George Manville Fenn (continued 5)

The days passed calmly enough with Kate Wilton, and no more was said on either side about communicating with anyone. Garstang was there at breakfast, and left till dinner time, when he returned punctually.

Kate read and worked, and waited for him to speak, striving the while by her manner to let her guardian see that she was trying to show her gratitude to him for all that he had done. And so a fortnight glided by, and then, unable to bear it longer, she determined to question him.

That evening Garstang came in looking weary and careworn. There was evidently some trouble on the way, and as she rose to meet him she felt that she must not speak that night, for her new guardian had cares enough of his own to deal with.

But he began at once as he took her hands, smiling gravely as he looked in her eyes.

“Well, my poor little prisoner,” he said, half-banteringly, “aren’t you utterly worn out, and longing, little bird, to begin beating your breast against the bars of your cage?”

“No,” she said, gently; “I am getting used to it now.”

“Brave little bird!” he said, raising both her hands to his lips and kissing them, before letting them fall; “then I shall come back some evening and hear you warbling once again. I have not heard you sing since the last evening I spent in Bedford Square long months ago.”

He saw her countenance change, and he went on hastily:

“By the way, has Sarah Plant bought everything for you that you require?”

“Oh, yes,” she said; “far more.”

“That’s right. I am so ignorant about such matters. Pray do not hesitate to give her orders. Do you know,” he continued, as he sat down and began to warm his hands, gazing the while with wrinkled brow at the fire, “I have been doing something to-day in fear and trembling.”

“Indeed?” she said, anxiously.

“Yes,” he said, thoughtfully, as he took up the poker and began to softly tap pieces of unburned coal into glowing holes. “My conscience has been smiting me horribly about you, my child. I come back after fidgeting all day about your being so lonely and dull, with nothing but those serious books about you—by the way, did they send in that parcel from the library?”

“Yes. Thank you for being so thoughtful about me, Mr Garstang.”

“Oh, nonsense! But I think, my child, we could get rid of that formal Mr Garstang. Do you think you could call me guardian, little maid?”

“Yes, guardian,” she said, smiling at him, as he turned to look at her anxiously.

“Hah! Come, that’s better,” he cried; and he set down the poker and rubbed his hands softly, as he gazed once more thoughtfully at the fire. “That sounds more as if you felt at home, and I shall dare to tell you what I have done. You see, I have been obliged to beg of you not to go out for a bit without me, and I have not liked to propose taking you of an evening to any place of entertainment—not a theatre, of course yet awhile, but a concert, say.”

“Oh no, Mr Garstang!” she said, hastily, with the tears coming to her eyes.

He coughed, and looked at her in a perplexed way.

“Oh no, guardian,” she said, smiling sadly.

“Hah! that’s better. Of course not; of course not. Forgive me for even referring to it. But er—you will not feel hurt at what I have done?”

She looked at him anxiously.

“Yes,” he said, speaking as if he had been suddenly damped. “I ought not to have done it yet. It will seem as if I were making it appear that you will have to stop some time.”

“What have you done?” asked Kate, gravely.

“Well, my child, I know how musical you used to be, and as I was passing the maker’s to-day the thought struck me that you would like a piano. ‘It would make the place less dull for her,’ I said, and—don’t be hurt, my dear—I—I told him to send a good one in.”

“Mr Garstang!—guardian!” she said, starting up, with the tears now beginning to fall.

“There, there, fought to have known better,” he cried, catching up the poker, and beginning to use it hurriedly. “Men are so stupid. Don’t take any notice, my dear. I’ll counter-order it.”

“No, no,” she said gently, as she advanced to him and held out her hand “I am not hurt; I am pleased and grateful.”

“You are—really?” he cried, letting the poker drop, and catching her hand in his.

“Of course I am,” she said, simply. “How could I be otherwise? Don’t think me so thoughtless, and that I do not feel deeply all your kindness.”

“Kindness, nonsense!” he said, dropping her hand again, and turning away. “But will it help to make the time pass better?”

“Yes, I shall be very glad to have it.”

“And, er—you’ll sing and play to me sometimes when I come back here?”

“Yes,” she said, smiling through her tears; “and I would to-night, now that you have come back tired and careworn, if it were here.”

“Tired and careworn? Who is?”

“You are. Do you think I could not see?”

He looked at her with his eyes full of admiration, and then turned to the fire again.

“I am most grateful, guardian,” she said. “But shall I have to be a prisoner long?”

“Hah!” he said with a sigh, and as if not hearing her question, “you are right, my child. I have had a very, very worrying day.”

“I thought so,” said Kate, resuming her seat, and looking at him in a commiserating way. “I hope it is nothing very serious.”

“Serious?” he said, turning to her, sharply. “Well, yes it is, but I ought not to worry you about it.”

“They say that sometimes relief comes in speaking of our troubles.”

“But suppose one gets relief, and the other pain?” he said, looking at her quickly.

“Then it is something about me?”

He turned and looked at the fire again.

“Please tell me, guardian,” she said.

“Only make you unhappy, my dear, just when you are getting back to your old self.”

She looked at him in a troubled way for some moments, and then with a sudden outburst:

“You have seen Uncle James?”

He did not answer for a while, but sat gazing at the fire.

“Yes,” he said, at last; “I have seen your Uncle James.”

“And he knows I am here,” she cried, clasping her hands, and looking at him in horror.

He turned slowly and met her eyes.

“Then you don’t repent the step you have taken, and want to go back to Northwood?” he said.

“How could I when you have protected me as you have, and saved me from so much suffering and insult?”

“Hah!” he said, with a sigh of relief, “thank you, my child. I was afraid that you would be ready to return to him.”

“Mr Garstang!” she cried.

“Guardian.”

“Then, guardian, how could you think it? If I have seemed dull and unhappy, surely it was not strange, considering my position.”

“Of course not; but I was flattering myself with the belief that you were really getting reconciled to your fate.”

“I am reconciled,” said Kate, warmly; “but I can not help longing to take my old nurse by the hand again, and to see my friends.”

“Friends?” he said, looking at her curiously.

“Yes; I made two friends down there whose society was pleasant to me, and whom I have missed.”

“Indeed! I did not know.”

“But tell me, is uncle coming? Does he know I am here?” cried Kate, excitedly.

“No, he is not coming, my child, and he does not know you are here,” said Garstang, watching her searchingly.

“Ah!” ejaculated the girl, with a sigh of relief. “I could not—I dare not meet him.”

“That is what I felt. You can not meet him for some time to come, but there are unpleasant complications, my dear, which trouble me a great deal.”

“Yes?” said Kate, excitedly.

“Such as will, I fear, make it necessary for you to remain still secluded.”

“But, Mr Garstang, suppose that he should come to see you one day when you were out, and he were shown in to me.”

“Ah, yes,” he said, dryly, watching her troubled face narrowly, “what I once said: that would be awkward.”

“Oh, it would be horrible,” cried Kate, springing to her feet. “I could not go back with him. And he has a right to claim me, and he would insist.”

She began to pace the room excitedly, with her hands clasped before her.

“Yes, my child, it would be horrible,” said Garstang, gently, “and that is why, in spite of its giving you pain, I have been so particular lest by any letter of yours he should learn where you were.”

“But he might come as I said—to see you, in your absence,” she cried.

“No, my dear,” he said, reaching out one hand as she was passing the back of his chair; and she stopped at once, and placed hers trustingly within. “Don’t be alarmed. I am an old man of the world, and for years past I have had to set my wits to work to battle with other people’s. Uncle James does not know that you are here, and unless you tell him he is not likely to know, for the simple reason that he is not aware that I have such a place.”

Kate uttered a sigh of relief, and let her hand rest in his.

“Poor fellow, he is horribly disappointed, and he is leaving no stone unturned to trace you, and his hopeful son is helping him and watching me.”

“Oh!” ejaculated Kate, excitedly. “Yes, but they do not know of this place, and are keeping an eye upon my offices in Bedford Row and my house down in Kent. I little thought when my poor old friend and client died and this place fell to me that it would one day prove so useful. So there, try and stop this fluttering of the pulses, little maid; so long as we are careful, and you wish it, you can remain in sanctuary. Now let’s dismiss the tiresome business altogether. I am glad, though, that you are pleased about the piano.”

“No, no; don’t dismiss it yet,” cried Kate, eagerly. “Tell me what he said.”

“Humph!” said Garstang, frowning; “shall I? No; better not.”

“Yes, please; I can not help wanting to know.”

“But I’m afraid of upsetting you, my dear.”

“It will not now; I am growing firmer, Mr Garstang, my guardian,” she said. “Better tell me than leave me to think, and perhaps lie awake to-night imagining things that may not be true.”

“Well, yes—that would be bad,” he said, nodding his head. “There, sit down then, and draw your chair to the fender. Your face is burning, but your hands are cold. That’s better,” he continued, as he took up the poker again, and sat forward, gazing at the fire, and once more tapping the pieces of coal into the glowing caverns. “You see, he has been to me three times.”

“And I did not know!” cried Kate.

“No, you did not know, my dear, because I did not want to upset you. What do you think he says?”

“That I fled to you, and placed myself under your protection?”

“Wrong,” said Garstang, looking round and smiling in the beautiful face across the hearth, as he played the part of an amiable fatherly individual to perfection. “Shall I say guess again?”

“No, no, pray don’t trifle with me, guardian.”

“Trifle with you?” he cried, growing stern of aspect. “No. There, it must come out. He did not say that, and he did not accuse me of fetching you away, for he and Master Claud are upon a wrong scent.”

“Yes—yes,” said Kate, eagerly.

“They say that Harry Dasent made an excuse of his friendship with Claud to go down to Northwood with another object in view.”

“Yes—what?” she said, looking at him wonderingly.

“You, my child.”

“Me?” she cried, aghast.

“Well, to speak more correctly, your money, my dear; and that, despairing of winning you in a straightforward way, he either came and caught you in the humour for being persuaded to leave with him, having on his other visits paved the way by making love to you—”

“Oh!” ejaculated Kate; “I never noticed anything particular in his manner to me—yes, I did, once or twice he was very, very attentive.”

“Indeed,” said Garstang, frowning.

“But you said ‘either,’” cried Kate, anxiously.

“Yes; either that he had persuaded you to elope with him, or he had climbed to your window and by some means forced you to come away.”

“What madness!” cried Kate.

“Yes, and there’s more behind; they accuse me of conniving at it, and say they are sure you are married, and that I know where you are.”

“Mr Dasent!” exclaimed Kate, gazing at Garstang wonderingly.

“Yes, Harry Dasent,” he said, drawing himself up. “He is my poor dead wife’s son, my dear, and it so happens that he is giving colour to the idea by his absence from home on one of his reckless, ne’er-do-weel expeditions; but between ourselves, my child, I’d rather see you married to Claud Wilton, your cousin, than to him; and,” he added warmly, “I think I would sooner follow you to your grave than—Yes—what is it?”

“I beg pardon, sir,” said the housekeeper, “but the dinner’s spoiling, and I’ve been waiting half an hour and more for you to ring.”

“Then bring it up directly, Mrs Plant, for we are terribly ready.”

“Yes, sir.”

“At least I am, my dear; I was faint for want of it when I came in. Shall we shelve the unpleasant business now?”

“It is so dreadful,” said Kate.

“Well, yes, it is; so it used to be with the poor folks who were besieged by the enemy. You are besieged, but you have a strong castle in which to defend yourself, and you can laugh your enemies to scorn. Really, Kate, my child, this is something like being cursed by a fortune.”

She nodded her head quickly.

“Money is useful, of course, and I once had a very eager longing to possess it; but, like a great many other things, when once it is possessed it is—well, only so much hard cash, after all. It won’t buy the love and esteem of your fellow-creatures. Do you know, my dear, if it were not for something I should be ready to say to you—‘Let Uncle James have your paltry fortune and pay off his debts.’ That’s what he wants, not you. As for Claud, he’d break your heart in a month.”

“Could I deliver the money over to him?” said Kate, looking anxiously in her new guardian’s face.

“Oh, yes, my dear, that would be easy enough. And then—I tell you what: I have plenty, and I’m tired of the worry and care of a solicitor’s life. Why shouldn’t I take a few years’ holiday and go on the Continent with my adopted daughter and her old maid? Paris, Berlin, Vienna, Switzerland, Italy, Egypt—what would you say to that? It would be delightful.”

“Yes,” said Kate, eagerly, “and then I could be at rest. No,” she said, suddenly, with the colour once more rising in her cheeks, “that would be impossible.”

“Yes,” said Garstang, watching her narrowly, as she averted her face, to gaze now in the fire. “Castles in the air, my dear.”

“Yes,” she said, dreamily, “castles in the air;” but she was seeing golden castles in the glowing fire, and her face grew hotter as, in spite of herself, she peopled one of those golden castles in a peculiar way which made her pulses begin to flutter, and she felt that she dared not gaze in her companion’s face.

“Yes, castles in the air, my child,” said Garstang again. “For that fortune was amassed by your father for the benefit of his child and her husband, and she must not lightly throw it away to benefit a foolish, grasping, impecunious relative.”

“The dinner is served, sir,” said Mrs Plant.

Garstang rose and offered his arm, which Kate took at once.

“We may dismiss the unpleasant business now,” he said, with a smile.

“Yes, yes, of course,” she said.

“But tell me, you do feel satisfied and safe—at rest?”

“Quite,” she said, looking smilingly in his face.

“Then now for dinner,” he said, leading her to the door.

That evening John Garstang sat over his modest glass of wine alone, fitting together the pieces of his plans, and as he did so he smiled and seemed content.

“No,” he said, softly, “you will not pocket brother Robert’s money, friend James, for I hold the winning trump. What beautiful soft wax it is to mould! Only patience—patience! The fruit is not quite ripe yet. A hundred and fifty thou—a hundred and fifty thou!”

Chapter Thirty One.

“If I could only get poor Pierce to believe in me again!” sighed Jenny, as she lay back in an easy chair at the cottage, after a month of illness; for in addition to the violent sprain from which she had suffered, the exposure had brought on a violent rheumatic cold and fever, from which she was slowly recovering.

“But he doesn’t believe in me a bit now, even after all I’ve suffered. Oh, how I should like to punish that wretched boy before I go!”

She was sitting close to the window, where she could look down the road toward the village, her eyes dull, her face listless, thinking over the past—her favourite way of making herself miserable, as she had no heart attachment, or disappointment, as a mental “pièce de résistance” to feast upon during her illness.

Everything had gone so differently from the way she had planned. Pierce was to marry Kate Wilton, and be rich and happy ever afterwards; she intended to be what she called a nice, little, old maiden aunt, to pet and tend all her brother’s children, for, of course, Kate and Pierce would have her to live with them; but it was all over—Kate had gone, no one knew where; Pierce, who had always loved her so tenderly, scarcely ever spoke to her as he used. He was quiet, grave, and civil, but never walked up and down the garden with his arm round her waist, laughing and joking with her, and talking about the prince who was to come some day to carry her off to his palace. It was all misery and wretchedness.

“I’m sure nobody could have been so ill and suffered so much before,” she said, “and I’m growing so white, and thin, and ugly, and old looking, and I’m sure I shall have to go about with a crutch; and it’s so lonely with Pierce always going out to see old women and old men who are not half so bad as I am; and I wish I was dead! Oh, dear, oh, oh, dear, I wonder whether it hurts much to die. If it does, I’ll ask Pierce to give me some laudanum to put me out of my misery, and—Oh, who’s that?”

A carriage had drawn up at the gate, and she leaned forward to see.

“Mrs Wilton’s carriage,” she said, quickly growing interested, “and poor Pierce out. Oh, dear, how vexatious it is, when he wants patients so badly! I wonder who’s ill now. It can’t be that little wretch, because I saw him ride by an hour ago, and stare at the place; and it can’t be Mr Wilton, because he always goes over to Dixter market on Fridays. It must be Mrs Wilton herself.”

“If you please, miss, here’s Missus Wilton,” said the tall, gawky girl, just emancipated from the village schools to be Jenny’s maid-of-all-work and nurse, and the lady in question entered with her village basket upon her arm.

“Ah! my dear child!” she cried, bustling across the room, putting her basket on the table, and then bobbing down to kiss Jenny, who sat up, frowning and stiff. “No, no, don’t get up.”

“I was not going to, Mrs Wilton,” said Jenny, coldly; “I can’t.”

“Think of that, now,” cried the visitor, drawing a chair forward, and carefully spreading her silks and furs as she sat down; “and I’ve been so dreadfully unneighbourly in not coming to see you, though I did not know you had been so bad as this. You see, I’ve had such troubles of my own to attend to that I couldn’t think of anything else; but it all came to me to-day that I had neglected you shamefully, and so I said to myself, I’d come over at once, as Mr Wilton and my son were both out, and bring you a bit of chicken, and a bottle of wine, and the very last bunch of grapes before it got too mouldy in the vinery, and here I am.”

“Yes, Mrs Wilton,” said Jenny, stiffly; “but if you please, I am not one of the poor people of the parish.”

“Why, no, my dear, of course not; but whatever put that in your head?”

“The wine, Mrs Wilton.”

“But it’s the best port, my dear—not what I give to the poor.”

“And the bit of chicken, Mrs Wilton,” said Jenny, viciously.

“But it isn’t a bit, my dear; it’s a whole one,” said the lady, looking troubled.

“A cold one, left over from last night’s dinner,” said Jenny, half hysterically.

“Indeed, no, my dear,” cried the visitor, appealingly; “it isn’t a cooked one at all, but a nice, young Dorking cockerel from the farm.”

“And a bunch of mouldy grapes,” cried Jenny, passionately, bursting into a fit of sobbing, “just as if I were widow Gee!”

“Why, my dear child, I—oh, I see, I see; you’re only just getting better, and you’re lonely and low, and it makes you feel fractious and cross, and I know. There, there, there, my poor darling! I ought to have come before and seen you, for I always did like to see your pretty, little, merry face, and there, there, there!” she continued, as she knelt by the chair, and in a gentle, motherly way, drew the little, thin invalid to her expansive breast, kissing and fondling and cooing over her, as she rocked her to and fro, using her own scented handkerchief to dry the tears.

“That’s right. Have a good cry, my dear. It will relieve you, and you’ll feel better then. I know myself how peevish it makes one to be ill, with no one to tend and talk to you; but you won’t be angry with me now for bringing you the fruit and wine, for indeed, indeed, they are the best to be had, and do you think I’d be so purse-proud and insulting as to treat you as one of the poor people? No, indeed, my dear, for I don’t mind telling you that I’m only going to be a poor woman myself, for things are to be very sadly altered, and when I come to see you, if I’m to stay here instead of going to the workhouse, there’ll be no carriage, but I shall have to walk.”

“I—I—beg your pardon, Mrs Wilton,” sobbed Jenny. “I say cross things since I have been so ill.”

“Of course you do, my precious, and quite natural. We women understand it. I wish the gentlemen did; but dear, dear me, they think no one has a right to be cross but them, and they are, too, sometimes. You can’t think what I have to put up with from Mr Wilton and my son, though he is a dear, good boy at heart, only spoiled. But you’re getting better, my dear, and you’ll soon be well.”

“Yes, Mrs Wilton,” said Jenny, piteously, “if I don’t die first.”

“Oh, tut, tut, tut! die, at your age. Why, even at mine I never think of such a thing. But, oh, my dear child, I want you to try and pity and comfort me. You know, of course, what trouble we have been in.”

“Yes,” said Jenny. “I have heard, and I’m better now, Mrs Wilton. Won’t you sit down?”

“To be sure I will, my dear. There: that’s better. And now we can have a cozy chat, just as we used when you came to the Manor. Oh, dear, no visitors now, my child. It’s all debt and misery and ruin. The place isn’t the same. Poor, poor Kate!”

“Have you heard where she is, Mrs Wilton?”

“No, my dear,” said the visitor, tightening her lips and shaking her head, “and never shall. Poor dear angel! I am right. I’m sure it’s as I said.”

Jenny looked at her curiously, while every nerve thrilled with the desire to know more.

“I felt it at the first,” continued Mrs Wilton. “No sooner did they tell me that she was gone than I knew that in her misery and despair she had gone and thrown herself into the lake; and though I was laughed at and pooh-poohed, there she lies, poor child. I’m as sure of it as I sit here.”

“Mrs Wilton!” cried Jenny, in horrified tones. “Oh, pray, pray, don’t say that!” and she burst into a hysterical lit of weeping.

“I’m obliged to, my dear,” said the visitor, taking a trembling hand in hers, and kissing it; “but don’t you cry and fret, though it’s very good of you, and I know you loved the sweet, gentle darling. Ah, it was all a terrible mistake, and I’ve often lain awake, crying without a sound, so as not to wake Mr Wilton and make him cross. Of course you know Mr Wilton settled that Claud was to marry her, and when he says a thing is to be, it’s no use for me to say a word. He’s master. It’s ‘love, honour, and obey,’ my dear, when you’re a married lady, as you’ll find out some day.”

“No, Mrs Wilton, I shall never marry.”

“Ah, that’s what we all say, my child, but the time comes when we think differently. But as I was telling you, I thought it was all a mistake, but I had to do what Mr Wilton wished, though I felt that they weren’t suited a bit, and I know Claud did not care for her. I’d a deal rather have seen him engaged to a nice little girl like you.”

“Mrs Wilton!” said Jenny, indignantly.

“Oh, dear me, what have I said?” cried the lady, smiling. “He’s wilful and foolish and idle, and fond of sport; but my boy Claud isn’t at all a bad lad—well, not so very—and he’ll get better; and I’m sure you used to like to have a talk with him when you came to the Manor.”

“Indeed I did not!” cried Jenny, flushing warmly.

“Oh, very well then, I’m a silly old woman, and I was mistaken, that’s all. But there, there, we don’t want to talk about such things, with that poor child lying at the bottom of the lake; and they won’t have it dragged.”

“But surely she would not have done such a thing, Mrs Wilton,” cried Jenny, wildly.

“I don’t know, my dear. They say I’m very stupid, but I can’t help, thinking it, for she was very weak and low and wretched, and she quite hated poor Claud for the way he treated her. But I never will believe that she eloped with that young Mr Dasent.”

“Neither will I,” cried Jenny, indignantly. “She would not do such a thing.”

“That she would not, my dear; and I say it’s a shame to say it, but my husband will have it that he has carried her off for the sake of her money. And as I said to my husband, ‘You thought the same about poor Claud, when the darling boy was as innocent as a dove.’ There, I’m right, I’m sure I’m right. She’s lying asleep at the bottom of the lake.”

Jenny’s face contracted with horror, and her visitor caught her in her arms again.

“There, there, don’t look like that, my dear. She’s nothing to you, and I’m a very silly old woman, and I dare say I’m wrong. I came here to be like a good neighbour, and try and comfort you, and I’m only making you worse. That’s just like me, my dear. But now look here. You mustn’t go about with that white face. You want change, and you shall come over to the Manor and stay for a month. It will do you good.”

“No,” said Jenny, quietly. “I can not come, thank you, Mrs Wilton. My brother would not permit it.”

“But he must, for your sake. Oh, these men, these men!”

“It is impossible,” said Jenny, holding out her hand, “for we are going away.”

“Going away! Well, I am sorry. Ah, me! It’s a sad world, and maybe I shall be gone away, too, before long. But you might come for a week. Why not to-morrow?”

Jenny shook her head, and the visitor parted from her so affectionately that no further opposition was made to the basket’s contents.

Chapter Thirty Two.

Jenny had not been seated alone many minutes after the carriage had driven off, dwelling excitedly upon her visitor’s words respecting Kate’s disappearance, when the front door was opened softly, and there was a tap on the panel of the room where she sat.

“Who’s there? Come in.”

“Only me,” said a familiar voice, and, hunting whip in hand, Claud Wilton stood smiling in the doorway.

“You!” cried Jenny, with flaming cheeks. “How dare you come here?”

“Because I wanted to see you,” he said. “Just met the mater, and she told me how bad you’d been, and that you talked about dying. I say, you know, none of that nonsense.”

“What is that to you, sir, if I did?”

“Oh, lots,” he said, twirling the lash of his whip as he stood looking at her. “If you were to pop off I should go and hang myself in the stable.”

“Go away from here directly. How dare you come?” cried Jenny, indignantly.

“Because I love you. You made me, and you can’t deny that.”

“Oh!” ejaculated the girl, as her cheeks flamed more hotly.

“I can’t help it now. I’ve been ever so miserable ever since I knew you were so bad; and when the old girl said what she did it regularly turned me over, and I was obliged to come. I say, I do love you, you know.”

“It is not love,” she cried hotly; “it is an insult. Go away. My brother will be here directly.”

“I don’t care for your brother,” said the young man, sulkily. “I’m as good as he is. I wanted to see how bad you were.”

“Well, you’ve seen. I’ve been nearly dead with fever and pain, and it was all through you that night.”

“Yes, it was all through me, dear.”

“Silence, sir; how dare you!”

“Because I love you, and ’pon my soul, I’d have been ten times as bad sooner than you should.”

“It is all false—a pack of cruel, wicked lies.”

“No, it ain’t. I know I’ve told lots of lies to girls, but then they were only fools, and I’ve been a regular beast, Jenny, but I’m going to be all square now; am, ’pon my word. I didn’t use to know what a real girl was in those days, but I’ve woke up now, and I’d do anything to please you. There, I feel sometimes as if I wish I were your dog.”

“Pah! Go and find your rich cousin, and tell her that.”

”—My rich cousin,” he cried, hotly. “She’s gone, and jolly go with her. I know I made up to her—the guv’nor wanted me to, for the sake of her tin—but I’m sick of the whole business, and I wouldn’t marry her if she’d got a hundred and fifty millions instead of a hundred and fifty thousand.”

“And do you think I’m so weak and silly as to believe all this?” she cried.

“I d’know,” he said, quietly. “I think you will. Clever girl like you can tell when a fellow’s speaking the truth.”

“Go away at once, before my brother comes.”

“Shan’t I wouldn’t go now for a hundred brothers.”

“Oh,” panted Jenny. “Can’t you see that you will get me in fresh trouble with him, and make me more miserable still?”

“I don’t want to,” he said, softly, “and I’d go directly if I thought it would do that, but I wouldn’t go because of being afraid. I say, ain’t you precious hard on a fellow? I know I’ve been a brute, but I think I’ve got some good stuff in me, and if I could make you care for me I shouldn’t turn out a bad fellow.”

“I will not listen to you. Go away.”

“I say, you know,” he continued, as he stood still in the doorway, “why won’t you listen to me and be soft and nice, same as you were at first?”

“Silence, sir; don’t talk about it. It was all a mistake.”

“No, it wasn’t. You began to fish for me, and you caught me. I’ve got the hook in me tight, and I couldn’t get away if I tried. I say, Jenny, please listen to me. I am in earnest, and I’ll try so hard to be all that is square and right. ’Pon my soul I will.”

“Where is your cousin?”

“I don’t know—and don’t want to,” he added.

“Yes you do, you took her away.”

“Well, it’s no use to swear to a thing with a girl; if you won’t believe me when I say I don’t know, you won’t believe me with an oath. What do I want with her? She hated me, and I hated her. There is only one nice girl in the world, and that’s you.”

“Pah!” cried Jenny, who was more flushed than ever. “Look at me.”

“Well, I am looking at you,” he said, smiling, “and it does a fellow good.”

“Can’t you see that I’ve grown thin, and yellow, and ugly?”

“No; and I’ll punch any fellow’s head who says you are.”

“Don’t you know that I injured my ankle, and that I’m going to walk with crutches?”

“Eh?” he cried, starting. “I say, it ain’t so bad as that, is it?”

“Yes; I can’t put my foot to the ground.”

“Phew!” he whistled, with a look of pity and dismay in his countenance; “poor little foot.”

“I tell you I shall be a miserable cripple, I’m sure; but I’m going away, and you’ll never see me again.”

“Oh, won’t I?” he said, smiling. “You just go away, and I’ll follow you like a shadow. You won’t get away from me.”

“But don’t I tell you I shall be a miserable cripple?”

“Well,” he said, thoughtfully; “it is a bad job, and perhaps it’ll get better. If it don’t I can carry you anywhere; I’m as strong as a horse. Look here, it’s no use to deny it, you made me love you, and you must have me now—I mean some day.”

“Never!” cried Jenny, fiercely.

“Ah, that’s a long time to wait; but I’ll wait. Look here, little one,” he cried, passionate in his earnestness now, “I love you, and I’m sorry for all that’s gone by; but I’m getting squarer every day.”

“But I tell you it is impossible. I’m going away; it was all a mistake. I can’t listen to you, and I tell you once more I’m going to be a miserable, peevish cripple all my life.”

“No, you’re not,” said the lad, drawing himself up and tightening his lips. “You’re not going to be miserable, because I’d make you happy; and I like a girl to be sharp with a fellow like you can; it does one good. And as to being a cripple, why, Jenny, my dear, I love you so that I’d marry you to-morrow, if you had no legs at all.”

Jenny looked at him in horror, as he still stood framed in the doorway; but averted her eyes, turning them to the window, as she found how eagerly he was watching her, while her heart began to beat rapidly, as she felt now fully how dangerous a game was that upon which she had so lightly entered. Rough as his manner was, she could not help feeling that it was genuine in its respect for her, though all the same she felt alarmed; but directly after, the dread passed away in a feeling of relief, and a look of malicious glee made her eyes flash, as she saw her brother coming along the road.

But the flash died out, and in repentance for her wish that Pierce might pounce suddenly upon the intruder, she said, quickly:

“Mr Wilton, don’t stop here; go—go, please, directly. Here’s my brother coming.”

She blushed, and felt annoyed directly after, angry with herself and angry at her lame words, the more so upon Claud bursting out laughing.

“Not he,” cried the lad. “You said that to frighten me.”

“No, indeed; pray go. He will be so angry,” she cried.

“I don’t care, so long as you are not.”

“But I am,” she cried, “horribly angry.”

“You don’t look it. I never saw you seem so pretty before.”

“But he is close here, and—and, and I am so ill—it will make me worse. Pray, pray, go.”

“I say, do you mean that?” he said, eagerly. “If I thought you really did, I’d—”

“You insolent dog! How dare you?” roared Pierce, catching him by the collar and forcing him into the room. “You dare to come here and insult my sister like this!”

“Who has insulted her?” cried Claud, hotly.

“You, sir. It is insufferable. How dare you come here?”

“Gently, doctor,” said Claud, coolly; “mind what you are saying.”

“Why are you here, sir?”

“Come to see how your sister was.”

“What is it to you, puppy? Leave the house,” cried, Pierce, snatching the hunting whip from the young man’s hand, “or I’ll flog you as you deserve.”

“No, you won’t,” said Claud, looking him full in the eyes, with his lips tightening together. “You can’t be such a coward before her, and upset her more. Ask her if I’ve insulted her.”

“No, no, indeed, Pierce; Mr Wilton has been most kind and gentlemanly—more so than I could have expected,” stammered Jenny, in fear.

“Gentlemanly,” cried Pierce scornfully. “Then it is by your invitation he is here. Oh, shame upon you.”

“No, it isn’t,” cried Claud stoutly. “She didn’t know I was coming, and when I did come she ordered me off—so now then.”

“Then leave this house.”

“No, I won’t, till I’ve said what I’ve got to say; so put down that whip before you hurt somebody, more, perhaps, than you will me. You’re not her father.”

“I stand in the place of her father, sir, and I order you to go.”

“Look here, Doctor, don’t forget that you are a gentleman, please, and that I’m one, too.”

“A gentleman!” cried Pierce angrily, “and dare to come here in my absence and insult my sister!”

“It isn’t insulting her to come and tell her how sorry I am she has been ill.”

“A paltry lie and subterfuge!” cried Pierce.

“No, it isn’t either of them, but the truth, and I don’t care whether you’re at home, Doctor, or whether you’re out I came here to tell her outright, like a man, that I love her; and I don’t care what you say or do, I shall go on loving her, in spite of you or a dozen brothers.—Now give me my whip.”

His brave outspoken way took Pierce completely aback, and the whip was snatched from his hand, Claud standing quietly swishing it round and round till he held the point in his fingers, looking hard at Jenny the while.

“There,” he said, “I don’t mean to quarrel; I’m going now. Good-bye, Jenny; I mean it all, every word, and I hope you’ll soon be better. There,” he said, facing round to Leigh. “I shan’t offer to shake hands, because I know that you won’t but when you like I will. You hate me now, like some of your own poisons, because you think I’m after Cousin Kate, but you needn’t. There, you needn’t flinch; I’m not blind. I smelt that rat precious soon. She never cared for me, and I never cared for her, and you may marry her and have her fortune if you can find her, for anything I’ll ever do to stop it—so there.”

He nodded sharply, stuck his hat defiantly on his head, and marched out, leaving Pierce Leigh half stunned by his words; and the next minute they heard him striding down the road, leaving brother and sister gazing at each other with flashing eyes.

Chapter Thirty Three.

For some moments neither spoke.

“Was this your doing?” cried Leigh, at last, and he turned upon his sister angrily.

At that moment Jenny was lying back, trembling and agitated, with her eyes half closed, but her brother’s words stung her into action.

“You heard what Mr Claud Wilton said,” she retorted, angrily. “How dare you speak to me like this, Pierce, knowing what you do?”

He uttered an impatient ejaculation.

“Yes, that is how you treat me now,” she said, piteously; “your troubles have made you doubting and suspicious. Have I not suffered enough without you turning cruel to me again?”

“How can you expect me to behave differently when I find you encouraging that cad here? It is all the result of the way in which you forgot your self-respect and what was due to me.”

“That’s cruel again, Pierce. You know why I acted as I did.”

“Pah!” he exclaimed; “and now I find you encouraging the fellow.”

“I was as much taken by surprise as you were, dear,” she said.

“And to use the fellow’s words, do you think I am blind? It was plain enough to see that you were pleased that he came.”

“I was not,” she cried, angrily now. “I tell you I was quite taken by surprise. I was horrified and frightened, and I was glad when I saw you coming, for I wanted you to punish him for daring to come.”

Leigh looked at his sister in anger and disgust.

“If I can read a woman’s countenance,” he said, mockingly, “you were gratified by every word he said to me.”

“I don’t know—I can’t tell how it was,” she faltered with her pale cheeks beginning to flame again, “but I’m afraid I was pleased, dear.”

“I thought so,” he cried, mockingly.

“I couldn’t help liking the manly, brave way in which he spoke up. It sounded so true.”

“Yes, very. Brave words such as he has said in a dozen silly girls’ ears. And he told you before I came that he loved you?”

“Yes, dear.”

“And you told him that his ardent passion was returned,” he sneered.

“I did not. I could have told him I hated him, but I could not help feeling sorry, for I have behaved very badly, flirting with him as I did.”

“And pity is near akin to love, Jenny,” cried Leigh, with a harsh laugh, “and very soon I may have the opportunity of welcoming this uncouth oaf for a brother-in-law, I suppose. Oh, what weak, pitiful creatures women are! People cannot write worse of them than they prove.”

Jenny was silent, but she looked her brother bravely in the face till his brows knit with anger and self-reproach.

“What do you mean by that?” he cried, angrily.

“I was only thinking of the reason why you speak so bitterly, Pierce.”

“Pish!” he exclaimed; and there was another silence.

“Mrs Wilton came this afternoon and brought me a chicken and some wine and grapes,” said Jenny, at last.

“Like her insolence. Send them back.”

“No. She was very kind and nice, Pierce. She was full of self-reproach for the way in which poor Kate Wilton was treated.”

“Bah! What is that to us?”

“A great deal, dear. She is half broken-hearted about it, and says it was all the Squire’s doing, and that she was obliged. He wished his son to marry Kate.”

“The old villain!”

“And she says that poor Kate is lying drowned in the lake.”

Leigh started violently, and his eyes looked wild with horror, but it was a mere flash.

“Pish!” he ejaculated, “a silly woman’s fancy. The ladder at the window contradicted that. It was an elopement and that scoundrel who was here just now was somehow at the bottom of it. He helped.”

“No,” said Jenny, quietly, “he was not, I am sure. There is some mystery there that you ought to probe to the bottom.”

“That will do,” he said, sharply, and she noticed that there was a peculiar startled look in her brother’s eyes. “Now listen to me. You will pack up your things. Begin to-night. Everything must be ready by mid-day to-morrow.”

“Yes, dear,” she said, meekly. “Are you going to send me away?”

“No, I am going to take you away. I cannot bear this life any longer.”

“Then we leave here?”

“Yes, at once.”

“Have you sold the place?”

“Bah! Who could buy it?”

“But your patients, Pierce?”

“There is another man within two miles. There, don’t talk to me.”

“Won’t you confide in me, Pierce?” said Jenny, quickly. “I can’t believe that we are going because of what has just happened. You must have heard some news.”

He frowned, and was silent.

“Very well, dear,” she said, meekly. “I am glad we are going, for I believe you will try and trace out poor Kate.”

“A fly will be here at mid-day,” he said, without appearing to hear her words, and her eyes flashed, for all told her that she was right and that the sudden departure was not due to the encounter with Claud. But that meeting had sealed his lips in anger, just when he had reached home full of eagerness to confide in his sister that he had at last obtained a slight clew to Kate’s whereabouts.

For he had been summoned to the village inn to attend a fly-driver, who had been kicked by his horse. The man was a stranger, and the injury was so slight that he was able to drive himself back to his place, miles away. But in the course of conversation, while his leg was being dressed, he had told the Doctor that he once had a curious fare in that village, and he detailed Garstang’s proceedings, ending by asking Leigh if he knew who the lady was.

Chapter Thirty Four.

“Here! Hi! Hold hard!”

Pierce Leigh paid no heed to the hails which reached his ears as he was crossing Bedford Square one morning; but he stopped short and turned angrily when a hand was laid heavily upon his shoulder, to find himself face to face with Claud Wilton, who stood holding out his hand.

“I saw you staring up at Uncle Robert’s old house, but it’s of no use to look there.”

“What do you mean, sir?” said Leigh sternly.

“Get out! You know. Well, aren’t you going to shake hands?”

There was something so frank and open in the young man’s look and manner that Leigh involuntarily raised his hand, and before a flash of recollection could telegraph his second intent it was seized and wrung, vigorously.

“That’s better, Doctor,” cried Claud. “How are you?”

“Oh, very well,” said Pierce shortly.

“Well, you don’t look it. No, no, don’t give a fellow the cold shoulder like that. I say, I came ever so long ago and called on the new people here, for I thought perhaps she might have been to her old home, but it was only a fancy. No go; she hadn’t been there.”

“You will excuse me, Mr Wilton,” said Pierce, coldly; “I am busy this morning—a patient. I wish you good day.”

“No, you don’t. I’ve had trouble enough to find you, so no cold shoulder, please. It’s no good, for I won’t lose sight of you now. I say: it was mean to cut away from Northwood like you did.”

“Will you have the goodness to point out which road you mean to take, Mr Wilton,” said Leigh, wrathfully, “and then I can choose another?”

“No need, Doctor; your road’s my road, and I’ll stick to you like a ‘tec’.”

Leigh’s eyes literally flashed.

“There, it’s of no use for you to be waxy, Doctor, because it won’t do a bit of good. I’ve got a scent like one of my retrievers; and I’ve run you down at last.”

“Am I to understand then, sir, that you intend to watch me?” said Leigh, sternly.

“That’s it. Of course I do. I’ve been at it ever since you left the old place. When I make up my mind to a thing I keep to it—stubborn as pollard oak.”

“Indeed,” said Leigh, sarcastically; “and now you have found me, pray what do you want?”

“Jenny!” said Claud, with the pollard oak simile in voice and look.

“Confound your insolence, sir!” cried Leigh, fiercely. “How dare you speak of my sister like that?”

“’Cause I love her, Doctor, like a man,” and there was a slight quiver in the speaker’s voice; but his face was hard and set, and when he spoke next his words sounded firm and stubborn enough. “I told her so, and I told you so; and whether she’ll have me some day, or whether she won’t, it’s all the same, I’ll never give her up. She’s got me fast.”

In spite of his anger, Leigh could not help feeling amused, and Claud saw the slight softening in his features, and said quickly: “I say, tell me how she is.”

“My sister’s health is nothing to you, sir, and I wish you good morning.”

He strode on, but Claud took step for step with him, in spite of his anger.

“It’s of no use, Doctor, and you can’t assault me here in London. I shall find out where you live, so you may just as well be civil. Tell me how she is.”

Leigh made no reply, but walked faster.

“Her health nothing to me,” said Claud, in a low, quick way. “You don’t know; and I shan’t tell you, because you wouldn’t believe, and would laugh at me. I say, how would you like it if someone treated you like this about Kate?”

“Silence, sir! How dare you!” thundered Leigh, facing round sharply and stopping short.

“Don’t shout, Doctor; it will make people think we’re rowing, and collect a crowd. But I say, that was a good shot; had you there. Haven’t found her yet, then?”

“My good fellow, will you go your way, and let me go mine?”

“In plain English, Doctor, no, I won’t; and if you knock me down I’ll get up again, put my hands in my pockets, and follow you wherever you go. I shan’t hit out again, though I am in better training and can use my fists quicker than, you can, and I’ve got the pluck, too, as I could show you. Do just what you like, call me names or hit me, but I shan’t never forget you’re Jenny’s brother. Now, I say, don’t be a brute to a poor fellow. It ain’t so much of a sin to love the prettiest, dearest, little girl that ever breathed.”

“Will you be silent?”

“Oh, yes, if you’ll talk to a fellow. You might be a bit more feeling, seeing you’re in the same boat.”

“You insufferable cad!” cried Leigh, furiously.

“Yes, that’s it. Quite right—cad; that’s what I am, but I’m trying to polish it off, Doctor. I say, tell me how she is. She was so bad.”

“My sister has quite recovered.”

“Hooray!” cried Claud, excitedly. “But, I say—the ankle. How is it?”

“Look here, my good fellow, you must go. I will not answer your questions. Are you mad or an idiot?”

“Both,” said Claud, coolly. “I say, you know, about that ankle. I believe you were so savage that night that you kicked it and broke it.”

“What!” cried Leigh, excitedly. “My good fellow, what do you take me for?”

“Her brother, with an awful temper. Her father would not treat me like you do, if he was alive. It was a cowardly, cruel act for a man to do.”

“You are quite mistaken, sir,” said Leigh, coldly, as he wondered to himself that he should be drawn out like this. “My sister was unfortunate enough to sprain her ankle.”

“Glad of it,” said Claud, bluntly. “I was afraid it was your doing, and whenever I see you it sets my monkey up and makes me want to kick you. Well, you’ve told me how she is, and that’s some pay for all my hunting about in town. I say, there’s another chap down at Northwood stepped into your shoes already. The mater has had him in for the guv’nor’s gout. He caught a cold up here with the hunting for Kate. It turned to gout, and I’ve had all the hunting to do. Now you and I will join hands and run her down.”

Leigh made an angry gesture, which was easy enough to interpret—“How am I to get rid of this insolent cad?”

Claud laughed.

“You can’t do it,” he said. “I say, Doctor, sink the pride, and all that sort of thing. It’s of no use to refuse help from a fellow you don’t like, if he’s in earnest and means well. Now, just look here. ’Pon my soul, it’s the truth. Kate Wilton has got a hundred and fifty thou., and your sister hasn’t got a penny. I’m not such a fool as you think, for I can read you like a book. You were gone on Cousin Kate long before you were asked to our house, and you’d give your life to find her; and, mind, I don’t believe it’s for the sake of her money. Well, I’m doing all I can to find her, and have been ever since you came away. Why? I’ll tell you. Because it will please little Jenny, who about worships you, though you don’t deserve it. And I tell you this, Doctor: if I had found her I’d have come and told you straight—if I could have found you, for Jenny’s sake.”

Leigh looked at him fixedly, trying hard to read the young man’s face, but there was no flinching, no quivering of eyelid, or twitch about the lips. Claud gazed at him with a straightforward, dogged look which carried with it conviction.

“Look here,” sud Claud, “I haven’t found out where she is.”

“Indeed?” said Leigh, guardedly.

“But I’ve found out one thing.”

With all the young doctor’s mastery of self, he could not help an inquiring glance.

Claud saw it, and smiled.

“She did not go off with Harry Dasent I found out that.”

Leigh remained silent.

“Ara now look here. I’ve gone over it all scores of times, trying to think out where she can be, and that there’s some relation or friend she bolted off to so as to get away from us, but I can’t fix it on anyone, and go where I will, from our cousins the Morrisons down to old Garstang—who’s got the guv’nor under has thumb, and could sell us up to-morrow if he liked—I can’t get at it. But the scent seems to be most toward old Garstang, and I mean to try back there. The guv’nor said it was his doing, to help Harry Dasent, but that’s all wrong. Those two hate one another like poison, and I can’t make out any reason which would set Garstang to work to get her away. He’d do it like a shot to get her money, but he can’t touch that, for I’ve read the will again. Nobody but her husband can get hold of that bit of booty, and I wish you may get it. I do, ’pon my soul. Still, I’m growing to think more and more that foxy Garstang’s the man.”

They had been walking steadily along side by side while this conversation was going on, and at last, fully convinced that Claud would not be shaken off, and even if he were would still watch him, Leigh walked straight on to his new home, and stopped short at a door whereon was a new brass plate, while the customary red bull’s-eyes were in the lamp like danger signals to avert death and disease—the accidents of life’s great railway.

“Now, Mr Wilton,” he said, shortly, “you have achieved your purpose and tracked me home.”

“And no thanks to you,” said Claud, with one of his broad grins. “Won’t ask me in, I suppose?”

“No, sir, I shall not.”

“All right I didn’t expect you would. Of course I should have found you out some time from the directories.”

“My name is not in them, sir.”

“Oh, but it soon would be, Doctor. I say, shall you tell her you have seen me?”

“For cool impudence, Mr Claud Wilton,” said Leigh, by way of answer, “I have never seen your equal.”

“’Tisn’t impudence, Doctor,” said Claud, earnestly; “it’s pluck and bull-dog. I haven’t been much account, and I don’t come up to what you think a fellow should be.”

“You certainly do not,” said Leigh, unable to repress a smile.

“I know that, but I’ve got some stuff in me, after all, and when I take hold I don’t let go.”

He gave Leigh a quick nod, and thrusting his hands into his pockets, walked right on, without looking back, Leigh watching him till he turned a corner, before taking out a latch-key and letting himself into the house.

“The devil does not seem so black as he is painted, after all,” he said, as he wiped his feet, and at the sound Jenny, quite without crutches, came hurrying down the stairs.

“Oh, Pierce, dear, have you been to those people in Bedford Street? They’ve been again twice, and I told them you’d gone.”

“Ugh!” ejaculated Leigh. “What a head I have! Someone met me on the way, and diverted my thoughts. I’ll go at once.”

And he hurried out.

Chapter Thirty Five.

It was a splendid grand piano whose tones rang, through the house, and brought poor Becky, with her pale, anaemic, tied-up face, from the lower regions, to stand peering round corners and listening till the final chords of some sonata rang out, when she would dart back into hiding, but only to steal up again as slowly and cautiously as a serpent, and thrust out her head from the gloom which hung forever upon the kitchen stairs, when Kate’s low, sweet voice was heard singing some sad old ballad, a favourite of her father’s, one which brought up the happy past, and ended often enough in the tears dropping silently upon the ivory keys.

Such a song will sometimes draw tears from many a listener; the melody, the words, recollections evoked, the expression given by the singer, all have their effect; and perhaps it was a memory of the baker (or milkman) which floated into poor, timid, shrinking Becky, for almost invariably she melted into tears.

“She says it’s like being in heaven, ma’am,” said Sarah Plant, giving voice upstairs to her child’s strained ideas of happiness. “And really the place don’t seem like the same, for, God bless you! you have made us all so happy here.”

Kate sighed, for she did not share the happy feeling. There were times when her lot seemed too hard to bear. Garstang was kindness itself; he seemed to be constantly striving to make her content. Books, music, papers, fruit, and flowers—violets constantly as soon as he saw the brightening of her eyes whenever he brought her a bunch. Almost every expressed wish was gratified. But there was that intense longing for communion with others. If she could only have written to poor, amiable, faithful Eliza or to Jenny Leigh, she would have borne her imprisonment better; but she had religiously studied her new guardian’s wishes upon that point, yielding to his advice whenever he reiterated the dangers which would beset their path if James Wilton discovered where she was.

“As it is, my dear child,” he would say again and again, “it is sanctuary; and I’m on thorns whenever I am absent, for fear you should be tempted by the bright sunshine out of the gloom of this dull house, be seen by one or other of James Wilton’s emissaries, and I return to find the cage I have tried so hard to gild, empty—the bird taken away to another kind of captivity, one which surely would not be so easy to bear.”

“No, no, no; I could not bear it!” she cried, wildly. “I do not murmur. I will not complain, guardian; but there are times when I would give anything to be out somewhere in the bright open air, with the beautiful blue sky overhead, the soft grass beneath my feet, and the birds singing in my ears.”

“Yes, yes, I know, my poor dear child,” he said, tenderly. “It is cruelly hard upon you, but what can I do? I am waiting and hoping that James Wilton on finding his helplessness will become more open to making some kind of reasonable terms. I am sure you would be willing to meet him.”

“To meet him again? Oh, no, I could not. The thought is horrible,” she cried. “He seems to have broken faith so, after all his promises to my dying father.”

“He has,” said Garstang, solemnly; “but you misunderstand me; I did not mean personally meet him, but in terms, which would be paying so much money—in other words, buying your freedom.”

“Oh, yes, yes,” she cried, wildly, “at any cost. It is as you said one evening, guardian; I am cursed by a fortune.”

“Cursed indeed, my dear. But there, try and be hopeful and patient, and we will have more walks of an evening. Only to think of it, our having to steal out at night like two thieves, for a dark walk in Russell Square sometimes. I don’t wonder that the police used to watch us.”

“If I could only write a few letters, guardian!”

“Yes, my dear, if you only could. I cannot say to you, do not, only lay the case before you once again.”

“Yes, yes, yes,” she said, hastily wiping away a few tears. “I am very, very foolish and ungrateful; but now that’s all over, and I am going to be patient, and wait for freedom. I am far better off than many who are chained to a sick bed.”

“No,” he said, gently, shaking his head at her; “far worse off. Sickness brings a dull lassitude and indifference to external things. The calm rest of the bedroom is welcome, and the chamber itself the patient’s little world. You, my dear, are in the full tide of life and youth, with all its aspirations, and must suffer there, more. But there; I am working like a slave to settle a lot of business going through the courts; and as soon as I can get it over we will take flight somewhere abroad, away from the gilded cage, out to the mountains and forests, where you can tire me out with your desires to be in the open air.”

“I—I don’t think I wish to leave England,” she said, hesitatingly, and with the earnest far-off look in her eyes that he had seen before.

“Well, well, we will find some secluded place by the lakes, where we are not likely to be found out, and where the birds will sing to you. And, here’s a happy thought, Kate, my child—you shall have some fellow prisoners.”

“Companions?” she said, eagerly.

“Yes, companions,” he replied, with a smile; “but I meant birds—canaries, larks—what do you say to doves? They make charming pets.”

“No, no,” she said, hastily; “don’t do that, Mr Garstang. One prisoner is enough.”

He bowed his head.

“You have only to express your wishes, my child,” he said.—“Then you are going to try and drive away the clouds?”

“Oh, yes, I am going to be quite patient,” she said, smiling at him; and she placed her hands in his.

“Thank you,” he said, gently; and for the first time he drew her nearer to him, and bent down to kiss her forehead—the slightest touch—and then dropped her hands, to turn away with a sigh.

And the days wore on, with the prisoner fighting hard with self, to be contented with her lot. She practiced hard at the piano, and studied up the crabbed Gothic letters of the German works in one of the cases. Now and then, too, she sang about the great, gloomy house, but mostly to stop hurriedly on finding that she had listeners, attracted from the lower regions.

But try how she would to occupy her thoughts, she could not master those which would bring a faint colour to her cheeks. For ever and again the calm, firm countenance of Pierce Leigh would intrude itself, and the colour grew deeper, as she felt that there was something strange in all this, especially when he of whom she thought had never, by word or look, given her cause to think that he cared for her. And yet, in her secret heart, she felt that he did. And what would he think of her? He could not know anything of her proceedings, but little of her reasons for fleeing from her uncle’s care.

Chapter Thirty Six.

The memories of her slight friendship with the Leighs—slight in the rareness of their meetings—grew and grew as the days passed on, till Kate Wilton found herself constantly thinking of the brother and sister she had left at Northwood. Jenny’s bright face was always obtruding itself, seeming to laugh from the pages of the dull old German book over which she pored; and it became a habit in her solitary life to sit and dream and think over it, as it slowly seemed to change; the merry eyes grew calm and grave, the broad forehead broader, till, though the similarity was there, it was the face of the brother, and she would close the book with a startled feeling of annoyance, feeling ready to upbraid herself for her want of modesty—so she put it—in thinking so much of one of whom she knew so little.

At such times she began to suffer from peculiar little nervous fits of irritation, which were followed by long dreamy thoughts which troubled her more than ever, respecting what the Leighs would think of her flight.

Music, long talks with Sarah Plant, efforts to try and draw out poor Becky, everything she could think of to take her attention and employ her mind, were tried vainly. The faces of the brother and sister would obtrude more and more, as her nervous fretfulness increased, and rapidly now the natural struggle against her long imprisonment increased.

She tried hard to conceal it from Garstang, and believed that he did not notice it, but it was too plain. Her efforts to appear cheerful and bright at breakfast time and when he came back at night, grew forced and painful; and under his calm smiling demeanour and pleasant chatty way of talking to her about current events, he was bracing himself for the encounter which he knew might have to take place at any moment.

It was longer than he anticipated, but was suddenly sprung upon him one evening after an agonising day, when again and again Kate had had to fight hard to master the fierce desire to get away from the terrible solitude which seemed to crush her down.

She knew that she was unwell from the pressure of her solitary life upon her nerves; the thoughts which troubled her magnified themselves; and now with terrible force came the insistent feeling that she had behaved like a weak child in not bravely maintaining her position at her uncle’s house, and forcing him to fulfill his duty of protector to his brother’s child.

“Is it too late? Am I behaving like a child now?” she asked herself, and at last with a wild outburst of excitement she determined that her present life must end.

She had calmed down a little just before Garstang returned that evening, and the recollection of his chivalrous treatment and fatherly attention to her lightest wants made her shrink from declaring that in spite of everything she must have some change; for, as she had told herself in her fit of excitement that afternoon, if she did not she would go mad.

She was very quiet during dinner, and he carefully avoided interrupting the fits of thoughtfulness in which from time to time she was plunged, but an hour later, when he came after her to the library from his glass of wine, he saw that her brows were knit and that the expected moment had come.

“Tired, my dear?” he said, as he subsided into his easy chair.

“Very, Mr Garstang,” she said, quickly; and the excited look in her eyes intensified.

“Well, I don’t like parting from you, my child,” he said; “I have grown so used to your bright conversation of an evening, and it is so restful to me, but I must not be selfish. Go to bed when you feel so disposed. It is the weather, I think. The glass is very low.”

“No,” said Kate quickly, “it is not that; it is this miserable suspense which is preying upon me. Oh, guardian, guardian, when is all this dreadful life of concealment to come to an end?”

“Soon, my child, soon. But try and be calm; you have been so brave and good up to now; don’t let us run risks when we are so near success.”

“You have spoken to me like that so often, and—and I can bear it no longer. I must, at any risk now, have it put an end to.”

“Ah!” he sighed, with a sad look; “I am not surprised to hear you talk so. You have done wonders. I would rather have urged you to be patient a little longer, my dear, but I agree with you; it is more than a bright young girl can be expected to bear. I have noticed it, though you have made such efforts to conceal it; the long imprisonment is telling upon your health, and makes you fretful and impatient.”

“And I have tried so hard not to be,” she cried, full of repentance now.

“My poor little girl, yes, you have,” he said, reaching forward to take and pat her hand. “Well, give me a few hours to think what will be best to do, and then we will decide whether to declare war against James Wilton and cover ourselves with the shield of the law, or go right away for a change. You will give me a few hours, my dear, say till this time to-morrow?”

“Oh, yes,” she said, with a sigh of relief. “Pray forgive me; I cannot help all this.”

“I know, I know,” he said, smiling. “By the way, to-morrow is my birthday; you must try and celebrate it a little for me.”

She looked at him wonderingly.

“I mean, make Sarah Plant prepare an extra dinner, and I will bring home plenty of fruit and flowers; and after dinner we will discuss our plans and strike for freedom. Ah, my dear, it will be a great relief to me, for I have been growing very, very anxious about you. Too tired to give me a little music?”

“No, indeed, no,” she said eagerly. “Your words have given me more relief than I can tell.”

“That’s right,” he said, “but to be correct, I ought to ask you to read to me, to be in accord with the poem. But no, let it be one of my favourite songs, and in that way,

“‘The night shall be filled with music, And the cares which infest the day Shall fold their tents like the Arabs, And as silently steal away.’”

“Longer than I expected,” said Garstang, as she left him that night for her own room. “Now let us see.”

In accordance with his wish, Kate tried to quell the excitement within her breast by entering eagerly into the preparations for the evening’s repast, but the next day passed terribly slowly, and she uttered a sigh of relief when the hands of the clock pointed to Garstang’s hour of returning.

He came in, smiling and content, laden with flowers and fruit, part of the former taking the shape of a beautiful bouquet of lilies, which he handed to her with a smile.

“There,” he cried; “aren’t they sweet? I believe, after all, that Covent Garden is the best garden in the world. I’m as pleased as a child over my birthday. Here, Mrs Plant, take this fruit, and let us have it for dessert.”

The housekeeper came at his call, and smiled as she took the basket he had brought in his cab, shaking her head sadly as she went down again.

“Hah!” ejaculated Garstang; “and I must have an extra glass of wine in honour of the occasion. It is all right, my dear,” he whispered, with a great show of mystery. “Plans made, cut and dried. We’ll have them over with the dessert.”

Kate gave him a grateful look, and took up and pressed her bouquet to her lips, while Garstang went to a table drawer and took out a key.

“You have never seen the wine cellar, my dear. Come down with me. It is capitally stored, but rather wasted upon me.”

He went into the hall and lit a chamber candle, returning directly.

“Ready?” he said, as she followed him down the dark stairs to the basement, Becky being seen for a moment flitting before them into the gloom, just as Garstang stopped at a great iron-studded door, and picked up a small basket from a table on the other side of the passage.

The door was unlocked, and opened with a groan, and Garstang handed his companion the candlestick.

“Don’t you come in,” he said; “the sawdust is damp, and young ladies don’t take much interest in bottles of wine. But they are interesting to middle-aged men, my dear,” he continued as he walked in, his voice sounding smothered and dull. Then came the chink of a bottle, which he placed in the wine basket, and he went on to a bin farther in.

“Don’t come,” he cried; “I can see. That’s right. Our party to-night is small,” and he came out with the two bottles he had fetched, stamped the sawdust off his feet, re-locked the door, and led the way upstairs, conveying the wine into the dining-room.

Ten minutes later they were seated at the table, and Garstang opened the bottle of champagne he had fetched himself.

“There, my dear,” he said; “you must drink my health on this my birthday,” and in spite of her declining, he insisted. “Oh, you must not refuse,” he said. “And, as people say, it will do you good, for you really are low and in need of a stimulus.”

The result was that she did sip a little of the sparkling wine, with the customary compliments, and the dinner passed off pleasantly enough. At last she rose to go.

“I will not keep you long, my dear,” he said. “Just my customary glass of claret, and by that time my thoughts will be in order, and I can give you my full news.”

Kate went into the library, growing moment by moment more excited, and trying hard to control her longing to hear Garstang’s plans, which were to end the terrible life of care. It seemed as if he would never come, and he did not until some time after the housekeeper had brought in the tea things and urn.

“At last,” she said, drawing a deep breath full of relief, for there was a step in the hall, the dining-room door was heard to close, and directly after Garstang entered, and she involuntarily rose from her seat, feeling startled by her new guardian’s manner, though she could not have explained the cause.

“I have been growing so impatient,” she said hastily, as he came to where she stood.

“Not more so than I,” he said; and she fancied for the moment that there was a strange light in his eyes.

But she drove away the thought as absurd.

“Now,” she cried; “I am weary with waiting. You have devised a way of ending this terrible suspense?”

“I have,” he said, taking her hands in his; and she resigned them without hesitation.

“Pray tell me then, at once. What will you do?”

“Make you my darling little wife,” he whispered passionately; and he clasped her tightly in his arms.

Chapter Thirty Seven.

For a few moments Kate Wilton was passive in Garstang’s arms. The suddenness of the act—the surprise, stunned her, and his words seemed so impossible that she could not believe her hearing. Then horror and revulsion came; she knew it was the truth, and like a flash it dawned upon her that all that had gone before, the chivalrous behaviour, the benevolence and paternal tenderness, were the clever acting of an unscrupulous man—the outcome of plans and schemes, and for what? To obtain possession of the great fortune by which she felt more than ever that she was cursed.

With a faint cry of horror she thrust him back with both hands upon his breast, and struggled wildly to escape from his embrace.

But the effort was vain; he clasped her tightly once again, in spite of her efforts, and covered her face, her neck, her hair, with his kisses.

“Silly, timid little bird!” he whispered, as he held her there, horrified and panting; “what ails you? The first kisses, of course. There, don’t be so foolish, my darling child; they are the kisses of him who loves you, and who is going to make you his wife. Come, have I not been tender and patient, and all that you could wish, and is not this an easy solution of the difficulties by which you are surrounded?”

“Mr Garstang, loose me, I insist!” she cried. “How dare you treat me so!”

“I have told you, my beautiful darling. Come, come, be sensible; surely the love of one who has worshipped you from the first time he met you is not a thing to horrify you. Am I so old and repulsive, that you should go on like this? Only a few hours ago you were pressing my hands, holding your face to mine for my kisses; while now that I declare myself you begin struggling like a newly-captured bird. Why, Kate, my darling, I am talking to you like a poetic lover in a sentimental play. Really, dry lawyer as I am, I did not know that I could rise to such a flow of eloquence. Yes, pet, and you are acting too. There, that is enough for appearances, and there is no one to see, so let’s behave like two sensible matter-of-fact people. Come and sit down here.”

“I wish to go—at once,” she cried, striving hard to be firm, feeling as she did that everything, in her hopeless state, depended upon herself.

“We’ll talk about that quietly, when you have seated yourself. No—you will not?” he cried playfully. “Then you force me to show you that you must,” and raising her in his arms, he bore her quickly to the couch, and sat beside her, pinioning her firmly in his grasp.

“There,” he said, “man is the stronger in muscles, and woman must obey; but woman is stronger in the silken bonds with which she can hold man, and then he obeys.”

She sat there panting heavily, ceasing her struggles, as she tried to think out her course of action, for she shrank from shrieking aloud for help, and exposing her position to the two women in the house.

“That’s better,” he said; “now you are behaving sensibly. Don’t pretend to be afraid of me. Now listen—There, sit still; you cannot get away. If you cry out not a sound could reach the servants, for I have sent them to bed; and if a dozen men stood here and shouted together their voices could not be heard through curtains, shutters, and double windows. There, I am not telling you this to frighten you, only to show you your position.”

She turned and gazed at him wildly, and then dragged her eyes away in despair as he said, caressingly.

“How beautiful you are, Kate! That warm colour makes you more attractive than ever, and tells me that all this is but a timid girl’s natural holding back from the embraces of the man whom she has enslaved. There is no ghastly pallor, your lips are not white, and you do not turn faint, but are strong and brave in your resistance; so now let’s talk sense, little wifie. You fancy I have been drinking; well, I have had a glass or two more than usual, but I am not as you think, only calm and quiet and ready to talk to you about what you wished.”

“Another time—to-morrow. Mr Garstang, I beg of you; pray let me go to my own room now.”

“To try the front door on the way, and seek to do some foolish thing? There, you see I can read your thoughts, my darling. So far from having exceeded, I am too sensible for mat; but you could not get out of the house, for the door is locked, and I have the key here. There; to begin; you would like to leave here to-night?”

“Yes, yes, Mr Garstang; pray let me go.”

“Where? You would wander about the streets, a prey to the first ruffian who meets you. To appeal to the police, who would not believe your story; and even if they did, where would you go? To-morrow back to Northwood, to be robbed of your fortune; to go straight to that noble cousin’s arms. No, no, that would not do, dear. Now, let’s look the position in the face. I am double your age, my child. Well, granted; but surely I am not such a repellent monster that you need look at me like that I love you, my pretty one, and I am going to marry you at once. As my wife, you will be free from all persecution by your uncle. He will try to make difficulties, and refuse to sign papers, and do plenty of absurd things; but I have him completely under my thumb, and once you are my wife I can force him to give up all control of you and yours.”

“To-morrow—to-morrow,” she said, pleadingly, as she felt how hopeless it was to struggle. “I am sick and faint, Mr Garstang; pray, pray let me go to my room now.”

“Not yet,” he said playfully, and without relaxing his grasp; “there is a deal more to say. You have to make me plenty of promises, that you will act sensibly; and I want these promises, not from fear, but because you love me, dear. Silent? Well, I must tell you a little more. I made up my mind to this, my child, when I came to you that night. ‘I’ll marry her,’ I said; ‘it will solve all the difficulties and make her the happiest life.’”

“No, no, it is impossible, Mr Garstang,” she cried. “There, you have said enough now. You must—you shall let me go. Is this your conduct towards the helpless girl who trusted you?”

“Yes,” he said laughingly, “it is my conduct towards the helpless girl who trusted me; and it is the right treatment of one who cannot help herself.”

“No,” she cried desperately; “and so I trusted to you, believing you to be worthy of that trust.”

“And so I am, dear; more than worthy. Kate, dearest, do you know that I am going to make you a happy woman, that I give you the devotion of my life? Every hour shall be spent in devising some new pleasure for you, in making you one of the most envied of your sex. I am older, but what of that? Perhaps your young fancy has strayed toward some hero whom your imagination has pictured; but you are not a foolish girl. You have so much common sense that you must see that your position renders it compulsory that you should have a protector.”

“A protector!” she cried bitterly.

“Yes; I must be plain with you, unless you throw off all this foolish resistance. Come, be sensible. To-morrow, or the next day, we will be married, and then we can set the whole world at defiance.”

“Mr Garstang, you are mad!” she cried, with such a look of repugnance in her eyes that she stung him into sudden rage.

“Mad for loving you?” he cried.

“For loving me!” she said scornfully. “No, it is the miserable love of the wretched fortune. Well, take it; only loose me now; let me go. You are a lawyer, sir, and I suppose you know what to do. There are pens and paper. Loose me, and go and sit down and write; I promise you I will not try to leave the room; lock the door, if you like, till you have done writing.”

“It is already locked,” he said mockingly; and he smiled as he saw her turn pale.

“Very well,” she said calmly; “then I cannot escape. Go and write, and I will sign it without a murmur. I give everything to you; only let me go. It is impossible that we can ever meet again.”

“Indeed!” he said, laughing. “Foolish child, how little you know of these things! Suppose I do want your money; do you think that anything I could write, or you could sign, would give it me without this little hand? Besides, I don’t want it without its mistress—my mistress—the beautiful little girl who during her stay here has taught me that there is something worth living for. There, there, we are wasting breath. What is the use of fighting against the inevitable? Love me as your husband, Kate. I am the same man whom you loved as your guardian. There, I want to be gentle and tender with you. Why don’t you give up quietly and say that you will come with me like a sensible little girl, and be my wife?”

“Because I would sooner die,” she said, firmly.

“As young ladies say in old-fashioned romances,” he cried mockingly. “There, you force me to speak very plainly to you. I must; and you are wise enough to see that every word is true. Now listen. You have not many friends; I may say I, your lover, am the only one; but when you took that step with me one night, eloping from your bedroom window, placing yourself under my protection, and living here secluded with me in this old house for all these months, what would they say? Little enough, perhaps nothing; but there is a significant shrug of the shoulders which people give, and which means much, my child, respecting a woman’s character. You see now that you must marry me.”

“No,” she said calmly; “I trusted myself to the guardianship of a man almost old enough to be my grandfather. He professed to be my father’s friend, and I fled to him to save myself from insult. Will the world blame me for that, Mr Garstang?”

“Yes, the world will, and will not believe.”

“Then what is the opinion of the world, as you term it, worth? Now, sir, I insist upon your letting me go to my room.”

As she spoke, she struggled violently, and throwing herself back over the head of the couch made a snatch at the bell-pull, with such success that the smothered tones of a violent peal reached where they were.

Garstang started up angrily, and taking advantage of her momentary freedom, Kate sprang to the door and turned the key, but before she could open it he was at her side.

“You foolish child!” he said, in a low angry voice; “how can you act—”

Half mad with fear, she struck at him, the back of her hand catching him sharply on the lips, and before he could recover from his surprise, she had passed through the door and fled to her room, where she locked and bolted herself in, and then sank panting and sobbing violently upon her knees beside her bed.

Chapter Thirty Eight.

“Yes; what is it?”

Kate Wilton raised her head from where it rested against the bed as she crouched upon the floor, and gazed round wonderingly, conscious that someone had called her by name, but with everything else a blank.

There was a tapping at the door.

“Yes, yes,” said Kate; and she hurried across the room.

“If you please, ma’am, breakfast is waiting, and master’s compliments, and will you come down?”

“Yes; I’ll be down directly,” she cried; and then she pressed her hands to her head and tried to think, but for some moments all was strange and confused, and she wondered why she should have been sleeping there upon the floor, dressed as she was on the previous night, the flowers she had worn still at her breast.

The flowers crushed and bruised!

They acted as the key to the closed mental door, which sprang open, and in one flash of the light which flooded her brain she saw all that had passed before she fled there, and then knelt by the bedside, praying for help, and striving to evolve some means of escape, till, utterly exhausted, nature would bear no more, and she fell asleep, to be awakened by the coming of the housekeeper.

And she had told her that she would be down directly. What should she do?

Hurrying to the bell, she rang, and then waited with beating heart for the woman’s footsteps, which seemed an age in coming; but at last there was a tap at the door.

“Did you ring, ma’am?”

“Yes; I am unwell I am not coming down.”

“Can I do anything for you, ma’am?”

“No.”

Kate stood thinking for a few moments with her hands to her throbbing brows, for her head was growing confused again, and mental darkness seemed to be closing in; but once more the light came, and she tore the crushed flowers from her breast, put on her bonnet and mantle, and then, hurriedly, her gloves.

She felt that she must get away from that house at once; she could not determine then where she would go; that would come afterwards; she could not even think then of anything but escape.

Her preparations took but a few minutes, and then she went to the door and listened.

All was still in the house as far as she could make out, and timidly unfastening the door, she softly opened it, to look out on the great landing, but started back, for in the darkest corner there was a figure.

Only one of the statues, the one just beyond the great curtain over the archway leading to the little library; and gaining courage and determination, she stepped out, and cautiously looked down into the sombre hall.

Everything was still there, and she could just see that the dining-room door was shut, a sign that Garstang was within, at his solitary breakfast.

Her breath came and went as if she had been running, and she pressed her hand upon her side to try and subdue the heavy throbbing of her heart.

If she could only reach the front door unheard, and steal out!

She drew back, for there was a faint rattling sound, as of a cover upon a dish; then footsteps, and as she drew back she could see the housekeeper cross the hall with a small tray, enter the dining-room, whose door closed behind her, and the next minute come out, empty-handed, re-cross the hall, and disappear. Then her voice rose to where Kate stood, as she called to her daughter.

Garstang must be in the dining-room, at his breakfast; and, desperate now in her dread, Kate drew a deep breath, walked silently over the soft carpet to the head of the stairs, and with her dress rustling lightly, descended, reached the hall, seeing that the door appeared to be in its customary state, and the next moment she would have been there, trying to let herself out, when she was arrested by a faint sound, half-ejaculation, half-sigh, and turning quickly, there, upon the staircase, straining over the balustrade to watch her, was Becky, with the sunlight from a stained-glass window full upon her bandaged face.

Making an angry gesture to her to go back, Kate was in the act of turning once more when a firm hand grasped her wrist, an arm was passed about her waist, and with a sudden drag she was drawn into the library and the door closed, Garstang standing there, stern and angry, between her and freedom.

“Where are you going?” he cried.

“Away from here,” she said, meeting his eyes bravely. “This is no place for me, Mr Garstang. Let me pass, sir.”

“That is no answer, my child,” he said. “Where are you going? What are your plans?”

She made no answer, but stepped forward to try and pass him; but he took her firmly and gently, and forced her to sit down.

“As I expected, you have no idea—you have no plans—you have nowhere to go; and yet in a fit of mad folly you would fly from here, the only place where you could take refuge; and why?”

“Because I have found that the man I believed in was not worthy of that trust.”

“No; because in a maddening moment, when my love for you had broken bounds, I spoke out, prematurely perhaps, but I obeyed the dictates of my breast. But there, I am not going to deliver speeches; I only wish to make you understand fully what is your position and mine. I said a great deal last night, enough to have taught you much; above all, that our marriage is a necessity, for your sake as much as mine. No, no; sit still and be calm. We must both be so, and you must talk reasonably. Now, my dear, take off that bonnet and mantle.”

She made no reply.

“Well, I will not trouble about that now. You will see the necessity after a few minutes. First of all, let me impress upon you the simple facts of your position here. In the first place, you are kept here by the way in which you have compromised yourself. Yes, you have; and if you drove me to it I should openly proclaim that you have been my mistress, and were striving to break our ties in consequence of a quarrel.”