George Manville Fenn (continued 2)

In effect, looking red-eyed, but perfectly calm now, Mrs Alleyne entered with Lucy, and the rest of the dinner passed off most pleasantly to Oldroyd, who was ready to accord that the poor, badly-cooked mutton was the most delicious he had ever eaten, and the vegetables as choice as could have been grown. Doubtless this was due to Lucy’s grateful glances, and the quiet, grave condescension with which Mrs Alleyne turned from her idol to say a few words now and then.

Even Alleyne himself seemed to be making efforts to drag himself back from the company of the twin orbs in space, or the star-dust of the milky way, to chat about the ordinary things of every-day life; and at last, it was with quite a guilty sensation of having overstepped the bounds of hospitality in his stay that Oldroyd rose to go.

“You will call and see us again soon, Mr Oldroyd?” said Mrs Alleyne, with the dignity of a reigning queen.

“Professionally, madam,” he said, “there is no need. I have exhausted my advice at this first visit. It is for you to play the nurse, and see that my suggestions are carried out.”

“Then as a friend,” said the lady, extending her thin white hand. “I am sure my son feels grateful to you, and will be glad to see you at any time.”

She glanced at Alleyne, who was seated in the sunshine, holding a pair of smoked glass spectacles to his eyes, and gazing up at the dazzling orb passing onwards towards the west.

“I thank you heartily,” said Oldroyd. “Society is not so extensive here that one can afford to slight so kind an invitation.”

“Mr Oldroyd going?” said Alleyne, starting, as, in obedience to a look from her mother, Lucy bent over him, and, pressing the glasses down with one hand, whispered a few words in his ear.

“Yes, I must be off now,” said the young doctor.

“You will come and see us again soon?” said Alleyne. “Would you care to see my observatory? It might interest you a little.”

“I shall be glad,” said Oldroyd, “very glad—some day,” and after a most friendly good-bye, he took his soft hat and stout stick, and, leaving the cheerless, sombre house, went down the steep slope, and took a short cut across the rough boggy land towards his patient’s cottage.

“Thorough lady, but she is very stiff; and she worships her son. Charming little girl that. Nice and natural. No modern young-ladyism in her,” he muttered, as he picked his way. “I should think it would be possible to be in her company a whole day without a single allusion to frilling, or square-cut, or trains, or the colour and shape of Miss Blank’s last new bonnet. Quite a sensible little girl. Pretty flower growing in very uncongenial soil, but she seems happy enough.”

Philip Oldroyd’s communings were checked by some very boggy patches, which had to be leaped and skirted, and otherwise avoided; but as soon as he was once more upon firm ground, he resumed where he had left off.

“Wonderfully fond of her brother, too. Well, I don’t wonder. He’s a fine fellow after all. I thought him a dullard—a book-worm; but he’s something more than that. Why, when he wakes up out of his dreamy state, he’s a noble-looking fellow. What a model he would make for an artist who wanted to paint a Roman senator. Why doesn’t nature give us all those fine massive heads, with crisp hair and beard? Humph! lost in his far-seeing studies, and nothing will draw him out of them for more than a few hours. Nothing would ever draw him away but one thing. One thing? No, not it, though. He’s not the sort of man. He’s good-looking enough, and he has a voice that, if bent to woo, would play mischief with a woman’s heart. He’ll never take that complaint, though, I’ll vow. It would be all on the lady’s side. And yet, I don’t know: man is mortal after all. I am for one. Very mortal indeed, and if I go often to The Firs, I shall be mixing Lucy Alleyne up with my prescriptions, and that won’t do at all.”

Volume One—Chapter Seven.

Planets in Opposition.

Judith Hayle was busy “tidying up” the keeper’s cottage, which looked brighter since her return home, for there were flowers in glasses set here and there, and she was mentally wishing that father would clean the captain’s double gun out in the wash-house instead of bringing a pail of water into the living-room, to plant between his knees as he worked the rod up and down the barrels.

The girl looked serious, for her sudden return had made her father stern, and she expected to be called upon for more explanation, and a cross-examination, which did not begin.

“Who’s this?” said the keeper, with a quick look through the little lattice. “The missus. Here, Judy, she hasn’t come here for nothing. Go upstairs and let me see her first.”

The girl looked startled and hurriedly obeyed, while her father hastily wiped his hands and opened the door.

Mrs Rolph was close up, and he went out into the porch to meet her, drawing aside quietly and gravely to let her pass.

“Will you walk in, ma’am?”

“Yes, Hayle, thank you,” said Mrs Rolph, speaking in a distant, dignified way, as of a mistress about to rebuke an erring servant.

She passed him, looking quickly round the room in search of Judith, and then, turning her eyes inquiringly upon the keeper, who drew a chair forward, and then stood back respectfully as Mrs Rolph sat down.

“Do you know why I have come here, Hayle?” she said, striving to speak as one who feels herself aggrieved.

“Yes, ma’am. ’Bout sending Judith home.”

“Your child has spoken to you?”

“No, ma’am.”

Mrs Rolph coughed faintly, to gain time. The task did not seem so easy in presence of this sturdy, independent-looking Englishman, and she regretted the tone she had taken, and her next remark as soon as it was spoken.

“Well, Hayle,” she continued, “what have you to say to this?”

“Nay, ma’am,” said the keeper coldly; “it’s what have you to say?”

Mrs Rolph wanted to speak quietly, and make a kind of appeal to the keeper, but the words would not come as she wished, and she turned upon him, in her disappointment and anger, with the first that rose to her lips.

“To say? That all this is disgraceful. I am bitterly hurt and grieved to find that you, an old servant of my husband, the man whom he rescued from disgrace, should, in return for the kindness of years and years, give me cause to speak as I am compelled to do now.”

“Indeed, ma’am!”

“Yes. Out of kindness to your poor dead wife, I took Judith, and clothed and educated her, treated her quite as if she had been of my own family, made her the companion of my niece; in short, spared nothing; and my reward is this: that she has set snares for my son, and caused an amount of unhappiness in my house that it may take years to get over, and which may never be forgotten. Now, then, what excuse have you to offer? What has your child to say?”

The keeper looked at her and smiled.

“Nay, ma’am,” he said quietly, “you don’t mean all this, and you would not speak so if you were not put out. You know that I’ve got a case against you. I trusted my poor lass in your hands.”

“Trusted, man?”

“Yes, ma’am, that’s the word—trusted her. You promised to be like a mother to her.”

“And I have been till she proved ungrateful.”

“Nay, she has not been ungrateful, ma’am, and you know it. It’s for me to ask you what you were doing to let your son put such ideas in my poor child’s head.”

“Hayle!”

“Yes, ma’am, I must speak my mind.”

“It is madness. You know it is madness.”

“Yes, ma’am, if you call it so; but that’s how we stand, and my poor girl is not to blame. It is you.”

“How dare you!”

“Because I am her father, ma’am, and my child is as much to me as your son is to you.”

“This is insolence, sir. Have the goodness to remember who I am.”

“I never forget it, ma’am. You are my missus, the old master’s wife. But this is not a matter of mistress and servant, but of a mother and a father disputing about their children.”

Mrs Rolph drew herself up, and her eyes flashed, but the fire was drowned out directly by the tears of trouble and vexation, and the woman prevailed over the mistress directly after, as she said, in quite an altered tone,—

“Hayle, my good man, what is to be done?”

“Hah!” ejaculated the keeper; “now, ma’am, you are talking like a sensible woman, and we may be able to do business.”

“Yes, yes, Hayle, I was angry. I could not help it. All this comes nigh to breaking my heart. It is, of course, quite impossible. What do you propose to do?”

“Forget it, ma’am, if I can.”

“And Judith?”

“Hah! That’s another thing, ma’am.”

“But she surely is not so vain as to—to—”

“My Judith is a woman, ma’am. Is that vanity?”

“Yes, of course. No, no, Hayle. But, once more: it is impossible.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Ah, that’s very good and sensible of you. Now, look here. I have thought it all over as I came, and I am sorry to say what I have decided upon seems to be the best plan. It will grieve me terribly, but there’s no help for it. You and Judith must go away. You will agree to this, Hayle?”

“You mean, ma’am, that we old people are to settle the matter as to what is best for the young folks?”

“Yes, yes, that is right.”

“And what will the young folks say?”

Mrs Rolph hesitated for a moment or two.

“We cannot stop to consult them, my good man, when we are working for their good. Now, look here, Hayle; of course it will put you to a good deal of inconvenience, for which I am sorry, and to meet that difficulty I went back to my room and wrote this.” She took a cheque from her little reticule. “It is for fifty pounds, Hayle; it will cover all your expenses till you obtain another appointment. Why, Benjamin Hayle, how long have you been in our service?”

“A many years, ma’am,” said the keeper gravely; and then he read the cheque over as Mrs Rolph placed it in his hands. “Ah! ‘Pay to Benjamin Hayle or bearer, fifty pounds.—Constantia Rolph.’ A good deal of money, ma’am. And now, I think I’ll call Judith down.”

“Yes—yes, do. I must say a few words to her. Poor girl, I wish her well.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” said the keeper quietly.

“Yes: it is not all her fault.”

“Judith—Judith, my girl,” said the keeper, opening the door at the foot of the stairs. “Come down.”

There was the quick rustling of a dress, and Judith came down, red-eyed, pale and wild-looking, to lay her hand on her father’s arm.

“Ah, Judith, my dear,” began Mrs Rolph, hastily. “Your father and I have been discussing this unhappy affair, and, sorry as we are, we feel obliged to come to the conclusion—the same conclusion that you will, as a good, sensible girl, when you have well thought it out—that this silly flirtation cannot go on. It is for your sake as well as my son’s that I speak.”

Hayle felt his child’s hand tremble on his arm.

“You are too wise and too good to wish to injure my son’s prospects for life, and so we have decided that it will be better for your father to leave the place, and take you right away, where all this little trouble will soon be forgotten.”

“And,” interposed the keeper, “the missus has given me this, my dear—a cheque for fifty pounds, to pay all our expenses. What shall I do with it, my dear?”

“Burn it, father,” said Judith, slowly. “It is to buy us off.”

“Hah!” said the keeper, with a smile full of satisfaction, “that’s well said;” and he placed the end of the cheque to the glowing ashes. It burst into flame and he held it till it was nearly burned away, tossing the scrap he had held into the fire.

“Hayle, you must be mad!” cried Mrs Rolph, astonishment having at first closed her lips.

“Nay, ma’am, we’re not mad, either of us,” said the keeper, gravely. “There are some things money can buy, and some things it can’t, ma’am. What you want is one of the things it can’t buy. Judith and I are going away from the cottage—right away, ma’am. I’m only a keeper, but there’s a bit of independence in me; and as for my girl here, whom you made a lady, she’s going to act like what you have made her. She owns to me, in her looks if not in words, that she loves young master, and she’s too proud to come to you and be his wife, till you come to her, and beg her to. Am I right, Judith?”

The girl gave him a quick look, and then drew herself up, and clung to him.

“Yes, father,” she said, in a whisper which caused her intense suffering “you are right.”

“There, ma’am, are you satisfied?”

“No,” said Mrs Rolph in a husky voice, “I am not satisfied, but it cannot be. My son’s welfare is at stake.”

She rose, and tried to speak again, but unable to utter another word, she left the cottage, father and daughter watching her till she disappeared among the dark aisles of the firs.

Volume One—Chapter Eight.

Mars in the Ascendant.

“Better get it over,” said Captain Rolph, the next day, as he indulged himself in what he called a short “spin” down the lane by the side of The Warren, and in the direction of the Alleynes’ home, which stood up, grim and bleak, out of the sandy desert land. “What with the old man, and the major, and the mater, and Madge, and—oh, hang it all! I’m not going to stand any humbug from Judy, and so I tell her. There, I’ll go and get it over at once.”

He stopped running, braced himself up, and marched in regular military fashion, back to The Warren, to see Marjorie seated at one of the front windows, ready to give him a smile in response to his short nod.

The next moment he stopped short, gazing sharply down the avenue at the broad, bent back of the keeper, who, with head down, was striding away toward the gate.

“What’s he been here for?—to see me?”

Rolph entered the house, walked noisily into his study—a gun-room, for the study of fowling-pieces and fishing rods, with a museum-like collection of prize cups and belts dotted about, in company with trophies of the chase, heads, horns and skins. Here he rang the bell, which was very promptly answered by the butler, Captain Rolph being a follower of the celebrated Count Shucksen, and using so much military drill-sergeant powder with his orders that they went home at once.

“Hayle been to see me, Smith?” he asked, sharply.

“No, sir. Came to bring up your guns after my mistress had been down to the keeper’s lodge this morning.”

“Brought up my guns,” said Rolph, wonderingly. “What for?”

The man looked at him rather curiously in silence.

“Well, idiot, why don’t you speak?”

“Not my business, sir. In trouble, I suppose. Benjamin Hayle and me has never been friends, and so he said nothing, on’y one word as he went out.”

“And what was that?”

“Sack, sir—sack!”

“That’ll do.”

“Yes, sir—I knew it would come some day,” said the butler to himself. “Sticking up a notorious poacher on a level with respectable servants, and putting his daughter over ’em, making my lady of her. But pride always did have a fall.”

“Humph!” muttered Rolph, with a laugh, “the old girl strikes first blow without knowing what was coming. All right. Now for it. Just as well, perhaps. But he was a good keeper.”

He went out into the hall just in time to meet Marjorie, who was tripping blithely down the stairs, singing the while.

“What a lovely day it is, Rob,” she said.

“Is it?” he said grimly.

“Isn’t it, dear? Why, what’s the matter? Are you going in to see auntie on business?”

“Yes, on that business. Did you and my mother hatch up that dodge between you?”

“I don’t know what you mean, Rob.”

“Of course not, my clever little schemer. Come in, too, and hear how I’ve flanked you both.”

A sudden change came over the girl’s smiling countenance, with its air of wonder, and it was with a vindictive flash of her eyes that she suddenly caught Rolph by the arm.

“Not married?” she said in a harsh whisper.

“No; not yet.”

“Hah!”

It was a catching sigh of relief as Rolph threw open the drawing-room door, and, with mock politeness, stood aside for Marjorie to enter.

Mrs Rolph looked troubled and disturbed, and evidently welcomed the appearance of Marjorie, making a sign for the girl to come to her side, and then drawing herself up in her most stately way ready to receive her son’s attack, which was not long in coming.

“Why did you go to Hayle’s this morning?”

“On business, Rob.”

“What for?”

“To tell him that the time had come when I required his services no longer, and that he must go at once.”

“What! My keeper?”

“Mine, Robert,” said Mrs Rolph, firmly. “You forget the terms of your father’s will. You have your income; I have mine, with undisturbed possession of everything at The Warren while I live. You occupy the position of my guest when you are here.”

“Humph! all right. And so you have discharged Ben, eh? When does he go?”

“To-day.”

“Sharp practice, mother; and all because poor Judy is pretty.”

“And all because, as I told him, I wished to save—I will speak plainly, even in your cousin’s presence—a weak, vain girl from disgrace.”

“Humph! pretty plain speaking that, mother.”

“There are times when plain speaking is necessary, my son, and when strong action is required to save you from the consequences of a mad passion.”

“Rubbish!”

“What! Don’t you know Ben Hayle better than that? Do you think he is the man to sit down quietly when he knows the truth? Have you not seen that the foolish fellow believes thoroughly what he as good as told me to my face this morning—that he expects to see his daughter some day mistress here?”

“Ben Hayle’s a fool,” cried Rolph, angrily, “and you and Madge here are half-crazy. Let’s have an end of it. Once for all, mother, I mean to do exactly as I like, and I have done as I liked.”

Mrs Rolph started forward in her chair, and Marjorie’s lips tightened.

“What do you mean, Rob?” cried the former.

“You want to see me married, I believe?”

“I want to see you prove yourself an honourable gentleman—a worthy son of your father, not a man for whom I should blush.”

“All right, then. I’ve taken the right steps for settling into a quiet, country gentleman. I’m going to be married.”

Marjorie’s eyes flashed.

“Rob, you will not be so mad as to marry that girl?”

“Yes, I shall,” he said coolly.

“Then I have done with you for ever. Judith Hayle may come here when I am in my grave, but till then—”

“Let the churchyard alone, mother. Do you think I’m such a fool as to marry a poacher’s daughter?”

“Rob! Then you have repented!” cried Mrs Rolph excitedly, and Marjorie trembled and sank upon her knees to cling to her aunt’s waist.

“Oh, yes, I’ve repented, and I’m going to be a very good boy and get married soon.”

“Madge, my dear child!” cried Mrs Rolph, embracing the girl at her feet.

“There, don’t get filling her head full of false hopes, the same as you did Judy Hayle’s mother,” said Rolph brutally. “I went yesterday and proposed, and have been accepted.”

Marjorie’s breath came and went in a low hiss as she turned her wild eyes upon her cousin.

“Proposed? To whom? Rob, not to that pert, penniless girl at The Firs?”

“What, the moon-shooter’s sister!” cried Rolph. “Hah! nice, little, bright-eyed thing. But no: try again.”

Mrs Rolph rose excitedly from her chair, and Marjorie’s hands dropped from her waist as she crouched lower upon the carpet.

“Not John Day’s daughter—Glynne?”

“Good guess, mother. Glynne Day is to be my wife by-and-by. The old man is agreeable and the major isn’t. So now, the sooner you go and call upon them and make it all right the better.”

Poor Marjorie dropped out of Mrs Rolph’s sight.

“Rob! my dear boy!” she cried as she flung her arms about her son’s neck to kiss him fondly, while Marjorie rose slowly, looking white even to her lips, and with a peculiar smile dawning upon them as her eyes flashed upon the group before her.

“I knew I could trust you, Rob,” cried Mrs Rolph; and then, recollecting herself, “Madge, my poor child, I am very sorry, but, you see, it was not to be.”

“No, auntie dear,” said the girl, with the smile growing more marked; “marriages are made in Heaven, you know. I shall not mind—much. Of course the great aim of all our lives was to see dear Rob happy. Glynne Day is very beautiful and sweet, and a daughter of whom you will be quite proud. I should be deceitful if I did not own to being grievously disappointed, but, as was natural, Rob’s love for me has only been that of a brother for a sister”—she fixed Rolph’s eyes as she spoke, and his turned shiftily away—“and if I have been a little silly, the pain will soon wear off. Glynne Day. How nice. I’m sure I shall love her very much, though she is rather cold. Isn’t she, Rob?”

“That is very nice of you, Madge, my dear,” said Mrs Rolph, embracing her niece. “And who knows how soon another prince may come, my dear.”

“Oh, aunt!”

“And you will try to forget all this?”

“Of course, aunt, dear. It was fate,” said the girl innocently.

“And—and you will not mind going over to Brackley with me to call?”

“I, mind? Oh, auntie, I should be horribly disappointed if you did not take me. There, Rob,” she continued, with a little sigh, “that’s all over, and I congratulate you—brother; and I shall kiss dearest Glynne as I kiss you now.”

“Humph! thought she was going to bite me,” muttered Rolph. Then aloud, “Well, Madge, it was a bit of a flirtation, I own. Now, then, as you’ve behaved like a trump, so will I. What shall it be—a pearl locket, or diamonds, or a bracelet?”

“Oh, how good and generous you are, Rob dear. How nice of you!” cried Marjorie in gushing tones. “I have so often longed for a sapphire bracelet.”

“Then you shall have one,” said Rolph, but not quite so warmly as he had spoken before. “I’m off now.”

“Won’t you stay to lunch, dear?” said Mrs Rolph.

“No. I shall have a sandwich in my room. I’m training. I say! can you go over this afternoon?”

“Of course we will, dear,” said Mrs Rolph, warmly; and there was a look of relief in her eyes.

“Then that’s all settled,” said Rolph; and he left the room, not noticing the hard look in his cousin’s eyes. “Sorry about poor old Ben Hayle,” he muttered as he went to his own room. “But perhaps it’s best. Going to be married, and must be a good boy now.”

Then a thought struck him, and he hurried back to the drawing-room, to surprise Marjorie upon her knees, with her face buried in Mrs Rolph’s lap.

“Oh, beg pardon,” he said, hastily; “but look here, mother; don’t be quite so hard on Ben Hayle. I mean as to a day or two.”

“Leave that to me, Rob—please,” said Mrs Rolph.

“Oh, all right,” he cried, and he went right off this time. “Poor little Madge! but she won’t be long before she hooks another fish. Bet a sov. she tries it on with the astronomer; but I must go and smooth it down a bit at the lodge. What a blessing it is to have nearly enough coin. That bracelet did wonders; but Judy mustn’t play quite so high, and, as for Ben—well he’s my mother’s man, and—I know; I’ll let him keep that old gun.”

Volume One—Chapter Nine.

Attraction and Repulsion.

Rolph dined at Brackley that evening, and found Sir John in the best of spirits. Glynne was bright and eager to show him the progress she had made with her painting, at the sight of which he started as they stood together in the drawing-room.

“But I say, Glynne, you know, this is doosid clever and ought to go to the Academy; only, hang it all! you mustn’t get painting fellows like that.”

“Why not?”

“Because—because—well, you see the fellow’s a regular scamp—dangerous sort of a character, you know—been in prison for poaching, and that sort of thing.”

“But he’s such a patient model.”

“Model, eh? Not my idea of a model. Look here, if you want some one to sit, you shall have me.”

The conversation changed to the visit she had received that afternoon; and Glynne in her new excitement was rapturous about “dear Mrs Rolph,” but rather lukewarm about her niece, and Rolph noticed it.

“Madge nice to you?” he said.

“Your cousin? Oh, yes,” replied Glynne, thoughtfully. “She seemed rather shy and strange at first, but soon got over that. We have always been a little distant, for I think I was too quiet for her; but of course we shall be like sisters now.”

“H’m, yes, I suppose so. But Madge is rather a strange girl.”

The dinner passed off pretty well. Rolph drinking a good deal of the baronet’s favourite claret, and every now and then finding the major’s eyes fixed upon him in rather a searching way which he did not like; but on the whole, Major Day was pleasant and gentlemanly, and rather given to sigh on seeing how happy and bright his niece looked. When at last she rose during dessert, and Rolph opened the door for her to pass out to the drawing-room, he was obliged to own that they would make a handsome couple, and on seeing his brother’s inquiring glance, he nodded back to him, making Sir John look pleased.

“I’ve no right to object if they are satisfied,” he said to himself; “but he is not the fellow I should have chosen.”

All the same, he shook hands warmly enough when Rolph left that night.

“Jack,” he said, as he sat with his brother over their last cigar, “I think I may as well get married now.”

“You think what!” cried Sir John dropping his cigar.

“I think I shall get married. I mean, when Glynne has gone.”

“I should like to catch you at it!” growled Sir John. “When Glynne goes you’ve got to stop with me.”

“Ah, well we shall see,” said the major, whose eyes were fixed on the dark corner of the smoking-room, where he could see a fir glade with a pretty, bright little figure stooping over a ring of dark-coloured fungi—“we shall see. Glynne isn’t married yet.”

The next morning, soon after breakfast, Rolph started off for a run, for he was training for an event, he said, the run taking him in the direction of the preserves about an hour later.

He had gone for some distance along the path, but he leaped over a fence now and began to thread his way through a pine wood, where every step was over the thick grey needles; and as he walked he from time to time kicked over one of the bright red or speckled grey fungi which grew beneath the trees.

He had about half a mile to go through this wood; the birch plantation and the low copse, and then through the grove in one of the openings of which, and surrounded by firs, stood the keeper’s cottage.

He pressed on through the fir wood, then across the birch plantation, where the partridges loved to hide, and the copse where the poachers knew the pheasants roosted on the uncut trees at the edge, but dared not go, because it was so near the keeper’s cottage.

Then on to Thoreby Wood, in and out among the bronze-red fir-tree trunks, under the dark green boughs, where the wind was always moaning, as if the sea shore was nigh, and the bed of needles silenced his footfalls, for the way was easy now. In another minute he would be out of the clearing, close to the cottage—at the back.

“Why, there she is,” he said to himself, with his heart giving a throb of satisfaction, as he saw before him a girl standing where the sun shone down through the opening where the cottage stood, and half threw up the figure as it rested one hand upon a tree trunk and leaned forward as if gazing out from the edge of the wood at something in the opening beyond.

Rolph stopped short, to stand gazing at her admiringly.

“What is she watching?” he said to himself, then, smiling as the explanation came.

“Been feeding the pheasants,” he thought. “She has thrown them some grain, and they have come out by the cottage.”

“Yes,” he continued, “she is watching them feed, and is standing back so as not to scare them. Poor beggars! what a shame it seems to go and murder them after they have been reared at home and fed like this.”

He hesitated for a few moments, and then began to walk swiftly on, with hushed footsteps, toward where the figure stood, a hundred yards away.

When he saw her first, he was able to gaze down a narrow lane of trees, but a deep gully ran along there, necessitating his diverging from that part, and going in and out among the tall trunks, sometimes catching a glimpse of the watcher, sometimes for her to be hidden from his sight. And so it was that when at last he came out suddenly, he was not five yards behind her, but unheard. He stopped short, startled and astonished. For it was not Judith who stood watching there so intently.

Madge! there!

At that moment, as if she were impressed by his presence, Marjorie Emlin rose partly erect, drawing back out of the sunshine, and quite involuntarily turning to gaze full in Rolph’s face, her own fixed in its expression of malignant joy, as if she had just seen something which had given her the most profound satisfaction. She was laughing, her lips drawn away from her teeth, and her eyes, in the semi-darkness of the fir wood, dilated and glowing with a strange light.

For a moment or two she gazed straight at Rolph, seeing him, but not seeming to realise his presence. Then there was a rapid change of her expression, the malignant look of joy became one of shame, fear, and the horror of being surprised.

“You here, Madge!” he said at last, in a hoarse whisper lest Judith should know that she was being watched. “What does this mean?”

She looked at him wildly, and began to creep away, as one might from some creature which fascinated and yet filled with fear.

She was still shrinking away, but he had caught her wrist and held it firmly as she glared at him, till, with a sudden effort, she tried to wrest herself away.

There was no struggle, for he suddenly cast her away from him, realising in an instant the reason of her presence and of this malignant look of satisfaction, for, as Madge darted away, he rushed into the opening where the cottage stood, in response to a wild cry for help.

He reached the porch in time to catch Judith on his arm, as she was running from the place, and receive Caleb Kent who was in full pursuit, with his right fist thrown out with all his might.

The impact of two bodies at speed is tremendous, and scientific people of a mathematical turn assure us that when such bodies do meet they fly off at a tangent.

They may have done so here, but, according to matter-of-fact notions, Rolph’s fist and arm flew round Judith afterwards, to help the other hold her trembling and throbbing to his heart; while Caleb Kent’s head went down with a heavy, resounding bump on the tiled floor of the little entry.

Then Judith shrank away, and Rolph in his rage planted his foot on Caleb Kent’s chest, as the fellow lay back, apparently stunned.

But there was a good deal of the wild beast about Caleb Kent. He lay still for a few moments, and then, quick and active as a cat, he twisted himself sidewise and sprang up, his mouth cut and bleeding, his features distorted with passion; and, starting back, he snatched a long knife from his pocket, threw open the blade, and made a spring at Rolph.

Judith uttered a cry of horror, but there was no occasion for her dread, for, quick in his action as the young poacher, Rolph struck up the attacking arm, and the next moment Caleb Kent was outside, with his opponent following him watchfully.

“Keep of!” snarled Caleb, “or I’ll have your blood. All right: I see; but never mind, my turn will come yet. If I wait for years, I’ll make this straight.”

And then as Rolph made a rush at him, he dodged aside and darted into the fir wood, running so swiftly that his adversary felt it would be useless to pursue.

Neither did he wish to, for Judith was standing there by the porch, looking wild-eyed and ghastly.

“You—you are hurt,” she faltered.

“Hurt!” he cried, as he clasped her once more in his arms. “No, no, tell me about yourself. Curse him! what did he say?”

“I was alone here and busy when he came. He has followed me about from a child and frightened me. To-day he walked straight in and roughly told me that he loved me, and that I must be his wife.”

She shuddered.

“The insolent gaol-bird!”

“He frightened me, though I tried very hard to be firm, and ordered him to leave the place; but he only laughed at me, and caught me in his arms, and tried to kiss me. I was struggling with him for a long time, and no help seemed to be coming. I screamed out, and that frightened him, and he left me; but, before I could fasten the door, he came back and spoke gently to me, but when I would not listen to him, he tried to seize me again, and I cried for help, and you—”

She did not shrink this time, as, throbbing with passion, and uttering threats against the scoundrel, Rolph once more folded her in his arms.

Again she struggled from him, trembling.

“I am not doing right,” she said firmly. “If you love me, Rob—”

“If I love you!” he said reproachfully.

“I am sure you have pity for me,” she said, taking his hand and raising it to her lips, to utter a cry of horror, for the hand was bleeding freely, and the ruddy current dyed her lips.

“Hurt in my defence,” she said with a pained smile, as she bound her own handkerchief about the bleeding knuckles.

“I’d die in your defence,” he whispered passionately; “your protector always, dearest.”

“Then protect me now,” she said, “that I am weak, and let me trust in you. You wish me to be your wife, Robert?”

“Eh? Yes, of course, of course,” he said hurriedly.

“And you won’t let your mother sending me away make any difference?”

“How could it, little stupid! I’m not a boy,” he said, banteringly. “But I must go now, and, as for Master Caleb Kent, I’ll just set the policeman on his track.”

“But that will mean his being taken before the magistrates, Rob.”

“Yes, and a long spell for him this time, or I’ll know the reason why.”

“No, no,” cried the girl, hurriedly. “You mustn’t do that.”

“Why?”

“Because he hates you enough as it is. He said he’d kill you.”

“Will he?” muttered Rolph, between his teeth.

“And I should have to go before the magistrates as a witness; and there’s no knowing what Caleb might say.”

Rolph looked at her searchingly, while she clung to him till he promised to let the matter rest.

“But suppose he comes again?”

“Father will take care of that,” she said confidently. “But do mind yourself as you go. Caleb may be hiding, and waiting for you.”

“To come back here,” he said sharply.

“If he does, he’ll find the door locked,” said Judith quietly. “Must you go now?”

“Yes: your father may come back.”

“But that doesn’t matter now, Rob, does it? Why not tell him we’re engaged?”

“No, no: not yet. Leave that to me. Good-bye, now.”

He drew the clinging arms from about his neck rather roughly, gave the girl’s lips a hasty kiss, and hurried out and across the clearing, turning back twice as he went to see Judith looking after him, with her face shadowed by tears, and then, as their eyes encountered, beaming with sunshine. And again, after he had passed out of sight, he stole back through the trees to find that she was still wistfully gazing at the spot where she saw him last.

And, as unseen he watched her, his thoughts were many upon her unprotected state, and as to whether he ought not to stay until her father’s return.

“No,” he said, “the beggar will not dare to come back!” and, after making a circuit of the place, and searching in all directions, he walked thoughtfully away, thinking of what must be done with regard to Caleb Kent, and then about his cousin, against whom his indignation grew hotter the more he thought of what he had seen.

“She must have known that Caleb was in the cottage insulting Judith, and she was glorying in it and would not stir a step to save her, when her presence would have been enough to drive the beggar away. Oh, it seems impossible that a woman could be so spiteful. Hang it! Madge has got hold of that now. It’s like being at her mercy. Phew! I’m getting myself in a devil of a mess. I meant to fight shy of her now altogether, but of course no fellow could help running to save a woman in distress.”

He stopped short, for a sudden thought struck him.

“Then Judy hasn’t heard about Glynne yet. Confound it all! what a tangle I’m getting in.”

He took out and lit a cigar. Then smoking rapidly, he felt better.

“All right,” he muttered; “the old woman sets that square, and the sooner they’re off the estate the better for everybody. But there’s no mistake about it, Judy is deuced nice after all.”

“Day, sir,” said a sharp voice, and Rolph started round to find himself face to face with Hayle.

“Ah, Ben!—you!”

“Yes, sir, me it is,” said the keeper, sternly. “Down, dogs!”

This to the animals which began to play about the captain.

“Oh, let ’em be,” said Rolph, patting one of the setters on the head.

“Never mind the dogs, sir. I’ve got something more serious to think about. I suppose you know as the missus has sacked me, and we’re off?”

“Yes, Ben, I know; but it was no doing of mine.”

“I never thought it was, sir; but me and Judy’s to go at once—anywhere, for aught she cares. She’d like me to emigrate, I think.”

“No, don’t do that, Ben. England’s big enough.”

“For some people, sir. I don’t know as it is for me. Well, sir, I’m sacked, and I dare say it will be a long time before anyone will take me on. My character usen’t to be of the best, and the reasons for going ’ll be again me. Of course you know why it is.”

“Well—er—I suppose—”

“That’ll do, sir. You know well enough, it’s about you and my Judy.”

The captain laughed.

“There, sir, you needn’t shuffle with me. I’m my gal’s father, and we may as well understand one another.”

“My good fellow, recollect whom you are talking to,” said the captain, haughtily.

“I do, sir. My late missus’s son; and I recollect that I’m nobody’s servant now, only an Englishman as can speak out free like. So I say this out plain. Of course, after what’s been going on, you mean to marry my Judith?”

“Marry her? Well—er—Ben—”

“No, you don’t,” said the keeper fiercely, “so don’t tell me no lies, because I know you’ve been and got yourself engaged to young Miss Glynne over at Brackley.”

“Well, sir, and if I have, what then?” said Rolph haughtily.

“This, sir,” cried the keeper, with his eyes flashing, “that you’ve been playing a damned cowardly mean part to Miss Glynne and to my Judith. You’ve led my gal on to believe that you meant to marry her, and then you’ve thrown her over and took up with Sir John Day’s gal. And I tell you this; if my Judith hadn’t been what she is, and any harm had come of it, you might have said your prayers, for as sure as there’s two charges o’ shot in this here gun, I’d put one through you.”

“What?”

“You heared what I said, sir, and you know I’m a man of my word. And now, look here: you’ve been to the lodge to see Judith, for the last time, of course, for if ever you speak to her again, look out. Now, don’t deny it, my lad. You’ve been to my cottage, for it is mine till to-night.”

“Yes, I have been to the lodge, Hayle,” said Rolph, who was thoroughly cowed by the keeper’s fierce manner. “I was going through the wood when, just as I drew near the cottage, I heard a cry for help.”

“What?” roared Hayle.

“I ran to the porch just as a man was after Miss Hayle—Steady there.”

The sound was startling, for involuntarily the keeper had cocked both barrels of his gun; and, as he stood there with his eyes flashing, and the weapon trembling in the air, the three dogs looked as if turned to stone, their necks outstretched, heads down, and their long feathery tails rigid, waiting for the double report they felt must follow.

“And—and—what did you do?” cried the keeper in a slow, hoarse voice, which, taken in conjunction with the rapid cocking of the gun, made Rolph think that, if it had been the father who had come upon that scene, there might have been a tragedy in Thoreby Wood that day.

“I say, what did you do?” said the keeper again, in a voice full of suppressed passion.

“That!” said Rolph, slowly raising his right hand to unwind from it Judith’s soft white handkerchief, now all stained with blood, and display his knuckles denuded of skin.

“Hah!” ejaculated the keeper, as his eyes flashed. “God bless you for that, sir. You knocked him down?”

“Of course.”

“Yes—yes?”

“And he jumped up and drew his knife and struck at me.”

“But he didn’t hit you, sir; he didn’t hit you?” cried the keeper, forgetting everything in his excitement as he clutched the young man’s arm.

“No; I was too quick for him; and then he ran off into the wood.”

“Damn him!” roared the keeper. “If I had only been there this would have caught him,” he cried, patting the stock of his gun. “I’d have set the dogs on him after I’d given him a couple of charges of shot; I would, sir, so help me God.”

The veins were standing out all over the keeper’s brow, as he ground his teeth and shook his great heavy fist.

“But wait a bit. It won’t be long before we meet.”

“I am very glad you were not there, Hayle,” said Rolph, after watching the play of the father’s features for a few moments.

“Why, sir, why?”

“Because I don’t want to have you take your trial for manslaughter.”

“No, no; I had enough of that over the breaking of Jack Harris’s head, sir; but—”

“Yes, but,” said Rolph, quickly, “I wanted to talk to you about that.”

“It was Caleb Kent,” said the keeper, with sudden excitement.

“Yes, it was Caleb Kent.”

“I might have known it; he was always for following her about. Curse him! But talking’s no good, sir; and, perhaps, it’s as well I wasn’t there. Thankye, sir, for that. It makes us something more like quits. As for Caleb Kent, perhaps I shall have a talk to him before I go. But mind you don’t speak to my Judy again.”

He shouldered his gun, gave Rolph a nod, and then walked swiftly away, the dogs hesitating for a few moments, and then dashing off, to follow close at his heels.

Rolph stood watching the keeper for a few minutes till he disappeared.

“Well out of that trouble then,” he muttered. “Not pleasant for a fellow; it makes one feel so small. Poor little Judy! she’ll be horribly wild when she comes to know. What a lot of misery our marriage laws do cause in this precious world.”

“Now then for home,” he said, after walking swiftly for a few minutes, and, “putting on a spurt” as he termed it, he reached the house and went straight to the library.

He had entered and closed the door to sit down and have a good think about how he could “square Madge,” when he became aware that the lady in his thoughts was seated in one of the great arm-chairs with a book in her hand, which she pretended to read. She cowered as her cousin started, and stood gazing down at her with a frowning brow, and a look of utter disgust and contempt about his lips which made her bosom rise and fall rapidly.

“Do you want this room, Rob?” she said, breaking an awkward silence.

“Well, yes, after what took place this morning, you do make the place seem unpleasant,” he said coolly.

“Oh, this is too much,” cried Madge, her face, the moment before deadly pale, now flushing scarlet, as she threw down the book she had held, and stood before him, biting her lips with rage.

“Yes, too much.”

“And have we been to the cottage to see the fair idol? Pray explain,” said Marjorie, who was beside herself with rage and jealousy. “I thought gentlemen who were engaged always made an end of their vulgar amours.”

“Quite right,” said Rolph, meaningly. “I did begin, as you know.”

She winced, and her eyes darted an angry flash at him.

“You mean me,” she said, with her lips turning white.

“I did not say so.”

“But would it not have been better, now we are engaged to Glynne Day—I don’t understand these things, of course—but would it not have been better for a gentleman, now that he is engaged, to cease visiting that creature, and, above all, to keep away when he was not wanted?”

“What do you mean?—not wanted?”

“I mean when she was engaged with her lover, who was visiting her in her father’s absence.”

“The scoundrel!” cried Rolph, fiercely.

“Yes; a miserable, contemptible wretch, I suppose, but an old flame of hers.”

“Look here, Madge; you’re saying all this to make me wild,” cried Rolph, “but it won’t do. You know it’s a lie.”

Madge laughed unpleasantly.

“It’s true. He was always after her. She told me so herself, and how glad she was that the wretch had been sent to prison—of course, because he was in the way just then.”

“Go on,” growled Rolph. “A jealous woman will say anything.”

“Jealous?—I?—Pah!—Only angry with myself because I was so weak as to listen to you.”

“And I was so weak as to say anything to a malicious, deceitful cat of a girl, who is spiteful enough to do anything.”

“I, spiteful?—Pah!”

“Well, malicious then.”

“Perhaps I shall be. I wonder what dear Glynne would say about this business. Suppose I told her that our honourable and gallant friend, as they call it in parliament, had been on a visit to that shameless creature whom poor auntie had been compelled to turn away from the house, and in his honourable and gallant visit arrived just in time to witness the end of a lover’s quarrel; perhaps you joined in for ought I know, and—I can’t help laughing—Poor fellow! You did. You have been fighting with your rival, and bruised your knuckles. Did he beat you much, Rob, and win?”

Robert Rolph was dense and brutal enough, and his cousin’s words made him wince, but he looked at the speaker in disgust as the malevolence of her nature forced itself upon him more and more.

“Well,” he cried at last, “I’ve seen some women in my time, but I never met one yet who could stand by and glory in seeing one whom she had looked upon as a sister insulted like poor Judy was.”

“A sister!” cried Marjorie, contemptuously. “Absurd!—a low-born trull!”

“Whom you called dear, and kissed often enough till you thought I liked her, and then—Hang it all, Madge, are you utterly without shame!”

She shrank from him as if his words were thongs which cut into her flesh, but as he ceased speaking, with a passionate sob, she flung her arms about his neck, and clung tightly there.

“Rob! Don’t, I can’t bear it,” she cried. “You don’t know what I have suffered—what agony all this has caused.”

“There, there, that will do,” he said contemptuously. “I am engaged, my dear.”

She sprang from him, and a fierce light burned in her eyes for a moment, but disappointment and her despair were too much for her, and she flung herself upon his breast.

“No, no, Rob, dear, it isn’t true. I couldn’t help hating Judith or any woman who came between us. You don’t mean all this, and it is only to try me. You cannot—you shall not marry Glynne; and as to Judith, it is impossible now.”

“Give over,” he said roughly, as he tried to free himself from her arms.

“No, you sha’n’t go. I must tell you,” she whispered hoarsely amidst her sobs. “I hate Judith, but she is nothing—not worthy of a thought I will never mention her name to you again, dear.”

“Don’t pray,” he cried sarcastically. “If you do, I shall always be seeing you gloating over her trouble as I saw you this morning.”

“It was because I loved you so, Rob,” she murmured as she nestled to him. “It was because I felt that you were mine and mine only, after the past; and all that was forcing her away from you.”

“Bah!” he cried savagely. “Madge! Don’t be a fool! Will you loosen your hands before I hurt you.”

But she clung to him still.

“No, not yet,” she whispered. “You made me love you, Rob, and I forget everything in that. Promise me first that you will break all that off about Glynne Day.”

“I promise you that I’ll get your aunt to place you in a private asylum,” he cried brutally, “if you don’t leave go.”

There was a slight struggle, and he tore himself free, holding her wrists together in his powerful grasp and keeping her at arm’s length.

“There! Idiot!” he cried. “Must I hold you till you come to your senses.”

“If you wish—brute!” she cried through her little white teeth as her lips were drawn away. “Kill me if you like now. I don’t care a bit: you can’t hurt me more than you have.”

“If I hurt you, it serves you right. A nice, ladylike creature, ’pon my soul. Pity my mother hasn’t been here to see the kind of woman she wanted me to marry.”

“Go on,” she whispered, “go on. Insult me: you have a right. Go on.”

“I’m going off,” he said roughly. “There, go up to your room, and have a good hysterical cry and a wash, and come back to your senses. If you will have it you shall, and the whole truth too. I never cared a bit for you. It was all your own doing, leading me on. Want to go.”

“Loose my hands, brute.”

“For you to scratch my face, my red-haired pussy. Not such a fool. I know your sweet temper of old. If I let go, will you be quiet?”

Marjorie made no reply, but she ceased to struggle and stood there with her wrists held, the white skin growing black—a prisoner—till, with a contemptuous laugh, he threw the little arms from him.

“Go and tell Glynne everything you know—everything you have seen, if you like,” he said harshly, “only tell everything about yourself too, and then come back to me to be loved, my sweet, amiable, little white-faced tigress. I’m not afraid though, Madge. You can’t open those pretty lips of yours, can you? It might make others speak in their defence.”

“Brute,” she whispered as she gazed at him defiantly and held out her bruised wrists.

“Brute, am I? Well, let sleeping brutes lie. Don’t try to rouse them up for fear they should bite. Go to your room and bathe your pretty red eyes after having a good cry, and then come and tell me that you think it is best to cry truce, and forget all the past.”

“Never, Rob, dear,” she said with a curious smile. “Go on; but mind this: you shall never marry Glynne Day.”

“Sha’n’t I? We shall see. I think I can pull that off,” he cried with a mocking laugh. “But if I don’t, whom shall I marry?”

She turned from him slowly, and then faced round again as she reached the door.

“Me,” she said quietly; and the next minute Robert Rolph was alone.

Volume One—Chapter Ten.

A Cloudy Sky.

“Oh, father, I’m so glad you’ve come.”

This was Ben Hayle’s greeting as he reached the keeper’s lodge.

“Eh? Are you?” he said, with an assumed look of ignorance; but the corners of his eyes were twitching, and he was asking himself how he was to tell his child matters that would nearly break her heart, as he yielded his hand to hers, and let her press him back into his windsor arm-chair. “Nothing the matter, is there?”

She knelt at his feet, and told him all that had passed, and the strong man’s muscles jerked, and his grasp of her arm grew at times painful. As she went on, he interjected a savage word from time to time.

“Good girl, good girl. It has hurt you, my darling, but it was right to tell me all, and keep nothing back.”

Then he laid his hand softly on her glossy hair, and sat staring straight before him at the window, the moments being steadily marked off by the tick-tack of the old eight-day clock in the corner, and no other sound was heard in the room.

Outside, the silence of the fir wood was broken by the cheery lay of a robin in one of the apple-trees of the garden, and once there came the low, soft cooing of a dove, which the soft, sunny autumn day had deluded into the belief that it was spring.

Then all was again silent for a time, and it seemed to Judith, as she looked up into the stern, thoughtful face, with its dark, fierce eyes, that the heavy throbbing of her heart drowned the beat of the clock; at other times the regular tick-tack grew louder, and she could hear nothing else.

“You’re not cross with me, father?” she said at last.

“No, it was no fault of yours. Ah, Judy, my girl, I was so proud of your bonny face, but it seems as if it is like to be a curse to you—to us both.”

“Father!”

“Yes, my lass; and I don’t know which of they two we ought to be most scared of—Caleb Kent or the captain.”

“Oh! father!” cried Judith; and she let her head fall upon his knee, as she sobbed wildly.

“I need hardly ask you, then, my girl,” he said, as with tender, loving hands, he took her head and bent over it, with his dark, fierce eyes softening. “You like him, then?”

She looked up proudly.

“He loves me, father.”

“Ay, and you, my lassie?”

“Yes, father. I have tried very hard not to think about him, but—Yes, I do love him very dearly, and I’m going to be his wife. He said he would speak to you.”

“Yes, my dear, and he has spoken to me.”

“Oh!” she cried, as she reached up to lay her hands upon the keeper’s shoulders, and gaze inquiringly in his eyes.

“It was all one big blunder, my dear,” he said; “you ought never to have gone up to the house, and learned things to make you above your station. I used to think so, as I sat here o’ night’s and smoked my pipe, and say to myself, ‘She’ll never care for the poor old cottage again.’”

Judith looked up quickly, and her arm stole round her father’s neck.

“And then,” she whispered, “you said to yourself, ‘It is not true, for she’ll never forget the old home.’”

“You’re a witch, Judy,” he cried, drawing her to him, with his face brightening a little. “I did. And if it could have been that you’d wed the captain, and gone up to the house among the grand folk, you would have had me there; you would not have been ashamed of the old man—would you?”

“Why do you ask me that, dear?” said Judith, with her lips quivering. “You know—you know.”

“Yes,” he said, “I know. But we shall have to go away from the old place, Judy, for it can’t never be.”

“Oh, father!”

“No, my dear, it won’t do. It’s all been a muddle, and I ought to have known better, instead of being a proud old fool, pleased as could be to see my lassie growing into a lady. There, I may as well tell you the truth, lass, at once.”

“The truth, father?” she said sharply.

“Yes, my dear, though it goes again me to hurt your poor little soft heart.”

“What do you mean, father?” she cried, startled now by the keeper’s looks.

“It must come, Judy; but I wish you’d found it out for yourself. Young Robert isn’t the man his dead father was. He’s a liar and a scoundrel, girl, and—”

She sprang from him with her eyes flashing, and a look of angry indignation convulsing her features.

“It’s true, my girl. He never meant to marry you, only to make you his plaything because he liked your pretty face.”

“It isn’t true,” said the girl harshly; and the indignation in her breast against her father made her wonderfully like him now.

“It is true, Judy, my pretty. I wouldn’t lie to you, and half break your heart. You’ve got to face it along with me. We’re sent away because the captain is going to marry.”

“It isn’t true, father; he wouldn’t marry Madge Emlin, with her cruel, deceitful heart.”

“No, my lass; he’s chucked her over too. He’s going to marry Sir John Day’s gal, over at Brackley Hall—her who came here and painted your face in the sun bonnet, when you were home those few days the time I had rheumatiz.”

“Is this true, father?”

“As true as gospel, lass.”

She gave him a long, searching look, as if reading his very soul, and then crept back to a low chair, sank down, and buried her face in her hands.

“Hah!” he said to himself, “she takes it better than I thought for. Thank God, it wasn’t too late.”

He stood thinking for a few minutes.

“Where am I to get a cottage, Judy, my lass?” he said at last. “One of those at Lindham might do for the present, out there by your grandmother’s, if there’s one empty. Mother Wattley would know. I’ll go and see her. Let’s get out of this. Poor old place, though,” he said, as he looked round. “It seems rather hard.”

Judith had raised her head, and sat gazing straight before her, right into the future, but she did not speak.

Volume One—Chapter Eleven.

In a Mist.

Glynne Day was seated in her favourite place—a bright, cheerful-looking room connected with her bedchamber on the first floor at Brackley, and turned by her into a pleasant nest; for the French windows opened into a tiny conservatory over a broad bay window of the dining-room, where were displayed the choicest floral gems that Jones, the head gardener, could raise, all being duly tended by her own hands.

The gardener shook his head, and said that “the plahnts wiltered” for want of light, and wanted to cut away the greater part of the tendril-like stems of the huge wistaria, which twisted itself into cables, and formed loops and sprays all over the top glass; but Glynne looked at him in horror, and forbade him to cut a stem. Consequently, in the spring-time, great lavender racemes of the lovely flowers clustered about the broad window at which the mistress of the Hall loved to sit and sketch “bits” of the beautiful landscape around, and make study after study of the precipitous pine-crowned hill a mile away, behind whose dark trees the sun would set, and give her opportunities to paint in gorgeous hues the tints of the western sky.

Here Lucy Alleyne would be brought after their walks, to sit and read, while Glynne filled in sketches she had made; and many a pleasant hour was passed by the two girls, while the soft breezes of the sunny country waved the long wistaria strands.

“It’s no use for me to speak, Mr Morris,” said the gardener one day. “It ’most breaks my heart, for all about there, and under the little glass house is the untidiest bit about my garden. I told Sir John about it, and he said, ‘Why don’t you cut it then, booby?’ and when I told him why, and ast him to speak to Miss Glynne, he said, ‘Be off, and leave it alone.’”

“And of course you did,” said Morris, the butler.

“Sack’s the word if I hadn’t, sir. But you mark my words: one of these days—I mean nights—them London burglars ’ll give us a visit, and they won’t want no ladder to get up to the first-floor windows. A baby could climb up them great glycene ropes and get in at that window; and then away goes my young lady’s jewels.”

“Well, they won’t get my plate,” said Morris with a chuckle. “I’ve two loaded pistols in my pantry for anyone who comes, so let ’em look out; and if I shout for help, the major’s got his loaded too.”

Glynne Day was seated one afternoon in her conservatory, bending over her last water-colour sketch by the open window, when a loud, reverberating bang echoed along the corridor, making the windows rattle outside her room. Starting up, knowing from old experience that it was only an earthquake, one of the social kind which affected Brackley from time to time, she hurried into her little study, and out into the passage, to go to the end, and tap sharply at the door facing her.

“Come in,” was shouted in the same tones as he who uttered the order had cried “wheel into line!” and Glynne entered to find the major with his hair looking knotted, his moustache bristling, and his eyes rolling in their sockets.

“What is the matter, uncle?”

“Matter?” cried the major, who was purple with rage. “Matter? He’s your father, Glynne, and he’s my brother, but if—if I could only feel that it wasn’t wicked to cut him down with the sword I used at Chillianwallah, I’d be thankful.”

“Now, uncle, dear, you don’t feel anything of the kind,” said Glynne, leaning upon the old gentleman’s arm.

“I do feel it, and I mean it this time. Now, girl, look here! Why am I such an old idiot—”

“Oh, uncle!”

”—As to stop here, and let that bullying, farm-labouring, overbearing bumpkin—I beg your pardon, my dear, but he is—father of yours, ride rough-shod over me?”

“But, uncle, dear—”

“But, niece, dear, he does; and how I can be such an idiot as to stop here, I don’t know. If I were his dependent, it couldn’t be worse.”

“But, uncle, dear, I’m afraid you do show a little temper sometimes.”

“Temper! I show temper! Nothing of the kind,” cried the old fellow, angrily, and his grey curls seemed to stand out wildly from his head. “Only decision—just so much decision as a military man should show—nothing more. Temper, indeed!”

“But you are hasty, dear, and papa so soon gets warm.”

“Warm? Red hot. White hot. He has a temper that would irritate a saint, and heaven knows I am no saint.”

“It does seem such a pity for you and papa to quarrel.”

“Pity? It’s abominable, my child, when we might live together as peaceably as pigeons. But he shall have it his own way now. I’ve done. I’ll have no more of it I’m not a child.”

“What are you going to do, uncle?”

“Do? Pack up and go, this very day. Then he may come to my chambers and beg till all’s blue, but he’ll never persuade me to come out here again.”

“Oh, uncle! It will be so dull if you go away.”

“No, no, not it, my dear. You’ve got your captain; and there’ll be peace in the house then till he finds someone else to bully. Why, I might be one of his farm labourers; that I might. But there’s an end of it now.”

“But, uncle!” cried Glynne, looking perplexed and troubled, “come back with me into the library. I’m sure, if papa was in the wrong, he’ll be sorry.”

“If he was in the wrong! He was in the wrong. Me go to him? Not I. My mind’s made up. I’ll not have my old age embittered by his abominable temper. Don’t stop me, girl. I’m going, and nothing shall stay me now.”

“How tiresome it is!” said Glynne, softly, as her broad, white forehead grew full of wrinkles. “Dear uncle; he must not go. I must do something,” and then, with a smile dawning upon her perplexed face, she descended the stairs, and went softly to the library door, opened it gently, and found Sir John tramping up and down the Turkey carpet, like some wild beast in its cage.

“Who’s that? How dare you enter without—Oh, it’s you, Glynne.”

“Yes, papa. Uncle has gone upstairs and banged his door.”

“I’m glad of it; I’m very glad of it,” cried Sir John, “and I hope it’s for the last time.”

“What has been the matter, papa?” said Glynne, laying her hands upon his shoulders. “Sit down, dear, and tell me.”

“No, no, my dear, don’t bother me. I don’t want to sit down, Glynne.”

“Yes, yes, dear, and tell me all about it.”

Fighting against it all the while, the choleric baronet allowed himself to be pressed down into one of the easy-chairs, Glynne drawing a footstool to his side, sitting at his feet, and clasping and resting her hands upon his knees.

“Well, there, now; are you satisfied?” he said, half laughing, half angry.

“No, papa. I want to know why you and uncle quarrelled.”

“Oh, the old reason,” said Sir John, colouring. “He will be as obstinate as a mule, and the more you try to reason with him, the more he turns to you his hind legs and kicks.”

“Did you try to reason with Uncle James, papa?”

“Did I try to reason with him? Why, of course I did, but you might as well try to reason with a stone trough.”

“What was it about?” said Glynne, quietly.

“What was it about? Oh, about the—about the—bless my soul, what did it begin about? Some, some, some—dear me, how absurd, Glynne. He upset me so that it has completely gone out of my head. What do you mean? What do you mean by shaking your head like that? Confound it all, Glynne, are you going to turn against me?”

“Oh, papa, papa, how sad it is,” said Glynne, gently. “You have upset poor uncle like this all about some trifle of so little consequence that you have even forgotten what it was.”

“I beg your pardon, madam,” cried Sir John, trying to rise, but Glynne laid her hand upon his chest and kept him back. “It was no trifle, and it is no joke for your Uncle James to launch out in his confounded haughty, military way, and try to take the reins from my hands. I’m master here. I remember now; it was about Rob.”

“Indeed, papa!” said Glynne, with a sad tone in her voice.

“Yes, finding fault about his training. I don’t want him to go about like some confounded foot-racing fellow, but he’s my son-in-law elect, and he shall do as he pleases. What next, I wonder? Your uncle will be wanting to manage my farm.”

Glynne remained very thoughtful and silent for a few minutes, during which time her father continued to fume, and utter expressions of annoyance, till Glynne said suddenly as she looked up in his face,—

“You were wrong, papa, dear. You should not quarrel with Uncle James.”

“Wrong? Wrong? Why, the girl’s mad,” cried Sir John. “Do you approve of his taking your future husband to task over his amusements?”

“I don’t know,” said Glynne slowly, as she turned her great, frank-looking eyes upon her father. “I don’t know, papa, dear. I don’t think I do; but Uncle James is so good and wise, and I know he loves me very much.”

“Of course he does; so does everybody else,” cried the baronet, excitedly. “I should like to see the man who did not. But I will not have his interference here, and I’m very glad—very glad indeed—that he is going.”

“Uncle James meant it for the best, I’m sure, papa,” said Glynne, thoughtfully, “and it was wrong of you to quarrel with him.”

“I tell you I did not quarrel with him, Glynne; he quarrelled with me,” roared Sir John.

“And you ought to go and apologise to him.”

“I’d go and hang myself sooner. I’d sooner go and commit suicide in my new patent thrashing-machine.”

“Nonsense, papa, dear,” said Glynne quietly. “You ought to go and apologise. If you don’t, Uncle James will leave us.”

“Let him.”

“And then you will be very much put out and grieved.”

“And a good job too. I mean a good job if he’d leave, for then we should have peace in the place.”

“Now, papa!”

“I tell you I’d be very glad of it; a confounded peppery old Nero, talking to me as if I were a private under him. Bully me, indeed! I won’t stand it. There!”

“Papa, dear, go upstairs and apologise to Uncle James.”

“I won’t, Glynne. There’s an end of it now. Just because he can’t have everything his own way. He has never forgiven me for being the eldest son and taking the baronetcy. Was it my fault that I was born first?”

“Now, papa, dear, that’s talking at random; I don’t believe Uncle James ever envied you for having the title.”

“Then he shouldn’t act as if he did. Confound him!”

“Then you’ll go up and speak to him. Come, dear, don’t let’s have this cloud over the house!”

“Cloud? I’ll make it a regular tempest,” cried Sir John, furiously. “I’ll go upstairs and see that he does go, and at once. See if I ferret him out of his nasty, dark, stuffy, dismal chambers again. Brought him down here, and made a healthy, hearty man of him, and this is my reward.”

“Is that you talking, papa?” said Glynne, rising with him, for he made a rush now out of his seat, and she smiled in his face as she put her arms round his neck and kissed him.

“Bah! Get out! Pst! Puss!” cried Sir John, and swinging round, he strode out of the library, and banged the door as if he had caught his brother’s habit.

Glynne stood looking after him, smiling as she listened to his steps on the polished oak floor of the hall, and then seemed quite satisfied as she detected the fact that he had gone upstairs. Then it was that a dreamy, strange look came into her eyes, and she stood there, with one hand resting upon the table, thinking—thinking—thinking of the cause of the quarrel, of the words her uncle had spoken regarding Rolph; and it seemed to her that there was a mist before her, stretching out farther and farther, and hiding the future.

For the major was always so gentle and kind to her. He never spoke to her about Rolph as he had spoken to her father; but she had noticed that he was a little cold and sarcastic sometimes towards her lover.

Was there trouble coming? Did she love Robert as dearly as she should?

She wanted answers to these questions, and the responses were hidden in the mist ahead. Then, as she gazed, it seemed to her that her future was like the vast space into which she had looked from her window by night; and though for a time it was brightened with dazzling, hopeful points, these again became clouded over, and all was misty and dull once more.

Volume One—Chapter Twelve.

The Professor in Company.

Sir John went upstairs furiously, taking three steps at a time—twice. Then he finished that flight two at a time; walked fast up the first half of the second flight, one step at a time; slowly up the second half; paused on the landing, and then went deliberately along the corridor, with its row of painted ancestors watching him from one side, as if wondering when he was coming to join them there.

Sir John Day was a man who soon made up his mind, whether it was about turning an arable field into pasture, or the setting of a new kind of corn. He settled in five minutes to have steam upon the farm, and did not ponder upon Glynne’s engagement for more than ten; so that he was able to make his plans very well in the sixty feet that he had to traverse before he reached his brother’s door, upon whose panel he gave a tremendous thump, and then entered at once.

The major was in his shirt-sleeves, apparently turning himself into a jack-in-the-box, for he was standing in an old bullock trunk, one which had journeyed with him pretty well all over India; and as Sir John entered the room sharply, and closed the door behind him, the major started up, looking fiercely and angrily at the intruder.

“Oh, you’re packing, then?” said Sir John, in the most uncompromising tone.

“Yes, sir, I am packing,” said the major, getting out of the trunk, and slamming down the lid; “and I think, sir, that I might be permitted to do that in peace and quietness.”

“Peace? Yes, of course you may,” said Sir John, sharply, “only you will make it war.”

“I was not aware,” said the major, “that it was necessary for me to lock my door—I beg your pardon—your door. And now, may I ask the object of this intrusion? If it is to resume the quarrel, you may spare yourself the pains.”

“Indeed!” said Sir John shortly.

“Well,” continued the major, “why have you come?”

“You are going, then?”

“Of course I am, sir.”

“Well, I came to tell you I’m very glad of it,” cried Sir John, clapping his brother on the shoulder; and then—“I say, Jem, I wish I hadn’t such a peppery temper.”

“No, no, Jack, no, no,” cried the major, excitedly; “it was I who was to blame.”

“Wrong, Jem. I contradicted you—very offensively, too, and I am confoundedly in the wrong. I didn’t know it till Glynne came and pulled me up short. I say, it’s a great pity for us to quarrel, isn’t it?”

“Yes,” said the major, laying his hands upon his brother’s shoulders, “it is—it is, indeed, Jack, and I can’t help thinking that I shall be doing wisely in going back to my old chambers, for this projected wedding worries me. We’ll see one another more seldom, and we won’t have words together then. You see—no; stop a moment! Let me speak. You see, I feel my old wound now and then, and it makes me irritable, and then the climate has touched up my liver a bit. Yes, I had better go.”

“Don’t be a fool, Jem,” cried Sir John. “Go, indeed! Why, what the dickens do you suppose I should do without you here? Tchah! tush! you go! Absurd. There, get dressed, man, and come down to dinner. No: come along down with me first, and we’ll get a bottle or two out of the number six bin. There’ll just be time.”

The major shook his head, as he looked at the bullock trunk and a very much bruised and battered old portmanteau waiting to be filled.

“Now, Jem, old fellow, don’t let’s quarrel again,” cried Sir John, pathetically.

“No, no, certainly not, my dear Jack. No more quarrelling, but I think this time I’ll hold to my word.”

“Now, my dear old fellow,” cried Sir John, gripping his brother’s shoulders more tightly, and shaking him to and fro, “do be reasonable. Look here: I’ve asked little Lucy Alleyne to come sans façon, and—”

“Is she coming?” cried the major, eagerly.

“Yes, and you can talk toadstools as long as you like.”

The major seemed to be hesitating, and he looked curiously at his brother.

“Is Alleyne coming?”

“I asked him, but he is very doubtful; perhaps he is glued to the end of his telescope for the next twelve hours. Here, have that confounded baggage put away.”

The major looked a little more thoughtful. He was hesitating, and thinking of Glynne, who just then tapped softly at the door.

“Come in,” roared Sir John; and she entered, looked quickly from one to the other, and then went up to her uncle, and kissed him affectionately.

“There,” cried Sir John, looking half-pleased, half-annoyed; “it’s enough to make a man wish you would go, Jem.”

“No, it isn’t,” said the major, drawing his niece closer to him. “There, there, my dear, you were quite right. I’m a terrible old capsicum, am I not?”

“No, uncle,” said Glynne, nestling to him; “but hadn’t we better forget all this?”

“Right, my dear, right,” cried Sir John. “There, come along, and let your uncle dress for dinner. Where’s Rob?”

“I think he went for a long walk, papa.”

“Humph! I hope he’ll be in training at last,” said Sir John, good-humouredly. “You’re a lucky girl, Glynne, to have a man wanting to make himself perfect before he marries you. You ought to go and do likewise.”

“Don’t try, Glynne, my dear,” said her uncle affectionately. “A perfect woman would be a horror. You are just right as you are.”

“Well, you are not, Jem,” said Sir John, laughing, “so make haste, and come down. Come along, Glynne.”

He led the way, and, as he passed through the door, Glynne turned to look back at her uncle, their eyes meeting in a peculiarly wistful, inquiring look, that seemed to suggest a mutual desire to know the other’s thoughts.

Then the door closed, and in the most matter-of-fact way, the major proceeded to dress for dinner as if he had never quarrelled with his brother in his life.

When he descended, it was to find Alleyne in the drawing-room with his sister. Glynne was entertaining them, for Sir John had, on leaving his brother, gone down into the cellar for the special bottle of port, and, after its selection, found so much satisfaction in the mildewy, sawdusty, damp-smelling place that he stopped for some twenty minutes, poking his bedroom candlestick into dark corners and archways where the bottoms of bottles could be seen resting as they had rested for many years past—each bin having a little history of its own, so full of recollections that the baronet had at last to drag himself away, and hurry up to dress.

Rolph was also late—so much so that he had encountered Sir John on the stairs, and the party in the drawing-room had a good quarter of an hour’s chat in the twilight, before the candles were lit.

“And you think it possible that it is caused by another planet?” Glynne was saying as the major entered the room; and he paused for a moment or two noting the change that had come over his niece. There was an eager look in her eyes; her face was more animated as she sat in the window catching the last reflections of the western glow, listening the while to Alleyne, who, with his back to the light, was talking in a low, deep voice of some problem in his favourite pursuit.

“Yes; just as happened over Neptune. That appears to be the only solution of the difficulty,” he replied.

“Then why not direct your glass exactly at the place where you feel this planet must be?”

Alleyne smiled as he spoke next.

“I did not explain to you,” he said, “that if such a planet does exist it must be, comparatively, very small, and so surrounded by the intense light of the sun that no glass we have yet made would render it visible.”

“How strange!” said Glynne, thoughtfully; and her eyes vaguely wandered over the evening sky, and then back to rest in a rapt, dreamy way upon the quiet, absorbed face of the visitor.

“I was looking at Jupiter last night,” she said, suddenly, “trying to see his moons.”

“Yes?”

“But our glass is not sufficiently powerful. I could only distinguish two.”

“Perhaps it was not the fault of your glass,” said Alleyne, smiling. “A glass of a very low power will show them. I have often watched them through a good binocular.”

“I’m afraid ours is a very bad one,” said Glynne.

“No, I should be more disposed to think it a good one, Miss Day. The reason you did not see them is this; one was eclipsed by the planet—in other words, behind it—while the others are passing across its body, whose brightness almost hides them—in fact, does hide them to such an extent that they would not be seen by you.”

There was a few minutes’ silence here, broken at last by Glynne, as she said in a low, thoughtful voice,—

“How much you know. How grand it must be.”

Alleyne laughed softly before replying.

“How much I know!” he said, in a voice full of regret. “My dear madam, I know just enough to see what a very little I have learned; how pitifully small in such a science as astronomy is all that a life devoted to its depths would be.”

“For shame, Moray,” cried Lucy, warmly. “You know that people say you are very clever indeed.”

“Yes,” he replied, “I know what they say; but that is only their judgment. I know how trifling are the things I have learned compared with what there is to acquire.”

“What a goose Glynne is,” said the major to himself, as he stood listening to the conversation. “Why, this man is worth a dozen Rolphs.”

“But, Mr Alleyne,” said Glynne, eagerly, “is it possible—could I—I mean, should you think I was asking too much if I expressed a wish to see something of these wonders of which you have been speaking?”

“Oh, no, Moray would show you everything he could. He’s the most unselfish, patient fellow in the world,” cried Lucy.

Glynne turned from her almost impatiently to Alleyne, who said, with a grave smile upon his face,—

“You have no brother, Miss Day. If you had, I hope you would not do all you could, by flattery and spoiling, to make him weak and conceited.”

“Indeed I don’t do anything of the kind, Moray,” said Lucy, indignantly; “and now, for that, I’ll tell the truth, Glynne; he’s a regular bat, an owl, a recluse, and we’re obliged to drag him out into the light of day, or he’d stop in his room till he grew mouldy, that he would. Why, he goes in spirit right away to the moon sometimes, and it only seems as if his body was left behind.”

“What, do you mean to say he’s moonstruck?” said the major, merrily, and looking half-surprised at the quick, indignant look darted at him by Glynne.

“I’m afraid that Lucy here is quite right,” said Alleyne, smiling as he took his sister’s hand in his and patted it. “I do get so intent upon my studies that all every-day life affairs are regularly forgotten. But I do not work half so hard now. They fetched a doctor to me, and it is forbidden. In fact, I have plenty of time now, and if Miss Day will pay my my poor observatory a visit, I will show her everything that lies in my power.”

“Oh, Mr Alleyne, I should be so glad,” cried Glynne eagerly, and to Lucy’s great delight. “I want to see Saturn’s rings, and the seas and continents in Mars, and the twin stars.”

“Well, you needn’t trouble Mr Alleyne,” said Rolph, who had just entered. “There’s a fellow at Hyde Park corner, with a big glass, lets people look through for a penny. He’d be glad enough to come down for a half-crown or two.”

“Why, how absurd, Robert,” said Glynne, turning upon him good-humouredly. “I want to see and learn about these things from someone who is an astronomer.”

“Oh,” said Rolph, “do you? Well, I see no reason why you shouldn’t go and have a peep or two through Mr Alleyne’s glass. I’ll come with you.”

“Here, I’m very sorry, Alleyne. Miss Alleyne, I don’t know what sort of a host you’ll think me for being so late,” cried Sir John, bustling in. “I hope Glynne has been playing my part well.”

“Admirably, Sir John,” replied Alleyne. “We have been talking upon my favourite topic, and the time soon glides by when one is engaged upon questions regarding the planets.”

“But I say, you know, Mr Alleyne,” said Rolph, who, with all the confidence of one in his own house and proprietary rights over the lady, came and seated himself upon the elbow of the easy-chair in which Glynne reclined, and laid his arm behind her on the back, “I want to know what’s the good of a fellow sacrificing his health, and shutting himself up from society, for the study of these abstruse scientific matters. ’Pon my word, I can’t see what difference it makes to us whether Jupiter has got one moon, or ten moons, or a hundred. He’s such a precious long way off.”

Glynne looked up at him with a good-humoured air of pain, but only to turn back and listen to Alleyne.

“It requires study, Captain Rolph,” he said thoughtfully, “and time to appreciate the value of the results achieved in astronomy. Perhaps we have nothing to show that is of direct utility to man, but everything in nature is so grand—there is so much to be learned, that, for my part, I wonder why everybody does not thirst for knowledge.”

“Yes,” said Glynne, thoughtfully, and below her breath.

“Oh, we all dabble in science, more or less,” said Rolph, glancing at Sir John with a look that seemed to say, “You see how I’ll trot him out.” “Here’s the major goes in for toadstools, and Sir John for big muttons and portly pigs.”

“And Captain Rolph for exhibitions of endurance, to prove that a man is stronger than a horse,” said the major, drily.

“Yes, and not a bad thing, either, eh, Sir John?”

“Oh, every man to his taste,” said the host; “but I believe in a man feeding himself up, and not starving himself down.”

“Oilcake and turnips, eh?”

“Yes, both good things in their way, but I like the chemical components to have taken other forms, Rob, my boy; good Highland Scots beef and Southdown mutton.”

“I hope you will be able to indulge in a good dinner, Rolph?” said the major, looking at the young officer as if he amused him.

“Trust me for that, major,” replied the young man loudly. “I’m not bad at table.”

“I thought, perhaps,” said the major sarcastically, “that you might be in training, and forbidden to eat anything but raw steak and dry biscuit.”

“Oh, dear, no,” said Rolph seriously. “Quite free now, major, quite free.”

“That’s a blessing,” muttered Sir John, who looked annoyed and fidgety. “Hah, dinner at last.”

“Walking makes me hungry and impatient, Miss Alleyne. Come along, you are my property. First lady.”

He held out his arm, and, as Lucy laid her little hand upon it, he went out of the drawing-room chatting merrily; and, as he did so, Rolph leaped from his seat, and drew himself upright as if to display the breadth of his chest and the size of his muscles.

“Glad of it,” he said. “I’m sharp set. Come along, Glynne.”

Alleyne gazed at them intently with a strange feeling of depression coming over his spirit, and so lost to other surroundings that he did not reply to the major, who came up to him, moved by a desire to be polite to a man whom he was beginning to esteem.

Then Major Day drew back and his keen eyes brightened, for Glynne said quietly,—

“You forget. Go on in with uncle.”

“Eh?” said the young officer, looking puzzled.

“Go on in with my uncle,” said Glynne quietly.

And she crossed to where Alleyne was standing, and, in the character of hostess, laid her hand upon his arm.

“There, you’re dismissed for to-night, Rolph,” said the major, who could hardly conceal his satisfaction at this trifling incident.

Then, thrusting his arm through that of the athlete, he marched him to the dining-room, the young man’s face growing dark and full of annoyance at having to give way in this case of ordinary etiquette.

“Confound the fellow! I wish they wouldn’t ask him here,” he muttered.

“Mind seems to be taking the lead over muscles to-day,” said the major to himself, as he walked beside the young officer to the dining-room, while Glynne came more slowly behind, her eyes growing deeper and very thoughtful as she listened to Alleyne’s words.

Volume One—Chapter Thirteen.

Mars Makes a Mistake.

The dinner, with its pleasant surroundings of flowers and glittering plate and glass, with the finest and whitest of linen, was delightful to Lucy, though to her it was as if there was something wanting, in spite of her position as principal guest. This resulted in her receiving endless little attentions from Sir John; but more than once she felt quite irritated with her brother, who seemed to find no more pleasure in the carefully cooked viands than in the homely joints at The Firs. He ate a little of what was handed to him, almost mechanically, and drank sparingly of the baronet’s choice wines; but his mind was busy upon nothing else than the subject upon which Glynne was asking him questions.

The major had plenty to say to Lucy, but he kept noticing the increase of animation in Glynne. For she had been awakened from her ordinary, placid, dreamy state to an intense interest in the subject under discussion.

Major Day did not know why he did it, but three times as that dinner progressed, he laid down his knife and fork, thrust his hands beneath the table, and rubbed them softly.

“Muscles is out in the cold to-night,” he muttered. “He’ll have to go in training for exercising his patience. Bring him to his senses.”

Possibly it was very weak of the major, but he had fresh in his memory, several little pieces of bitter ridicule directed at him by the captain, respecting the botanical pursuit in which he engaged.

Now, it so happened that early in the day the major had been out for a long walk, and had come upon a magnificent cluster of a fungus that he had not yet tried for its edible qualities. It was the peculiar grey-brown, scaly-topped mushroom, called by botanists Amanita Rubescens, and said to be of admirable culinary value.

“We’ll have a dish of these to-night,” thought the major, picking a fair quantity of the choicest specimens, which he took home and gave to the butler, with instructions to hand them to the cook for a dish in the second course.

Morris, the butler, put the basket down upon the hall table, and went to see to the drawing down of a window blind; and no sooner had he gone than Rolph, who had heard the order, came from the billiard-room into the hall to get his hat and stick preparatory to starting for a walk.

He was passing the major’s basket where it stood upon the hall table, when an idea flashed across his brain, and he stopped, glanced round, grinned, and then, as no one was near, took up the creel, walked swiftly across the hall out into the garden, dived into the plantation, ran rapidly down the long walk out of sight of the house, and turned into the pheasant preserve. Here, throwing out the major’s fungi, he looked sharply about and soon collected an equal quantity of the first specimens he encountered, and then turned back.

“A sarcastic old humbug,” he muttered; “let him have a dish of these, and if any of them disagree with him, it will be a lesson for the old wretch. He experimented upon me once with his confounded boleti, as he called them; now, I’ll experimentalise upon him.”

As a rule such an act as this could not have been performed unseen, but fate favoured the captain upon this occasion, and he reached the hall without being noticed, replaced the creel upon the table from which he had taken it, and then went for a walk.

Now, it so happened that Morris, the butler, had crossed the hall since, but the creel not being where he had placed it, he did not recall his orders; but going to answer a bell half-an-hour afterwards, he caught sight of the basket, remembered what he had been told, and, on his return, took the fungi into the kitchen.