Well, there was nothing for it but for me, middle-aged man as I am, to play the daring gallant at the lady’s window—lattice, I ought to say.”

“Please don’t talk like this, Mr Garstang,” said Kate. “It does not sound like you to be playful in your manner.”

“Thank you, my child, you are right; it does not I accept the reproof. Now, then, to be businesslike. You have been thinking deeply, of course, since you have been alone?”

“Yes, very, very seriously about my position. Mr Garstang, it is impossible for me to stay here.”

“Quite impossible. The conduct to you of your aunt and uncle makes them—no matter what promises they may give you—quite unworthy of your trust. Well?”

“I have pretty well decided that I shall go away to-morrow with Eliza, our old nurse and maid.”

“A most worthy woman, my dear. You could not do better; but—”

“But what?” said Kate, nervously.

“I do not wish to alarm you, but do you fully realise your position here?”

“Yes, and that is why I have decided to go.”

“Exactly; but you do not fully grasp my meaning. What about your uncle?”

“You mean that he will object?”

“Exactly.”

“But if I am firm, and insist, he will not dare to detain me,” said the girl warmly.

“You think so? Well, think again, my child. He is your guardian and trustee; he will absolutely refuse, and will take any steps which he considers right to prevent your leaving. I am afraid that by the power your poor father left in his hands he will consider himself justified in keeping you quite as a prisoner until you obey his wishes.”

“Mr Garstang, surely he dare not proceed to such extremities!”

“I am afraid that he has the power, and I grieve to say he is in such a position that he is likely to be reckless in his desire to gain his ends.”

Kate drew a deep breath, and gazed appealingly in the speaker’s face.

“As a solicitor and the husband of your aunt’s late sister, James Wilton naturally came to me for help in his money affairs, and I did the best I could for him. I found that he had been gambling foolishly on the Stock Exchange, instead of keeping to his farms, and was so involved that immediate payments had to be made to save him from absolute ruin.”

“But my father surely did not know of this?”

“Not a word. He kept his own counsel, and of course until the will was read I had no idea of what arrangements your father had made; in fact, I was somewhat taken aback, for I thought it possible that he would have made me one of your trustees. But that by the way. I helped your uncle all I could as a monetary agent, and found clients who were willing to advance him money on his estate, which is now deeply mortgaged. These moneys are now wanted, for the interest has not been fully paid for years. In short, James Wilton is in a desperate condition, and my visits here have been to try and extricate him from his monetary tangle in which he finds himself. Now do you begin to grasp what his designs are?”

“Yes, I see,” said Kate, sadly; “it is to get some of the money which should be mine, to pay his debts.”

“Exactly, and the simplest way to do so is to marry you to Claud.”

“No: there is a simpler way, Mr Garstang. If my uncle had come to me and told me his position I should have felt that I could not have done a more kindly deed than to help my father’s brother by paying his debts.”

“Very kind and generous of you, my child; but he would not believe it possible, and I must say to you that, after what has passed, you would not be doing your duty to the dead by helping your uncle to this extent. Kate, my dear, since I have been talking to you it has occurred to me that there is but one way out of your difficulty.”

“Yes, what is it?” she cried eagerly.

“Of course, you cannot marry your cousin?”

“Mr Garstang!” she cried indignantly.

“It is impossible, of course; and if you stay here you will have to submit to endless persecution and annoyance, such as a highly strung, sensitive girl like you are will be unable to combat.”

“You do not know me yet, Mr Garstang.”

“Indeed? I think I do, as I have known you from a child. You are mentally strong, but you have been, and under these circumstances will be, further sapped by sickness, and it would need superhuman power to win in so cruel a fight. You must not risk it, Kate, my child. You must go.”

“Yes, I feel that I know I must go, but how can I? You, as a lawyer, should know.”

“A long and costly litigation, or an appeal to the Court of Chancery might save you, and a judge make an order traversing your father’s will, but I should shrink from such a course; I know too well the uncertainties of the law.”

“Then your idea for extricating me from my difficult position is of no value,” she said, despairingly.

“You have not heard it yet,” he said, “because I almost shrink from proposing such a thing to your father’s child.”

“Tell me what it is,” she said firmly.

“You desire me to?”

“Of course.”

“It is this—a simple and effective way of checkmating one who has proved himself unworthy. My idea was that you should transfer the guardianship to me.”

“Willingly, Mr Garstang; but can it be done?”

“It must and shall be done if you are willing, my child,” he said firmly, “but it would necessitate a very unusual, a bold and immediate step oh your part.”

“What is that, Mr Garstang?” she said quietly.

“You would have to place yourself under my guardianship at once.”

“At once?” she said, starting slightly.

“Yes. Think for yourself. It could not be done slowly and legally, for at the first suspicion that I was acting against him, James Wilton would place you immediately completely out of my reach, and take ample care that I had no further communication with you.”

“Yes,” she said quietly; “he would.”

“Yes,” he said, repeating her words, and speaking in a slow, passionless, judicial way; “if the thing were deferred, or if he were besieged, he would redouble his pressure. Kate, my dear, that was my idea; but it must sound almost as mad to you as it does to me. Yes, it is impossible; I ought not to have proposed such a thing, and yet I can not find it in my heart to give up any chance of rescuing you from your terrible position.”

He was silent, and she stood there gazing straight before her for a few moments before turning her eyes upon his.

“Tell me plainly what you mean, Mr Garstang.”

“Simply this: I did mean that you should take the opportunity of my being here and leave at once. I have the fly waiting, and I could take you to my town house and place you in the care of my housekeeper and her daughter. It would of course be checkmating your uncle, who could be brought to his knees; and then as the price of your pardon you could do something to help him out of his difficulties. Possibly a moderate payment to his creditors might free him on easy terms. But there, my child, the project is too wild and chimerical. It must almost sound to you like a romance.”

She stood there gazing full in his eyes as he ceased speaking; and at the end of a minute he said gently, “There, I must not keep you talking here in the cold night air. Your chest is still delicate; but strange as the visit may seem, I am after all glad I have come, if only to give you a little comfort—to show you that you are not quite alone in the world. There, say good-night, and, of course, you will not mention my visit to anyone. I must go now and catch the night mail at the station. To-morrow I will see a very learned old barrister friend, and lay the matter before him so as to get his advice. He may show me some way out of the difficulty. Keep a good heart. I must show you that you have one who will act as an uncle should. But listen to me,” he said, as he took her cold hand in his, “you must brace yourself up for the encounters to come. Even if I find that I can assist you, the law moves slowly, and it may be months before you can come out of prison. So no flinching; let James Wilton and that scoundrel Claud know that they have a firm, mentally strong woman to deal with; and now God bless you, my child! Good-night!”

He let her hand fall, and lowered himself a round of the ladder; but she stood as if carved in marble in the bright moonlight, without uttering a word.

“Say good-night, my dear; and come, be firm.”

She made no reply.

“You are not hurt by my proposal?” he said quietly.

“No,” she said at last, “I was trying to weigh it. I must have time.”

“Yes, you must have time. Think it over, my child; it may strike you differently to-morrow, or you may see it in a more impossible light. So may I. You know my address: Bedford Row will find me. I am well known in London. Write to me if you require help, and at any cost I will come and see you, even if I bring police to force my way. Now, good-night, my dear. Heigho! Why did not I have a daughter such as you?”

“Let me think,” said Kate gravely.

“No; this is no time for thinking, my child. Once more, good-night.”

“No,” said Kate firmly. “I will trust you, Mr Garstang. You must not leave me to be kept a prisoner here.”

“Possibly they would not dare; and I must warn you that you are taking a very unusual step.”

“Not in trusting you, sir,” she said firmly. “Treat me as you have treated the daughter who might have been born to you, and save me at once from the position I am in. Wait while I go and waken Eliza. She must be with us.”

“Your maid?” he said.

“Yes, I can not leave her here.”

“They will not keep her a prisoner,” he said quietly, “and she can join us afterwards. No, my child, if you go with me now it must be alone and at once. I will not put any pressure on you. Come or stay. You still have me to work for you as far as in me lies. Which shall it be? Your hat and cloak, or good-night?”

“Don’t leave me, Mr Garstang. I am weak and hysterical still. I feel now, after the chance of freedom you have shown me, that I dare not face to-morrow alone.”

“Then you will come?” he said, in the same low passionless way.

“I will.”

Five minutes after, John Garstang was helping her carefully to descend the ladder, guarding her every footstep so that she could not fall; and as they reached the ground, he quietly offered her his arm.

“What a beautifully calm and peaceful night!” he said gravely. “Do you feel the cold?”

“No; my cheeks are burning,” she answered.

“Ah! yes, a little excitement; but don’t be alarmed. The fly is waiting about half a mile away. A sharp walk will bring back the correct circulation. Almost a shame, though, my child, to take you from the clear pure air of the country to my gloomy house in Great Ormond Street. Not very far from your old home.”

“Don’t talk to me, please, Mr Garstang,” she said painfully.

“I most, my dear; and about everything that will take your attention from the step you are taking. Are your shoes pretty stout? I must not have you suffering from wet feet. By the way, my dear, you were nineteen on your last birthday. You look much older. I thought so yesterday. Dear, dear, ii my poor wife had lived, how she would have blessed me for bringing her a daughter to our quiet home! How you would have liked her, my dear! A sweet, good, clever woman—so different to Maria Wilton. Well, well, a good woman, too, in spite of her weakness for her boy.”

He chatted on, with Kate walking by him in silence, till the fly was reached, with the horse munching the grass at the road side, and the driver asleep on the box, but ready to start into wakefulness at a word.

An hour later, Kate sat back in the corner of a first-class carriage, when her strength gave way, and she burst into a hysterical fit of sobbing. But she heard Garstang’s words:

“I am glad to see that, my child. Cry on; it will relieve your overburdened heart. You will be better then. You have done right; never fear. To-morrow you can rest in peace.”

Chapter Twenty Two.

Jenny was almost breathless when she reached the park palings of the Manor House, some little distance from the gate at the end of the avenue; and here she paused for a few moments beneath an oak which grew within the park, but which, like many others, spread out three or four huge horizontal boughs right across the boundary lane, and made the way gloomy even on sunny days.

She looked sharply back in the direction by which she had come, but the evening was closing in more and more gloomy, and the mist exceedingly closely related to a rain, was gathering fast and forming drops on the edges of dead leaves and twigs, beside making the grass overhanging the footpath so wet that the girl’s feet and the lower parts of her skirts were drenched.

No one was in sight or likely to be in that secluded spot, and having gained her breath, she started off once more, heedless of the sticky mud of the lane, and followed it on, round by the park palings, where the autumn leaves lay thick and rustled as her dress swept over them. In a few minutes she reached a stile in the fence, where a footpath—an old right of way much objected to by Squire Wilton, as the village people called him—led across the little park, passing the house close by the end of the shrubbery, and entering another lane, which curved round to join the main road right at the far end of the village, a good mile away from the Doctor’s cottage.

There were lights in the drawing-room and dining-room, making a dull glow on the thickening mist, as Jenny halted at the end of the shrubbery, and all was still as death, till a dog barked suddenly, and was answered by half a dozen others, pointers and retrievers, in the kennel by the stables. This lasted in a dismal, irritating chorus, which made the girl utter little ejaculations suggestive of impatience, as she waited for the noise to end.

She glanced round once more, but the evergreens grew thickly just over an iron hurdle fence, and she satisfied herself that as she could only indistinctly see the shrubs three or four yards away, it was impossible for her to be seen from the house.

The barking went on in a full burst for a few minutes. Then dog after dog finished its part; the sextette became a quartette, a trio, a duet; and then a deep-voiced retriever performed a powerful solo, ending it with a prolonged bay, and Jenny raised her hand to her lips, when the hill chorus burst out again, and the girl angrily stamped her foot in the wet grass.

“Oh, what a cold I shall catch,” she muttered. “Why will people keep these nasty dogs?”

The barking went on for some minutes, just as before, breaking off by degrees into another solo; but at last all was still, the little sighs and ejaculations Jenny had kept on uttering ceased too. Then she raised her head quickly, and a shrill chirp sounded dead and dull in the misty air, followed at intervals by two more.

It was not a regular whistle, but a repetition of such a call as a night bird might utter in its flight as it floated over the house.

The mist seemed to stifle the call, and the girl was about to repeat it, but it was loud enough for the dogs to hear, and they set up a fierce baying, which lasted till there was a loud commotion of yelps and cries, mingled with the rattling of chains, the same deep-mouthed dog breaking out in a very different solo this time, one suggestive of suffering from the application of boot toes to its ribs.

Then quiet, and Jenny with trembling hand once more raised the little silver whistle to her lips, and the shrill chirps rang out in their former smothered way.

“Oh,” sighed Jenny. “It will be a sore throat—I’m sure it will. I must go back; I dare not stay any longer. Ugh! How I do hate the little wretch. I could kill him!”

The girl’s pretty little white teeth grated together, and once more she stamped her foot, following up this display of irritation by stamping the other.

“Cold as frogs,” she muttered, “and the water’s oozy in my boots. Wretch!”

“Ullo!” came in a harsh whisper, followed by the cachination which often accompanies a grin. “You’ve come, then!”

There was a rustle of the bushes before her, and the dimly seen figure of Claud climbed over the iron hurdle, made a snatch at the girl’s arm with his right and a trial to fling his left about her waist, but she eluded him.

“Keep off,” she said sharply; “how dare you!”

“Because I love you so, little dicky-bird,” he whispered.

“I thought you didn’t mean to come.”

“No, you didn’t, pet. I heard you first time, but I had to go out and kick the dogs. They heard it, too, and thought it was poachers. Only one, though—come after me!”

“You!” she said, contemptuously. “You, sir! Who would come after you?”

“Why, you would.”

“Such vanity!”

“Then what did you come for?”

“To bring you back this rubbishing little whistle.”

“Nonsense; you’d better keep that.”

“I tell you I don’t want it. Take it, sir.”

“No, I shan’t take it. Keep it.”

“There it is, then,” she cried; and she threw it at him.

“Gone in among the hollies,” he said. “Well, I’m not going to prick myself hunting for it in the dark. What a little spit-fire it is! What’s the matter with you to-night?”

“Matter enough. I’ve come to tell you never to make signals for me to come out again.”

“Why? I say, what a temper you are in to-night. Here, let me help you over, and we’ll go round to the arbor. You’ll get your feet wet standing there.”

“They are wet, and I shall catch a cold and die, I hope.”

“Oh, I say, Jenny!”

“Silence, sir! How dare you speak to me like that!”

“Come over, then, into the arbor.”

“I have told you again and again that I never would!”

“You are a little tartar,” he whispered. “You get prettier every day, and peck and say nastier things to me. But there, I don’t mind; it only makes me love you more and more.”

“It isn’t true,” she cried furiously. “You’re a wicked story-teller, and you know it.”

“Am I?”

“Yes; that’s the same miserable sickly tale you have told to half-a-dozen of the silly girls in the village. I know you thoroughly now. How dare you follow me and speak to me? If I were to tell my brother he’d nearly kill you.”

“Quite, p’raps, with a drop out of one of his bottles.”

“I can never forgive myself for having listened to the silly, contemptible flattery of the cast-off lover of a labourer’s daughter.”

“Oh, I like that, Jenny; what’s the good of bringing all that up? That’s been over ever so long. It was only sowing wild oats.”

“The only sort that you are ever likely to have to sow. I know all now—everything; so go to her, and never dare to speak to me again.”

“What? Go back to Sally? Well, you are a jealous little thing.”

“I, jealous—of you?” she said, with contempt in her tone and manner.

“Yes, that’s what’s the matter with you, little one. But go on; I like it. Shows me you love me.”

“I? Ha, ha, ha!” laughed Jenny derisively. “Do you think I don’t know everything?”

“I daresay you do. You’re such a clever little vixen.”

“Do you suppose it has not reached my ears about your elopement with your cousin?”

“I don’t care what you’ve heard; it ain’t true. But I say, don’t hold me off like this, Jenny; you know I love you like—like anything.”

“Yes, anything,” she retorted angrily; “any thing—your dogs, your horses, your fishing-rods and gun.”

“Oh, I say.”

“You miserable, deceitful trickster, I ought not to have lowered myself to even speak to you, or to come out again to-night, but I wanted to tell you what I thought about you, and it’s of no use to treat such thick-skinned creatures as you with contempt.”

“Well, you are wild to-night, little one. Don’t want me to show my teeth, too, and go, do you?”

“Yes, and the sooner the better, sir; go back to your wife.”

“Go back to my wife!” he cried, in tones which carried conviction to her ears. “Oh, I say; you’ve got hold of that cock-and-bull story, have you?”

“Yes, sir, I have got hold of the miserable cock-and-bull story, as you so elegantly turn it.”

“Oh, I don’t go in for elegance, Jenny; it ain’t my way; but as for that flam, it ain’t true.”

“You dare to tell me that, when the whole place is ringing with it, sir!” she cried, angrily.

“The whole place rings with the noise when that muddle-headed lot got pulling the bells in changes. But it’s only sound.”

“Don’t, pray don’t try to be witty, Claud Wilton; you only fail.”

“All right; go on.”

“Do you dare to tell me that you did not elope with your cousin the other night?”

“Say slope, little one; elope is so old-fashioned.”

“And I suppose you’ve married her for the sake of her money.”

“Do you?” he said, sulkily; “then you suppose jolly well wrong. It’s all a lie.”

“Then you haven’t married her?”

“No, I haven’t married her, and I didn’t slope with her; so now then.”

“Do you dare to tell me that you did not go up to London?”

“No, I don’t, because I did.”

“With her, in a most disgraceful, clandestine manner?”

“No; I went alone with a very jolly good-tempered chap, whom everybody bullies and calls a liar.”

“A nice companion; and pray, who was that?”

“This chap—your sweetheart; and I came back with him too.”

“Then where is your cousin?”

“How should I know?”

“She did go away, then, the same night?”

“Yes. Bolted after a row we had.”

“Is this true?”

“Every blessed word of it; and I haven’t seen her since. Now, tell me, you’re very sorry for all you’ve said.”

“Tell me this; has she gone away with some one else?”

“What do you want to know for?”

“I want to find out that you are not such a wicked story-teller as I thought.”

“Well, I have told you that.”

“Who can believe you?”

“You can. Come, I say; I thought you were going to be really a bit loving to me at last when I heard the whistle. It’s been like courting a female porcupine up to now.”

“You know whom your cousin has gone with?”

“Pretty sure,” he said, sulkily.

“Who is it?”

“Oh, well, if you must know, Harry Dasent.”

“That cousin I saw here?”

“Yes, bless him! Only wait till we meet.”

“Oh!” ejaculated Jenny, and then she turned to go; but Claud caught her arm.

“No, no; you might say something kind now you’ve found out you’re wrong.”

“Very well then, I will, Claud Wilton. First of all, I never cared a bit for you, and—”

“Don’t believe you. Go on,” he said, laughing.

“Secondly, take my advice and go away at once, for if my brother should meet you there will be a terrible scene. He believes horrible things of you, and I know he’ll kill you.”

“Phew!” whistled Claud. “Then he has found out?”

“Take my advice and go. He is terrible when he is roused, and I don’t know what he’d do.”

“I say, this ain’t gammon, is it?”

“It is the solemn truth. Now loose my arm; you hurt me.”

“Well, it’s all right, then, and perhaps it’s for the best I am going off to-night to hunt out Harry Dasent. I should have gone before, but I had to be about with the guv’nor, making inquiries.”

“Then loose my arm at once, and go before it is too late.”

“It is too late,” thundered a voice out of the gloom. “Jenny—sister—is this you?”

Chapter Twenty Three.

Jenny uttered a faint cry, and staggered against the iron hurdle, bringing down a shower of drops upon her head.

Leigh, after his words, uttered first in menace, then in a bitterly reproachful tone, paid no more heed to her, but turned fiercely upon Claud.

“Now, sir,” he cried; “have the goodness to—You scoundrel! You dog!”

He began after the fashion taught by education, but nature was too strong. He broke off and tried to seize Claud by the throat; but, active as the animal mentioned, the young fellow avoided the onslaught, placed one hand upon the hurdle, and sprang over among the shrubs.

Leigh followed him in time to receive blow after blow, as the branches through which Claud dashed sprang back, cutting him in the face and drenching him with water. Guided, though, by the sounds, he followed as quickly as he could, till all at once the rustling and crackling of branches ceased, and he drew up short on the soft turf of a lawn, listening for the next movement of his quarry, but listening in vain.

A minute later the dogs began barking violently, and Leigh’s thoughts turned to his sister. Then to Claud again, and he hesitated as to whether he should go to the house and insist upon seeing him. But his reason told him that he could not leave Jenny there in the wet and darkness, and with his teeth set hard in his anger and despair, he tried to find his way back to the place where he had come over into the garden, missing it, and coming to the conclusion that his sister had fled, for though he peered in all directions on crossing the hurdles, he could see no sign of her in the misty darkness.

As it happened he was not above a dozen yards from where she stood clinging to the dripping iron rail; and when with an angry exclamation he turned to make for the pathway, her plaintive voice arose:

“Please take me with you, Claud,” she said. “I am so faint and cold!”

He turned upon her with a suppressed roar, caught her by the arm, dragged it under his, and set off through the dripping grass with great strides, but without uttering a word.

She kept up with him as long as she could, weeping bitterly the while, and blinding herself with her tears so that she could not see which way they went. Twice over she stumbled and would have fallen, had not his hold been so tight upon her arm, and at last, totally unable to keep up with him, she was about to utter a piteous appeal, when he stopped short, for they had reached the wet and muddy stile.

Here he loosed her arm, and sprang over into the road.

“Give me your hands,” he cried, and she obeyed, and then as he reached over, she climbed the stile, stepping on to the top rail at last.

“Jump,” he said, sharply; and she obeyed, but slipped as she alighted, one foot gliding over the muddy surface, and in spite of his strong grasp upon her hands, she fell sideways, and uttered a sharp cry.

“No hysterical nonsense, now, girl,” he cried. “Get up!”

“I—I can’t, Pierce. Oh, pray, don’t be so cruel to me, please.”

“Get up!” he cried, more sternly.

“My ankle’s twisted under me,” she said, faintly. “I—I—!”

A piteous sigh ended her speech, and she sank nerveless nearly to the level, but a sudden snatch on his part saved her from falling prone.

Then bending down, he raised her, quite insensible, in his arms, drew her arm over his shoulders, and strode on again, the passionate rage and indignation in his breast nerving him so that she seemed to possess no weight at all.

For another agony had come upon him, just when life seemed to have suddenly become unbearable, and there were moments when it appeared to be impossible that the bright girl who had for years past been to him as his own child could have behaved in so treacherous, so weak and disgraceful a way as to have listened to the addresses of the young scoundrel who seemed to have blasted his life.

“And she always professed to hold him in such contempt,” he said to himself. “Great heavens! Are all women alike in their weakness and folly?”

He reached the cottage at last, where all was now dark; but the door yielded to his touch, and he bore her in, and laid her, still insensible, upon the sofa.

Upon striking a light, and holding a candle toward her face, he uttered a deep sigh, for she was ghastly pale, her hair was wet and clinging to her temples, and he could see that she was covered with the sticky, yellowish clay of the field and lane. But he steeled his breast against her. It was her punishment, he felt; and treating her as if she were some patient and a stranger, he took off her wet cloak and hood, threw them aside, and proceeded to examine for the injury.

But little examination was necessary, and his brow grew more deeply lined as he quickly took out a knife, slit her wet boot from ankle to toe, and set her foot at liberty.

Then lighting another candle, he walked sharply into his surgery, and returned with splints and bandages, to find her eyes open, and that she was gazing at him wildly.

“Where am I? What is the matter?” she cried, hysterically. “This dreadful pain and sickness!”

“At home. Lie still,” he said, coldly. “Your ankle is badly hart.”

“Oh!” she sighed, and the tears began to flow, accompanied by a piteous sobbing, for the meaning of it all came back.

He went out again, and returned with a glass containing some fluid, then passing his hand beneath her head, he raised her a little.

“Drink this,” he said.

“No, no, I can not bear it. You hurt me horribly.”

“I can not help it. Drink!”

He pressed the glass to her lips, and she drank the vile ammoniacal mixture.

“Now, lie still. I will not hurt you more than I can help, but I must see if the bone is broken, and set it.”

“No, no, not yet Pierce,” she sobbed; “I could not bear it while I am in this state. Let me tell you—let me explain to you first.”

“Be silent!” he cried, angrily. “I do not want to hear a word I must see to your ankle before it swells up and the work is impossible.”

“Never mind that, dear. I must tell you,” she cried, piteously.

“I know all I want to know,” he said, bitterly; “that the sister I have trusted and believed in has been cruelly deceiving me—that one I trusted to be sweet and true and innocent has been acting a part that would disgrace one of the village wenches, for to be seen even talking to that young scoundrel under such circumstances would rob her of her character. And this is my sister! Now, lie still. I must bandage this hurt.”

“Oh, Pierce, dear Pierce! You are hurting me more than I can bear,” she sobbed; for he had gone down on one knee as he spoke, and began manipulating the injured joint.

“I can not help it; you must bear it. I shall not be long.”

“I—I don’t mean that, dear; I can bear that,” she moaned. “It is your cruel words that hurt me so. How can you say such things to me?”

“Be silent, I tell you. I can only attend to this. If it is neglected, you may be lame for life.”

“Very well,” she said, with a passionate cry; “let me be lame for life—let me die of it if you like, but you must, you shall listen to me, dear.”

“I will not listen to you now—I will not at any time. You have killed my faith in you, and I can never believe or trust in you again.”

“But you shall listen to me,” she cried; and with an effort that gave her the most acute pain, she drew herself up and embraced her knees. “You shall not touch me again until you listen to me. There!”

“Don’t behave like a madwoman,” he said, sternly. “Lie back in your place; you are injuring yourself more by your folly.”

“It is not folly,” she cried; “I will not be misjudged like this by my own brother. Pierce, Pierce, I am not the wicked girl you think.”

“I am glad of it,” he said, coldly; “even if you are lost to shame.”

“Shame upon you, to say such words to me.”

“Perhaps I was deceived in thinking I found you there to-night with your lover.”

“My lover!” she cried, hysterically.

“Now, will you lie down quietly, and let me bandage your ankle, or must I stupefy you with chloroform?”

“You shall do nothing until you have listened to me,” she cried, wildly. “He is not my lover. I never had a lover, Pierce. I went there to-night to tell him to go away, for I was afraid for you to meet him. I shivered with dread, you were so wild and strange.”