George Manville Fenn (continued 2)

“Oh, hush! Do not speak so, Philip. There was some talk, before we left England, of a meeting—of angry words between you, and it was for this that I fostered Sir Murray’s desire to live abroad. But you will promise me, will you not—on your word—yours, Philip—that there shall never be a quarrel between you?”

“Lady Gernon,” said Philip, coldly, “your husband is safe from me. My madness is at an end, and I am now your cousin’s husband. There, for Heaven’s sake!” he cried, a change coming over him, “never let us refer to the past, and let us meet but seldom. Come back into the house. Forgive me if I speak bitterly, but the sight of your happiness would drive me to forget the duties I owe to others. Why did you come?”

“For my husband’s sake,” said Lady Gernon. “And now, from my soul, I thank you. I know how worthless are my promises,” she said, bitterly; “but I can confide in yours. Now let us return.”

The blood was mantling in Philip Norton’s forehead, and he was about to speak, when an end was put to the painful interview by the merry, prattling voice of a child, and Philip’s bright little fellow came running up, but only to draw back shyly on seeing the strange lady, who sank upon her knees with outstretched hands, as if hungering to clasp the child to her breast.

“Yours?—your boy, Philip?” she said.

“Mine, Lady Gernon,” said Norton, coldly, for he had once more regained control of himself. Then, stooping over the child, “Go to that lady, Brace,” he said; and in obedience the child suffered himself to be caressed, Lady Gernon kissing his bright little face eagerly, a tear or two falling the while upon his sunny hair.

Lady Gernon was still on her knees, holding the boy, who, forgetting his fear, was playing with her watch-chain, when slowly, and with courtly grace, conversing loudly the while, Sir Murray led Ada Norton into the garden, when the dread and undefined feelings in the latter’s heart were chased away, and a happy light beamed in her eye as she caught sight of the group before her; but there was an ill-concealed, angry glance directed at his wife by Sir Murray, and another at the child—an angry, jealous, envious look, but it was gone in an instant, and, stooping down, he too sought to take the child’s hand, but only for it to shrink from him hastily.

“Oh, Ada!” exclaimed Lady Gernon, with swimming eyes, as she laid her hand upon her cousin’s arm; and in those two words there seemed sufficient to disarm every doubt and suspicion—to break off the points of the thorns that had been ready to enter into her soul; and Ada, as much at rest as now seemed Lady Gernon, turned to her smilingly, ready to listen to her praises of the child’s beauty, and her prayers that they might be as of old.

“I have been so lonely abroad, Ada,” said Lady Gernon, sadly. “You will renew the old days, will you not?”

Ada Norton paused for a moment before she answered, looking steadfastly in her cousin’s face, to see there now a calm, sad serenity, that she could hardly understand, when, the words being repeated almost imploringly, the reply was, “Yes.”

“I am at your service, Lady Gernon,” said Sir Murray at that moment, when, once more, embracing the child, Lady Gernon kissed her cousin with the same old tenderness as of yore, turning the next moment to offer her hand, with a sad, quiet smile, to Philip Norton, who led her to the carriage; and then it all seemed to him to have been a dream, while the sound of the carriage-wheels, fast subsiding into a murmur, were but a part of the imaginings of his troubled brain. But the next instant he had started back to the reality, for his wife was gazing anxiously in his troubled face, when, as his eyes met hers, his old quiet smile came back, and, catching the boy in his arms, he made the little fellow shout with glee as he galloped him round the garden, to return with flushed face and tumbled hair to his watching wife.

“Philip?” she said, looking up at him inquiringly.

“My love,” he said, tenderly.

“You have something to say to me, have you not?”

“No,” he said, quietly; “unless it is—better friends than enemies.”

Mrs Norton said no more; but there was a pang at her heart, for she felt that her husband was keeping something from her.

Brooding.

People said that Lady Gernon had benefited by the change—that Italy could not have agreed with her—for day by day she seemed to be casting off the dull, heavy languor that oppressed her. There was still a quiet sadness pervading every movement; but Sir Murray, without hearing people’s remarks, noted for himself that she took more interest in the affairs of daily life: in place of disliking company, she now gladly met his wishes, concerning dinner or breakfast party. In fact, there was a complete change; but it gave no pleasure to her husband, for he watched her with jaundiced eyes, saying nothing, but followed her every movement uneasily. Even the apparent increase of affection she displayed towards him was distasteful; and he grew in private moody and dissatisfied. But only in private, for he told himself that he had a duty to perform—one which demanded all watchfulness and care, and sternly he set himself to that duty.

The intimacy with the Nortons grew daily more close, and they dined several times at the Castle, the old warm affection between the two cousins growing stronger than ever. Both Lady Gernon and Mrs Norton viewed with satisfaction the quiet, unobtrusive courtesy of Sir Murray; while Captain Norton grew more and more dreamy, just waking up into an animated smile when spoken to, and joining for a few minutes in the conversation; but only to subside again directly after.

No stranger could have imagined that there had ever been more than the simplest of friendly ties between the families, and Sir Murray Gernon again and again owned to himself that his wife’s conduct was unimpeachable; but, at the same time, it troubled him, that from the day of the visit to the Hall, and Lady Gernon’s unconcealed efforts to obtain a few words with her old lover in private, she had been an altered woman; and he felt that it was not on his account, else why had not the change come during the past five years. It troubled him, too, that there was nothing that he could complain of; and, as he sat one day in his library, thoughtfully brooding, he passed over in review the conduct of those in whom he was most interested. Captain Norton called but seldom, and then with his wife; he was absent, too, a great deal, report said, at the iron mines; and when at the Castle his attentions to Lady Gernon were always of the most formal nature, while, after rendering the duties incumbent on her towards her guest, Lady Gernon seemed to avoid him. Mrs Norton was evidently much attached to her cousin, while Lady Gernon—yes, there was the knot: Lady Gernon was another woman, growing daily brighter and more elate, while his spirit refused to let him believe that it was all due to the change of scene and return to the society of parents and friends.

But he wanted some clue. He was, he told himself, wandering in the dark, for, musing upon imaginary wrong, he had grown into the belief that there was a plot against his happiness—that there were matters in progress that perhaps all but Mrs Norton and himself saw and mocked at. He was too proud to ask confidence, while a hint from any one would have been repulsed with indignation. He knew that others remarked the change in his wife; frequently, in fact, he had grimly thanked friends who had congratulated him. But all his brooding resulted in nothing, and at the end of six months he was soured and angry to find that his labours had been in vain. At times, he almost resented the gentle advances of Marion, telling himself that they were not genuine, but used as a blind; and often and often Lady Gernon went in tears to the Hall to ask her cousin’s sympathy—an act which only widened the breach daily growing between husband and wife. And this, too, at a time when Lady Gernon’s heart had begun to leap with new hopes—hopes of that happiness which she had envied in others; when the world gave promise to her of a happier future, with fresh cares and interests; so that, even now that this hopeful state lent brightness to her eye, and colour to her cheek, she had new cause for sorrow in her husband’s coldness.

Sir Murray Gernon persuaded himself that his suspicions merely wanted confirmation, and, waiting that confirmation, he shut himself up, as it were, within his cold, proud hauteur, and waited—waited, for he would not stir an inch to find proof of his suspicions; it should come to him, and blankly stare him in the face before he would take step or speak word; and so the months glided on at the Castle, company coming and going, parties following one another rapidly, and Sir Murray Gernon a very pattern of courtly politeness to all. His greatest intimates congratulated him upon his domestic happiness, and he smiled his thanks, and then subsided again into his saturnine gloom, waiting—waiting for what he told himself would some day come.

There was to be a grand party at the Castle, at Sir Murray’s wish, on the anniversary of the marriage. The idea had proceeded from Mrs Elstree, during a visit to the Rectory, and Sir Murray had immediately taken it up, though, upon receiving a meaning glance from the Rector, who had seen a shadow cross his daughter’s brow, the proposer would gladly have recalled her words.

Great preparations were in progress; but after making his decree that there should be a grand affair, one that should do honour to his name, Sir Murray Gernon took no further interest in the matter.

He was seated, as was his wont, one morning in his library, turning over his letters, and thoughtfully brooding over his wrongs. It was cruel, he said, that he, rich, powerful, and well endowed by nature, should suffer in this way. But he could wait; and he turned to think of what he should do to drive away the ennui which oppressed him. Suddenly a thought came, and ringing sharply, the summons was answered by a footman.

“Send Gurdon here,” said the baronet; and then, adopting his most magisterial air, he sat waiting the coming of the butler, upon whom the thunders of his wrath were about to descend.

Mr Gurdon, rather red of nose and pasty of face, soon appeared, wearing on the whole rather a limp expression. But John Gurdon had not improved in appearance; prosperity had not agreed with him. He said that it was his digestion; but Jane Barker—Mrs Barker now, my lady’s maid—shook her head at him and sighed, as she thought of the smart young fellow who used to come courting her at the Rectory, laughingly telling her that he’d caught the complaint of his master.

“I think, Gurdon,” said Sir Murray, “that this is the third time that I have sent for you into the library.”

“Yes—yes, Sir Murray,” said Gurdon, with a cough behind his hand.

“It is the last time, then. But for your being an old servant, and son of an old tenant of my late father, I should discharge you at once!”

“Oh, for Heaven’s sake, don’t, Sir Murray,” said the man piteously. “It shall never occur again; it shan’t, indeed!”

“You had been drinking again, last night!”

“Only the least drop, Sir Murray—the least drop. I was a little out of order yesterday.”

“And you were not fit to come before her ladyship, in the drawing-room?”

“Perhaps not quite, Sir Murray—not quite; but—but—”

“And mind this is the last time. No servant of mine shall be a disgrace to my establishment.”

“I humbly beg your pardon, Sir Murray, I do, indeed; and it shall never occur again, it shan’t, indeed. I know your ways, Sir Murray, and I should die, if you was to turn me off. Please look over it this once.”

“I have looked over it, Gurdon, or I should have given you your wages when you entered the room. Now go and ask her ladyship if she can see me for a few minutes.”

“Her ladyship isn’t in, Sir Murray.”

“Not in?”

“No, Sir Murray; I wanted to see her about the blue-room chandelier, and went up, but she was not there; and Barker said, sir, she had just put on her things and gone out.”

“Did she order the pony-carriage?”

“No, Sir Murray; her ladyship often goes out walking.”

In spite of himself, Sir Murray Gernon started; for after months of waiting, it seemed to come to him with a sudden light flashing in upon his mind that he had found that which he had sought. He looked up the next moment in his servant’s face, trembling for his pride. Did that sallow, shivering creature who took his pay, and who had been trembling for fear of his frown, read his thoughts? Did he share his suspicions? For a moment, as he caught his eye, Sir Murray felt as if he could strangle him. It seemed to him that this man would henceforth possess a hold upon him, and assert himself upon the strength of his knowledge.

The baronet could hardly arrest a groan; but he sat there, stern and immovable, fighting behind his mask of pride, to regain his composure before again speaking.

“Let me know when her ladyship comes in—at least,” he said, correcting himself, “ask her if she will see me upon her return.”

“Yes, Sir Murray.”

“That will do. You can go,” said the baronet, for the man still lingered as if about to speak; but the next moment he made a low bow and left the room.

As the door closed upon the servant, the strength which had been sustained by Sir Murray’s pride collapsed, and letting his head fall upon his hands, he groaned bitterly. The lines in his face grew more deeply marked; his lips became parched; and at last he rose from his seat to pace the room with hasty strides, as he turned over and over the thoughts that had flashed upon him.

Yes, she was often out; her old passion for botany had returned, and, it had never struck him before, she did take long, very long walks. And now it was all plain enough: he was the laughing-stock even of his servants—he had read it in that man’s eye. True, he might dismiss him, but it was sure to be known throughout the house. But wait awhile; he would not be rash and hasty; he would think matters over.

He smiled as he took his seat once more, but the smile faded into a look of the most bitter misery, and, as he sat there hour after hour awaiting Lady Gernon’s return, years seemed to have passed over his head, and not without leaving their marks.

Man and Maid.

“Curse him!” muttered Gurdon, as he left the room; “a purse-proud, haughty brute! looks upon a servant as if he were a dog. I know him, though—read him like a book—turn him inside out like a glove. Waited on him, served him as I have all these years, and yet, because a man can’t help giving way just a trifle to his weakness, he’s to be threatened always with the sack. He won’t send me away, though, not he—he knows better. Read him like a book I can, and he knows it too. Pride must have a fall, and he’s full of it—running over with it. Just as if one man wasn’t as good as another. Discharge me, will he? Perhaps I’ll discharge myself before he has the chance. Sitting and sulking there in his old library, day after day. I haven’t forgotten the old affair. I ain’t blind, and I’ll tell him so as soon as I look at him. Here, hi! Jane!”

Mr Gurdon’s legs had conveyed him, as he went on muttering, as far as the housekeeper’s room, when, seeing the flutter of a garment just turning a corner at the end of the passage, he called out, and Jane Barker, rather red of eye, turned round and confronted him.

“Here, come in here, Jenny, I want to talk to you,” he said, catching her by the hand, when, without a word, she followed him into the housekeeper’s room, and he closed the door.

“I knew he hadn’t,” said Jane, who had been watching him from a distance, and had seen him enter and leave the library, “you wouldn’t have looked cross like that, John, if he had.”

“He don’t dare!” said Gurdon, insolently. “It’s all smoke, and he knows now that I’m not blind. Discharge me, indeed! I’ll discharge myself, and have something for holding my tongue into the bargain! Don’t tell me: I can read him like a book, and his pride will humble itself before me like a schoolboy’s. Now, look here, Jenny: there’s been enough nonsense now. We’ve been courting years enough, and you’ve saved up a bit of money. Let’s go at once. I’ve saved nothing; but I’ve had my eyes open, and if I don’t leave the Castle a hundred pounds in pocket it’s a strange thing to me. I’m sick of it, I am; and I know of a decent public-house to let over at Blankesley, where the iron-pits are. There’ll be no end of trade to it, so let’s get married and take it. Now, what do you say?”

“Say?” exclaimed Jane Barker, whose face had been working, while her lips were nipped together, and her arms crossed over her breast, as if to keep down her emotion—“say? Why, that sooner than marry you, and have my little bit of money put in a public-house, for you to be pouring it down your throat all day, I’d go into the union! I’ll own that I did, and I have, loved you very, very much; but you’ve half broke my heart with seeing you, day after day, getting into such sotting ways. You know you wouldn’t have been here now if it hadn’t been for me going down on my knees to my own dear, sweet lady, to ask her not to complain, when you’ve gone up to her, time after time, not fit to be seen, and smelling that horrid that tap-rooms was flower-gardens compared to you! And now, after all her kindness and consideration, you talk like that! I’m ashamed of you—I’m ashamed of you!”

And Jane burst into tears.

“Now, don’t be a fool, Jenny! What’s the good of being so squeamish, and talking such nonsense? We’ve both had enough of this place, and, without anything to trouble me, I should never touch a drop from month’s end to month’s end.”

“No, John—no, John,” she said, disengaging herself from the arm that he had put round her. “I’ll never marry a man who drinks. I’d give you my bit of money if I thought it would do you good; but you’ve drunk till it’s made you hard, and cruel, and suspicious, and wicked; and, though I’ve never said nothing, I’ve thought about all your wicked hints and suspicions. And as to being tied up to a man who was going to get money by telling lies of other people, I’d sooner go down and jump into the lake—that I would!”

“’Tisn’t lies,” said Gurdon, sulkily: “it’s truth, and you know it is.”

“It is not, you bad, wicked fellow!” cried Jane, firing up, and stamping one foot upon the floor.

“’Tis truth, and he knows it too, my fine, fierce madam!”

“What! have you dared to say a word, or drop one of your nasty, underhanded hints?” cried Jane.

“Never mind,” said Gurdon, maliciously. “I’ve not studied him all these years for nothing. Perhaps I know something about letters—perhaps I don’t; perhaps I’ve seen somebody savage about somebody else taking long walks, after being sulky and upset about what’s to happen now after all these years; perhaps I haven’t seen anything of the kind, but I ain’t blind. I haven’t forgotten what took place six years ago, and now we’re going—good luck to us!—to have an anniversary. I hope everybody will be there to keep it, that’s all I’ve got to say.”

“Oh, you serpent!” cried Jane, pale with rage. “You bad, wicked fellow! You’re like the scorpion in the Holy Bible, you are, that turns to rend the hand that fed it. Oh!” she cried, growing gradually more and more furious, “to think that I’ve wasted all my best days about such a traitor—such a cruel, malicious, spiteful, dirty story-teller! Shame on you! How dare you, you villain, hint at such wickedness about my poor dear sweet mistress, whose dear heart is as pure as an angel’s—a sweet, suffering lamb?”

“A sweet, suffering lamb, indeed!” cried Gurdon, savagely. “Yah! There’s a pair of you—she-wolves, more likely.”

“Then I’ll be the wolf that shall shake such a nasty lying cur as you!” cried Jane, furiously. “Go down on your knees, you wicked—wicked—nasty—story-telling—villain—you, or I’ll shake all the breath out of your body!”

In effect, beside herself with rage, Jane had caught the butler by the collar with both hands, and at every word she had given him a furious shake, till, utterly confounded at the suddenness of the attack, he had really, to avoid the onslaught, sunk upon his knees, enabling her, though, to deliver the correction more effectually.

“Say it was all stories—say it was all stories,” cried Jane.

“I won’t: it’s all as true as true, and her—”

“Take that, you wicked villain!” shrieked Jane; and with the full force of her by no means weak arm, she slapped him across the mouth just as the door opened, and a knot of eager, curious servants appeared.

“What is the matter?” was the cry.

“Let him say a word if he dares,” cried Jane, ending her punishment by a tremendous box on the butler’s ears, to the intense delight of the lookers-on. “He told lies about me, and I hit him—there!” said Jane defiantly, “and let him say it isn’t true if he dares.”

Then, utterly exhausted by her efforts, poor Jane threw herself, sobbing, into a chair.

“Oh, take me away!—take me away!” she cried; and two of the sympathising women ran to her, declaring that it was a shame, that it was; while the stout cook delivered her opinion that it would be a blessing if there wasn’t a man left on the face of the earth, “breaking poor women’s hearts as was faithful unto death.”

Whereupon one of the footmen winked at a very smart and aspiring kitchen-maid, who had whispered to him her suspicions respecting cook’s possessing a similar weakness to Mr Gurdon’s, and requiring stimulants for the due invention of fresh dishes.

“It’s a pity that people don’t know their places,” said Gurdon, sulkily, “and keep to the kitchen and hall, instead of pushing themselves into the housekeeper’s room, where they’re not wanted.”

But somehow, the butler’s words had but very little effect, for in spite of their knowledge of his engagement to Jane Barker, and her great influence in domestic matters with her mistress, John Gurdon’s tenure at the Castle was held to be in a very insecure state.

Nobody therefore stirred—Mr Gurdon’s hint evidently not being sufficiently potent; so, with a scowl at the sobbing woman, he turned and left the room, to don a fresh cravat—the present one being limp, crumpled, and displaying very clearly the encounter in which he had been engaged.

“Let them look out, some of them,” he cried, wrathfully, as soon as he was alone. “If I’m to be dragged down, I’ll pull somebody with me, so let them look out, that’s all I’ve got to say;” and with a savage scowl upon his face, he brought down his fist with a heavy blow upon the table by which he stood.

The Sapphire Cross.

“How well Marion looks,” said Ada Norton to her husband, as, seated in one of the brilliantly-lighted drawing-rooms at the Castle, they watched her receiving fresh guests, on the night of the party. The Nortons had dined there, and all had gone off, so far, most successfully; people coming from a great distance just for an hour in the evening,—an invitation to the Castle being something not to be slighted.

“Yes, she looks well,” said Norton, calmly. “The old weary air seems to have passed away entirely. I used to think that Gernon did not use her well, but, thank Heaven, I believe I misjudged him.”

“Oh yes, I think so,” said Mrs Norton, hastily. “I am so much in her confidence that I think something of the kind would have oozed out, if such had been the case. And yet I don’t know,” she continued in a tone of reproach; “Marion has, like other people, her secrets.”

Norton turned sharply round; but Lady Gernon approaching, the conversation ceased.

“Mamma says you have not spoken to her to-night, Ada,” said Lady Gernon, whose face was flushed with excitement; and never had Norton thought her beauty more regal than now, as she stood before him with a brilliant tiara of sapphires and diamonds in her hair, while the large cross of pure and costly gems rose and fell with the soft heaving of her bosom.

“You extravagant woman!” laughed Ada, in reference to her cousin’s jewels. “If I had those sapphires I should never dare to wear them.”

“Murray always likes me to wear them on these particular occasions,” said Lady Gernon, carelessly; and, after exchanging a pleasant smile with Norton, she moved away towards where Mrs Elstree was seated.

In spite of himself, Sir Murray Gernon frowned at the sight of that smile; but he turned away the next moment, to encounter his butler, at whom he gazed for a moment, and then, walking close up to him, he said, severely, “I told you I should not look over the next occasion, sir. Come to the library for your wages at ten to-morrow morning.”

John Gurdon’s face broke out into a profuse perspiration as he heard that sentence—one from which he knew there was no appeal—and he darted a scowling look of hatred at his master as he turned away. For Gurdon knew the justice of the decree: he had been drinking again. He had fought with the temptation, but the fine old wines, constantly to his hand, had been too much for him; and he had again succumbed, so that, as he stood there that moment beneath one of the brilliant chandeliers, in the midst of wealth and splendour, he saw himself beggared and wretched—a poor, out-of-place servant, whom no one would employ on account of his potent vice.

But a feeling of rage and hatred filled his breast the next instant, as he turned to single out his master; but he had disappeared, and with lowering brow the butler left the room to attend to some call.

Sir Murray Gernon had entered the blue-room, one of the handsome suite of drawing-rooms at the Castle, where he came upon a knot of his male friends, amongst whom stood Mr Elstree. He would have avoided them, but for some earnest mention of Norton’s name, that was made in a low tone, and in spite of himself he said hastily:

“What’s that about Captain Norton?”

“Ruined, I fear,” said Mr Elstree. “Those mines have collapsed—perfect crash—heavy calls on the shareholders, I’m told. We were remarking how calmly the poor fellow takes it. Poor Ada cannot know, for she is laughing happily with my wife.”

“These things are better kept from the ladies, I think,” said a friend. “I’m sorry for them, though.”

“Unworldly man!”—“foolish speculation!”—“perfect madness!” were amongst the remarks Sir Murray then heard made, when he turned to gaze at his stricken guest, who, apparently quite calm and untroubled by a care, had risen from his seat and crossed to where Lady Gernon was standing. A minute after, she had left Mrs Norton with her mother, placed her arm in Captain Norton’s, and with him crossed towards the conservatory, where, amidst the golden-fruited oranges, the heavily-scented exotics, and the soft light diffused from flower-encircled and shaded lamp, a few of the guests were seated, or wandering in what seemed to be a fragment of some tropic land.

It was hard work for Sir Murray to preserve his calm and smiling aspect amidst his guests when such thoughts as troubled him were struggling in his breast. But he was determined to show no anger, and, with the intention of walking quietly into the conservatory, he passed through the drawing-room, where Gurdon was handing tea to the party conversing at one of the tables.

Just then a gentleman arrested him, and kept him in conversation upon some political matter for quite a quarter of an hour, his courtly politeness even now preventing him from hurrying away; but at length, with a sinking at his heart, he stepped into the conservatory to see several friends enjoying the soft coolness of the flower-scented place; but those whom he sought were not there.

He turned to leave—a strange feeling of excitement making his breast to throb, and the blood to flush giddily to his head. He passed through the different well-lit rooms, but without seeing the pair of whom he was in quest; and, scarcely in command of his actions, he was about to make some eager inquiry, when Gurdon approached, bearing a small tray with tea.

“Looking for my lady, Sir Murray?” he said. “She’s at the back of the orangery with Captain Norton.”

John Gurdon’s eyes glittered as he spoke, for he was sobered now by the former meeting with his master, and the excitement of what was in his mind. Sir Murray knew that the man saw his emotion, but he could not hide it then; and with a muttered oath he once more entered the conservatory, but had not advanced more than a few paces when he became aware that he was followed.

Turning upon the instant, he found that Gurdon was close behind him with the tray.

“Go back into the drawing-room!” he said, sternly, though he repented his speech the next minute, for, with a meaning smile, the man met his eye, and then stopped short, but made no movement to return.

Gurdon was right; for on turning a corner, Sir Murray came suddenly upon Lady Gernon seated by Captain Norton’s side. Her head was bent, and the tears were falling fast, while he was speaking to her earnestly. There was no one near: the voices from the crowded rooms came only in a murmur. They, too, were speaking in soft and subdued tones. But one word fell upon Sir Murray’s ear, and that word was “love!” He heard neither the preceding nor the concluding spread over the brightly-tiled floor—he was standing by their side before they were aware of his approach, when, with a start of dread, Lady Gernon half rose from her seat, but only to sink back, gazing at her husband.

For a few moments Sir Murray stood, unable to speak in the calm tones he desired; for even then he dreaded a scene and the comments of his guests, when—approaching quite unheard, so that he, too, was in the midst of the group before his presence was noticed—Gurdon appeared, to look full in his master’s face as he handed the tray he bore.

“Tea, sir?” he said.

“Stand back!” exclaimed Sir Murray, fiercely, and with his raised hand he struck the man heavily across the chest, causing him to stagger back, and the tray fell with a crash upon the floor.

“You shall pay for this!” muttered the man, rising, but only to drop on one knee, napkin in hand, the next moment, and commence gathering up the fragments.

“Leave this place, sir, this instant!” exclaimed Sir Murray, fiercely; and muttering still, but with a supercilious leer at all present, Gurdon slouched off, passing between the assembled guests, who, alarmed by the crash and loud, angry words, were now inquiring the cause.

“Nothing—nothing wrong,” exclaimed Sir Murray, with a ghastly show of being at ease. “A drunken servant, that is all. Lady Gernon, let me take you into the drawing-room.”

Glances were exchanged; but the sullen countenance of Gurdon, the spilled tea, and the broken cups and saucers, afforded sufficient explanation, and the visitors slowly filtered back into the different rooms, in one of which another accident had taken place.

As Sir Murray, trembling with suppressed anger, entered the inner drawing-room, known as the blue-room, he saw Gurdon, napkin and tray in hand, standing as if waiting his coming, his face breaking into a mocking smile upon his master’s entrance, closely followed by Captain Norton, who, so far, had not spoken a word.

“Go to your mother, Marion,” said Sir Murray. “I must have a few more words with this man.”

“With whom?” exclaimed Lady Gernon. “With my servant, madam,” said Sir Murray, loudly. “Not with Captain Norton now. But where is your cross?”

“My cross!” stammered Lady Gernon; and her hand involuntarily sought the place where it had hung. “I had it when I—when—”

“Yes, when you entered the conservatory,” said Sir Murray, a suspicion crossing his breast; “but where is it now?”

“I do not know!” exclaimed Lady Gernon, whose agitation became extreme.

The rumour of the failing mines; Captain Norton’s poverty; his own jealousy; thought after thought flashed across Sir Murray Gernon’s brain in an instant of time.

“Go to your guests,” he said sternly. “There are people coming this way, and I wish to avoid a scene. James,” he said, beckoning to a footman, “see that man, Gurdon, into the little garden-room, lock him up, and then fetch a constable.”

“What for—what for?” said Gurdon, loudly. “You don’t think, do you, that I’ve got the cross?”

“Silence, sir! Take him away!” exclaimed Sir Murray, sternly. Then, turning to Captain Norton, he said in a whisper, “There are two things in this world, Philip Norton, that I value: my honour and those old family jewels.”

“I am attending to your words,” said Norton, coldly; for he had just met an imploring look from Marion.

“I told you, Lady Gernon, to go to your guests!” said Sir Murray, in an angry whisper.

“No, Murray,” she said. “I shall stay!”

“In Heaven’s name, then, stay!” he said, angrily, “and hear what I would say. I value my honour and those family jewels, Captain Norton,” he continued, facing his guest; “and the man who filches from me one or the other does so at the risk of his life!”

“What!” exclaimed Lady Gernon, with a horrified aspect, “do you for a moment suppose, Murray, that Captain Norton—”

“Where is that sapphire cross?” exclaimed Sir Murray.

“Indeed—indeed—”

“Silence, madam! I will have no scene!” hissed Sir Murray, angrily. “You, as my wife, hold those jewels in trust for me; and I should hold him who took them, even as a gift, as a robber of what is mine.”

“Sir Murray Gernon, you are mad!” exclaimed Norton—“you know not what you say, and—Hush! sir, no words. Lady Gernon has fainted!”

An Encounter.

Sir Murray Gernon had expressed a desire that there should be no scene, but his wish was of no avail, for in a few moments an excited group had collected round his wife. Salts, vinegar, and cold water were sought and applied; but, fortunately, one of the guests was the medical adviser of the family.

“Bed, Sir Murray—empty house—quiet—and,” he said, meaningly, “all going well, I may be able to offer you congratulations before morning.”

Half an hour after, the house was vacated by the last guest, and before morning had dawned the tidings were borne to Sir Murray Gernon that his lady had given birth to a daughter, but that from her ladyship’s critical state Dr Challen wished for further advice, and for a fellow-practitioner to share the burden of his responsibility.

Messages were sent; and in the course of a few hours there was a consultation held respecting Lady Gernon’s state—a consultation over which the medical practitioners shook their heads solemnly. The child was healthy; but its mother still existed, that was all.

Mrs Norton was at her side, where she insisted upon staying for days, in spite of a request from Sir Murray that she would leave; and now it was that for the first time she heard of the loss of the jewels from Jane Barker, who told her, with many sobs, that Gurdon had been suspected by Sir Murray, who had sent for a constable; but after having him searched that morning, his wages had been paid him, and he had been discharged, “threatening horrible things.”

“And oh! ma’am,” whispered Jane, “you were always like my dear lady’s sister; if you should hear anything said about her, it isn’t true. You won’t believe it, I’m sure.”

“You know I should never believe words uttered by an angry servant, Jane,” was the reply; “and if you take my advice you will be silent.”

“I would, ma’am; and I should not have said a word now, only Gurdon went away full of such threatenings, and talked so loudly, that I was afraid it might come to your ears without preparation, for he spoke of Captain Norton, and—”

“Silence, woman!” exclaimed Ada, fiercely, as she caught the startled maid by the arm. “How dare you bandy about such talk! I will not hear another word.”

Jane stopped, gazing aghast at her mistress’s cousin, as, with her hands pressed upon her bosom, she seemed to be striving to keep back the painful emotion which oppressed her.

“Don’t be angry with me, ma’am, please.” Jane whispered humbly. “I would not have spoken had I known.”

Mrs Norton made her a motion to be silent; and for awhile the girl stood watching her agitated countenance, as she strove to conquer her emotion. She was herself unsuspicious to a degree. She had full faith in her husband, but now thick and fast came blow after blow. She found how calumny was at work—how Sir Murray Gernon’s name was talked of in connection with her husband’s, and at last she felt that for his sake, much as she loved her cousin, her place was at his side; for once more in her life there came the shuddering dread of a great evil, and obtaining from Jane a promise that if her mistress grew worse she should be informed, she returned to the Hall.

It was evening when she reached home, to find the servant looking excited, while, as soon as she entered the house, the sound of a loud and angry voice reached her ear.

“Who is in the drawing-room?” she hastily inquired of the servant.

“Oh’m, I’m so glad you’ve come,” ejaculated the girl. “It’s Sir Murray Gernon.”

For a moment Ada felt as if she could not proceed. Her heart accused her of neglecting home for the past few days, and she told herself that, with the rumours she knew of floating around, she ought not to have stayed away. But at last, with an effort, she hurried forward, opened the door, and entered the room just as, with a cry of rage, Sir Murray Gernon raised the hunting-whip he held in his hand, and struck her husband furiously across the face.

“Dog!” he exclaimed. “I gave you the chance of meeting me as a gentleman, and you refused, driving me to horsewhip you as the scoundrel and thief you are. Ha!”

He paused, for Ada Norton was clinging to the arm that held the whip, while her husband—

Was he a coward? Was that the man of whose daring she had heard in India, performing deeds of valour that had been chronicled again and again in the despatches sent home? She was no lover of strife, but it was with something akin to shame that she saw her husband stand motionless, with one hand pressed to the red weal across his face. He was very pale, and the old scar and the new seemed to intersect one another, the latter like a bar sinister across honourable quarterings. He was trembling, too, but it was with a sigh of relief that she heard him break the silence at last.

“Sir Murray Gernon,” he said, in a cracked voice that she hardly knew, “when your poor dying wife came here with you, we walked through that window into the garden, where, in memory of our old love, she made me swear that I would never injure you, a promise—I hardly know why—that, though I made, I never even mentioned to my wife.”

Sir Murray laughed scornfully.

“I tell you now again, in the presence of my wife here, that your suspicions are baseless, that you wrong Lady Gernon most cruelly; and that, but for the fact that you dared call me—a poor, but honourable soldier—thief, your last charge is so contemptible that it would not be worthy of an answer. Go now and try to undo the wrong you have done. Thief! robber!” he exclaimed, excitedly. “Who was the thief of my love—of my life? But there; I have done,” he said, calmly. “I thought,” he continued, tenderly, “that hope was crushed out of my existence; that there was to be no future for me. That day, when I cast myself down in the churchyard with the feeling of despair heavy upon me, it seemed as if, with one harsh blow, my life had been snapped in two. And it was nearly so; but Heaven sent his angel to save me, and to prove that there was hope, and rest, and happiness for me yet in this world.”

Ere he had finished speaking Ada had thrown herself into his arms, and was looking proudly in his scarred face.

“Sir Murray Gernon,” he continued, after an instant’s pause, “I refused to meet you, and I have now told you the true reason for my having done so. In this world we shall probably never meet again. Our paths lie, as they ought, in different directions. It is fit they should. But once more, I swear before Heaven that your base charges are false. Go, and by honest, manly confession, try and win her back to life, and obtain her forgiveness. Tell her that I kept my word, even to making myself for her sake a coward in the eyes of the world.”

As he ceased speaking, he turned from Sir Murray to gaze down in his wife’s face. There was a sad, despairing look in his countenance, though, that troubled her; it was the same drawn, haggard aspect that she had looked on years before; but as she clung to him closer and closer, twining her arms more tightly round him, and trying to draw that pale, scarred face to hers, the wild, scared aspect slowly faded away, for from her eyes he seemed to draw life and hope, and at last, with a sigh that seemed torn from his breast’s utmost depths, he pressed his lips upon her forehead, and then turned once more to confront his accuser.

But they were alone; for, after listening with conflicting thoughts to Norton’s words, Sir Murray Gernon had slowly turned upon his heel, leaving the room, unnoticed.

Jane’s Heart.

“Oh, dear!—oh, dear! what shall I do?—what shall I do?” sobbed Jane Barker. “What a wicked set we must all be for the troubles to come bubbling and rolling over us like this in a great water-flood. There’s poor Sir Murray half-mad with grief, shutting himself up in his library, and never hardly so much as eating or drinking a bit. There’s my own dear, sweet lady lying there day after day, with the lids shut down over those poor soft eyes of hers, never moving, and nobody knowing whether she’s living or dead, only when she gives one of those little sobbing sighs. And then there’s the poor old Rector, coming every day over and over again to see how she is, and looking as if his heart would break; and poor Mrs Elstree wandering up and down the passages like a ghost. Oh, dear!—oh, dear!—oh, dear! the place isn’t like the same, and I don’t know what’s to become of us all. One didn’t need to have jewels missing, and poor servants suspected of taking them, and sent away without a month’s warning, and not a bit of character. But oh, John!—John!—John! it wasn’t a month’s warning you had, but many months’ warning; and it wasn’t you stole the cross, but let something steal away all your good heart and good looks too.”

Here Jane Barker burst out into a passionate fit of weeping, sobbing as though her heart would break. She was sitting by her open window—one looking over a part of the shrubbery which concealed the servants’ offices from the view of those who strolled through the grounds. It was not the first night by many that Jane had sat there bewailing her troubles, for it had become a favourite custom with her to sit there, thoughtful and silent, till her passionate grief brought forth some such outburst as the above. Busy the whole day at her work about the sick-chamber of her lady, Jane told herself that at such times there was something else for her to do beside sorrowing; but when at midnight all about was wrapped in silence, the poor girl would sit or kneel at her window, mourning and crying for hour after hour.

“Oh, my poor dear lady! If it should come to the worst, and her never to look upon the little soft face of that sweet babe, sent to be a comfort to her when she’s been so solitary and unhappy all these years; for she has been. Oh! these men—these men! They break our poor hearts, they do! Why didn’t the Captain come back sooner and make her happy? or why didn’t he die in real earnest over in the hot Ingies, where they said he was killed, and not come back just then to make her heart sore, as I know it has been ever since? though, poor soul, she loves, honours, and obeys her husband as she should. There didn’t never ought to be any marrying at all, for it’s always been an upset to me ever since I thought about it; and him such a proper man, too, as he used to be—such a nice red and white face, and always so smart till he took to the drink; as I told him, he got to love it ever so much better than he loved me, though he always coaxed me round into forgiving him. I always knew it was weak; but then I couldn’t help it, and I didn’t make myself; and if poor women are made weak and helpless, what can they do?

“I always told him it would be his ruin, and begged of him to give it up—and oh! the times he’s kissed me and promised me he would! And then for it to come to this. He’d never have said such cruel things about my lady if it had not been for the drink; and though I’d forgive him almost anything, I couldn’t forgive him for speaking as he did. I do think he likes me, and that it isn’t all for the sake of the bit of money, which he might have and welcome if it would do him any good. If he would only leave off writing to me, and asking me to meet him when he knows I daren’t, and every letter breaking my heart, and at a time, too, when I’ve got nowhere to go and sit down and cry. No; let him mend a bit, and show me that he’s left off the drink, and my poor dear lady get well first, and I’ll leave directly, as I told him I would, and work and slave for him all my life, just for the sake of a few kind words; for I know I’m only a poor ignorant woman; but I can love him very—very much, and—”

Jane stopped short, listening attentively, for at that moment there was a faint rustling sound beneath the window, and then, after a few minutes’ interval, another and another; a soft rustling sound as of something forcing its way gently amongst the bushes and low shrubs, for at times a step was audible amongst the dead leaves, and once there came a loud crack, as if a foot had been set upon a dry twig which had snapped sharply.

Then there was utter silence again, and the girl sat listening with pale face, lips apart, and her breath drawn with difficulty, as her heart beat with a heavy throb, throb, throb, at the unwonted sound. It could not be one of the dogs, for they were all chained up; and if it had been a strange step she felt that they would have barked, and given some alarm. The deer never came near the house, and it was extremely doubtful whether any of the cattle in the great park could have strayed into the private grounds through some gate having been left open. Her heart told her what the noise was, and accelerated its beats with excitement, so that when, after a renewal of the soft rustling, she heard a sound as of hard breathing, and then a husky voice whispering her name, she was in no wise surprised.

“Tst—tst, Jane!” seemed to come out of the black darkness below—a darkness that she in vain tried to penetrate.

“Oh, why did you come—why did you come?” sobbed Jane. “Somebody will be sure to hear you, and then you’ll be in worse trouble than ever, besides getting me turned out of my place. Oh, John!—oh, John! how can you be such a cruel fellow!”

“Hold your tongue, will you, and don’t be a fool,” was the husky reply. “I’m going to have you away from here, Jenny, in a few days, and then his proudship shall have some letters as shall make him pay me to hold my tongue, or else have all his pride tumbling about his ears.”

“Oh, you wicked wretch!” muttered Jane to herself, for his words roused her slumbering resentment, and drove her troubles away for the present.

“Can you hear all I say?” whispered the voice from below.

“Yes,” whispered Jane again; “but what do you want? Oh, pray, pray go!”

“Yes,” said Gurdon. “I’ll go when I’ve done; but I want to talk to you first. Who’s at home? Is he here?”

“Who? Master? Yes,” whispered Jane, “and the doctor, and my lady’s pa: they’re all here, for she’s been very bad to-night.”

“But are they all gone to bed?” whispered Gurdon.

“Yes, all but Mrs Elstree, who’s sitting up in my lady’s room.”

“Come down then, softly, into the passage and open the lobby door; you can let me in then, through the billiard-room.”

“That I’m sure I’m not going to!” exclaimed Jane, indignantly, “and you ought to be ashamed of yourself for asking me such a thing. It isn’t like you, John.”

“Hold your tongue, will you!” he exclaimed, gruffly. “Do you want to be heard, and have me shot by one of the keepers, or some one fire at me from one of the windows?”

“N-n-no,” gasped Jane; “but pray do go; pray, dear John, go away!”

“Ah, you’re very anxious to get rid of me now,” said Gurdon, sneeringly, for he could hear that Jane was sobbing; “I may go now, just because I made a slip, and you want to see me no more. It’s the way of the world.”

“No—no; don’t talk like that,” cried Jane, “for you know I don’t deserve it; but pray, for both our sakes, go away at once. Write to me and say what you want.”

“I shan’t do nothing of the kind!” hissed Gurdon, angrily. “You do as I tell you: come down and let me in, or it’ll be the worse for you. I want to talk to you so as I can’t talk here. I’ve got a deal to say about the future.”

“I don’t care, and I won’t!” said Jane, excitedly, for anger roused in her anger in return. At such times she did not at all feel afraid of John Gurdon, nor of his threats, but was ready to meet him with open resistance. “I’m not going to do any such thing, so there now! It’s more than my place is worth, and you know it, John. And besides, it wouldn’t be seemly and modest.”

“Oh, you’ve grown very modest all at once, you have,” sneered Gurdon, angrily. “It’s all make believe; and if you don’t do as I tell you, I’ll pay you out in a way as’ll startle you! Come down this minute,” he hissed, “and do as I tell you! I will speak to you!”

“You won’t do nothing of the kind,” said Jane, angrily; “you’ve been drinking again, or you wouldn’t have come here to ask such a thing, nor you wouldn’t have thrown them nasty, sneering, jeering words at one that no one can say a word against, so there, now. And now, good night, Mr Gurdon,” she said, frigidly; and he heard the sash begin to close.

“Oh, Jane—Jane, darling! please—please stop, only a minute,” he whined, for he knew that he had played a false card, and that it was time to withdraw it. “Don’t be hard on a poor fellow as is fallen, and who’s put out of temper by his troubles. I didn’t think that you’d turn your back upon me—I didn’t, indeed.”

John Gurdon paused, and gave vent to a snuffle, and something that was either a hiccup or a sob. Jane Barker, too, paused in her act of closing the window, for somehow John Gurdon had wound his way so tightly round her soft heart, that she was ready to strike him one moment, and to go down on her knees and beg forgiveness the next.

“It’s very hard,” sobbed Gurdon, in maudlin tones. “Even she has turned upon me now, even to closing the window, and denying me a hearing—I didn’t think it of her. A woman that I’ve worshipped almost—a woman as I’d have died for a dozen times over; but it isn’t in her nature.”

Gurdon stopped and listened attentively.

“She isn’t a bad one at heart,” he continued, in the same whining, lachrymose tones, “but she’s been set against me, and it’s all over now; and I may as well make an end of myself as try and live. I did think as she’d have come down to listen to me; but no, and it’s all over. The whole world now has shut its doors and windows in my face!”

“Oh, John—John, pray, pray don’t talk so!” sobbed Jane.

“What! not gone?” he exclaimed, in mock ecstasy.

“No, no! How could you think I should be so cruel?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” he whined. “But pray, pray come down: I want to have a few words about what’s to be done. I don’t want to take a public-house now, Jane, but to go into the grocery and baking; and there’s a chance before me, if I could only point it out.”

“Well, tell me now,” sobbed Jane.

“No; how can I?” said Gurdon—“I shall be heard. Ah! Jenny, you don’t care for me as you used, or you wouldn’t keep me out here like this!”

“Oh, what shall I do?” sobbed Jane. “I can’t do as he asks, and he knows it; and yet he’s trying to break my heart, he is!”

“Now, then, are you going to listen to me, Jenny?” whispered Gurdon, imploringly.

“Oh, I can’t—I can’t: I daren’t do it!” sobbed poor Jane.

“Oh, please, if you love me, don’t drive me to desperation!” cried Gurdon. “I—”

“Hush!” whispered Jane, in affrighted tones, for at that moment there was a loud knocking at her bedroom door, and the voice of Mrs Elstree was heard.

“Jane—Jane! Quick! Call Sir Murray! My darling is dying!”

Beneath the Shadow.

As, muttering a savage oath, John Gurdon crept through the yielding shrubs, Jane Barker softly closed the window, and then glided to the door.

“Not gone to bed?” exclaimed Mrs Elstree. “Thank Heaven! Rouse Sir Murray and my husband while I run back.”

“Have you called Dr Challen, ma’am?” said Jane, in agitated tones.

“Oh yes: he is in the bedroom,” sobbed Mrs Elstree; and she hurried back.

In a few minutes husband and father were by the bedside, watching with agitated countenances the struggle going on, for truly it seemed that the long lethargy into which Lady Gernon had been plunged was to be terminated by the triumph of the dread shade. As Mrs Elstree had sat watching her, she had suddenly started up to talk in a wild, incoherent manner; and as Sir Murray Gernon stood there in his long dressing-gown, with brow knit, a shade that was not one of sorrow crossed his brow upon hearing some of his stricken wife’s babblings.

“Philip,” she said—and as she spoke her voice softened, and there was a yearning look of gentleness in her countenance—“Philip, the cross: where is the cross? Have you hid it?—have you taken it away? Pray, pray restore it! He will be angry. They are favourite old jewels, that I wear for his sake. You loved me once; for the sake of the old times give it me back! He will ask for it. Where is the cross? Do you see: blue sapphires, each like a little forget-me-not peering up at you. Your flowers—true blue, Philip. But the cross—I must have the cross!”

She was silent for a few minutes, and then, wildly turning to her husband, she caught his hand in hers.

“Philip,” she cried, addressing him, “it is all madness—something of the past. It was not to be, and we have each our path to follow. I heard the rumours: trouble—failure—your income swept away—dearest Ada. But you must not come to want. You will give me back the cross, though; not the forget-me-nots. Keep them, though they are withered and dry—withered and dry as our old love—something of the past. Let me see,” she said—and her eyes assumed a troubled, anxious expression—“you cannot claim me now. I am another’s—his wife. How blue the lake looks! and how plainly it mirrors the mountains! Fair blue waters—blue—true blue. If I could have died then—died when you plucked the flowers from my breast—but it was not to be. I have a duty to fulfil—a burden—a cross”—she said, dreamily—“a cross? Yes—yes—yes, the cross. You will give it me back, Philip,” she whispered, with a smile; “it lies, you see, where once your forget-me-nots lay. I cannot wear them now, but the colour is the same—true blue. But you will find them for me, those bright gems, and all will yet be well.”

She raised Sir Murray’s hand to her lips, and kissed it reverently, as she continued:

“Always true and noble, Philip. You will respect my husband for the sake of the old days. It has been like a cloud always hovering above my life: that great dread lest you should ever meet in anger. Go now—let me sleep—I am weak and weary. But remember your promise.”

Pride, misery, despair, shame, and grief, seemed to have mingled for him a cup of bitterness, forcing him to drink it there in the presence of those who were gathered round the sick woman’s couch; and it was with a step that tottered in spite of all his self-command, that when Lady Gernon loosed his hand, Sir Murray strode slowly from the room, to seek the solitude of the library, where, alone through the rest of that night, he could sit and brood upon his misery. She did not love him—she had never loved him; and he told himself that he could not stay to hear her words—to hold her hand, when her last sigh was breathed. Had not that man risen, as it were, from the dead to blast their wedding, she would have clung to him with a softened, child-like affection; but now—“how could he stay when her thoughts all seemed another’s?”

The tearful eyes of father and mother met across the bed, as Sir Murray left the room, and then as the doctor sat silent and averted of gaze by the bedside, the broken voice of the father rose, as, sinking upon his knees, he prayed long and earnestly that Heaven of its goodness would grant the renewal of life to his child, if but for a short time, that she might prove to her husband that the words he had that night heard were but the vain babblings of her distempered brain. That she might live for his, for her child’s, for her parents’ sake, and during her life, however short, sweep away the cruel mists of doubt and suspicion that clung to her hearth.

Fervent and low did that prayer sound in the silence of the sick-chamber, where all that wealth could spread in profusion was waiting to minister to the owner’s wants. But to those present it seemed as if the splendour were but a mockery; and the story of Lady Gernon’s life, well known to all, pointed ever to one great void—a void that no wealth could supply.

Fervent and low grew that prayer in the silence of that night, till, as the Rectors lips parted to give utterance to those sublime words of humility and resignation, “Thy will be done!” a sob choked his utterance, and, save a low, weary wail from the stricken mother, all was for a long space still.

The shaded lamp made the hangings of the bed to disport themselves in strange shadows upon wall and carpet; and at times, when the night breeze softly swept round the house, it was as though the spirits of air were waiting in gathering levée to bear away the newly-freed essence to a happier realm. No word was spoken; only at times the Doctor bent over the bed to moisten his patient’s lips from a glass in his hand. The pendule ticked softly upon the mantel-piece, every second beaten off finding its echo in the listeners’ hearts, as it seemed to tell of the rapid flight of time, and the few brief minutes left to the wretched sufferer upon the bed. Her wanderings had long since ceased, and to those who watched, it seemed many times over that the last sigh had been breathed with those softly-muttered words, which made them start as a cold shudder ran through their frames. But a warning glance from the doctor, as he still kept on at intervals of every few minutes moistening her lips, told that there was still life, and they waited on.

More than once Mrs Elstree’s head had turned, full of expectancy, towards the door, for she thought that Sir Murray would return; but he came not; and at last, feeling it to be an act of duty to send for him, she turned to speak to Jane, who, it seemed to her, had been but a few minutes before sobbing silently in a further corner of the room. It excited no surprise though, then, when she saw that the corner was vacant, for, dulled by long familiarity with the grief before her, other matters seemed to make no impression on her mind.

It was the same with the Rector, for as Mrs Elstree rose to leave the room, he did not remove his gaze from his daughter’s face, but still sat watching silently and sadly for the change.

Mrs Elstree sought Sir Murray in his room; but he was not there, and then, as, candle in hand—unnecessary then, for a cold, pale light seemed to creep through the sky light over the grand staircase, to give to everything a chilly, forlorn, and strange look—she descended the stairs, she encountered a servant who, with a scared face, told her that Sir Murray was in the library, and then stood watching her descent.

She reached the library door and knocked, to receive no answer, and her repeated summonses were without effect, when, with a sigh, she turned to retrace her steps.

“He will not come,” she said. Then, to the maid, who had been watching her anxiously: “Have you seen Jane?”

“Went out, ma’am, with one of the gardeners, ever so long ago, ma’am.”

“Do you know where?”

“No, ma’am. She never said a word to me about it;” and the girl, and another who had joined her, turned to gaze uneasily at the closed library door.

Mrs Elstree slowly retraced her steps—slowly, though shivering the while with anxiety—and returned to the bedroom, to find the scene there unchanged. But she had hardly retaken her place by the bedside when there was a rustling at the door, and she turned her head, thinking that it might be Sir Murray, but, to her surprise, Ada Norton, closely followed by Jane, entered the room.

Ada spoke no word, but, gliding to the bedside, stood, pale and anxious, gazing down upon her cousin’s shrunken face. Then, stooping softly, she pressed a long kiss upon her white lips, the doctor making no sign of rebuke.

“Where is her child?” said Ada then, in an anxious tone, for, as she had bent down, Lady Gernon’s eyes had opened, and her lips had parted in a faint whisper.

“May it be fetched?” said Mrs Elstree, softly, to the doctor.

“Yes—yes,” he whispered, in tones that seemed to imply, “all is over now.”

Jane hurried, sobbing, from the room, for the last moments seemed to have come. There was something awful in the strange light of recognition that had come into Lady Gernon’s eyes; but when, softly sleeping, the tiny fragile one was borne in and laid in her arms, its soft, downy cheek resting upon her breast, the faintest dawning of a smile played for an instant upon the mother’s lip, her eyes gazed straight upwards for a few moments, and then closed, when, as Dr Challen swiftly pressed forward, to lean with anxious mien over the pillow, Mrs Elstree sank fainting into weeping Jane’s arms, while, with a despairing wail, Ada Norton gave utterance to one word, that sounded more like declaration than eager demand, as it thrilled through the strained nerves of all present, and that word was: “Dead?”

Not Yet.

Ada Norton’s wild appeal was answered by the Doctor’s hand being held up to command silence, and, for many hours from that moment, as he tended his patient, he refused to answer all questions. At last, though, with a sigh almost of pleasure, he said:

“I’ll lie down now for a few hours. Call me when she wakes.”

Only those who have watched by a bedside, expecting moment by moment that the grim shade would claim its prey, can imagine the relief afforded to all by that simple sentence. It told of hope and refreshing slumber; of a return to consciousness; and, bent of head, the old Rector left the chamber, feeling that his prayer had been heard, hopeful too, now, that in all its plenitude the rest of his supplication would be granted.

The change from despair to hopefulness was so sudden that, again and again, Ada bent in doubt over her cousin’s pillow, to press a gentle kiss upon her pale face, before she could feel satisfied respecting that faint, regular breathing, culminating now and then in a sigh of satisfaction, so faint that it was like the softest breath of summer. But, relieved in spirit, she at length took her departure, thanking Jane for hurrying over to summon her as she had done.

Mrs Norton found her husband excitedly pacing the walk in front of the house, and he made no scruple about displaying the cause of his anxiety, for, hurrying to his wife’s side, he caught her hands in his, exclaiming:

“What of poor Marion?” And then, reading in her countenance that his worst fears were not confirmed, he muttered a sigh of relief, “Thank Heaven!—thank Heaven!”

“I fancy now that there is hope,” whispered his wife, who, steadfast and true herself, refused to harbour the slightest suspicion. He was anxious respecting poor Marion Gernon’s fate, and why should he not be when all circumstances were taken into consideration? To say that his deep interest in her cousin caused her no pain would be false, for it did, and naturally; but that pain she concealed. In her thoughtful moments, when reviewing the scenes at the Castle, and considering the loss of the jewels in connection with her husband’s troubles, his words to Sir Murray Gernon, and sufferance even of his cruel blow, she knew that either her husband was a thief, liar, and consummate villain, or else a man of true nobility and the most refined honour. Was it likely that she should pause for a moment in the verdict, as, clinging daily more fondly to him, she tried, by her endearments, to soothe the perturbation of his spirit. He loved her she was sure, and she would not be mad enough to indulge in reproof or upbraiding.

Satisfied in her own mind that her cousin was out of danger, she would visit her no more. It would be wrong, she felt, until the clouds of suspicion that floated around were driven away. For she thought, with hot and burning cheeks, of those suspicions until she angrily drove them from her as unworthy of her notice. If her husband would but take her more fully into his confidence—talk with her freely, ask her counsel, and keep nothing back, she felt that she would be happy; but she thought that it would be an insult to him to broach such matters, and day after day she waited for the confidence that came not. He said nothing respecting his financial troubles, in spite of her eager desire to know his losses; but, to her great grief, he became day after day more sombre and thoughtful, going out but little, save to make one of his long, strange journeys, at a time, too, when her anxiety was at its greatest height.

All would yet be well, though, she told herself, and still crushing down thoughts inimical to her peace, she met him ever with the same smile, but never to evoke a smile in return, save when their child came gambolling forward, when, with swelling heart, she would offer, mentally, a thanksgiving for that gift, and revel in the sunshine of his brighter looks, until once more the clouds would seem to settle over his soul.

To her he was always gentle, kind, and subdued; and, to a stranger he would have seemed a model husband; but Ada Norton was not content: there was a change—a marked change—in him, and more than once, in the bitterness of her heart, she had wished that the Castle had still remained desolate.

But she had one consolation during the long hours she was alone—her boy; and, lavishing her love upon him, she lived on, hopefully waiting for the sunshine; happy that, in spite of the fierce anger and suspicion of Sir Murray Gernon, the quarrel with her husband had proceeded no further, while, save for an occasional scrap of information gleaned in visits to the Rectory, the doings of the Gernons were to her a sealed book.

This had pained her at first, but her good sense told her that it was best for all concerned; and, striving to forget the past, she saw the time glide by in what was to her a calm and uneventful life till, shock after shock, came tidings and blows that, like the storm beating upon some good ship, threatened to make wreck of all her hopes. Tempest, rock, quicksand, all were fighting, as it were, to make an end of her faith—to destroy her happiness; calling forth fortitude and determination to encounter sufferings more than ordinarily fall to the lot of woman to bear.

Sir Murray’s Library.

There was a buzz of satisfaction amongst the servants as, half hysterically, Jane Barker announced the tidings of a change for the better; but when she added thereto an order from the Doctor that Sir Murray should be made acquainted with the change, there was a look of intelligence passed from one to the other—a scared, frightened look, which she was not slow to perceive, and in eager tones demanded what was the matter.

“Nothing that I know of,” said one, “but—”

“You always were a fool, Thomas!” exclaimed Jane, angrily. “Here, James, go and tell master at once.”

But James seemed not to have heard the command, for he suddenly disappeared through a door, against which he had happened to be standing.

“You go, then, Thomas,” said Jane; “and make haste, there’s a good man. He must be anxious to know.”

“Shouldn’t think he was,” said Thomas, “when Missus Elstree knocked ever so long at the libery and got no answer.”

Jane’s sharp eyes were again directed from one to the other, and then, without further pause, she set her teeth, nipped her lips together, and hurried across the hall to the library door.

She knocked at first softly, but there was no reply; then more loudly, with the same result; and at last, thoroughly alarmed, she beat fiercely upon the panels, calling loudly upon her masters name.

“Go and fetch Mr Elstree, and call up Dr Challen,” said Jane, huskily, for there was a horrible fear at her heart, though she resolutely kept it to herself. “Perhaps master may be in a fit,” she whispered.

The Rector was there in a few minutes, and after knocking and calling, he, too, turned pale, as the doctor now appeared upon the scene.

“Locked on the inside,” said the latter, after a momentary examination. “The door must be broken open, and at once. Is there a carpenter upon the premises?”

There was no carpenter, but one of the gardeners had some skill in doing odd jobs about the place, and he was known to possess a basket of tools. His name was therefore suggested.

“Fetch him at once!” exclaimed the Doctor, as excited now as any one present; and amidst an awe-stricken silence, the gardener’s advent was awaited.

But it took a good quarter of an hour to seek Alexander McCray, and during that period of breathless expectation, not a soul present thought of the possibility of an entrance being effected by the window. Thomas had peered twice through the key-hole, looking round afterwards with a pale, blank face, when seeing that it would probably be a quicker way of obtaining information than questioning, Dr Challen knelt down himself, to peer for some time through the narrow aperture, when he, too, rose, thoughtful and silent, the Rector refraining from questioning him, and no one else daring to do so. What Thomas had seen he at length communicated in whispers, but they did not reach the Rector, who, with a shuddering sensation oppressing him, kept on, in spite of himself, watching—as if his eyes were specially there attracted—the narrow slit beneath the door, as if expecting that some trace might probably there show itself of what had taken place within the room.

“Is this man coming?” exclaimed the Doctor at last; and another messenger was sent, while the women huddled together, whispering, and more than one thinking that that morning’s occurrences might result in a general discharge of servants, and a breaking up of the Castle establishment.

At last, though, there was the sound of footsteps, and very slowly and leisurely the Scotch gardener made his appearance, walking with the cumbersome gait of the men of the scythe and spade—slow, as a rule, as the growth of the plants they tend.

“Now, for Heaven’s sake, be smart, my good fellow!” exclaimed the Doctor.

“Ye’ll be wanting the door open, will ye?” said Alexander, slowly.

“Yes—yes!” exclaimed the Doctor impatiently.

“And have ye got authoughreety of Sir Moorray to force it open?” said Alexander.

“My good man, this is no time for authority. Make haste, and break open the door.”

“I’m no cheecan, gentlemen,” said Alexander, with the most aggravating coolness; “but I’ve got a verra good seetuation here, and I should be sore fashed if I had to luse it throw being rash. Sir Moorray might be verra angered with me for breaking the door.”

“My good man, I’d take all responsibility,” exclaimed the Rector. “Pray, be quick!”

“Weel, then, eef that’s the case, gentlemen,” said Alexander, refreshing his high-bridged nose with a pinch of snuff—“eef that’s the case, I’ll just go and fetch my tools.”

Alexander McCray nodded his head sagely, as he took his departure; and again there was an anxious lapse of time, certainly only of some minutes, but they seemed then to be hours, and, hurrying into the drawing-room, and seizing a poker, the Doctor was himself about to attack the door, when, chisel and mallet in hand, the gardener returned, his rush tool-basket over his shoulder; and then, strenuously exerting himself, he soon made an entrance, first for a chisel and then for a crowbar, with which he strained and strained hard to force open the strongly-made old oak carved door. For a long while the efforts were vain; but at last, with a loud crash, the door gave way, and so suddenly that the gardener fell back with great violence amongst the lookers-on, when, with an unanimous shriek of dismay, the women-servants turned and fled, to gaze from distant doorways for some scrap of interest connected with the elucidation.

But before Sandy McCray had gathered himself together, the Rector, followed by Dr Challen and Jane, had entered the room, when Mr Elstree’s first act was to catch Jane by the arm and press her back, as with his other hand he drew to the door.

“My good woman, you will be better away,” he said, earnestly.

“I’m not afraid, sir,” said Jane, quietly; “and perhaps I may be of some use.”

“Keep that door closed, then,” exclaimed the Doctor; and the next moment he was kneeling upon the carpet, where, motionless, stretched upon his face, and with his fingers tightly clutching the long nap of the Turkey carpet, lay the tall, proud form of Sir Murray Gernon.

“No, not that—not that, thank Heaven!” exclaimed the Doctor, after a brief examination, as, looking up, he answered the Rector’s inquiring gaze. “I was afraid so at first, but it is nothing of the kind. Not his own act, sir, but a sudden seizure, and no wonder. Tall, portly man—predisposition to apoplexy. Here, quick, Jane—basin and towels. Mr Elstree, open that window, and let’s have air; then send away those open-mouthed, staring fools outside. Nothing serious, I hope.”

As he spoke, he had loosened the baronet’s neckband, and torn the sleeve away from his arm, to lay bare and open a vein, his ministrations being followed before very long by a heavy sigh from the patient, other favourable symptoms soon supervening, and in a short time the baronet was pronounced out of danger.

“I don’t know what people would do if it were not for our profession,” said Dr Challen, importantly, as he fussed about in the hall, superintending the carrying of Sir Murray to his bed-chamber.

“And a wee bit help from a man as can handle twa or three tules,” said Sandy McCray, in a whisper to himself, for he was one of the porters; and then Dr Challen had the further satisfaction of knowing that he had two patients instead of one, both, though, progressing favourably.

The Gentle Passion.

Some days had passed, and the Doctor had taken his departure, confining himself now to a couple of calls per diem. Lady Gernon was progressing fast towards recovery, and Sir Murray, very quiet and staid, was again up; but, so far as the servants knew, and did not omit to tattle about, he had had no interview with her ladyship. But the heads of the establishment were not the only ones in that house sore at heart, for Jane Barker, in her times of retirement, shed many a bitter tear. She never asked about him, but there were those amongst the domestics who heard the news, and soon bore it to her, that John Gurdon had left the neighbouring town where he had been staying, and was gone to Liverpool, with the intention of proceeding to Australia: in which announcement there was some little truth and a good deal of fiction, the shade of truth being that John Gurdon was going abroad, though not in the way he had published.

“And never to write and ask me to see him again,” sobbed Jane—“never to say ‘good-bye.’ Oh, what a blessing life would be if there was no courting in it! as is a curse to everybody, as I’ve seen enough to my cost, without counting my own sufferings.”

Jane was bewailing her fate at the open window one night when these thoughts passed through her breast for the hundredth time. Certainly, there was a pleasant coolness in the night air, but it is open to doubt whether poor Jane had not nourished a hope that, wrong as it was on her part, besides being unbecoming, John might by chance have repented and turned back just to say a few words of parting. She confessed once that she wished he would, and then she would wish him God-speed, and if he wanted ten or twenty pounds, she would give notice at the savings’ bank, draw it out, and send it to him by letter. But not one word would she say to stop him from going—no, not one word. He should go, and no doubt it would do him good, and break him of all his bad habits, and “perhaps,” she said, with a sob, “he may come back a good man, and we may be—”

“Tst, Jane!—tst!”

For a few moments she could not move, the sound was so unexpected. She had hoped that he might come back, but for days past she had given it up, when now, making her heart leap with a joy she could not conceal, came the welcome sound from the darkness beneath where she leaned.

She had not heard him come, for the reason that Mr John Gurdon had been there for an hour before she had leaned out, and he had been stayed from announcing his presence sooner by a light in a neighbouring window; but now, that apparently all was still in the place, he gave utterance to the above signal, one which he had to repeat before it was responded to by a whispered ejaculation.

“How could I come, you cruel woman!” said Gurdon—“how can you ask me? Hadn’t you driven me by your hard-heartedness to make up my mind to go abroad? but only to find when I’d got to the ship that I couldn’t go without saying one long ‘good-bye.’ Oh, Jane!—Jane!—Jane!”

The remaining words were lost to Jane’s ear, but she could make out that he was sobbing and groaning softly, and it seemed to her, from the muffled sounds, that Gurdon had thrown himself down upon his face, and was trying to stifle the agony of his spirit, lest he should be heard, and so get her into trouble.

Poor Jane! her heart yearned with genuine pity towards the erring man, and her hands involuntarily stretched themselves out as if to take him to her breast, which heaved with sobs of an affection as sincere as was ever felt by the most cultivated of her sex.

“Oh, John!” she sobbed, “don’t—don’t!—please don’t do that!”

“How can I help it?” he groaned. “Why am I such a coward that I don’t go and make a hole in the lake, and put myself out of my misery?”

“Oh, pray—pray don’t, John!” sobbed poor Jane, whose feelings were stirred to their deepest depth, and, believing in her old lovers earnest repentance, she was all the weak woman now. “I’m ’most heart-broken, dear, without more troubles. You don’t know what has been happening lately.”

“No,” groaned Gurdon, “I don’t know. My troubles have been enough for me.”

“What with my lady nearly dying, and Sir Murray being locked up in the library, and the door being broken open to find him in a fit, the place is dreadful, without you going on as you do.”

“Don’t, please, be hard on me, dear,” groaned Gurdon; “and if they did break open the library door, they mended it again, I suppose, for Sir Murray’s got plenty of money, ain’t he?”

“No, they didn’t stop for no mending,” sobbed Jane. “It’s enough to do to mend poor people’s sorrows here as is all driving us mad. Money’s no use where you’re miserable.”

“And are you miserable, dear?” whispered Gurdon.

“Oh, how can you ask?” sobbed Jane.

“Don’t seem like it,” said Gurdon, softly, “or you’d come down and say a few words to me before I go away, perhaps for ever; for when once the great seas are rolling between us, Jane, there’s, perhaps, no chance of our seeing one another no more.”

“Oh, how can you ask me? You know I can’t!” exclaimed Jane, angrily.

“I thought as much,” whined Gurdon, in a deep, husky voice, and as if speaking only to himself; “but I thought I’d put her to the proof—just give her one more trial.”

“You cruel—cruel—cruel fellow! how can you torture me so?” sobbed Jane, who had heard every word. “It’s wicked of you, it is, when you know it’s more than my place is worth to do it.”

“Ah,” said Gurdon, huskily, “I did think once, that a place in my heart was all that you wanted, and that I had but to say ‘Come and take it, Jenny,’ and you’d have come. But I was a different man, then, and hadn’t gone wrong, and I’m rightly punished now. Goodbye, Heaven bless you!—bless you! and may you be happy!”

“But stop—stop a moment, John! Oh, pray don’t go yet! I’ve something to tell you.”

“I dursen’t stop no longer,” said John, huskily. “People will be sure to hear us; and bad as I am, Jenny, I wouldn’t do you any harm. No—no, I’d suffer anything—die for you, though I’ve been wrong, and taken a glass too much. Good—goo-oo-ood-bye!”

“But stop a moment, John, pray!” sobbed Jane.

“No—no; it’s better not.”

“Oh dear, what shall I do—what shall I do?” sobbed Jane.

“Won’t you say good-bye?” was whispered from below, and there was a soft rustling amongst the bushes beneath the tree.

“Oh, stop—stop!” cried Jane, hoarsely. “Don’t leave me like that. What do you want me to do?”

“Oh, nothing—nothing, only to say goodbye, Jane. I did think that I should have liked to hold you in my arms for a moment, and have one parting kiss. I seemed to fancy it would make me a stronger and a better man, so that I could go and fight my way again in a foreign world, and make myself fit to come back and ask you to be my wife.”

“But John, dear John, don’t ask me,” sobbed Jane. “How can I?”

“No—no,” he said, sadly; “you can’t. Don’t do anything of the sort. I only thought you might have come down and let me in through the billiard-room. But don’t do it, Jane; you might get into trouble about it, and one of us is enough to be in that way. Bless you, Jane! Think of me sometimes when I’m far away.”

Jane did not answer, but with the sobs tearing one after the other from her breast, she stood, listening and thinking. It was too hard upon her; she felt that she could not bear it. How, with all his faults, he still loved her, and should she—could she turn her back upon him when he was in such trouble? There was a hot burning flush, too, in her cheeks as she leaned, with beating heart, further from the window, determined to risk all for his sake.

“John!—John!” she whispered, “Don’t go yet; I’ll do what you want.”

No answer.

“Oh, John!—John! Pray don’t leave me like that. I’ll come down just for a few moments to say good-bye.”

Still no answer, only a faint rustle amongst the bushes.

Had he then gone?—left her while she was silent for those few minutes, thinking her to be hard, and cruel, and indifferent? or did he hope that she would repent, and had he gone round to the glass door by the billiard-room lobby?

“John!” she whispered again; and then more loudly, “John!”

“Is there anything the matter, my lassie?” said a voice—one which made the heart of Jane Barker to beat, for she recognised in it that of the Scotch gardener, who, it now struck her, had been very attentive to her of late.

“Matter! No,” said Jane; “I was only looking out at the stars, Mr McCray,” and she closed the window.

“Ye’re in luck to-neet, Sandy, laddie,” muttered the gardener. “Ye’ve got your rabbit, and reset your trap without so much as a single spiteful keeper being a bit the wiser; and now, taking a fancy to look at her window, ye’ve seen the little blossom hersel. But she’s a neat little flower, and when she’s done greeting after that dirty loon of a butler, she’ll come round. He was a bad one—a bad one, and as jealous as a Moor; but he’s out of the way now, and Jeanie, my sousie lassie, ye’ll be mine one of these days, I think.”

Alexander McCray stepped gingerly along amongst the bushes, holding the rabbit he had caught tightly in one pocket of his velveteens, secure in his own mind from interruption, for even if he had now met a keeper he was upon his own domain—the garden; and zeal for the protection of his master’s fruit would have been his excuse. So he stepped softly along, pushing the shrubs aside, and turning once to look at Jane’s window, and during those few moments, as he stood there, looking very solemn, and relieving his feelings by kissing his hand a few times to the darkened window, Sandy McCray was in imminent danger of having his brains knocked out. If he had gone a foot more to the right, or a yard more to the left, the result would have been a fierce struggle; but as it happened, Sandy did neither, but strode safely, straight along, and made his way to his cottage, where he regaled himself with half-a-dozen pinches of snuff, and then turned in, to dream of the fair face of Jane.

Jane’s Lovers—Number 1.

But Sandy McCray was no sluggard: the little Dutch clock in his room was only striking five, and the dew was bright upon the grass, as he stepped out, crossed the bit of park between his cottage and the garden, and then, taking a rake in his hand, walked towards the shrubbery where he had stood for a few minutes the night before. For Sandy argued that, with all his care, he might have left some footprints about, and that footprints beneath the window of the lady of his love were things not to be thought of for a moment, since they were not tolerated elsewhere.

“Just as I thought,” muttered the Scot; and his rake erased a deep footmark and then another upon the border, when, as he half-smoothed over a third, he stopped short, and, lifting his cap with one hand, he let the rake-handle fall into the hollow of his arm, so that he might indulge in a good scratch at his rough, red head.

The scratching seemed to do no good, so he refreshed his intellect with a pinch of snuff, and then with another, when, his senses being a little sharpened, he proceeded to very carefully fit his boot to the footprint, but as he did so, standing upon one leg, he tottered a little, and coming down upon the mark, quite destroyed it as to possibility of identification, and ended by raking it over smoothly. But Sandy had not yet done, for, picking his way carefully through the shrubs, he stopped at last by two very plainly-marked footsteps, and this time, slipping off one boot, he knelt down beneath the shade of an arbutus, and carefully tried the sole, to find that it was a good three sizes larger than the boot that had made the marks. Again the rake was brought into requisition, and the marks obliterated, Mr McCray looking very fierce the while, for a few more steps brought him where the footprints were plainer, and the test of the boot showed that they were of more than one size. He tried here, and he tried there, and had no difficulty in finding his own traces. But those others?

Sandy McCray’s face was a study as he stood peering down, and fitting the boot first in one and then another print, ending by returning it to its proper service; and then it was that, if he had looked upwards instead of down, he would have seen that a pale, eager face was watching his every motion, as it had been for the last few minutes, and continued so to do, while, as if struck by a sudden thought, Sandy McCray laid his finger by the side of his nose, grinned a very fierce and savage grin, and then proceeded to erase the marks of trampling. Five minutes later he did turn his head upwards, and stole a glance at the window; but the pale face was not there, for Jane, who had never undressed, had seated herself upon the floor, and now, trembling and agitated, was having what she would have called “a good cry.”

There was not a footprint left when Jane had finished her cry, and stole to the window to peep. Neither was Sandy McCray there; but a little off to the right, upon a scrap of grass sparkling in the morning sun with a heavy burden of dewdrops, and as Jane looked, she saw the gardener sharpening his scythe viciously before he began to shave away at the grass, as if every daisy’s head were an enemy’s that he was determined to take off.

Jane sighed, as well she might, and once more she said aloud:

“Oh, what a happy world this would be if there were no men!”

That was an anxious day for poor Jane, whose thoughts at times made her shiver. Little as she had noticed them before, she could now recall scores of attentions on the gardener’s part, all of which evidently meant love. The warm apples from his pockets; the bunches of grapes; the peaches and nectarines; and the roses on Sundays; besides which, for months past it had been his habit to grin at her very widely, so as to show the whole of his teeth—loving smiles, no doubt, while now that he had seen those footsteps beneath her window, what would he do?