George Manville Fenn (continued 4)

“Nothing—nothing,” said Jane, earnestly, “if it were all genuine; but, Alexander—dear Alexander, there’s Judas kisses as well as true ones, and I know he did not mean what you saw. I’m troubled about it all, and I come to you for help: don’t fail me, please, now this first time.”

“Nay, nay,” cried the Scot, eagerly. “I’ll not fail thee, lassie. But what am I to do? Where am I to go?”

“Follow them and watch them, never leaving them for an instant, and always being ready to give help.”

“Yes, yes; I’ll do it, lassie.”

“I knew you would,” cried Jane, pressing his great hand between both of hers; “and now run—run all the way, for he went to his room after he left me, and came out pushing a pistol into his pocket. And, oh! Alexander, if you love me, make haste, for I’m sure that there’s something wrong!”

What Sandy did not See.

“Gude save us!” muttered McCray, as he set off round the house at a sharp trot—“Gude save us and ha’e maircy! Here’s a pretty pickle for an upper gairdner. Only just got my promotion, and I shall be brought down again as sure as my name’s Sandy McCray. Trust the lassies for getting ye into a mess. Only foregather with one of the pretty things, and ye’ll be in a mess before long. Gude save us! what shall I do? He’ll be savage with me as a dog-otter. Nay, I ken what I’ll do.”

A bright thought had evidently crossed Sandy’s mind, for, turning suddenly, he dodged into the kitchen-garden, and round by the tool-house, heralding his coming, a minute after, by a loud rattle, as he appeared, trundling a wheel-barrow, in which he had hastily thrown a basket and a three-pronged fork.

“I’m after ferns for the new rockery, to be sure!” he said, with a grin; and then away he spun at a tremendous rate, dashing along to the north gate, and bringing the woman out to see whether he had gone mad.

“Don’t go that way, Mr McCray!” cried the woman after him, as she saw him turn down the path which led to the wood. “Sir Murray and my lady have gone that way.”

“Gude save us, that’s the right news!” muttered Sandy; and the barrow rattled more loudly than ever, as he dashed along till he came to an alley, down which, a good quarter of a mile from where he stood, he could see Sir Murray and Lady Gernon.

“There they are, then,” he muttered; and running the barrow aside, he took out basket and fork, and began to thread his way amongst the trees, so as to approach unseen close to where his master and Lady Gernon were walking.

But Sandy McCray was a cautious man, and before he had gone many yards he had stooped to dig up half-a-dozen hart’s-tongue ferns, which he placed, with a fair quantity of leaf-mould, in his basket.

“There’s my answer to whatever they speer,” he muttered; and then, creeping cautiously forward, he made his way to where, by holding aside the hazel boughs, he could peer out into the alley, where in a few minutes he saw the couple he watched pass by within a couple of yards of where he stood, silently and without hardly a rustle of the leaves amongst which they passed.

But just as they had gone by they stopped short, Lady Gernon holding tightly by Sir Murray’s arm, as she gazed, with a wild, eager stare in his face.

“We had better make haste back, Lady Gernon,” he said, quietly, and with a peculiar smile; and then they walked on.

“There, now! What could be better than that?” said McCray, as soon as he was alone. “She looks pale, but they were quiet enow. But what did he mean by showing his teeth to her when he smilt?”

Sandy McCray shook his head, and then, in obedience to his instructions, he followed slowly, contriving from time to time to keep the couple in sight, but ever and anon shaking his head as if something troubled him. At last he said, half aloud:

“The lassie is richt, after a’. There’s your gude, sweet kiss, and your Judas kiss, and I think perhaps she did richt in sending me; but it’s a sail job to leave one’s work i’ the daytime, and after a’ there was not much to come for.”

Had Sandy McCray been there five—nay, four—minutes sooner, he would have been of a different opinion, for Sir Murray Gernon, led, perhaps, by some tricksy sprite of the woods—some Puck of modern times—had hurried on and on, each moment growing more and more angry and excited at having missed the object of his search. For days past she had never left the Castle unwatched, but this time she had gone out suddenly, and at an hour when he had believed her to be in her bedroom. That there was some definite object for her walk he felt convinced, and when, after hurrying up and down several alleys of the wood, he at length caught sight of Lady Gernon, he felt no surprise—there was no great feeling of mad anger in his breast, but something like a bitter sense of satisfaction, such as might be that of any one who, after a long and arduous search, comes upon the object of his quest.

He uttered no exclamation, made no excited movement; but, with such a smile as McCray had described, he stood gazing down a woodland arcade, to where, some fifty yards in advance—framed, as it were, in the autumn-tinted leaves—stood Lady Gernon and the man to whom she had first given her love.

They were, perhaps, a yard apart—Lady Gernon, with her head bent, resting with one hand against a tree-trunk; Philip Norton—his hands upon the stick he held—gazing at her, it seemed, sadly and earnestly; but, as far as Sir Murray could tell, no word was spoken.

The next moment, quietly, and still smiling, Sir Murray slowly advanced down the arcade, half of which he had traversed before he was perceived; but even then there was no start—no guilty confusion—only Lady Gernon turned deadly pale, and a shade of trouble crossed Captain Norton’s face.

Sir Murray, with the same strange smile, advanced to where they stood, raising his hat in answer to Norton’s salute; and then, with the most courteous air, he said:

“Lady Gernon, you look pale.”

“I believe, Sir Murray,” said Norton, “Lady Gernon was startled and troubled at our sudden encounter.”

“Exactly,” said Sir Murray, quietly.

“You misunderstand me,” said Norton, gravely, the shadow deepening upon his face. “I alluded to her encounter with me. Five minutes since, I met her by accident.”

“Most accurate,” said Sir Murray, smiling.

“And after the past—after the misunderstanding between our families, Sir Murray,” continued Norton, not heeding the taunt.

“Exactly?” said Sir Murray.

“I was sorry that the meeting should have taken place. Lady Gernon,” he said, turning to her, as he raised his hat, “I will deliver your message. It is, I know, both pain and sorrow to dear Ada that you should be apart. Still, I think it is for the best. Rest assured, though, that the love you sent her is yours in return. Heaven bless you! Good-bye, Sir Murray Gernon!” he said, turning to the smiling baronet—who stood with one hand buried in his breast-pocket—“I am sorry for the past; but it is irrevocable, and I still repeat that I am sorry for this encounter. Lady Gernon seems pale and ill. Good day.”

He held out his hand quietly and frankly to the baronet, though he had forborne to do so to his lady, and there was an air of calm innocence in his aspect, that should have carried with it conviction; but Sir Murray never stirred; his hand was still buried in his breast, as, with a mocking smile, he said:

“Captain Norton, the army was never your vocation, any more than the losing office of mine-director.”

“I do not understand you, Sir Murray,” was the calm, sad reply, as for a moment Norton’s eyes met Marion Gernon’s imploring glance.

“Indeed,” said the baronet, who had not lost the speaking look interchanged. “I meant that fortune awaited you upon the stage; you should have been an actor.”

The colour seemed to fade from Norton’s face at these galling words, and the great blue scar stood out more prominently than ever; but the next moment turning his gaze from Sir Murray, he fixed his eyes upon Marion with a soft, earnest, speaking look, that meant volumes; for, changing in an instant from a mocking smile to a look of rage and hate, Sir Murray Gernon drew a pistol from his pocket, and at a couple of paces’ distance presented it full at Norton. His finger was upon the trigger—the weapon was fully cocked—and even the slightest contraction of the angry man’s muscles would have sent the contents through Philip Norton’s breast. But he did not wince—not a muscle moved; the man who had before now stood deadly fire, stood firm, till, with an oath, Sir Murray hurled the pistol into the thicket, and led his wife away.

But before they had gone a dozen yards the smile had come back upon his lip, and he turned to gaze at Lady Gernon, to see on her countenance the same old stony, despairing look that had been there on the wedding morn.

Jane’s Suspicions.

It is quite possible that in his heart of hearts Sir Murray Gernon had doubts as to who had been the spoiler of his family jewels, but he would admit nothing to his breast but such thoughts as were disparaging to Norton.

At the Castle nods and smiles were prevalent, and the servants gossiped respecting the happy change that had taken place, arguing all sorts of gaieties once more; for—so they said—the old house had been like a dungeon lately, and almost unbearable.

But there were doubts still in the minds of both Jane Barker and her lover, the former watching Sir Murray as narrowly as ever he watched his lady. There was a feeling of uneasiness in Jane’s heart that grew stronger every day, a feeling not based upon any confidences of Lady Gernon’s—for, though invariably kind and gentle, Marion was not one to make a friend and counsellor of her servant—but upon Jane’s own observation. The scraps she gathered she pieced together, and, when alone, tried to form some definite course of action—a trial resulting in a rigid determination which she followed out.

What took place in private was never known, but the pallor upon Lady Gernon’s cheeks grew daily of a more sickly hue. A physician was sent for from the county town with great ostentation by Sir Murray, and shortly after, another from London, resulting in prescriptions and medicine, which her ladyship took daily, such medicine being always administered by Jane, who made a point, for some reason or another, of leaving the bottles always upon the table in her ladyship’s dressing-room; and this went on for quite a couple of months, the sickness increasing, though not sufficiently to confine Lady Gernon to her room. The walks, though, were pretty well given up, and it was only at very rare intervals that Lady Gernon strayed beyond the boundaries of the park.

The servants said that no one could be more attentive than Sir Murray now was, and that it was quite pleasant to see the alteration. But Jane said nothing, she merely tightened her lips, making no confidant; for once—twice, four different times—she had encountered Sir Murray coming from her mistress’s dressing-room; and once, after such a visit, when she went to give Lady Gernon her daily medicine, the poor girl fainted away upon learning that her duty had been forestalled by Sir Murray himself.

Whatever might have been Jane Barkers suspicions, she felt that this could not go on for ever; and worn out, and sick at heart, she one day put on her bonnet, ordered McCray to act as her escort, and made her way to Merland Hall.

Mrs Norton welcomed her heartily, but almost in dread, not knowing what interpretation might be placed upon the visit, should it come to Sir Murray’s ears. But, to her great astonishment, Jane’s first act was to close the window, and then, crossing the room, she turned the key in the lock; when, coming back close to the astonished occupant of the room, she threw herself down upon her knees, sobbing wildly; and catching hold of Ada’s hand, she kissed it fiercely again and again.

“Is anything wrong?” exclaimed Ada Norton, with a horrified look, for a dreadful fear had flashed across her mind.

“No, Miss Ada—I mean Mrs Norton—not yet—not yet! but unless some one interferes there soon will be! Oh, ’m! I didn’t care to go to the Rectory, for I knew that they wouldn’t believe me there! but I’m afraid something dreadful will happen to my poor dear lady! I have come to you because you are her cousin, and I know you loved her, though things have gone so crooked since. But what shall we do, ’m? for since that last time when my lady met Mr Norton in the wood, and Sir Murray caught them—” Jane ceased, for Ada Norton leaped to her feet as if some galvanic shock had passed through her frame.

“Oh, what am I saying, ma’am? I didn’t think that you’d take it in that way, nor yet that you wouldn’t know of it. It was nothing, ma’am; only Sir Murray was telling my lady of it; and she said that they met by accident, and that almost all her words to him were to send her love to you, ma’am.”

“It was, then, upon that occasion?” said Ada Norton, in agitated tones.

“Yes, ’m; and I was in the dressing-room, and heard all. Not that Sir Murray spoke angrily, but in a curious, sneering tone that frightens my lady; and ever since then she’s been ill, and taking medicine; and—oh, ’m!—you would not get me into trouble for trying to do what’s right by my lady?”

“No—no,” said Ada, who was trying to recall her husband’s words when he had told her of his last meeting with Lady Gernon, for he had said nothing respecting the coming of Sir Murray.

“Well, ma’am,” sobbed Jane, “since then”—she sank her voice into a whisper, and sent a thrill of horror through Ada Norton as she spoke—“since then, ma’am, I’m sure Sir Murray has been trying to poison her!”

“Poison my cousin, Lady Gernon?” exclaimed Ada. “Nonsense! Absurd! Jane, you are mad!”

“I hope I am, ma’am, about that—indeed I do!” cried Jane, earnestly.

“But what have you seen? What do you know?” exclaimed Mrs Norton.

“I haven’t seen anything, ma’am, except Sir Murray coming sometimes out of the dressing-room, where the medicine’s kept; and I don’t know anything except that my lady’s medicine always tastes different, and looks different, when it’s been in the dressing-room a day or two; and every week it turns a darker colour, and tastes stronger than it did the week before. And besides all that, though Sir Murray smiles, and pretends to talk pleasant to the poor dear, suffering angel, than whom a better woman never lived, he hates her dreadfully, and more and more every day.”

“And how long has this been going on?” said Mrs Norton, with a faint smile.

“Weeks now, ma’am,” said Jane. “But I see you don’t believe me.”

“I believe you to be a good, affectionate girl, Jane,” said Mrs Norton, “and that you love your mistress; but this seems to me to be a fearful and perfectly unfounded suspicion—one that I am glad, for every one’s sake, that you have hinted to no one else. Think of the absurdity of the thing. This has, you say, been going on for weeks; and yet, you see, your mistress is not poisoned yet.”

“No, ma’am, not yet,” said Jane, meaningly.

“Well, then, my good girl, how do you account for that?”

“Because, ma’am,” said Jane, in a whisper, “she’s never taken any of the medicine but once.”

“How? What do you mean?” exclaimed Mrs Norton.

“I’ve managed to get the stuff made up at two places, ma’am,” whispered Jane. “One lot’s fetched by the footman from one chemist’s, at Marshton, and I get the gardener to go to another chemist’s for the other. I only had to send the doctor’s paper, and the medicine comes just like what Sir Murray knows is sent for.”

“Well,” exclaimed Ada, impatiently.

“Well, ’m,” whispered Jane, “that which her ladyship takes I keep locked up, and that which stands on the dressing-table gets poured out of the window, a little at a time, upon the flower-beds.”

Ada Norton sat silently gazing at Jane for a few minutes before she spoke.

“Jane,” she said, “this is a fearful charge!” and she shuddered. “I must think about it, and before many hours I will come over to the Castle, and see either Sir Murray or Lady Gernon. Do not be afraid; I will not implicate you in any way. I must see Mr Elstree, and I will try to make some plan—to arrange something definite; but your words have confused me—almost taken away my breath. The thing seems so monstrous, and even now I cannot believe it true! But I should not feel that I had done my duty if, after what you have said, I did not take some steps; so rest assured that I will do something, and at once.”

Jane rose to go, and, trembling and excited, Ada Norton sat for some hours, pondering whether she should ask her husband’s advice, ending by putting it off till the next day, when it happened that it was out of her power.

Not at Home.

“Did you see the laird?” said McCray, coming slowly forth from behind some bushes, after Jane had been standing some few minutes in the lane where she had left him to wait.

“The laird!” said Jane, starting. “Why, who do you mean?”

“Mean? Why, Sir Mooray himself. I saw him turn round to have a good look at ye, as ye came across the home close from the Hall. And ye didna see him?”

“No—no—no!” sobbed Jane. “Oh dear—oh dear! I’m undone!”

“Nay—nay, ye’re not, lassie; for I’ll a’ways stand by ye. Dinna greet aboot that. Ye didna tell me why ye came, but I know it’s for some good, and that ye’ll tell me all in good time.”

“That I will, indeed!” sobbed Jane; “but don’t ask me now!”

“Nay, then, I’m not speering to know,” said Sandy, contentedly. “He was riding the grey horse, ye ken, and he seemed to catch sight o’ ye all at aince; when, thinking it wasna warth while for twa to be in trouble, I hid myself in the bushes till he’d gone by.”

The next day, one anxiously looked forward to by more than one of the characters in this story, came in due course; and, towards evening, Lady Gernon slowly passed through the hall door, basket in hand, and making her way across the lawn, disappeared from the sight of Sandy McCray behind some bushes at the edge of the park.

The hours sped on, and Ada Norton drove up in one of Chunt’s flys from the village public-house, after waiting some time at the Rectory, in a vain endeavour to see Mr Elstree, who was from home. She had, after many hours’ thought, but a vague idea of the best plan to pursue, and even now questioned the wisdom of her course. In fact, more than once the check-string had been in her hand to arrest the driver, and order him to return to the Hall; but, from sheer shame at her vacillation, she let it fall again, and gazed slowly out from the fly-window at the glorious sweep of the noble domain through which she was being driven, and sighed again and again as she thought of the misery of its owners. She half shrank from meeting Lady Gernon, for she felt that, in spite of all her assurances to the contrary, her cousin must feel something of repugnance to the woman who had, as it were, taken her place. Not that she had robbed Lady Gernon of her happiness; she had been ready to resign all hope, and had given up, stifling her own feelings, when duty told her that she was called upon so to act. But could Marion feel the same?

She asked herself that question as the fly drove up to the noble front of the great mansion; and then, rousing herself for the task in hand, she prepared to meet her cousin.

“Not at home,” was the answer given by the footman to the driver; when Ada beckoned the man to the fly door—a slow-speaking, insolent menial, who had, before now, performed Sir Murray’s liest in acting the part of spy.

“I think,” said Ada, “that my cousin would see me, even if she is confined to her room.”

“Sir Murray give orders, mum, that they were not at home to visitors from the Hall; and, besides, my lady ain’t in.”

Ada Norton felt that it was cowardly, but it was with a sense of relief that she sank back against the cushions, and began to turn over in her mind what course she ought to pursue. She dreaded the exciting effect it might have upon her husband, if she revealed to him the words she had heard from Jane; and, trembling with an anxiety she could not drive away, she returned to the Hall, to find that Captain Norton had gone out.

“Packed a carpet bag, ma’am,” said the servant, “and then wrote a note for you, after sending for Master Brace, and kissing him.”

The note was on the table, and snatching it up, Ada Norton read as follows:—

“Dearest Ada,

“Do not think hardly of me. I could not help myself; but I know you will not judge me harshly. More when I write again; but give no information of my movements to a soul. I shall be away some time, but I have made full arrangements with Garland and Son about you. Philip.”

Abrupt, enigmatical, and strange; but it was like him. There was a vein of affection, though, running through it all. He had made arrangements for her; but the tears dimmed Ada Norton’s eyes as she stood with the letter in her hands. What could it all mean? she thought. Had it anything to do with the mining transaction? Should she drive over to Marshton the next day, and ask Messrs Garland and Son, her husband’s solicitors? No, she would not do that; it would be like prying into his affairs. She had always had faith in him, so far, and that faith should continue to the end.

She dashed away the tears heroically, little thinking how soon and how sorely she was to be tried. It was nothing new for Norton to absent himself, and she could wait patiently for his return. “Like a good wife,” she said, smilingly; and then, sitting down, she took her work, but only for it to fall into her lap, as she tried to divine what would be her best plan to adopt in connection with the strange information which had the day before been imparted to her.

A Storm at Merland.

Sir Murray Gernon had, during the past few weeks, made a good deal of use of his horses—another sign, the stablemen observed, of a returning good state of things, for they were growing quite tired of doing nothing but taking the horses out for exercise. But Sir Murray’s rides were only round and about his own estate: he never went far, though he was out for hours at a time; and the day before there was again a fierce look upon his face, as he caught sight of Jane Barker hurriedly leaving Merland Hall.

“Of course!” he said; he might have known that before. Time proved all things, and here, at length, was before his eyes the arrangement by which letters and messages had been conveyed.

But he was, if anything, more than usually courteous to my lady that evening at dinner. Sir Murray hadn’t been in such a good temper for long enough past, said one of the footmen; only my lady looked so ill and sad, and shivered so. It was almost a pity she should have come down to dinner.

Sir Murray had been out again, riding up and down forest paths, and by copse edges, along by field and meadow; and always with his head bent, and a watchful look in his eye.

About an hour after Ada Norton’s visit to the Castle, Sir Murray slowly walked his horse up to the door, and the footman ran down the steps, and laid his hand on the animals neck.

“Stand aside a few minutes, William,” said Sir Murray; and the groom, who had also run up to take the saddle-horse, touched his hat and fell back. “Well, what now?” he exclaimed hastily, for something in the footman’s face told of tidings.

“I thought I’d better tell you, Sir Murray,” said the man, “her ladyship—”

“Not—?” ejaculated Sir Murray, starting, and turning livid, as he checked himself. “Has the doctor been sent for?”

“No, Sir Murray,” said the man; “her ladyship ain’t worse, only she went out this afternoon.”

“Well?” said the baronet. “That’s all, Sir Murray,” said the man, timidly. “I was called away, and didn’t see her go. I didn’t know it till just now, when one of the gardeners said he saw her go out, and he thought the pony-carriage ought to be sent for her, as a storm was coming on.”

“She has not come back, then?” exclaimed Sir Murray; and then, clapping spurs to his horse, he made it dash forward; but only to check it the next instant, rein back, and descend, beckoning up the groom, and then slowly mounting the steps.

“You have not said a word of all this?” said the baronet, in a low tone.

“Not a word, Sir Murray!” exclaimed the man, with an injured air. “You can trust me, sir.”

Sir Murray Gernon smiled bitterly, as he threw his hat and gloves to the man, and entered his library, leaving the door open, and watching for Lady Gernon’s return.

An hour elapsed, and then he rang.

“No, Sir Murray; her ladyship has not returned.”

Another hour passed, and the storm prophesied of by Alexander McCray was at hand. First came a deep gloom; then the sighing of the wind in faint puffs, as it swept round the house; then there was a flash or two of lightning, and the muttering of thunder; then flash after flash lighting up the heavens, succeeded by a darkness as of the blackest night. A few minutes seemed to elapse, as if Nature was preparing herself for a grand effort; and then, with a mighty, rushing crash, down came the main body of the storm, of which the previous mutterings had been but the avant-garde. The rain seemed to fall in one vast sheet, through which the blue lightning cut and flickered; while, with a deafening roar, peal after peal of thunder seemed to burst over the mansion, threatening it with destruction.

“Should the pony-carriage be brought round, sir?” asked the footman, shouting to make himself heard.

“Yes,” said Sir Murray, “and my horse. Send McCray, the gardener, here, too.”

McCray, who had been trying to console Jane, who was greatly agitated, soon made his appearance before Sir Murray.

“McCray, take one of the horses, and go round from cottage to cottage till you find where her ladyship has taken refuge. Williams, you go south with the pony-carriage, and I shall ride east.”

The gardener saluted, and ten minutes after, heedless of the storm—though he had hard work with his frightened beast—he was mounted, amidst the sneers of the grooms, who looked upon such missions as within their province, and resented the coming of the interloper accordingly.

“The puir weak body! But I’ll soon find her,” muttered McCray, as he cantered on out at the park gates; and then going from cottage to cottage, and at last entering the forest, and riding between the dripping trees, and along the slippery clay paths to the different keepers’ houses, but without avail; so that, at last, thoroughly soaked and disheartened, he turned back, feeling sure that, before that time, her ladyship must have returned.

“Not come back,” whispered one of the grooms to him, as he entered the yard. “Williams got back an hour agone, and Sir Murray has been in and gone out again.”

Just at that moment, with his horse in a foam, Sir Murray galloped up.

“Well?” he said, eagerly.

“No one has even seen her leddyship, Sir Mooray,” said the gardener, curtly.

“The same answer everywhere!” exclaimed the baronet. “Let every man mount and set off. Tell the keepers to search the wood. You, McCray, come with me, unless Williams has returned.”

“Williams is so wet, sir, he’s gone to bed,” said a man.

“Quick, then, McCray!” exclaimed Sir Murray; “and keep that tongue of yours silent afterwards!”

“Ye may trust me, Sir Mooray,” said McCray, gruffly; and setting off at a smart canter, they were soon nearing the village street.

The storm had by this time passed over, and the stars were blinking out here and there; but from every tree and leaf the great drops fell pattering down, while ditch and channel ran furiously with their unwonted muddy currents.

“Go into that public-house, and ask what conveyances have gone out from there to-day—this afternoon?” said Sir Murray.

McCray returned in five minutes, followed by the inquisitive Chunt.

“Good evening, Sir Murray,” he said, hat in hand, and not seeing the frown upon the baronet’s countenance. “I’ve been telling your man, Sir Murray, nothing’s gone but the dog-cart as Cap’en Norton came and had out. Carried his bag over, sir, and wouldn’t wait for a man to bring the car back; said he’d drive himself, and leave it at ‘The Chequers,’ at Marshton, Sir Murray.”

The mud from the horse’s hoofs was splashed in Chunt’s face as he finished, for Sir Murray stuck in the spurs so, that the poor brute plunged furiously; and it was all that McCray—not the best of horsemen—could do to overtake him, as he galloped along the main road to Marshton, where they arrived about ten, with their horses blown, and covered with foam, Sir Murray, who had not spoken, leading the way into the inn-yard.

“Chunt’s dog-car, sir? Brought in here about five, sir, by a boy as a gent gave sixpence to bring it in, sir. Tall gent, with a mark across his face, sir,” the boy said.

So spake “The Chequers” hostler, in reply to questions put by Sir Murray Gernon, who had drawn his hat down over his eyes, and turned up the collar of his coat, as though to prevent his being recognised.

“What boy, sir? Can’t say, sir. Looked like lad returning from harvest work. Quite a stranger to these parts, sir.”

Without another word, Sir Murray Gernon turned his horse’s head, and rode out of the yard, followed by McCray, who clung to him as if he had been his shadow; but the horses were now tired, unused as they were to much exertion, and it was getting close upon midnight when the baronet and his servant rode into the stable-yard at Merland Castle.

Sir Murray asked no questions. It was plain enough, from the silence, that there was no news; so throwing his bridle to a groom, his act was closely imitated by McCray, who followed him into the library.

“I’m sorry for the puir body, wherever she is,” muttered McCray; “but, perhaps, after all, there’s naething the matter. Onyhow, such a ride, and such a wetting, desarves a drappie of toddy, and perhaps Sir Mooray may ask me to take it. I’ll follow him, anyhow, for how do I know whether he’s done wi’ me?”

Jane Declares.

McCray stood watching his master with attentive eye, as, apparently ignorant of his presence, the baronet—drenched as he was with rain and perspiration—threw himself into a chair, and covered his face with his hands.

The gardener stood on one leg, then on the other, then leaned on a chair-back, putting himself into every posture that would give him a little ease, for he was well-nigh exhausted. But no notice took Sir Murray. He was apparently buried in himself; and, at last, unable to draw his attention by coughing and shuffling about, Sandy McCray prepared to speak.

“He’s greeting aboot her, puir laddie,” he muttered to himself; “but, a’ the same, he might ha’ brought out the whuskee. We’re mair free with the wee drappie up north.” Then, aloud: “Hoot, then, Sir Mooray, it’s a bad habit to sit in wet clouts. Hadna ye better tak’ just a wet o’ some kind o’ sperrits? I think a little whuskee wad do ye nae hairm.”

“You here still?” exclaimed Sir Murray; and then, angrily, as a hand was laid upon the handle of the door: “Who’s that? I am engaged.”

But the door opened, and, to Sandy McCray’s astonishment, Jane crept in, white as a sheet, as if from some great horror; but, all the same, carrying tenderly, as she hushed it to sleep, the little child that, after five years, had been born to Sir Murray.

“Hoot, lassie! and what do ye do here?”

“What do I do?” exclaimed Jane, fiercely, her half-frightened aspect giving place to a look of rage. “I have come to ask that man what he has done with my dear lady!”

“Hoot, lassie! do ye ken it’s the laird?” exclaimed the alarmed gardener; and then, stooping over her, he put his face close to hers, and muttered to himself: “There isna a smell of the stuff on her mooth, or I’d say she’d been at the whuskee.”

“Stand aside, McCray!” she said hoarsely. “I want to ask him, I tell you, what he has done with my dear lady.”

After the manner of a woman of her class, she raised her voice as she spoke; when, in alarm, the Scot darted to and closed the door, turning the little inside bolt, and then hurrying back to his betrothed’s side; for there was something threatening in the baronet’s looks, as he rose from his chair, glaring the while at his wife’s maid.

“Stand back, McCray!” cried Jane, hoarsely, as he laid his hand upon her arm. “I’ve been silent all these months, but I’ll speak now. Let him strike me if he dares, but he dare not! See here!” she cried, “I’ve brought your little one down to you, to see if it will do anything towards melting your hard, proud, cruel heart, and making you tell the truth! Tell me now, and at once, what you have done with my dear lady!”

“Take her away, and this instant!” hissed Sir Murray. “The woman’s mad!”

“Mad! No, I am not mad! Keep back, McCray; I won’t go! Touch me again, and I’ll scream so as to alarm the house; and then all the servants shall hear what I mean to say to you alone. I’m not afraid, I tell you, and I will be answered. But, oh, Sir Murray!” she cried, softening for a moment, “tell me where the poor thing is! What have you done with her?”

“You Scotch wolf!” exclaimed Sir Murray, in a rage, to the gardener, “why do you not take the mad fool from my sight?”

McCray placed his arm round Jane, and tried to lead her off; but she struggled from him, and uttered a wild, piercing scream that made him start aside, as if the shrill sound had pierced him like a sword.

“I will not go!” cried the girl, stamping with fury. “I will know first! Do you think I am to be cheated and blinded by all this pretended hunting to find my poor darling, ill-used lady? Why did you come, with your pride and your money, to her happy home, and take her away to be your miserable wife? Why did you ever come near the poor, sweet innocent? And then, after all her suffering, to insult her with your cruel, base suspicions, so unmanly—so false!”

“Curse the woman! Am I to strike her in the mouth?” raged Sir Murray, in a hoarse whisper; for there were voices to be heard outside—evidently those of the servants, alarmed by the wild shriek, and once the door was softly tried.

“Na—na, Sir Mooray!” said McCray; “nae blows to a woman. The puir thing’s daft wi’ grief and passion, and greeting after her lady; but she’ll be better therectly. Whush, then, Jenny, let’s gang our gait, and leave the laird to himsel’.”

“If you touch me again, McCray, I’ll alarm the house!” cried Jane; and the great Scot fell back once more, as going closer to Sir Murray Gernon, she continued, hoarsely:

“You’ve been making your plans for long enough, and this is a part of them! It will blind some people, but it won’t me. I’ve been watching, as well as you; for my heart bled to see the poor, ill-used, neglected, tortured thing pining away, day after day! But Heaven will judge you for this, and bring down punishment upon you! She knew it was coming: she shuddered, and talked of dying, and begged of me to be a mother to her poor little one, and I swore I would; and I will, poor humble servant as I am! But right makes me strong, while wrong makes you weak and a coward, so that you are afraid, and obliged to listen to me. I’m not afraid of your fierce looks, for it shall all out, if I go to the magistrates myself. Hunting round, looking for her, you false, cruel traitor! Do you think you could deceive me? You listened for some purpose to the cruel lies of that wretch Gurdon, who ought to have had his tongue cut out; and now that you have planned and plotted, you think we are all cheated, but you are wrong. I don’t care who hears me, I will speak, and I say it now. Look at him, McCray: you are a bold, honest man, before whom he cowers—this great baronet, with his title—like a beaten hound! I tell you that for weeks past he has been trying to poison—”

With an exclamation of rage Sir Murray rushed at her; but she never flinched.

“To poison my dear lady!” exclaimed Jane.

“Hush—hush! for Heaven’s sake, hush, woman!” cried Sir Murray; and in an instant he had placed his hand over her mouth.

But it was only for an instant; McCray had dragged him from her, as, reeling as she spoke, Jane gasped:

“Keep him from me; his hands are yet red! I tell you, as I will tell the world, if I live, my lady is not lost, but murdered!”

Sir Murray Declares.

“Send those people away from the door! Make her be silent; the woman’s mad!” exclaimed Sir Murray excitedly, as, shrinking back, he stood, trembling and haggard, before McCray. “It’s all nonsense—folly—that she has said. No; keep her here till those people have gone.”

“Ye’ll be quiet noo, lassie, winna ye?” said McCray soothingly, as he held Jane in his arms, and then placed her in a chair, when the mad excitement that had kept her up so far seemed to desert her; and bowing down over the frightened child, she kissed and hushed it to sleep, sobbing over it hysterically, and every now and then breaking into a wail of misery. She took no further notice of her master, who gazed at her with an aspect of alarm, fearing, apparently, to speak, lest he might bring forth another such outbreak as the last. But he had no cause for fear; Jane was now tractable as a child, as McCray soon found; and going close to Sir Murray, he whispered:

“That’s an ower thick door, Sir Mooray, as I fun oot when I brak’ it open. They didna hear what was said by the puir thing, half daft with grief; and gin ye’ll trust me, I’ll see that she doesna talk ony more sic stuff.”

Sir Murray did not answer,—he merely bowed his head; for there was a battle going on in his breast—a strife between dread and mortification at having to humble himself before his own servants. It was hard work to arrest the groan that struggled for exit, and when the door closed on Sandy McCray and Jane, he sank back in his chair as if stunned.

McCray felt that Sir Murray’s silence gave consent, and that he was trusted. The trust, too, was not misplaced; for the Scot had obtained sufficient influence over Jane to reason her, in her calmer moments, into silence.

“Supposing, even, that you’re right, lassie, ye ken that the puir bodie we’ve lost wadna have wished ye to bring Sir Mooray to the gallows. But dinna ye fash yourself aboot it; it will all reet itself in time. Ye’re sure o’ naething, and ye’ve got your trust in hand; sae mind it weel, and leave the rest to me.”

Jane responded to this advice by weeping bitterly over the child, pressing it convulsively to her breast; and in that condition, the next morning, McCray left her, and sought the baronet, to find that he had never left the library.

“The puir lassie was half daft last neet, Sir Mooray; but it’s a’ owre noo, and she’s tending the bairn.”

“I wanted you, McCray!” exclaimed Sir Murray, the coming of the staunch servitor seeming to rouse him into life. “I am going to search in one direction: you arrange the men in parties, and leave no place unscoured. Give orders, too, that the great nets be brought out, and let the lake be dragged.”

He shuddered as he spoke these last words, and the gardener turned to go.

“What time is it now?” inquired Sir Murray.

“Just seven of the clock, Sir Mooray,” was the reply; and then McCray took his departure, heedless of the supercilious looks bestowed upon him by one of the footmen, who could not understand what Sir Murray could be thinking about to have that great coarse gardener in the house, and treat him as an equal.

But Sir Murray had placed matters in the right hands. Before half an hour had elapsed parties were organised, consisting of the servants and labourers from the farm close at hand; and a regular search was instituted, the land being methodically gone over—field and forest, bush and ditch. The lake was dragged in every direction, and hour after hour spent, but always with the same result—failure.

There were not wanting those who asserted that my lady must have wandered right away, and the bounds of the search were extended, but still in vain; and at mid-day the parties rested for refreshment, and to determine upon some new plan of action.

Meanwhile, a horse had been brought to the door; and mounting, Sir Murray rode hastily over to the Hall, where, for form’s sake, he asked to see Captain Norton, and upon being told of his absence, requested to be shown in to Mrs Norton.

She met him without rising, but sat trembling visibly, as she drew her boy closer to her; for a sense of dread seemed to rob her of the power to move. But a few hours since, and it had been declared to her that this man had tried to poison her cousin, and now he was here. She could not speak, but motioned him to a chair, trying to overcome her weakness, and to meet with fortitude the new misfortune she felt certain was impending.

Sir Murray saw her motion, but he remained standing; and for full five minutes he watched her, with a look mingled of curiosity and compassion.

“Mrs Norton,” he said at last, “I have come to inflict pain, but I cannot help it. You must judge me leniently when I am gone.”

Ada bowed, and gazed at him with starting eyes.

“One of the Castle servants was here the day before yesterday. Did you see her?”

“I did,” said Ada, huskily.

“She brought a note, did she not, from Lady Gernon?”

“No, Sir Murray.”

“A message?”

“No.”

“She saw Captain Norton?”

“My husband was from home, Sir Murray Gernon.”

“She left a message for him?”

“No.”

“Are you sure?”

“Quite. Your servant came to see me, as your wife’s old friend and relative; and, saving the housemaid who admitted her, I alone saw her.”

“Have you any objection to tell me the object of her visit?”

Ada was silent.

“Did she come at the wish of Lady Gernon?”

“No,” said Ada, for she hardly knew what to reply.

“Then you will tell me why she came?”

Ada was still silent.

“Then I will tell you,” said Sir Murray, in a calm voice. “She came to tell you of some absurd suspicions that she had nursed—to try and convince you that Lady Gernon’s life was in danger; for, like the rest of us, she had been blinded by the treason of a false woman. I see that the news has not yet reached your ears. Mrs Norton, your cousin has fled!”

“Fled!” exclaimed Ada, starting to her feet.

“Yes, fled,” he continued, in measured tones, as if he were forcing each word from his lips. “She left the Castle during my absence, yesterday afternoon, and she has not returned. Captain Norton engaged a conveyance yesterday afternoon, and drove away; Captain Norton has not returned.”

Ada Norton stood, pale as a statue, gazing at him with lips apart, as she realised his words, and thought of her husband’s absence, his note, his strange behaviour, and Jane Barker’s words respecting the last meeting in the wood. Her brain reeled, as the thoughts flashed rapidly through, and for a moment she felt that she was ready to fall; but she recovered herself, to hear that her visitor was still speaking.

“I had a last hope that she might be here—that, overtaken by the storm, this might have been her refuge; but my hope was faint. Mrs Norton, I might, perhaps, have kept the truth from you for a few hours; but you must have known it, sooner or later. You have judged me, I believe, very harshly, so far; now, perhaps, I shall command your pity, as I pity you.”

“Judge you harshly! Pity you! You pity me!” exclaimed Ada, flashing into a rage, which lit up her whole countenance, as, with one hand she clutched her boy more tightly to her, and held out the other threateningly at Sir Murray. “You cold-blooded, cowardly miscreant—you destroyer of the hope and happiness, perhaps the life, of that sweet, suffering woman! how dare you confront me with your base, clumsily built-up reasoning, as if every woman upon earth possessed your vile, suspicious nature! You dare to come here with your base subterfuges—your dastardly insinuations—to try and make me believe that Lady Gernon, my pure-hearted cousin, and confidante from a child, has fled with my noble, true, and faithful husband! You lie, you false-hearted dastard—you insidious, courtly, smooth villain—you lie, and you know it! Heaven forgive me my passion, but it is enough to madden me! Go! leave here this instant; for you pollute the place, and you tempt me to believe that you have murdered her! Yes, you may start! But my husband! as true-hearted and honourable a man as ever breathed! How dare you?”

“Woman, where is your husband?” cried Sir Murray, fiercely.

“I do not know. He is from home. How dare you question me?”

“Poor, weak, self-deceiving creature!” he said, contemptuously, “I do not question you! I have noticed—Nay, stay here!” he exclaimed, catching her by the wrist. “You shall hear me! They have been planning long enough now! It was a cursed day when I returned to the Castle; and I soon found that out, though you blinded yourself to the truth. But sooner than have any scandal—than have my name dragged through the Divorce Court, and sneered at by every contemptible fool—I have borne all in silence—suffered, as man never before suffered; and, rejoicing in my weakness, they have corresponded and met! Fool that I was, when I found them last in the wood, and covered the villain—the serpent, the robber of my jewels and of my honour—when I covered him with my pistol, that I did not shoot him down as one would a common thief and burglar! But, no; I would not have a scandal afloat, even though I was becoming the laughingstock and by-word of my servants! But, there, go! I pity and admire you; for I can feel—you teach me to feel—that, there may be yet women worthy of faith!”

As he spoke he threw her hand roughly from him just as the door opened, and Mr and Mrs Elstree entered the room.

“You are here, then!” exclaimed the Rector, in agonised tones. “We have been to the Castle. In Heaven’s name, Murray—Ada—what does all this mean? We hear that Marion is missing! Can you form no idea where she is?”

“Yes!” said Sir Murray, bitterly; “abroad by this time!”

“What, in Heaven’s name, does it all mean?” exclaimed Mrs Elstree, pitifully.

“Mean, madam!” exclaimed Sir Murray, as he strode to the door, and turned to gaze fiercely at all present—“mean? That I married a harlot!”

Changes at Hand.

Everything that could be done in the way of searching was energetically carried out. The lake, every pond, and even many of the water-holes upon the moor were dragged; but no tidings—no trace of Lady Gernon was obtained. McCray had seen her walk across the lawn and disappear behind some shrubs, as he was at work, and that seemed to be the last trace. No one could be found who had seen her pass in any direction; and the topic of conversation in Merland village and the neighbourhood began to change its tone, as people learned how Sir Murray had, for a short time, made inquiries respecting the route taken by Captain Norton, pursuing him, too, for some distance, until he seemed to have disappeared, the information he obtained being of a very vague nature.

But it was very plain to those who took an interest in the affair that Sir Murray Gernon’s endeavours to trace his lady were made in a half-hearted manner. The search in the neighbourhood of the Castle was strenuous enough, but that was due to the exertions of McCray; and when, at the end of a week, people learned that Sir Murray had shut himself up, after discharging half the servants with liberal wages, they raised their eyebrows, and shook their heads, and wondered whether Captain Norton would ever show himself again at the Hall.

As for Jane, she was nearly having a rupture with McCray, upon his giving in his adhesion to the popular feeling; but the matter blew over, and whatever might be her thoughts, she said no more, waiting in expectation of the battle that she felt to be in store for her when, rousing himself once more, Sir Murray should recall her words, and wish to discharge her.

But the day she dreaded did not come; while, to the great disgust of the servants, McCray seemed to be more and more in the confidence of Sir Murray.

“Why don’t he keep to his ‘gairden,’ as he calls it?” said the footman, indignantly; for he felt himself much ill-used, since he had to wear his livery, eat his food, and do nothing at all in return, for the baronet’s simple meals were taken into his room by McCray. Williams, the other footman—Sir Murray’s spy, as Jane indignantly called him—had been amongst the servants first discharged.

“The poor gairden’s going to rack and ruin, lassie,” said McCray; “and just as I was going to make such improvements and alterations! But Sir Mooray says I’m not to let either of the ither sairvants go to him; and I believe he frightened that loon in the breeches, because he would take in the letters.”

“But he sha’n’t frighten me,” said Jane, firmly. “I’ll never leave the child, come what may.”

“Dinna fash yersel’, darling,” said McCray, tenderly. “I’ve got the wages and orders of six more that are to be sent away at once, but ye’re nae one of them. Sir Mooray winna discharge ye till he packs me off.”

“Indeed!” said Jane. “And how do you know?”

“Why, we’ve been talking aboot ye, lassie; and Sir Mooray said he had made up his mind to go abroad again, and asked me if I’d gang wi’ him; and though it cut me to the heart to leave my fruit and flowers, lassie, I thocht I’d see new sorts in the far countree, and I said I’d gang.”

“It didn’t fret you, then, to think of leaving me?” said Jane, bitterly.

“Hoot, lassie! and who’s aboot to gang and leave ye?” exclaimed McCray. “Sir Mooray said I was to see and get a good nurse to tak’ charge of the bairn—one as would go abroad; and I telled him he couldna do better than keep ye, when I thocht he was going to fly at me. But I telled him, quite still like, that we’d promised to marry, and that if he didna tak’ ye, lassie, he wadna tak’ me; and that seemed to make him mad for a bit, till I telled him that ye lo’ed weel the bairn, and that ye were a gude girl at heart. But he wadna listen.”

“Was it to be a good place, Alexander?” said Jane.

“Ay, lassie; I was to have a fair bit o’ siller.”

“Then you mustn’t give it up for me.”

“I didna mean to, lassie,” said McCray, coolly.

Jane was piqued, and said nothing.

“There, lassie, I winna beat aboot the bush any more. It was settled at last that we twain are to gang thegither; and I agreed for both, and Sir Mooray starts next week for the Lake Como.”

“And like you!” said Jane, with asperity. “How could you know that I’d go?”

“Why, didn’t I ken that ye’d gang for my sake?” said McCray.

“No, indeed!” exclaimed Jane.

“That’s just what I thocht,” said McCray, with a twinkle in his eye; “but I was quite sure ye would on account of the bairn.”

Jane smiled, in spite of herself, as McCray’s arm was passed round her: but her eyes filled with tears directly after, as she placed the child upon a chair, and then went down upon her knees before it, kissing it again and again.

“It was good, and kind, and thoughtful of you, Alexander,” she said, turning to the gardener; “and I know you’ve been having a hard battle for me.”

“Weel, lassie, he did want a deal o’ pruning, certainly,” said McCray.

“But I’m very—very grateful!” sobbed Jane, “for the poor child seems all one has to live for now!”

“All, lassie?” said McCray, dryly.

“Well, no; not all,” said Jane. “But I’m not worthy of you, and I never ought to have made you the promise I did, for I can’t love you as much as you ought to be loved.”

“Hoot, lassie!” cried McCray, kneeling by her side, and drawing her to him, “gin ye try like that, I’m quite satisfied, for what more need a man wush for, than for his couthie wee bodie to try and love him with all her heart?”

Mr Chunt’s Toast.

Mr Chunt presided over a good many discussions in his parlour, where farmer and tradesman met to talk over the course of events during the first few weeks. The subject of Lady Gernon’s disappearance was tabooed by general consent. It was not the first event of the kind that had happened through badly-assorted marriages, and wouldn’t be the last, said the baker, sententiously; and then it was acknowledged by general consent that money didn’t make happiness, and that there was a deal of wickedness in this world.

Upon another night Mr Chunt took to bewailing in public the injury done to his trade, by the shutting up of the Castle.

“Looks a reg’lar devastation, gentlemen,” he said; “things all in holland, shutters closed, stables locked up, and all just as if it didn’t belong to nobody.”

“Oh, Sir Murray will be back one of these days,” said a small farmer, cheerfully, “and then trade will brighten up again; meanwhile, you must be contented with our custom, Chunt. He’ll tire of foreign parts, you’ll see.”

“Don’t hear any likelihood of Mrs Norton going, I suppose?” said one.

“Not she, poor little woman; she even looks quite cheerful, and is always out with that little boy of hers. Noble little chap he grows!”

“Ah!” said another, “he played his cards well, the Captain did. He hadn’t been gone long before there was two couples down to arrest him—two parties, one after the other. Stopped here, they did. Post-chaises: come down in style. Didn’t they, Chunt?” The landlord nodded in confirmation. “Just got away in time. Pity, though. He’d have been a bonny man if it hadn’t been for his disappointment, and those iron shares. It was on account of his being director, and answerable for a good deal, I suppose, that the bailiffs wanted him.”

A week passed, and then Chunt, who had been waiting to have a good full audience, brought out a large auctioneer’s posting bill, and laid it before his customers as a surprise.

“What d’yer think of that, gentlemen, eh?” he said. “Merland will be another place soon. There’s poor old Gurdon and poor old Barker both dead within the last four-and-twenty hours, and now that’s been sent to me to stick up in the bar. Read it out, Mr Mouncey.”

The baker put on his spectacles, and read aloud the list of the “elegant and superior household furniture and effects, to be sold by auction, without reserve, at Merland Rectory, by direction of the Reverend Henry Elstree, who was leaving the place.”

“Chunt’s about right,” said Huttoft, the saddler: “the place won’t be the same, soon. The old people at the Rectory ain’t looked the same, since I saw them coming back that day from the Hall—the day after Lady Gernon elop—disappeared.”

“Well, gentlemen,” said the landlord, “I believe I’m as sorry as any one present; but it’s no use to fret for other folks’ troubles. I propose that we have glasses round of brandy hot, gentlemen, for I feel quite sinking.”

“Do you pay, Chunt?” said Mouncey, jocosely.

“There ain’t a man present as would be more free, gentlemen,” said the landlord, “if I could; but, I put it to the company, with the present fall off in my trade, am I able?”

“No—no!” was chorused; and, the glasses being filled, Jonathan Chunt proposed a toast which was drunk with acclamation, and the landlord’s toast was:

“Gentlemen, here’s to happier times!”

End of Book I.

After Twenty Years.

“You dog! you confounded lubber! Drive on, or you’ll have them out of sight!” shouted a frank, opened-faced young fellow of some three or four and twenty, as he leaned out of the front window of a post-chaise, and urged his post-boy to increase of speed.

“An’ how can I get another mile an hour out on such bastes, yer honner?” said the post-boy in answer. “The crayture I’m riding takes no more heed of the spur than the grate baste the levvyathan of Howly Scripture; and as to the blind mare there, the more I larrup her the more she hangs back out ov the collar.”

“Gammon!—nonsense!” cried the young man: “you can catch them if you like.”

“Shure, sor, I’d catch ’em if it was me. The spirit of me’s been close alongside this last quarter of an hour; but the bastes here ’ave got skins like a rhinosros.”

“Half a guinea if you catch them and go by in the next two miles,” shouted the traveller.

“An why didn’t ye spake sooner, sor? It’s meself’s the boy to get it out of the bastes if it’s to be done at all;” and the effect of the golden spur was soon visible in the way in which the mire of the cross-country road flew up from the whirling wheels.

For a couple of hours now, with the present and the preceding post-boy, had this chase been carried on,—now one chaise, now the other, being to the fore; the explanation of this being of the simplest character.

Lieutenant Brace Norton, of H.M.S. “Icarus,” had just arrived in port, and was, as he put it, homeward bound after his first voyage with the rank of lieutenant. In fact, he took so much pride in his epaulette, won after no end of midshipman’s adventures, that, until better sense prevailed, he had had some thought of wearing it home. He had travelled as far as the county town by rail, and now, having a rather large idea of his own importance, was finishing his journey in one of the post-chaises—scarce things then—left upon the road. At the railway station he had twice encountered a fair young face, small, dark, oval, and with a pair of sad-looking, lustrous eyes, their owner leaning upon the arm of a tall, grey-haired gentleman; and after making his way to the hotel and ordering his conveyance, spending the time consumed in getting it ready by smoking a cigar, he was startled, upon going to the door to lounge about the steps, by seeing the same travellers take their places in a chaise which had been prepared before his own.

“Do you know who that gentleman is?” he had said to the landlord, who had bowed his visitors to the door.

“Can’t say, sir, I’m sure,” was the reply. “Please excuse me, sir—I’m wanted.”

“Here waiter, my chaise; look sharp!” exclaimed the young lieutenant, slipping a shilling into the man’s hand, on seeing the direction the first chaise had taken. “Hurry them on, there’s a good fellow, and tell them to put in the best pair of horses.”

“Best pair’s gone, sir, with number one chaise, but I’ll get them to look alive.”

In spite of his stamping with impatience, and conducting himself in a most unreasonable manner, even to going into the yard himself, and hoisting the sluggish post-boy—a youth of about sixty—into his jacket, a full quarter of an hour elapsed before the chaise began to rattle out of the yard with the traveller in it.

“Here—hi! stop!” shouted a voice, as they turned down the main street.

“What the deuce now?” exclaimed the traveller, as the post-boy pulled up, after nearly running into a flock of sheep, and the waiter came panting up.

“Please, sir, you ain’t paid for the cigar, and sherry and biscuit,” exclaimed the man, in injured tones.

“Confound it, no!” cried the young man. “And—I say, I haven’t got my portmanteau! There, my man, look sharp, whatever you do!”

Five minutes more elapsed, but at length the bill was paid, the portmanteau secured to the front, and the crazy vehicle was once more well under weigh, the young sailor fuming the while with impatience. But as soon as the town was passed, liberal promises sent the shabby cattle scuffling along at a pretty good pace; and when the traveller had about given up all hopes of again seeing the face that had attracted his attention, the first post-chaise became visible, slowly crawling up one of the hills about half-way between Lincoln and Marshton, when again urging on the post-boy, the vehicle was at length overtaken, and whilst passing it the young man’s heart leaped as he again caught sight of the fair traveller, leaning forward to see who was passing, but withdrawing instantly upon seeing that she was the object of attention.

Twice did Brace Norton find the opportunities for a short glance at the now averted face: once during the stages, and again when they changed horses at Marshton; but now, to his disgust, it seemed that he had been favoured with worse cattle than before; and in spite of his urging the fresh post-boy—a native of “Sorrey,” as he took an opportunity of assuring his employer—it seemed that he was to be left entirely at the rear, to see the face no more.

But the golden spur prevailed; and as the young lieutenant saw that they were gaining rapidly, he threw himself back, muttering, “What a thing it is that there are no women at sea! It only wants their presence to make it perfect. I wonder who those can be, though? On a visit somewhere. Jove! What luck if it’s anywhere near us!”

His reverie was interrupted by the broadly-speaking post-boy yoho-ing to the one in front, and the next minute they passed the first chaise in an easy canter; but Brace Norton obtained no view, for, to his great chagrin, the window on this side—the side occupied by the gentleman—had the blind drawn down.

“Didn’t I do it in style, yer honner?” cried the post-boy, turning in his saddle to grin.

“Yes—yes; but easy now. Let them pass you.” And then to himself the traveller muttered, “I shall be right next time.”

“Is that to be included in the half-guinea, yer honner?” cried the post-boy, with a leer; but he obtained no answer, save a fierce gesture not to look back; for now the passing was to be performed by the other chaise, which in a few moments had again left them behind, while this time again the susceptible sailor had been doomed to disappointment, for as the chaise passed, the momentary glance showed him that the lady occupants head was averted, and that she was talking to her companion.

“But what a neck!” muttered the young man; “and what glorious hair! What a cluster of braids! Why, she could sit on it, I’d swear, if it were down. Confound you! will you go on?” he shouted, thrusting his head from the window. “What are you crawling like that for?”

“Did yer honner want me to be always passing them, widout ever letting them get first again?” said the post-boy.

“You blundering idiot!” muttered the young man, laughing in spite of himself. “Drive on, Pat,” he said, aloud, “and pass them again.”

“Me name’s Jeames, yer honner, av ye please,” said the post-boy, with dignity, and for a short distance he drove sulkily on at a very moderate pace, till the thought that he had not yet obtained the promised half-guinea prompted him to try and keep his employer in a good temper; and once more he passed the foremost chaise at a canter, slackening again in obedience to orders received soon afterwards.

Now every one who has been much upon the road must be fully aware that there is a feeling existent amply shared by man and horse, which, however strange the comparison may seem, is fully expressed in the old saying, that most people like to play first fiddle. Be driving, and pass the sorriest old jaded brute that was ever verging upon the cat’s-meat barrow, and see if the poor beast does not, for a few minutes, prick up his ears, and break into a trot to regain his place. Generally the driver is ready enough to urge him on, and if you slacken pace for a few minutes, ten to one but you are passed in your turn.

It was so here with the post-boy and horses of the other chaise: to be passed here on the road again and again by a rival was not to be borne; and the slackening under Brace Norton’s instructions being taken as a signal of defeat, there soon came a shout from behind to the Irish boy to draw aside, one which, being rather sulky at having had a mistake made in his country, the post-boy refused to heed; and just as Brace was hopefully gazing from his window for another glance, there came the crash of wheel against wheel, the swerving aside of the horses, and in less time than it can be written, to Brace Norton’s horror, he saw the vehicle of his companions of the road overturned—the off-wheels in the ditch, and one horse kicking and plunging in a way that threatened death to the occupants of the carriage.

The Wreck Ashore.

“’E’ve done it now, sor, an’ I hope ye’re satisfied!” said James, sitting complacently on his saddle, and looking at the plunging horses, his fellow-servant with one leg entangled in the harness, and the havoc made at each plunge of the uppermost beast.

“You scoundrel!” exclaimed Brace, furiously, as he leaped down. “Why didn’t you give more room? Here, come and help!”

“Can’t lave me bastes, sor, or they’d take fright, they’re so full of sperrit,” said the youth, coolly, as, running to the prostrate chaise, Brace contrived to drag open the door, feeling, as he did so, that he was alone to blame for the accident.

“Here, quick! my child! help her first,” exclaimed the gentleman, but most needlessly, for the young man had neither look nor thought for him, but was striving to lift the insensible and bleeding form of the wounded girl from the wreck. For at the first crash of the overturning chaise the window had been driven in, and one of the splinters of glass had gashed her temple.

“Good Heavens! what have I done?” muttered Brace, as he succeeded in passing his arms round the senseless form, lifted it by main force from the door, and then bore it to the grass a few yards further on, where, laying it down, he proceeded to press his handkerchief to the wound.

“Let me come, young man,” said a harsh voice at his elbow, and, starting with surprise, Brace saw that the gentleman, till now forgotten, had climbed from the chaise, and now made no scruple in thrusting him aside to take his place.

“What can I do? Had I not better gallop off for a doctor?”

“Thank you, no,” was the cold reply, as the gentleman, for an instant, looked the tenderer of service full in the face. “This is no scene from a romance, sir. You need trouble yourself no further. My daughter is more frightened than hurt, I dare say.”

“A cold-hearted, unfeeling brute,” muttered Brace to himself, for he was greatly excited, and felt at that moment as if he would have given the world to have been allowed to kneel there and support the inanimate form. For a moment he felt ready to make confession that he had been the cause of the accident, but that he felt would be folly; and once more, heedless of the cold reception his offers met with, he proposed that a doctor should be fetched.

“If I required a medical man, sir,” said the gentleman, “there is the post-boy, my paid servant, that I could send for one: unless,” he said, tauntingly, “you, sir, wish to earn something more than my thanks.”

The colour rose to the young man’s cheek as he met the cold, glittering eye turned to him for a moment; but he smothered the resentment he could not avoid feeling, and, without a word, turned away to a clear part of the ditch, returning, in a few minutes, with his navy cloth cap half full of water.

The gentleman frowned as he saw this favour forced upon him as he thought, and unwillingly accepting it, he sprinkled the white face, and bathed the forehead, wiping away the ruddy stains, and binding a handkerchief tightly across the wound. But for awhile there were no signs of returning animation, and once more, in spite of the scowl upon the fathers face, Brace Norton hurried away to bring more water.

“There is a faint shade of colour returning now,” exclaimed Brace, eagerly.

“Then perhaps you will have the goodness to retire, sir,” said the gentleman, haughtily. “My daughter is not accustomed to the society of strangers; and, at such a time, your presence would be a fresh shock.”

“But this is a lonely place, sir. You are miles away from any aid. Pray let me endeavour to be of some service. Surely I can help you.”

“I thank you, no,” was the cold reply.

“But for the lady’s sake, sir,” exclaimed Brace, almost indignantly. “You will take my chaise, and continue your journey?”

“Young man,” was the rude answer, “I am not in the habit of placing myself under obligations to strangers. I shall not require your chaise: I have no doubt, with the help of some of the labourers about, our own vehicle can be set right in a very short time.”

“Sure, sor, the short time will be a month,” said Brace’s post-boy; “the hint wheel’s off intirely, and Jerry Stone siz as the harness is all to tatthers, an’ he wants to know if aither of ye gentlemen have got a drop of brandy wid ye, for the poor boy feels faint.”

In effect, the other post-boy was seated upon a bank beside his now extricated horses—set free by the liberal use of a knife amongst the harness; and it was evident, from the way in which the poor fellow was rocking himself to and fro, that he was in great pain; while a glance at the wretched chaise showed the impossibility of making use of it for further proceeding upon that day.

But Brace Norton possessed something of the irrepressible in his composition, and, speaking gently, he said, addressing the late speaker: “I am aware, sir, that it is unpleasant to have favours forced upon you by a complete stranger, but let me beg of you not to let the little I offer be looked upon in the light of a favour. For the young lady’s sake, pray make use of my chaise, and leave me to take my chance. I dare not presume to offer you advice, but would not a reference to some medical man be advisable? This long-continued swoon—”

Brace Norton said no more, for, glancing from father to daughter as he spoke, he became aware that sensibility had returned, and that a pair of soft, sad, dreamy eyes were fixed upon him, but only for their lids to be lowered, and a faint blush to overspread the pallid cheeks upon her seeing that her gaze was observed.

“Do you feel in pain?” said the gentleman, bending over her, but paying no heed to Brace Norton’s remarks.

“No, papa; only a little faint. But you are not hurt?”

“No, no; not at all.” Then, in an undertone: “How very unfortunate!” and he frowned at the shattered chaise as he would have done at its driver.

Brace Norton was wise enough in his generation to see that the less he said the less likely he would be to give offence; but a bitter feeling of disappointment came over him as he found how completely his presence was ignored.

“If it were not for that sweet girl he might walk,” muttered the young man; but the next moment his heart leaped with pleasure, when, after standing thoughtfully for a few moments, and then glancing from his daughter to the wreck and back again, the gentleman spoke somewhat more courteously.

“Necessity forces me, sir, to accept the offer of your chaise for my—for reasons of my own,” he added, hastily. “I will make use of it on condition that you allow me to pay any—”

“Good heavens, sir!” exclaimed Brace, as haughtily now as the stranger, “give me credit for wishing to act as should one gentleman towards another whom he sees with his jibboom—absurd!—whom he encounters in distress—I beg pardon, I mean in—in a strait,” exclaimed Brace, desperately, for his nautical imagery did not find much favour. “I am only a simple officer in the navy, and no doubt a sea life makes me somewhat rude, but my offers of service are genuine, not mercenary.”

The stranger bowed, and turned to his daughter, who was now standing at his side.

“Take down that portmanteau,” exclaimed Brace to the post-boy.

“Yes, sor!” And after a good deal of grunting, unbuckling, and lifting it was placed by the road side.

“If you will allow me,” said Brace, “I will see that the damaged chaise is sent back to its owner.”

He turned then to hand the lady into the vehicle, but he was motioned back: not, though, without receiving from her a faint smile of thanks.

“My daughter needs no assistance further than I can render,” was the stern response to Brace’s offer. “Your handkerchief, sir!”

Brace took the handkerchief handed to him, as if the donor were about to strike him down. Then he drew back as father and daughter entered the chaise, so that he did not catch the order given to the post-boy. Then there was a stiff salutation from the gentleman; a slight bow from the lady; and the horses had started, leaving Brace, bareheaded, handsome, and flushed, standing in the road, till, suddenly the front windows were dashed down, the door partly opened, and, evidently suffering from some strong emotion, the face of the gentleman appeared to be turned the next moment towards the post-boy, as he roared, in a voice of thunder: “Stop!”

Another Encounter.

“What now?” grumbled the post-boy, as he turned in his saddle, and then, in obedience to the gesticulations directed at him, pulled up very slowly, and not until he had traversed nearly a hundred yards of road. Flinging down the steps, the gentleman alighted, half dragged his daughter from her seat, so rudely, indeed, that she nearly fell. Then drawing her arm tightly through his own, he walked back to the injured post-boy and gave some order, his forehead netted the while with the swelling veins, and his face now pale and flushed by the passion that agitated his breast.

He seemed to quite ignore the presence of Brace, and before the young man could recover from his astonishment, father and daughter were hurriedly walking away.

“Is there anything wrong?—is—that is, can I be of no assistance?” stammered Brace, as he ran after and overtook them—speaking to the father, but gazing the while in the daughter’s pale and frightened face, as if his eyes were riveted there; but only to meet with a strange, imploring look, half horror—half dread.

The stranger tried to speak, as he raised one trembling hand, pointing towards the carriage, but no words passed his lips; and motioning the young man fiercely, he hurriedly led his trembling charge away.

“Is he mad?” said Brace to himself. “And to drag that poor girl away like that! What more can I do?” he muttered, as the post-boy drew up alongside of where he stood.

“I’ve put the portmanty back in the front, sor, as them two ain’t agoing.”

But Brace Norton did not seem to hear him, as, seeking for some clue to this strange alteration in the old man’s behaviour, his eyes fell upon the seat of the chaise the travellers had so lately occupied, where, forgotten for the time, lay his travelling writing-case, with its brass-plate bearing his name and that of his ship.

Well, yes, he had forgotten that, but what was there in his name to make the old man leap from the chaise as if half mad, unless—

There was a faint suspicion in his mind—a dim and confused mingling of fragments of old stories that had never made any impression upon him before; but now he struggled hard to recall in their entirety these shadowy memories of the past. In vain, though; he only grew more mystified than ever. The strangers were already at a turn of the road, and it was in his mind to run after them and ask for some explanation, when his eyes fell upon the handkerchief that the gentleman had placed within his hands—a handkerchief that now for the first time he saw was not the one he had applied to the injured temple, and his heart throbbed as he thought that it was his that she now held; but the next instant a feeling of trouble and pleasure mingled, as it were, came upon him, and he looked eagerly in the corner of the piece of cambric, to find there, in faint but still legible characters, the two words, “Isa Gernon.”

An old quarrel—some unpleasantry between the two families—some feeling of bitterness on the part of Sir Murray Gernon, who, with his daughter, had been resident in Italy for some twenty years. That must be it, for he could evoke nothing from the past—nothing tangible. Sir Murray had seen, then, the name of Norton in the chaise, and he refused to accept service from any one bearing that patronymic. It was absurd, too, after all these years; but it would only be an insult to a man of such pride of speech and mien to follow and press upon him what he would look upon as a favour. A little gentle advance or two upon the part of those at the Hall might put all right; for if that was Sir Murray Gernon returned unexpectedly after all these years to dwell at the Castle, there must be no enmity now. And this, then, was his daughter!

So mused Brace Norton as he mentally smoothed away all difficulties ahead, rejoicing, too, he knew not why, at the prospect of possessing such neighbours. He must, he felt, question them at home about the past, and try to adopt means for a reconciliation.

Here he stopped short, roused by the sight of the wrecked chaise, and recalling the position of those from whom he had but now parted. If that were Sir Murray Gernon, he was a good six miles from the Castle, to which place it seemed impossible that he could walk. What could be done, then, to help them without its being known from whence the help arrived? He had at last determined upon being taken back to the town, and informing the hotel-keeper of the state of affairs, when a heavily-laden fly was driven up, the roof and the driver’s box being filled with luggage, when, seeing the state of the post-boy and the injured chaise, the fly-man pulled up, and began to make inquiries.

“No bones broke, Tommy,” said the post-boy, in reply; “but I shall be precious glad to get back.”

“An’ was that the chay Sir Mooray Jairnon was in?” exclaimed a voice; and a massive-looking grizzled head was thrust out of the fly-window.

“Was it your master,” said the post-boy: “grey gent with a young lady?”

“Yes—yes! Where are they?” exclaimed an eager female voice. “Pray get out, McCray, and see.”

“Dinna fash yersel’, lassie,” said the first speaker. “There’s naebodie hurt, I ken. But where’s Sir Mooray, my lad?”

“Walked on,” said the post-boy.

“You are, then, that gentleman’s servant?” exclaimed Brace Norton, now eagerly joining in the conversation.

“And wha may ye be that ask sic a question?”

“Only a traveller on the road,” said Brace, smiling, as he glanced at the comely, pleasant-faced female who had just stepped out of the fly; “but your master and the young lady have just walked on. You have arrived in capital time, for I fear that she is much shaken. It was a very rude fall.”

“Gudeness save us, Jenny! jump in again, and let’s drive on. I’m verra grateful for your information, sir, and I thank ye.”

“Pray make haste, McCray!” cried the pleasant-faced dame, smoothing back the grey-streaked bands of hair from her forehead.

And the next minute, with the satisfaction of knowing that he had sent help where it was needed, Brace Norton was standing alone in the road.

He was very thoughtful and serious as he stood there, once more trying to bring back something of the old history from the past days of his parents’ life; but he soon gave it up as an impossible task, and one most unsuited for his present place of study. So, assisting the injured post-boy to mount, upon his reiterated assurance that he could easily reach home alone, Brace once more stepped up to his own conveyance, and, very thoughtful and dreamy, slowly continued his journey.

Four miles further on, having purposely kept the post-boy at a slow rate, Brace overtook the late occupants of the fly, arm-in-arm, and sturdily trudging on towards Merland, when, rightly concluding that their places had been taken by Sir Murray and his daughter, Brace stopped the post-boy, and invited the old Scot and his companion to share the conveyance.

“Na, na, sir; ye’re verra kind, but I’d raither not, and the gudewife here is of the same opinion. I wish ye a gude day, sir—a gude day. Ye’ll excuse our hurrying on.”

There was a something in the man’s manner that whispered of exclusiveness, and a desire to avoid strangers, which checked Brace Norton in his desire to press his offers of service. He had the good sense to feel, too, that, with the master so determinedly distant, any advances toward the servant might be looked upon as an insult. So, reluctantly giving the order to proceed, the wheels of the chaise spun round, and the next moment, at a turn of the road, Brace caught a glimpse of the couple trudging along; when, throwing himself back in the vehicle, the young man began to ponder upon what was the cause, his thoughts, too, often being occupied by the faces of his mother and Isa Gernon.

Dread.

Twenty winters had not come and passed away without leaving traces of their frosty rime upon the heads of Captain Norton and his wife; but as they stood in the Hall dining-room, hand clasping hand, and gazing into each others face, it was evident that, whatever might have been the past, there was peace, content, and happiness there.

“Yes,” said Mrs Norton, now grown into a pleasant matronly dame, “he has come back. The whole village rings with the news. So unexpected, too.”

“Poor fellow!” said Captain Norton, after a few minutes’ quiet thought. “Heaven grant that he may be more happy! I am sorry, though, Ada—very sorry; for his coming seems to open old wounds. But come—come, darling!” he exclaimed, as he drew her towards his breast. “Don’t wear that troubled face. Surely, after all these years—”

“Pray forgive me!” said Mrs Norton, nestling closer to him; and she smiled happily in reply to his caresses. “As you say, Philip, Heaven help him, and clear up the dark mystery of his life! I do not see why we should trouble ourselves about his coming back.”

“Well—no,” said Captain Norton, uneasily; “but one cannot help recalling how events shaped themselves after his last return. But there, let us dismiss it all, for I cannot trust myself even now to dwell upon all these old matters. I would make up my mind to leave, and at once, in spite of the inconvenience, only that it would be like a tacit acknowledgment that I was afraid to meet him; and you know how charitable people can be.”

“Oh no; we could not think of leaving,” said Mrs Norton, hastily; “but I think—nay, I feel sure that with him the past will be buried entirely; for, Philip,” she added, solemnly, “may Heaven forgive me if I am uncharitable, but I believe that the man who could so cruelly malign my husband must have had his own ends to serve. I could not refrain from saying this, as the subject was brought up; but whatever evil—whatever wrong-doing was connected with poor Marion’s disappearance, must some day or other be brought out into the light of day. Twenty years—twenty long years—has the matter slumbered, and it may slumber twenty more; and, in spite now of my utter indifference to public opinion, I cannot help longing for the mystery to be cleared up in our day. But, whether or no, promise me this, dearest, that it shall not be allowed to trouble you—that you will not brood over it; and that, come what may, you will avoid all encounter with that bad, proud man, whose coming seems like a cloud sent over dear old Merland. I almost feel thankful that poor Mr and Mrs Elstree are now far away from trouble and care. There was that dread suspicion, though, in both their hearts; I feel sure, however, they struggled to the last to keep it back. But there: let us dismiss it all; and you promise me, do you not?”

Captain Norton’s calm, quiet smile was enough to reassure his wife; and as he took his seat at a side-table, covered with correspondence, she stood behind him, leaning her hands upon his shoulder.

“We are going on at a famous rate, Ada,” he said, after a busy pause, in short, sharp, decisive tones, that smacked of the man of business—“returns increasing every month. Some of the prophetic old wiseacres would give their ears now for shares in our rusty old iron company. By the way, though, Brace has not written for any money lately. Is it not time we heard from him?”

“Yes,” said Mrs Norton, with anxiety in her tones; “and—”

“Now, don’t be an old fidget,” said the Captain, laughingly, as once more he drew her towards him. “That poor old head of yours is as full of shipwrecks and disasters at sea as one of the wreck-charts or Lloyd’s ledgers. What a pity it is that we did not have half-a-dozen boys for you to share that weak old heart of yours amongst, so that you need not have had to worry yourself to death about one!”

“But surely we ought to have had a letter a month since.”

“Certainly, my love, if the poor boy had had a post-office close at hand into which he could pop it. Don’t be so unreasonable. You don’t know how even an adverse wind will keep a vessel away from port for weeks together. You must study statistics, so as to ease that heart of yours, by learning how seldom a mishap befalls a ship. We shall be hearing from him before long, and—There, bless my soul, I must keep a clerk; I’ve forgotten to answer Harrison and Son’s letter.”

“What was that about?” said Mrs Norton, as, pleased to see how happy her husband was in his business pursuits—upon which, in spite of adversity at the outset, fortune had of late smiled in full sunshine—she tried to enter into each matter, knowing full well how his busy life had been the cure for a mind diseased.

“What was it about?” said Captain Norton, dreamily. “Oh, about the marsh—the warping, you know. I am to have two thousand acres.”

“But I don’t know,” said Mrs Norton, smiling; “you promised to explain.”

“To be sure; so I did!” he exclaimed, eagerly reaching down a rolled-up plan, and spreading it upon the table. “Now look here, Ada; this will be an expensive affair, and we shall reap no benefit from it ourselves, for it is a matter of years and years; but that young dog will have an estate which will make him hold up his head as high as he likes. Now, see here—this is my side. I’ve bought these two thousand acres of worthless marshland—worthless save for peat-digging and wild-duck shooting. This is the piece, Ada, love,” he said, solemnly, as he laid a finger upon the plan. “I chose this so that I might preserve the pine-wood untouched.”

He stopped to gaze up in his wife’s face, and as she recalled the past, she bent over him until her cheek touched his forehead.

“Well, love,” he said, raising himself and speaking cheerfully, “we—that is to say, the other purchasers and myself—dig a large drain, or canal, through our marsh pieces right to the Trent, and fit our drain with sluice-gates, so that at every high tide we flood our low tract of marsh with the thick, muddy waters loaded with the alluvial soil of Yorkshire and our own county, brought down by many a river and stream, which, after the fashion of the hill floods, by slow and almost imperceptible degrees, is deposited upon our peat and rushes, in a heavy, unctuous, wondrously rich mud, or warp, till, in the course of time, we have it two, three, and in places even four feet deep. Then comes the change: we cease flooding, and give all our attention to thoroughly draining our warp land, which now becomes, in place of marsh, fit only to grow water-plants, a rich and fertile soil. Nature has converted it for us; and twenty years hence, instead of marsh, Master Brace will have a couple of thousand acres of the best soil in England. That is all I can do for him, and after all I don’t think that it will be such a very mean heritage. Now, love, what do you say to that?”

Mrs Norton’s answer was a cry of joy: for at that moment, free of step, bright and happy, in came Brace Norton, to be strained again and again to his mother’s breast.

There was a grim smile of pride and pleasure upon Captain Norton’s scarred face, as, after hastily rolling up his plans, he caught at his son’s disengaged hand.

“My dear Brace, how well and hearty you look!” he exclaimed, as he scanned the broad chest and muscular limbs of his son.

“I Well? Ay! father, never better,” was the reply. “And I don’t know that I ever saw you look better.”

“Oh! I’m well enough,” said Captain Norton. “But, my dear boy, what a pity it is that you did not join our service! With that build of yours, you would have drilled as upright as a dart.”

“And broken my heart over the pipe-clay, eh, father?” laughed the young man. “I’m right enough—make a tolerable sailor, perhaps, but I should have been a poor soldier. But, I say,” said Brace, after half-an-hour’s questioning and answering, “I have had quite an adventure coming over: came across a fine, fierce, grey old fellow, with—oh! mamma, the most lovely girl you ever saw in your life!”

“Pooh!” laughed the Captain, “the sailor’s Poll. What asses you boys do make of yourselves!”

“All right, father; only let me bray in peace.”

“Fell in love at first sight, and would have eloped, only the fierce, grey old fellow was watchful as a dragon, eh, Brace?” said Captain Norton, smiling.

“Belay, there, will you!” cried Brace. “How can I go on with my story? Not quite so fast as that. But there, sir, we can spare you for the present. I’m talking to some one here who can sympathise. Really, you know,” he continued, passing his arm round his mother’s waist, as she gazed at him fondly, and drawing her to the window, “she was about the sweetest girl I ever set eyes on. Quite an adventure: chaises passing; theirs overset; sweet girl’s temple cut; insensible; offering aid; received very haughtily by the old gentleman—quite a Spanish grandee!”

Ada Norton started, as those words seemed to carry her back five-and-twenty years, and the smile upon her lips slowly faded away.