George Manville Fenn (continued 3)

“Here, cook,” he said, “you’re to dress these for the second course.”

In due time cook, who was a very slow-moving, thoughtful woman, found herself by the basket which she opened, and then turned the fungi out upon a dish.

“Well,” she exclaimed, “of all the trash! Mrs Mason, do, for goodness’ sake, look at these.”

Glynne’s maid, who was performing some mystic kind of cooking on her own account, to wit, stirring up a saucepan full of thin blue starch with a tallow candle, turned and looked at the basket of fungi, and said,—

“Oh, the idea! What are they for?”

“To cook, because them star-gazing folks are coming. Morris says Miss Glynne’s always talking about finding the focus now.”

“But these things are poison.”

“Of course they are. I wouldn’t give them to a pig;” and with all the autocratic determination of a lady in her position, she took the dish, and threw its contents behind her big roasting fire. “There, that’s the place for them! Mary, go and tell Jones I want him.”

Jones was cook’s mortal enemy; and in the capacity of supplier of fruit and vegetables for kitchen use, he had daily skirmishes with the lady, whom he openly accused of spoiling his choice productions, and sending them to table unfit for use, while she retaliated by telling him often that he could not grow a bit of garden-stuff fit to be seen—that his potatoes were watery, his beetroot pink, his cauliflowers masses of caterpillars and slugs.

Under these circumstances, Jones tied the string of his blue serge apron a little more tightly, twisted the said serge into a tail, which he tucked round his waist, and leaving the forcing-house, where he was busy, set his teeth, pushed his hat down over his nose, and, quite prepared for a serious quarrel, walked heavily into the kitchen. But only to be disarmed, for there was a plate on the white table, containing a splendid wedge of raised pie, with a piece of bread, and a jug of ale beside a horn.

Jones looked at cook, and she nodded and smiled; she also condescended to put her lips first to the freshly-filled horn, and then folded her arms and leaned against the table, while the gardener ate his “snack,” feeling that after all, though she had her bit of temper, cook was really what he called “a good sort.”

“Ah,” he said at last, with a sigh, after a little current chat, “I must be off now. Let’s see; you’ve got in all you want for to-night?”

“Yes, everything,” said cook, smiling, “and I must get to work, too. You haven’t any mushrooms, I suppose?”

“Haven’t got any mushrooms?” said Jones, reproachfully. “Why, I’ve a bed just coming on.”

“Then I should like to make a dish to-day, and use a few in one of my sauces,” said cook; and half-an-hour later Jones returned with a basketful, which he deposited upon the table with a thrill of pride.

The presence of Moray Alleyne, and the way in which he was taken up, as the captain called it, by Glynne, so filled the mind of Rolph, that there was no room for anything else, and as the dinner went on, his annoyance so sharpened his appetite that he ate very heartily of the two entrées and the joint. It was not until the second course was in progress that a dish was handed round, to which, after a telegraphic glance between the major and Lucy, that young lady helped herself. Glynne took some mechanically, to the major’s great delight, and, like Lucy, went on eating. Then the dish was handed to Rolph, who fixed his glass in his eye, and started slightly as he suddenly recalled the trick he had played in the hall.

“What’s this?” he said in an undertone to the butler.

“Sham pinions ho nateral, sir.”

“Humph! no. Take the dish to Mr Alleyne.”

The man took the dish round to the guest, who, talking the while to Glynne, helped himself liberally, and went on eating.

“Won’t you have some, Rolph?” said the major, helping himself in turn.

“I! No. Don’t care for such dishes.”

“Seems to be very good,” said the major. “Smells delicious, and everyone’s eating it.”

“Not the ladies?” whispered Rolph.

“Yes; they’re revelling.”

“Good heavens!” muttered Rolph; and he turned cold and damp, the perspiration standing upon his brow.

“Nothing worse in this world than prejudice,” said the major, taking a mouthful of the delicate dish.

“Ah, yes: superb. Jack, old fellow, try some of these fungi.”

“Get out!” said Sir John, sipping his wine.

“But, my dear boy, they are simply magnificent,” cried the major. “Here, take the dish to your master.”

The mushrooms were handed, and Sir John tried a little, recalled the dish, and had some more, while Rolph sat perfectly still, not daring to speak, though he saw everyone at the table partaking of the stew.

“What are these?” said Sir John. “They’re very good.”

“Agaricus Rubescens, my boy. Tons of them rot every year, because there is no one to pick them but Miss Lucy Alleyne and your humble servant here.”

“Well, don’t let’s have any more go rotten,” cried Sir John. “They’re delicious, eh, Mr Alleyne?”

“I beg your pardon,” said the visitor, looking up.

“These fungi,” said the host, “uncommonly good.”

“Yes, admirable,” said Alleyne, who had finished his, and had not the most remote recollection of their quality.

“I don’t believe he tasted them,” said Sir John to himself.

“These are the fungi, Morris, that I gave you to-day to take into the kitchen?” said the major.

“Yes, sir,” said Morris, and the major finished his with great gusto.

“Uncommonly delicious!” he said.

“Capital, Jem,” cried Sir John; “but I hope they won’t poison us.”

“Trust me for that. They’ve been well tested, and are perfectly wholesome. Splendid dish.”

“They’ll all be in agonies before long,” thought Rolph. “I hope poor Glynne won’t be very bad. A bit of an attack would serve her right, though, for going on like that with the star-gazer. Phew! how hot the room is.”

“I give you credit, Jem,” cried the host. “What do you say, Miss Alleyne? It’s of no use to ask these people; they are off on comets or something else.”

“Oh, I’m growing a confirmed fungus-eater, Sir John,” said Lucy. “I am Major Day’s disciple. I think them delicious.”

“You’re a very charming little lassie, and I like you immensely,” thought Sir John, gazing at Lucy curiously and thoughtfully; “but I hope Jem has too much common sense to be making a fool of himself over you. He likes you, I know, but fungus-hunting is one thing and wife-hunting another. No, I won’t think it of you. You wouldn’t lead him on, and he’s too full of sound sense.”

“I shall have to leave the table,” said Rolph to himself. “I never felt so uncomfortable in my life. Ought I to go and get a doctor here? D—n the toadstools! I only meant the major to taste them. Who’d ever have thought that they’d all go in for them. Phew! how hot the room is. Champagne.”

The butler filled up his glass, and Rolph, in his excitement, tossed it off, with the result that the next time Morris went round, he filled the captain’s glass again.

“The thought of it all makes me feel ill,” said Rolph to himself.

“I’ve got a splendid pupil in Miss Alleyne,” said the major, sipping his wine. “I’ve given Glynne up. She can’t tell an agaric from one of the polypori. Mr Alleyne, if you’re trying to teach her star-names, you may give it up as a bad job.”

“Don’t interrupt, uncle,” said Glynne, shaking her finger at him, playfully.

“How pale the poor girl looks,” thought Rolph, who was now in an agony of apprehension. “Phew! this room is warm!” and he gulped down his glass of wine.

“Jack,” said the major, “I couldn’t have believed those fungi would be so delicious; cook has won the cordon bleu. Here, Morris, you are sure these are the same fungi?”

“Certain, sir,” replied the butler. “I took them into the kitchen myself.”

“And were they all used?”

“I think so, sir; part for the ontries in the first course.”

“What!” roared Rolph, who had been horribly guilty over that dish; and he turned white as he clutched the seat of his chair.

“Salmy of poulay ho sham pinions, sir,” said Morris, politely; and he picked a menu from the table and laid it before the captain, who refixed the glass in his eye and glared at the card.

“Do you mean to say that the hashed chicken and the other dish was made up with those con—those toadstools that were—were in that basket?”

“Yes, sir, the basket Major Day brought in, sir,” said Morris.

Sir John chuckled. The major burst into a regular roar.

“Are—are you sure, Morris?” gasped Rolph, turning a sickly yellow.

“Yes, sir; quite sure.”

“My dear fellow,” cried the major, wiping his eyes, “what is the matter?”

“I’ve—I’ve eaten a great many of them,” panted Rolph.

“Well, so we all have, and delicious they were. Why, hang it, man, they won’t poison you.”

“Don’t!” gasped Rolph, with a wild look in his eyes; and, clutching at the decanter, he poured a quantity of sherry into a tumbler and gulped it down.

“I say, Rob, are you ill?” said Sir John, kindly.

“Yes—no—I don’t know,” gasped the captain, gazing wildly from one to the other, in search of a fresh victim to the poison.

“Would you like to leave the table?” said Sir John. “Here, Morris, give Captain Rolph a liqueur of brandy.”

The butler hurriedly filled a wine glass, and the captain tossed it off as if it had been water, gazing dizzily round at the anxious faces at the table.

“Do you feel very bad, Robert?” said Glynne, rising and going round to his side to speak with great sympathy, as she softly laid her hand upon his broad shoulder.

“Horribly,” whispered the captain, who was fast losing his nerve. “Don’t you?”

“I? No. I am quite well.”

“It was those cursed toadstools,” cried Rolph, savagely.

“Nonsense, my dear sir,” said the major, firmly. “We have all eaten them, and they were delicious.”

“Give me your arm, some one,” groaned Rolph, rising from his chair; and the major caught him, and helped him from the room, Alleyne and Sir John following, after begging Lucy and Glynne to remain seated.

“Send for a doctor—quick—I’m poisoned,” said Rolph—“quick!”

“Here, send to the town,” cried Sir John. “Let a groom gallop over. No; there’s Mr Oldroyd in the village. Here, you, James, run across the park, you’ll be there in ten minutes.”

“Telegraph—physician,” gasped Rolph.

“Poor fellow! He seems bad.”

“I think,” said Alleyne, quietly, “that a good deal of it is nervous dread.”

Rolph looked daggers at him, and then closed his eyes and groaned, as he lay back on a sofa in the library.

“Have—have you telegraphed—sent a telegram?” said Rolph, after lying back with his eyes closed for a few minutes.

“I have sent for Mr Oldroyd,” said Sir John, “and we will go by his advice. It would take a man half an hour to gallop to the station. We shall have the doctor here long before that.”

Rolph looked round, partly for help, partly to see who was to be the next man attacked, and then closed his eyes, and lay breathing heavily.

“I wish you wouldn’t bring in those confounded—eh? Who’s there?” said Sir John. “Oh, you, my dear. No, you can’t do any good. Go and talk to Miss Alleyne. Fit of indigestion coming on the top of a lot of physical exertion—training and that sort of thing. He’ll be better soon.”

Glynne, who had come to the door, closed it and went away, while Rolph uttered a groan.

“I was saying,” continued Sir John, “I wish you wouldn’t bring those confounded things into the house. You will be poisoning us some day.”

“What nonsense, Jack!” cried the major. “I tell you the fungi were perfectly good. You ate some of them yourself. How do you feel?”

“Oh, I’m all right.”

“So is Mr Alleyne; so are the girls; so am I. It is not the mushrooms, I’m sure. More likely your wine. We are all as well as can be.”

“Attack you suddenly,” groaned Rolph, piteously.

“Ah, well if it does,” said the major, “I won’t make such a fuss over it. Why, when we had the cholera among us at Darjeebad, the men did not make more trouble.”

Rolph squeezed his eyes together very closely, and bit his lips, wishing mentally that a fit would seize the major, while he upbraided Fortune for playing him such a prank as this; and then he lay tolerably still, waiting for nearly half an hour, during which notes were compared by the others, one and all of whom declared that they never felt better. Glynne came twice to ask if she could be of any service, and to say that Lucy was eager to help; and then there were steps in the hall, and, directly after, Oldroyd was shown in, looking perfectly cool and business-like, in spite of his hurried scamper across the park.

“Your man says that Captain Rolph has been poisoned by eating bad mushrooms,” said the young doctor. “Is this so?”

“He has had some of the same dish as all the rest,” said Sir John; “and my brother declares they were perfectly safe.”

“Humph!” ejaculated Oldroyd, who had seated himself by his patient, and was questioning and examining him.

“Better get him to bed,” he said, after a pause; “and, while he is undressing, I will run home and get him something.”

He started directly, and was back just as Rolph sank upon his pillow.

“There, sir, drink that,” said Oldroyd, in a quiet decisive tone; and, after displaying a disposition to refuse, the young officer drank what was offered to him, and soon after sank into a heavy sleep.

“I’ll come back about twelve, Sir John,” said the doctor. “I don’t think he will be any worse. In fact, I believe he’ll be all right in the morning.”

“But what is it?” said Sir John, in a whisper. “If it is the mushrooms, why are we not all ill?”

“Well, as far as I can make out,” said Oldroyd, “there is nothing the matter with him but a nervous fit, and an indication of too much stimulant. It seems to me that he has frightened himself into the belief that he has been poisoned. But I’ll come in again about twelve.”

“No, no; pray stay, Mr Oldroyd,” cried Sir John. “Come down into the drawing-room, and have a cup of tea and a chat. You don’t think we need telegraph for further advice?”

“Really, Sir John, I fail to see why you should,” said Oldroyd. “Your friend is certainly, as far as my knowledge goes, not seriously ill.”

“Then come and sit down till you want to see him again,” said Sir John. “I’m very glad to know you, Mr Oldroyd. You do know my brother? Yes, and Mr Alleyne? That’s well. Now come and see Miss Day and her friend.—Oh, my dears,” cried the baronet, in his hearty tones, “here is Mr Oldroyd come to cheer you with the best of news. Mr Oldroyd, my daughter—Well, Morris, what is it?”

“If you please. Sir John, cook says, Sir John, she’s very sorry that there should be any unpleasant feeling about the mushrooms; but she had an accident with the ones Major Day sent to be cooked, and those you had for dinner were Jones’s own growing in the pits.”

“I could have sworn they had the regular mushroom flavour,” cried the major.

“Then we needn’t fidget about our dinner,” said Sir John, laughing. “Doctor, you’re right. Morris, that will do.”

Somehow from that minute the evening brightened very pleasantly at Brackley. Lucy thought it charming, and Glynne was an attentive listener to every astronomical word that fell from Alleyne’s lips. Twice over Oldroyd went up to see his patient, and each time came back with the information that he was sleeping heavily, and that there was not the slightest cause for alarm.

After that, no one was uneasy, and Rolph was almost forgotten. Alleyne left with his sister about eleven, the two being sent home in the brougham. Glynne needed no persuasion to go to bed, and Oldroyd sat and smoked a cigar with the major and Sir John in the library till twelve, when he went and had another look at his patient.

“Well,” said the baronet, on his return, “what news?”

“Sleeping like a baby,” replied Oldroyd. “I think I’ll go now.”

“Anybody sitting up for you, Mr Oldroyd?”

“Oh, no.”

“Then there’s no one to be uneasy about your absence?”

“Certainly not.”

“Then would you oblige me by stopping here to-night, in case you are wanted?”

Oldroyd was perfectly willing to oblige, and he was shown to a spare bedroom, where he slept heartily till eight, and then rose and went to the patient, whom he found dressing for his morning walk, while his self-issued bulletin was that he was better.

He would not believe the cook.

Volume One—Chapter Fourteen.

Terrestrial Trials.

“I think it was very foolish of your brother to invite them, Lucy,” said Mrs Alleyne, austerely. “All these preparations are not made without money; and when they are made, we have the bitterness of feeling that what is luxury to us is to them contemptible and mean.”

“Oh, but, mamma, you don’t know Glynne, or you would not talk like that. She is as simple in her tastes as can be, and thinks nothing of the luxury in which they live.”

“She would think a great deal of it, my dear, if, by any misfortune in life, it should all pass from her.”

“No, mamma, I don’t think she would,” said Lucy. “She is a strange girl.”

“For my part,” said Mrs Alleyne, very sternly, “I don’t think we are doing wisely in keeping up this intimacy.”

“Oh, mamma!”

“I have said it. Look at the expense I have been put to in preparations. In the constant struggle which I go through day after day, paring and contriving to make our little income last out; any addition of this kind is a weariness and a care. Of what good, pray, is this visit but to satisfy the curiosity of a few heartless people?”

“Oh, mamma, don’t say that. Glynne is the kindest and most amiable of girls, and nobody could be nicer to me than the major and Sir John.”

“Of course they are nice to you—to my daughter,” said Mrs Alleyne, pulling up her mittens—a very dingy black pair that had lain by till they were specked with a few grey spots of mildew.

“And the major thinks very highly of Moray.”

“It is only natural that he should,” said Mrs Alleyne, haughtily. “But I repeat, I see no advantage of a social nature to be gained by this intimacy, even if we wished it.”

“But you forget about Moray, mamma, dear.”

“I forget nothing about your brother, Lucy. But pray, what do you mean by this allusion?”

“His need of change. He has certainly been better lately.”

“Decidedly not,” replied Mrs Alleyne, making a fresh effort to cover a very large and unpleasantly prominent vein that ran from the back of her hand above her wrist. “I have noticed that Moray is more quiet and thoughtful than ever.”

“But Mr Oldroyd said yesterday, mamma, that he was better.”

“Mr Oldroyd gave his opinion, my dear, but it was only the opinion of one man. Mr Oldroyd may be mistaken.”

“But, mamma, he seems so clever, and to know so much about Moray’s case.”

“Yes, my child—seems; but these young medical men often jump at conclusions, and are ready to take for granted that they understand matters which are completely sealed.”

Lucy coloured slightly, and remained silent.

“For my part,” continued Mrs Alleyne, “I do not feel at all easy respecting Moray’s state, and his health is too serious a thing to be trifled with.”

Lucy’s colour deepened as Mrs Alleyne swept out of the room.

“I’m sure he’s clever, and I’m sure he was quite right about Moray,” she said. “It’s a shame to say so, but I wish mamma would not be so prejudiced. She will not be, though, when she knows Glynne better.”

There was a pause here, and Lucy sat looking very intently before her, the intent gaze in her face being precisely similar to that seen in her brother’s countenance when he was watching a far-off planet, and striving to learn from it something of its mysteries and ways.

But Lucy was not studying some far-off planet, though her task was perhaps as hard, for she was trying to read the future, and to discover what there was in store for her brother and herself. She could not think of Moray being always engaged studying stars, nor of herself as continually at home with her mother leading that secluded life in the sombre brick mansion, finding it cheerless and dull in summer, cold and bleak in winter when the wind roared in the pine trees, till it was as if the sea were beating the shore hard by.

“There is sure to be some change,” she said, brightening up. “I know it, but I hope it will not bring trouble.”

No further allusions were made to the coming visit of the family from Brackley, but the next day and the next, to use Lucy’s words, mamma led her such a life that she wished—and yet she did not wish—that the visit was not coming off, so troublesome did the preparations grow.

Mrs Alleyne was going about her blank, chilly house one morning, looking very much troubled; and now and then she stopped to wring her hands, but it was generally in a cupboard or in a drawer, when there was not the slightest likelihood of her being seen. Her forehead was deeply lined, and there was a peculiar drawing down about the corners of her lips that indicated care.

It was the old story—money. She had been up to town only the week before to sell out a sum in Government Stock, to pay for an astronomical instrument her son required—a tremendously costly piece of mechanism, thus leaving herself poorer than ever; and now her idol had been putting her to fresh expense.

“So thoughtless of him,” she moaned, with her face in the linen closet—“so foolish. He seems to have no idea whatever of the value of money, and I don’t know what I shall do.”

But all the same there was the same glow of satisfaction in Mrs Alleyne’s breast that she used to feel when she had bought the idol a wooden horse, or a toy waggon full of sacks, or one of those instruments of torture upon wheels, which, when a child draws it across the floor, emits a series of wire-born notes of a most discordant kind.

Mrs Alleyne turned over three or four clean tablecloths, opening them out and looking wistfully at darns and frayings, and places where the clothes pegs had torn away the hems when they had been hung out to dry. These she refolded with a sigh, and put back.

“Oh, my boy, my boy, if you only thought a little more about this world as well as the other worlds!” she sighed, as she closed the door, and, with her brow growing more wrinkled, wrung her hands over the pantry sink.

It was not that she had washed them, for the tap was dry, no water being ever pumped into the upper cistern, and the pantry was devoted to the reception of Mrs Alleyne’s meagre stores.

There were cupboards here that held glass and china—good old china and glass; but in the one, there were marks of mendings and rivets, and in the other chips and, worse troubles, cracks, and odd glasses without feet, or whose feet were upon the next shelf.

“I don’t know how we shall manage,” sighed Mrs Alleyne, wringing her hands once more. “It was very, very thoughtless of him. The knives are worst of all.”

She unrolled a packet or two, which contained nothing but table knives that had once been remarkably good, but which had done their work in company with hard usage, and some of which had shed their ivory handles, while others were thin and double edged, others again being bent at the points, or worn down by cleaning until they were about two-thirds of their original length.

“Dear me—dear me! how things do wear out!” sighed Mrs Alleyne; and, raising her eyes, she saw her face reflected in a little square glass hanging upon the wall—“even ourselves,” she added, sadly.

Just then Lucy came in hurriedly.

“Oh, mamma,” she cried, “I’m sure I don’t know what we shall do. The more I look up things, the worse they seem. It is dreadful; it is horrible. I shall blush for shame.”

“And why, may I ask?” said Mrs Alleyne, sternly.

“Because people will do nothing but spy out the poverty of the land. Moray has no sense at all, or he would never have been so foolish as to ask them.”

“Your brother had his own good reasons for asking Sir John Day, his brother, and his daughter, and I beg that you will not speak in that disrespectful way of your brother’s plans.”

“But you don’t see, mamma.”

“I see everything, my child,” said Mrs Alleyne, stiffly.

“But you don’t think how awkward it will be.”

“Yes, I have thought of all that.”

“But Moray never does. How are we to entertain people who are accustomed to live in luxury, and who have abundance of plate and china and glass, and servants to wait upon them? Oh, we shall look ridiculous.”

“Lucy!”

“I don’t care, mamma, I can’t help it. I’ve been working away to see if I could not get things in proper trim to do us justice, but it is horrible. Moray must write and tell them they are not to come.”

“My son shall do nothing of the kind, Lucy, and I desire that you do the best you can, so that Moray may be content.”

“But, mamma, we have no flowers, no fruit for dessert, no pretty glass and vases; and I know the dinner will be horrible.”

“Moray asked the Days to come and see us, not our household arrangements, and we must give them some dinner before they go up into the observatory.”

“Oh, very well, mamma,” said Lucy, “I have protested. You and Moray must have it your own way.”

“Of course,” said Mrs Alleyne, composedly; “and I beg that you will find no more fault with your brother’s arrangements.”

“No, mamma: I have done.”

“I dare say Captain Rolph very often dines far worse at his mess than we shall dine to-morrow.”

“But surely he is not coming, mamma,” cried Lucy in horror; “he will be jeering at everything.”

“If he is so extremely ungentlemanly, it is no fault of ours. Yes, he is coming; and, by the way, I did not tell you, I have just asked Mr Oldroyd to join us.”

“Mamma!” cried Lucy, turning scarlet.

“Now don’t exclaim against that, my dear,” said Mrs Alleyne. “I am sure it will be almost a charity to have him here. He cannot be too grand for our simple ways.”

Poor Lucy shrank away looking very thoughtful, and, resigning herself to fate, went busily about the house, working like a little slave, and arranging the place to the best advantage; but only to break down at last, with a piteous burst of tears, as she saw how miserable a result she had achieved, and compared her home with that of Glynne.

Mrs Alleyne was not in much better spirits, indulging herself as she did in various wringings of the hands in closets and corners, but all in the most furtive way, as she too thought of the barrenness of the house.

The next morning the preparations for the little dinner were in hurried progress, Lucy busily working with gloomy resignation, and the kitchen given over to the woman who had come to cook. Then the large covered cart from Brackley drew up to the gate, and upon Eliza going down, the man who drove helped her to unbar the great gates, and led his horse in and right round to the kitchen door.

He was the bearer of a note for Mrs Alleyne, and while Eliza had taken it in, and the recipient was reading it, to afterwards hand it over to Lucy, Sir John’s man began unloading the cart in the most matter-of-fact way, and arranging things upon the kitchen dresser.

“What does he say, that he begs your pardon, and knowing that we have no garden, would we accept a few trifles of flowers and a little fruit?”

Mrs Alleyne frowned, and the shadow on her countenance deepened after Sir John’s man had departed with the cart, for the trifles sent over were a magnificent collection of cut flowers, with grapes, a pine, hot-house peaches, and nectarines and plums.

Lucy coloured with pleasure, for all was most thoughtfully contrived. Even choice leaves in a neat bunch were included, ready for decorating the fruit in the dessert dishes. But directly after she could not help sharing her mother’s annoyance—it seemed so like looking upon them as poor.

“It is almost an insult,” said Mrs Alleyne at last.

Lucy looked up at her wistfully, with the cloud now crossing her own bright little face.

“It is because we live in so humble a manner,” cried Mrs Alleyne, angrily. “It is cruel—a display of arrogance—because I choose to live quietly that Moray may proceed with his great discoveries in science.”

Lucy gazed at her mother’s face, in which she could read the growing anger and mortification.

“Oh, I wish Moray had not been so ready to invite them,” she said to herself.

“The things shall go back,” exclaimed Mrs Alleyne at last.

“Oh, mamma,” whispered Lucy, clinging to her and trying to calm her anger, “don’t—pray don’t say that. It is only a present of fruit and flowers, after all.”

“You will not send the things back, mamma.”

Mrs Alleyne was silent for a few moments, and then said huskily,—

“No: they shall remain, but Moray must not know; and mind this, Lucy, when they come there is sure to be an offer for the man-servant to stop and wait. This must be declined.”

“Oh, yes, mamma,” cried Lucy, excitedly, as she began to imagine Sir John’s footman being witness of the shifts made in re-washing plates, and forks, and spoons.

“We must submit to the insult, I suppose. I cannot resent it for Moray’s sake. They are his guests, and must be treated with respect.”

In due time Sir John and Glynne, with Rolph and the major, arrived, and were heartily welcomed by Moray, who seemed to have thrown off his quiet thoughtfulness of manner, and to be striving to set the visitors at their ease. So warm and hearty, too, were Sir John and the major, that Lucy brightened; and had Rolph taken another tone, and Mrs Alleyne been satisfied with doing all that lay in her power to make her visitors welcome, leaving the rest, all would have gone well. But, in face of the stern, calm dignity of mien which she displayed, it was impossible for Sir John to adopt his easy-going sociability. In fact, between them, Mrs Alleyne and Rolph spoiled the dinner.

It was not by any means the greatest mistake that Mrs Alleyne had ever made in her life, but it was a serious one all the same, to attempt a regular society dinner in the face of so many difficulties. Poor woman: she felt that it was her duty to show Sir John that she was a lady, and understood the social amenities of life.

The consequence was that, having attempted too much, all went wrong: Eliza got into the most horrible tangles, and half-a-dozen times over, Sir John wished they had had a good Southdown leg of mutton, vegetables, and a pudding, and nothing else.

But he did not have his wish—for there was soup that was not good; soles that had become torn and tattered in the extraction from the frying-pan; veal cutlets, whose golden egging and crumbing had been in vain, for this coating had dissolved apparently into the sauce. The other entrée emitted an odour which made the major hungry, being a curried chicken; but, alas! the rice was in the condition known by schoolboys as “mosh-posh.” Then came a sirloin of beef and a pair of boiled fowls, with an intervening tongue and white sauce—at least the sauce should have been white, and the chickens should have been young—while what kind of conscience the butcher possessed who defrauded Mrs Alleyne by sending her in that sirloin of beef, with the announcement that it was prime, it is impossible to say.

The table looked bright and pretty with its fine white cloth, bright flowers and fruit, but the dinner itself was a series of miserable failures, through all of which Mrs Alleyne sat, stern, and with a fixed smile upon her countenance. Moray and Glynne were serenely unconscious, eating what was before them, but with their thoughts and conversation far away amongst the stars. Sir John and the major, with the most chivalrous courtesy, ignored everything, and kept up the heartiest of conversation; while Rolph, who was in a furious temper at having been obliged to come, fixed his glass in his eye and stolidly stared when he did not sneer.

It was poor Lucy upon whom the burden of the dinner cares fell, and she suffered a martyrdom. Oldroyd saw that she was troubled, but did not fully realise the cause, while the poor girl shivered and shrank, and turned now hot, now cold, as she read Rolph’s contempt for the miserable fare.

“Yes,” said the Major to himself, “it’s a mistake. She meant well, poor woman, but if she had given us a well-cooked steak how much better it would have been.”

Mrs Alleyne, behind her mask of smiles, also noted how Rolph’s eye-glass was directed at the various dishes, and how his plate went away, time after time, with the viands scarcely tasted. She hated him with a bitter hatred, and felt full of rejoicing to see his annoyance with Glynne, whose calm, handsome face lit up and grew animated when Alleyne spoke to her, answering questions, questioning her in return, and telling her of his work during the past few days.

The meal went on very slowly, and such success as attended it was due to Sir John and the major, the former devoting himself to his hostess, while the latter relieved poor little Lucy’s breast of some of its burden of trouble.

“Ah,” he said once, out of sheer kindness, just after Rolph had laughed silently at a grievous mistake made by Eliza, who, in a violent perspiration with work and excitement, had dropped a dish in the second course, breaking it, and spreading a too tremulous cabinet pudding and its sauce upon the well—worn carpet. “Ah, a capital dinner, Miss Alleyne, only wanted one dish to have made it complete.”

“How can you be so unkind, Major Day!” said Lucy, in a low, choking voice; “the poor girl is so unused to company, and she could not help it.”

Major Day looked petrified. He had advanced his remark like a squadron to cover the rout of the cabinet pudding, and he was astounded by Lucy’s flank movement, as she took his remark to refer to the maid.

“My dear child,” he stammered, “you mistake me.”

Poor Lucy could not contain herself. The vexations of the whole dinner which had been gathering within her now burst forth; and though she spoke to him in an undertone, her face was crimson, and it was all she could do to keep from bursting into a flood of tears.

“It is so unkind of you,” continued Lucy; “we are not used to having company. Moray did not think how difficult it would be for us to make proper preparations, and it is not our fault that everything is so bad.”

“My dear child!” whispered the major again.

“You need not have added to my misery by calling it a capital dinner, and alluding to the dish.”

Fortunately Sir John was chatting loudly to Mrs Alleyne, Oldroyd was in a warm argument with Rolph on the subject of training, and Alleyne was holding Glynne’s attention by describing to her the theory that the stars were in all probability suns with planets revolving round them, as we do about our own giver of warmth and light. Hence, then, the major’s little interlude with Lucy was unnoticed, and Eliza was able to remove the evidences of the disaster with a dustpan and brush.

“My dear Miss Alleyne, give me credit for being an officer and a gentleman,” said the major, quietly; “the dish I alluded to was one of some choice fungi, such as we discover for ourselves in the woods and fields. I meant nothing else—believe me.”

Lucy darted a grateful look in his eyes, and followed it up with a smile, which sent a peculiar little sting into Oldroyd’s breast.

“For,” the latter argued with himself, “elderly gentlemen do sometimes manage to exercise a great deal of influence over the susceptible hearts of maidens, and Major Day is a smart, attractive, old man.”

His attention was, however, taken up directly by Rolph, who, in a half-haughty, condescending tone asked him if he had studied training from its medical and surgical side, nettling him by his manner, and putting him upon his mettle to demolish his adversary in argument.

“Thank you, major,” whispered Lucy. “I might have known—I ought to have known better.”

And then, with the ice broken between herself and her old botanical tutor and friend, she seemed to jump with girlish eagerness at the opportunity for lightening her burdened heart.

“Everything has gone so dreadfully,” she whispered. “I have been sitting upon thorns ever since you all came. It has been heartbreaking, and I shall be so glad when it is all over, and you are gone.”

“Tut—tut! you inhospitable little creature,” said the major. “For shame. I shall not. Why, surely my little pupil does not think we came over here for the sake of the dinner. Fie!—fie!—fie! Brother John, there, enjoys a crust of bread and cheese and a glass of ale better than anything; while I, an old campaigner, used, when I was on service, to think myself very lucky if I got a biscuit and a slice of melon, or a handful of dates, for a meal.”

“But Sir John said you were so particular, and that was why he sent the fruit.”

“My brother John is a gentleman,” said the major, smiling. “But there, there, let me see my little pupil smiling, and at her ease again. Why, we’ve come over this evening to feast upon stars and planets, when the proper time comes. I say, look at Glynne, how bright and eager she looks. She is not troubling herself about the dinner; nor your brother neither.”

“Moray?” replied Lucy. “Oh, no; nothing troubles him. Poor fellow! If you gave him only some bran he would eat it and never say a word. It’s throwing nice things away to make them for him.”

At last the dessert plates had been placed upon the table, and the fruit handed round by Eliza, who, in spite of several nods and frowns from Mrs Alleyne, insisted upon staying to the very last, by way of salving her conscience for the pudding lapse. Then she finally departed to look after the coffee; the ladies rose and left the room, and the gentlemen drew closer together to discuss their wine.

Some cups of capital coffee were brought in, its quality being due to the fact that Lucy had slipped into the kitchen to make it herself; and after these had been enjoyed, Sir John drew attention to the object of their visit. Rolph yawned, and made up his mind to remain behind, to go into the garden and have a cigar, and Alleyne led the way into the drawing-room, Glynne rising directly to come and meet them, all eagerness to enjoy the promised inspection of the observatory.

Volume One—Chapter Fifteen.

Glynne Looks at the Moon, the Professor at his Heart.

The secret of the poverty of Mrs Alleyne’s home was read by the major and Sir John, as they followed their host and Glynne along a bare passage and through two green-baized doors, into the great dome-covered chambers where Alleyne pursued his studies, for on all sides were arranged astronomical instruments of the newest invention and costliest kind. The outlay had been slow—a hundred now and a hundred then; but the result had been thousands of pounds spent upon the various pieces of intricate mechanism, and their mounting upon solid iron pillars, resting on massive piers of cement or stone.

Glynne uttered a faint cry of surprise and delight as she saw the long tubes with their wheels and pivots arranged so that the reclining observer could turn his glass in any direction; gazed in the great trough that seemed to have a bottom covered with looking-glass, but which was half full of quicksilver; noted that there were sliding shutters in the roof, and various pieces of mechanism, whose uses she longed to have explained.

It was all old to Lucy, who felt a new pleasure, though, in her friend’s eagerness, while Mrs Alleyne, who had suffered torments all the evening in mortified pride, felt, as she saw the looks of wonder of the guests, and their appreciation of her son’s magnificent observatory, that she was now reaping her reward.

“Bless my soul!” cried Sir John, “I am astounded. I did not think there was such a place outside Greenwich.”

Mrs Alleyne bowed and smiled; and then, as Sir John began eagerly inspecting the various objects and arrangements around, and the major chatted to Lucy, she gave a curious look at her son, who was bending over Glynne, explaining to her the use of the quicksilver trough, and arranging a glass afterwards, so that she might see how it was brought to bear upon a reflected star.

As Mrs Alleyne glanced round she saw that Oldroyd was also watching her son and Glynne, and her eyes directly after met those of the young doctor, whose thoughts she tried to read—perhaps with success.

For the next half-hour, Glynne was being initiated in the mysteries of the transit instrument, and had the pleasure of seeing star after star cross the zenith, after which, the moon having risen well above the refracting and magnifying mists of earth, the largest reflector was brought to bear upon its surface.

Ejaculations of delight kept escaping from Glynne’s lips as she gazed at the bright tops of the various volcanoes, searched the dark shadows and craters, and literally revelled in the glories of the brightly embossed silver crescent. She had a hundred questions to ask, with all the eager curiosity and animation of a child, and with the advantage of having one as patient as he was learned, ready to respond upon the instant.

“I feel so terribly selfish,” cried Glynne, at last. “Oh, papa, you must come and look. Uncle, it is wonderful.”

“We’ll have a look another time,” said Sir John, good-humouredly; “only don’t wear out Mr Alleyne’s patience.”

“Oh, I hope he will not think me tiresome,” cried Glynne, whose eye was directed to the glass again on the instant, “but it is so wonderful. I could watch the moon all night. Now, Mr Alleyne, just a little way from the left edge, low down, there is a brilliant ring of light—no, not quite a ring; it is as if a portion of it had been torn away, and—Oh! Robert! how you startled me.”

The spell was broken, for Rolph had entered the observatory, having finished his cigar. He had been standing at the door for a few moments, watching the scene before him, and a frown came over his forehead as he heard the eagerness of his betrothed’s words, and saw the impressive way in which Alleyne was bending towards her, and answering her questions. Directly after, the young officer crossed the observatory, laid his hand almost rudely upon Alleyne’s shoulder, and nodded to him as if to say, “Stand on one side.”

Alleyne started, coloured, and then drew back, with the major watching him intently, while Rolph laid his hand playfully upon Glynne’s forehead, and slipped it before her eyes.

“Now then, have you found the focus. What is it? A penny a peep? Here, Mr Alleyne, do you take the money?”

A dead silence fell upon the group till the major hastened to break it by saying a few words of praise of the place to Mrs Alleyne.

Soon afterwards they went back to the drawing-room and partook of tea, the carriage arriving directly after, and everyone thinking it time to leave, for a curious chill had come over the party, Glynne having subsided into her old, silent, inanimate way, and no effort of the major or Sir John producing anything more than a temporary glow.

“Why, how quiet you are, Glynne,” said Rolph, as they were on their way home.

“I was thinking,” she replied, quietly.

“What about?”

“About?—Oh, the wonders of—of what I have seen to-night.”

“Are you satisfied, my son?” said Mrs Alleyne, when she kissed him that night.

“Yes, dear mother, thoroughly,” he said to her; and then to himself—“No.”

End of Volume One.

Volume Two—Chapter One.

After a Lapse.

It was about a mile from the Alleynes’ where the sandy lane, going north, led by an eminence, rugged, scarped, and crowned with great columnar firs that must have sprung from seeds a couple of hundred years ago. By day, when the sun shone in from the east at his rising, or from the west at his going down, the great towering trunks that ran up seventy or eighty feet without a branch looked as if cast in ruddy bronze, while overhead the thick, dark, boughs interlaced and shut out the sky.

It was a gloomy enough spot by day amidst the maze of tall columns, with the ground beneath slippery from the dense carpeting of pine needles; by night, whether a soft breeze was overhead whispering in imitation of the surging waves, or it was a storm, there was ever that never-ending sound of the sea upon the shore, making the place in keeping with the spirit of him who sought for change and relief from troublous thoughts.

Moray Alleyne’s brain was full of trouble, of imperious thoughts that would not be kept back, and one night, to calm his disturbed spirit, he went out from the observatory, bare-headed, to walk for a few minutes up and down the garden.

But there was no rest there, and, feeling confined and cribbed within fence and hedge, he glanced for a moment or two at the tall window with its undrawn blinds, through which he could see Mrs Alleyne, seated stiff and with an uncompromising look upon her face, busy stitching at a piece of linen in which she was making rows of the finest nature, in preparation for a garment to be worn by her son.

Lucy was at the other side of the table, also working, but, as the lamplight fell upon her face, Alleyne could see that it was unruffled and full of content.

He sighed as he turned away, and thought of the past, when his thoughts went solely to his absorbing work—when this strange attraction, as he termed it, had not come upon him and drawn him, as it were, out of his course.

Only a short time back, and he went on in his matter-of-fact, mundane orbit, slowly working out problems, sometimes failing, but always returning to the task with the same calm peaceful serenity of spirit, waiting patiently for the triumph of science that sooner or later came for his reward.

How calm and unruffled all this had been. No fever of the soul, no tempest of spirit to disturb the even surface of his life. But now all was changed. They had torn him amongst them from the happy, placid life, to give him rage, and bitterness and pain.

His brow grew rugged and his hands clenched as he walked rapidly out on to the wild heath, heedless of the bushes and the inequalities of the ground, until he fell heavily, and leaped up again, to turn back. Then, giving up the wide waste of moor which he had instinctively chosen as being in accord with his frame of mind, he made straight for the next desolate spot, where it seemed to him that he could be alone with his thoughts, and perhaps school them into subjection.

“Cool down this madness,” he once said aloud, laughing bitterly the while; and the sound of his strange voice made him start and hurry on along the shady lane, as if to escape from the unseen monitor who had reminded him of his suffering.

“Yes, it is madness,” he muttered, “I could not have believed it true. But, discipline, patience, I shall conquer yet.”

He walked on, with the beads of perspiration coming softly out upon his brow; then, from being like a fine dew, they began to join one with the other, till they stood out in great drops unheeded, as he went swiftly on, and almost blindly at last turned rapidly up the steep ascent, climbing at times, and avoiding the pine trunks by a kind of blind instinct. He toiled on farther and farther, till he stood at the highest part of the great natural temple, with its windswept roof hidden in the darkness overhead, and two huge pines bending over to each other, like the sides of some huge east window, at the precipitous broken edge of the hill. Through this he could look straight away over the intervening billowy estate, to where Brackley Hall stood surrounded by trees, and with its lights shining softly against a vast background of darkness.

And now as he rested a hand upon a trunk, his vivid imagination pictured Glynne as being there, behind one or other of the softly-illumined panes.

Here he stopped and stood motionless for a time, gazing straight before him through the dimly-seen vista of the trunks, breathing in the soft, cool night air, dry and invigorating at that height. All was so still and silent, that, obeying his blind instinct, he seemed to have come there to find calmness and repose.

But they were not present; neither was the place dark—to him. For, as he stood there, with knotted brow, and teeth and hands clenched, turn which way he would there was light, and within that light, gazing at him with its intense, rapt expression—as if living and breathing upon his words—the one face that always haunted him now.

It had been so strange at first—that look of thoughtful veneration, that air of belief. Then, from being half-pleased, half-flattered, had come the time when it had created a want in his life—the desire to be master and go on teaching this obedient disciple who dwelt upon his words, took them so faithfully to heart, and waited patiently for fresh utterances from his lips.

It was not love on her part. He knew that. He was sure of it. At least it was the love of the science that he strove to teach—the thirsting of a spirit to know more and more of the wonders of infinite space. She liked to be in his society, to listen to his words. He knew he was gauging Glynne Day’s heart, when, with a sensation of misery that swept over him like some icy wave, he went over the hours they had spent together. But, when he tried to gauge his own he trembled, and asked himself why this madness had come upon him, robbing him of his peace and rest—making him so unfit for his daily work.

He strode on to and fro, winding in and out amongst the tall pillars of this darkened nature-temple, fighting his mental fight and praying from time to time for help to crush down the madness that had assailed him where he had thought himself so strong.

Strive how he would, though, there was Glynne’s face ever gazing up into his; and beside it, half-mockingly, in its calm, satisfied content, was Rolph’s; and as he met the eyes, there was the cool, contemptuous, pitying look, such as he had seen upon the young officer’s face again and again, mingled with the arrogant air of dislike that he made so little effort to conceal.

For a time Alleyne had been growing calmer; his determined efforts to master himself had seemed as if about to be attended with success; but as in fancy he had seen Rolph’s face beside that of Glynne, a feeling of rage—of envious rage—that mastered him in turn held sway.

But it was not for long; the power of a well-disciplined brain was brought to bear, and Moray Alleyne stood at last with his arms folded, leaning against a tree, thinking that after this mad ebullition of passion, he had gained the victory, and that henceforth all this was going to be as a bygone dream.

It must have been by some occult law of attraction that deals with human beings as inanimate objects are drawn together upon the surface of a pond, that Rolph, in contemptuous scorn of the sedative tea that would be on the way in Sir John’s drawing-room, and holding himself free for a little self-indulgence, took three cigars from his future father-in-law’s cabinet in the smoking-room, secured a box of matches, and, after putting on a light overcoat and soft hat, strolled out on to the lawn.

“Been on duty with her all day,” he said, with a half laugh, “and a fellow can’t quite give himself up to petticoat government—not hers. If it wasn’t for Aldershot being so near, it would be awful.”

Glynne was seated alone in the drawing-room, where the shaded lamp stood on the side-table, deep in a book that she was reading with avidity; and as Rolph, with his hands in his pockets, strolled round the house, he, too, stopped to look in at the window.

“There’s no nonsense about it,” he said, “she is pretty—I might say beautiful, and there isn’t a girl in the regiment who comes near her.”

“Humph! what a chance. The old boys are snoring in the dining-room, each with a handkerchief over his head, and for the next two hours I dare say we should be alone, and—drink tea!” he said with an air of disgust. “I hope she won’t be so confoundedly fond of tea when we’re married. It’s rather too much of a good thing sometimes. And a man wants change.”

He thrust his hands deeply into his coat pockets, where one of them came in contact with a cigar, which he took out, bit off the end mechanically, and stood rolling it to and fro between his lips.

“Shall I go in?” he asked himself. “Hang it, no! If one’s too much with a girl she’ll grow tired of you before marriage. Better keep her off a little, and not spoil her too soon. Yes, she really is a very handsome girl. Just fancy her in one of the smartest dresses a tip-top place could turn out, and sitting beside a fellow on a four-in-hand—Ascot, say, or to some big meet. There won’t be many who will put us—her, I mean”—he added, with a dash of modesty—“in the shade. Here, I’ll go and have a talk to her. No, I won’t. I sha’n’t get my cigar if I do. We shall have plenty of tête-à-têtes, I dare say. And I promised to-night—What’s she reading, I wonder? Last new novel, I suppose. Puzzles me,” he said to himself, as he swung round, “how a woman can go on reading novels at the rate some of them do. Such stuff! It’s only about one in a hundred that is written by anybody who knows what life really is—about horses and dogs—and sport,” he added after a little thought. “Poor little Glynne. It pleases her, though, and I sha’n’t interfere, but she might cultivate subjects more that agree with my tastes—say the hunt—and the field.”

He gave one glance over his shoulder at the picture of the reading girl in the drawing-room and then went off across the lawn, to be stopped by the wire fence, against which he paused as if measuring its height. Then going back for a dozen yards or so he took a sharp run, meaning to leap it, but stopped short close to the wire.

“Won’t do,” he muttered; “too dark.”

He then stepped over it, bending the top wire down and making it give a loud twang when released, as he walked on sharply towards the footway that crossed the path and led away to the fir woods, whistling the while.

Perhaps if he had known that the book Glynne was reading with such eagerness did not happen to be a novel, but a study of the heavens, by one, Mr Lockyer, the ideas that coursed through his mind would not have been of quite so complacent a character—that is to say, if the strain upon his nature to supply him with muscles and endurance had left him wit enough to put that and that together, and judge by the result.

“It’s getting precious dull here, and home’s horrid,” said Rolph, as he stopped in the shadow of a tree, whose huge trunk offered shelter from the breeze.

Here he proceeded, in the quiet deliberate fashion of a man who makes a study of such matters, and who would not on any consideration let a cigar burn sidewise, to light the roll he held in his teeth. He struck a match, coquetted with the flame, holding it near and drawing it away, till the leaf was well alight, when he placed his hands in his pockets, and walked on, puffing complacently, for a short distance at a moderate pace, but, finding the path easy and smooth, his mind began to turn to athletics, and, taking his hands from his pockets, he stopped short and doubled his fists.

“Won’t do to get out of condition with this domestic spaniel life,” he said, with a laugh, and, drawing a long breath, he set off walking, taking long, regular strides, and getting over the ground at a tremendous pace for about half a mile, when he stopped short to smile complacently.

“Not bad that,” he said aloud, “put out my cigar though;” and, again sheltering himself behind a tree, he struck a match and relit the roll of tobacco.

“I must do a little more of this early of a morning,” he said, as he regained his breath, and cooled down gradually by slowly walking on, and as fate arranged it, entering the great fir clump on the side farthest from the lane.

“They say the smell of the fir is healthy, and does a man good,” said Rolph. “I’ll have a good sniff or two.”

There was more of the odour of tobacco, though, than of the pines, as with his footsteps deadened by the soft, half-decayed vegetable matter, he threaded his way amongst the tall trunks.

“Humph! moon rising! see the gates!” said Rolph, with a satisfied air, as if the great yellow orb, slowly rising above the wood and darting horizontal rays through the pines, were illumining the path for his special benefit. Then he looked at his watch. “Ten minutes too soon. But I dare say she’s waiting. If this place were mine I should have all these trees cut down for timber and firewood. Fetch a lot!”

The wondrous effects of black velvety darkness and golden lines of light were thrown away upon the young baronet, who saw in the pale gilding of the tree-trunks only so much to avoid.

All at once his thoughts took a turn in another direction, and unwittingly he began to ponder upon the intimacy that had grown up between the people at the Hall and the Alleynes.

“It’s a great mistake, and I don’t like it,” Rolph said to himself. “That fellow hangs about after Glynne like some great dog. I shall have to speak to the old man about it. Glynne doesn’t see it, of course, and I don’t mean that she should, but it gets to be confoundedly unpleasant to a—to a thoughtful man—to a man of the world. Wiser, perhaps, to have a few words with the fellow himself, and tell him what I think of his conduct. I will too,” he said, after a pause. “He is simply ignorant of the common decencies of society, or he wouldn’t do it. I shall—What the devil’s he doing here—come to watch?”

Rolph stopped short, completely astounded upon seeing, not two yards away, the statue-like figure of Alleyne, with arms folded, leaning against a tree, thoroughly intent upon his thoughts.

For some time neither Rolph nor Alleyne spoke, the latter being profoundly ignorant of the presence of the former.

The shadows of the fir wood, as well as those of Alleyne’s mind, were to blame for this, for where Rolph had paused the moonbeams had not touched, and though Alleyne’s eyes were turned in that direction, they were filmed by the black darkness of the future, a deep shadow that he could not pierce. But by degrees, as the great golden shield, whose every light or speck was as familiar to him as his daily life, swept slowly on, a broad bar of darkness passed to his left, revealing first a part, then the whole of Sir Robert Rolph’s figure, as he stood scowling there, his hands in his pockets, and puff after puff of smoke coming from his lips.

Some few moments glided by before Alleyne realised the truth. He had been thinking so deeply—so bitterly of his rival, that it seemed as if his imagination had evoked this figure, and that his nerves had been so overstrained that this was some waking dream.

Then came the reaction, making him start violently, as Rolph emitted a tremendous cloud of smoke, and then said shortly, without taking his cigar from his lips,—

“How do?”

“Captain Rolph!” cried Alleyne, finding speech at last. “That’s me. Well, what is it?” There was another pause, for what appeared to be an interminable time. Alleyne wished to speak, but his lips were sealed. Years of quiet, thoughtful life had made him, save when led on by some object in which he took deep interest, slow of speech, while now the dislike, more than the disgust this man caused him, seemed to have robbed him of all power of reply.

“Confounded cad!” thought Rolph; “he is watching;” and then, aloud, “Star-gazing and mooning?”

The bitterly contemptuous tone in which this was said stung Alleyne to the quick, and he replied, promptly,—

“No.”

There was something in that tone that startled Rolph for the moment, but he was of too blunt and heavy a nature to detect the subtle meaning a tone of voice might convey, and, seizing the opportunity that had come to him, he ran at it with the clumsiness of a bull at some object that offends its eye.

“Hang the cad, there couldn’t be a better chance,” he said to himself; and, adopting the attitude popular with cavalry officers not largely addicted to brains, he straddled as if on horseback, and setting his feet down as though he expected each heel to make the rowel of a spur to ring, he walked straight up to Alleyne, smoking furiously, and puffed a cloud almost into his face.

“Look here, Mr—Mr—er—Alleyne,” he said, loudly, “I wanted to talk to you, and present time seems as suitable as any other time.”

Alleyne had recovered himself, and bowed coldly.

“I was not aware that Captain Rolph had any communication to make to me,” he said quietly.

“S’pose not,” replied Rolph, offensively; “people of your class never do.—Hang the cad! He is spying so as to get a pull on me,” he muttered to himself.

“I’m just in the humour, and for two pins I’d give him as good a thrashing as I really could.”

“Will you proceed,” said Alleyne, in whose pale cheeks a couple of spots were coming, for it was impossible not to read the meaning of the other’s words and tone.

“When I please,” said Rolph, in the tone of voice he would have adopted towards some groom, or to one of the privates of his troop.

Alleyne bowed his head and stood waiting, for he said to himself—“I am in the wrong—I am bitterly to blame. Whatever he says, I will bear without a word.”

A deep silence followed, for, though Rolph pleased to speak, he could not quite make up his mind what to say. He did not wish to blurt out anything, he told himself, that should compromise his dignity, nor yet to let Alleyne off too easily. Hence, being unprepared, he was puzzled.

“Look here, you know,” he said at last, and angrily; for he was enraged with himself for his want of words, “you come a good deal to Sir John’s.”

“Yes, I am invited,” said Alleyne, quietly.

Rolph’s rehearsal was gone.

“I’ll let him have it,” he muttered; “I’m not going to fence and spar. Yes,” he cried aloud, “I know you are. Sir John’s foolishly liberal in that way; but you know, Mr Allen, or Alleyne, or whatever your name is, I’m not blind.”

Alleyne remained silent; and, being now wound up, Rolph swaggered and straddled about with an imaginary horse between his legs.

“Look here, you know, I don’t want to be hard on a man who is ready to own that he is in the wrong, and apologises, and keeps out of the way for the future; but this sort of thing won’t do. By Jove, no, it sha’n’t do, you know. I won’t have it. Do you hear? I won’t have it.”

Something seemed to rise to Moray Alleyne’s throat—some vital force to run through his nerves and muscles, making them twitch and quiver, as the young officer went on in an increasingly bullying tone. For some moments Alleyne, of the calm, peaceful existence, did not realise what it meant—what this sensation was; but at last it forced itself upon him that it was the madness of anger, the fierce desire of a furious man to seize an enemy and struggle with him till he is beaten down, crushed beneath the feet.

As he realised all this he wondered and shrank within himself, gazing straight before him with knitted brows and half-closed eyes.

“You see,” continued Rolph, “I always have my eyes open—make a point of keeping my eyes open, and it’s time you understood that, because Miss—”

“Silence!” cried Alleyne fiercely. “What! What do you mean?” cried Rolph, as if he was addressing some delinquent in his regiment.

“Confound it all! How dare you, sir! How dare you speak to me like that?”

“Say what you like, speak what you will to me,” said Alleyne, excitedly, “but let that name be held sacred. It must not be drawn into this quarrel.”

“How dare you, sir! How dare you!” roared Rolph. “What do you mean in dictating to me what I should say? Name held sacred? Drawn into this—what do you say—quarrel. Do you think I should stoop to quarrel with you?”

Alleyne raised one hand deprecatingly. “I’d have you to know, sir, that I am telling you that I am not blind,”—he repeated this as if to mend his observations—“I tell you to keep away from the Hall, and to recollect that because a certain lady has condescended to speak to you in the innocency of her heart—yes, innocency of her heart,” he repeated, for it was a phrase that pleased him, and sounded well—“it is not for you to dare to presume to talk to her as you do—to look at her as you do—or to come to the Hall as you do. I’ve watched you, and I’ve seen your looks and ways—confound your insolence! And now, look here, if ever you dare to presume to speak to Miss—to the lady, I mean, as you have addressed her before, I’ll take you, sir, and horsewhip you till you cannot stand. Do you hear, sir; do you hear? Till you cannot stand.”

Alleyne stood there without speaking, while this brutal tirade was going on. His breast heaved, and his breath was drawn heavily; but he gave no sign, and presuming upon the success that had attended his speaking, Rolph continued with all the offensiveness of tone and manner that he had acquired from his colonel, a rough, overbearing martinet of the old school.

“I cannot understand your presumption,” continued Rolph. “I cannot understand of what you have been thinking, coming cringing over to the Hall, day after day, forcing your contemptible twaddle about stars and comets, and such far-fetched nonsense upon unwilling ears. Good heavens, sir! are you mad, or a fool?—I say, do you hear me—what are you, mad or a fool?”

Still Alleyne did not reply, but listened to his rival’s words with so bitter a feeling of anguish at his heart, that it took all his self-command to keep him from groaning aloud.

And still Rolph went on, for, naturally sluggish of mind, it took some time to bring that mind, as he would have termed it, into action. Once started, however, he found abundance of words of a sort, and he kept on loudly, evidently pleased with what he was saying, till once more he completed the circle in which he had been galloping, and ended with,—

“You hear me—thrash you as I would a dog.”

Rolph had run down, and, coughing to clear away the huskiness of his throat, he muttered to himself,—

“Cigar’s out.”

Hastily taking another from his pocket, he bit off the end, lit up, gave a few puffs, scowling at Alleyne the while, and then said loudly,—

“And now you understand, I think, sir?”

There were spurs imaginary jingling at Rolph’s heels, and the steel scabbard of a sabre banging about his legs, as he turned and strode away, whistling.

And then there was silence amidst the tall columnar pines, which looked as if carved out of black marble, save where the moonlight streamed through, cutting them sharply as it were, leaving some with bright patches of light, and dividing others into sections of light and darkness. There was not even a sigh now in the dark branches overhead, not a sound but the heavy, hoarse breathing of Moray Alleyne, as he stood there fighting against the terrible emotion that made him quiver.

He had listened to the coarsely brutal language of this man of athleticism, borne his taunts, his insults, as beneath him to notice, for there was another and a greater mental pain whose contemplation seemed to madden him till his sufferings were greater than he could bear.

If it had been some bright, talented man—officer, civilian, cleric, anything, so that he had been worthy and great, he could have borne it; but for Glynne, whose sweet eyes seemed day by day to be growing fuller of wisdom, whose animated countenance was brightening over with a keener intelligence that told of the workings of a mind whose latent powers were beginning to dawn, to be pledged to this overbearing brutal man of thews and sinews, it was a sacrilege; and, after standing there, forgetful of his own wrongs, the insults that he had borne unmoved, he suddenly seemed to awaken to his agony; and, uttering a bitter cry, he flung himself face downwards upon the earth.

“Glynne, my darling—my own love!”

There was none to hear, none to heed, as he lay there clutching at the soft loose pine needles for a time, and then lying motionless, lost to everything—to time, to all but his own misery and despair.

Volume Two—Chapter Two.

Attraction.

A few moments later there was a faint rustling noise as of some one hurrying over the fir needles, and a lightly-cloaked figure came for an instant into the moonlight, but shrank back in among the tree-trunks.

“Rob!” was whispered—“Rob, are you there?” Alleyne started up on one elbow, and listened as the voice continued,—

“Don’t play with me, dear. I couldn’t help being late. Father seemed as if he would never go out.”

There was a faint murmur among the heads of the pines, and the voice resumed.

“Rob, dear, don’t—pray don’t. I’m so nervous and frightened. Father might be watching me. I know you’re there, for I heard you whistle.”

Alleyne remained motionless. He wanted to speak but no words came; and he waited as the new-comer seemed to be listening till a faintly-heard whistling of an air came on the still night air from somewhere below in the sandy lane.

“Ah!” came from out of the darkness, sounding like an eager cry of joy; and she who uttered the cry darted off with all the quickness of one accustomed to the woods, taking almost instinctively the road pursued by Rolph, and overtaking him at the end of a few minutes.

“Rob—Rob!” she panted.

“Hush, stupid!” he growled. “You’ve come then at last. See any one among the trees?”

“No, dear, not a soul. Oh, Rob, I thought I should never be able to come to-night.”

“Humph! Didn’t want to, I suppose.”

“Rob!”

Only one word, but the tone of reproach sounded piteous.

“Why weren’t you waiting, then?—You were not up yonder, were you?” he added sharply.

“No, dear. I’ve only just got here. Father seemed as if he would never go out to-night, and it is a very, very long way to come.”

“Hullo! How your heart beats. Why, Judy, you must go into training. You are out of condition. I can feel it thump.”

“Don’t, Rob, pray. I want to talk to you. It’s dreadfully serious.”

“Then I don’t want to hear it.”

“But you must, dear. Remember all you’ve said. Listen to me, pray.”

“Well, go on. What is it?”

“Rob, dear, I’m in misery—in agony always. You’re staying again at Brackley, and after all you said.”

“Man can’t do as he likes, stupid little goose; not in society. I must break it off gently.”

There was a low moan out of the darkness where the two figures stood, and, added to the mysterious aspect of the lane where all was black below, but silvered above by the moonbeams.

“What a sigh,” whispered Rolph.

“Rob, dear, pray. Be serious now. I want you to listen. You must break all that off.”

“Of course. It’s breaking itself off. Society flirtation, little goose; and if you’ll only be good, all will come right.”

“Oh, Rob, if you only knew!”

“Well, it was your fault. If you hadn’t been so cold and stand-offish, I shouldn’t have gone and proposed to her. Now, it must have time.”

“You’re deceiving me, dear; and it is cruel to one who makes every sacrifice for your sake.”

“Are you going to preach like this for long? Because if so, I’m off.”

“Rob!” in a piteous tone. “I’ve no one to turn to but you, and I’m in such trouble. What can I do if you forsake me. I came to-night because I want your help and counsel.”

“Well, what is it?”

“Father would kill me if he knew I’d come.”

“Ben Hayle’s a fool. I thought he was fond of you.”

“He is, dear. He worships me; but you’ve made me love you, Rob, and though I want to obey him I can’t forget you. I can’t keep away.”

“Of course you can’t. It’s nature, little one.”

“Rob, will you listen to me?”

“Yes. Be sharp then.”

“Pray break that off then at once at Brackley, and come to father and ask him to let us be married directly.”

“No hurry.”

“No hurry?—If you knew what I’m suffering.”

“There, there; don’t worry, little one. It’s all right, I tell you. Do you think I’m such a brute as to throw you over? See how I chucked Madge for your sake.”

“Yes, dear, yes; I do believe in you,” came with a sob, “in spite of all; and I have tried, and will try so hard, Rob, to make myself a lady worthy of you. I’d do anything sooner than you should be ashamed of me. But, Rob, dear—father—”

“Hang father!”

“Don’t trifle, dear. You can’t imagine what I have suffered, and what he suffers. All those two long weary months since we left the lodge it has been dreadful. He keeps on advertising and trying, but no one will engage him. It is as if some one always whispered to gentlemen that he was once a poacher, and it makes him mad.”

“Well, I couldn’t help my mother turning him off.”

“Couldn’t help it, dear! Oh, Rob!”

“There you go again. Now, come, be sensible. I must get back soon.”

“To her!” cried Judith, wildly.

“Nonsense. Don’t be silly. She’s like a cold fish to me. It will all come right.”

“Yes, if you will come and speak to my father.”

“Can’t.”

“Rob, dear,” cried Judith in a sharp whisper; “you must, or it will be father’s ruin. He has begun to utter threats.”

“Threats? He’d better not.”

“It’s in his despair, dear. He says it’s your fault if he, in spite of his trying to be honest, is driven back to poaching.”

“He’d better take to it! Bah! Let him threaten. He knows better. Nice prospect for me to marry a poacher’s daughter.”

“Oh, Rob, how can you be so cruel. You don’t know.”

“Know what? Does he threaten anything else?”

“Yes,” came with a suppressed sob.

“What?”

“I dare not tell you. Yes, I must. I came on purpose to-night. Just when I felt that I would stay by him and not break his heart by doing what he does not want.”

“Talk sense, silly. People’s hearts don’t break. Only horses’, if you ride them too hard.”

Judith uttered a low sob.

“Well, what does he say?”

“That you are the cause of all his trouble, and that you shall make amends, or—”

“Or what?”

“I dare not tell you,” sobbed the girl, passionately. “But, Rob, you will have pity on him—on me, dear, and make him happy again.”

“Look here,” said Rolph, roughly. “Ben Hayle had better mind what he is about. Men have been sent out of the country for less than that, or—well, something of the kind. I’m not the man to be bullied by my mother’s keeper, so let’s have no more of that. Now, that’s enough for one meeting. You wrote to Aldershot for me to meet you, and the letter was sent to me at Brackley, of course. So I came expecting to find you pretty and loving, instead of which your head’s full of cock-and-bull nonsense, and you’re either finding fault or telling me about your father’s bullying. Let him bully. I shall keep my promise to you when I find it convenient. Nice tramp for me to come at this time of night.”

“It’s a long walk from Lindham here in the dark, Rob, dear,” said the girl.

“Oh, yes, but you’ve nothing to do. There, I’ll think about Ben Hayle and his getting a place, but I don’t want you to be far away, Judy.—Now, don’t be absurd.—What are you struggling about?—Hang the girl, it’s like trying to hold a deer. Judy! You’re not gone. Come here. I can see you by that tree.”

There was a distant rustling, and Captain Rolph uttered an oath.

“Why, she has gone!”

It was quite true. Judith was running fast in the direction of the cottages miles away in the wild common land of Lindham, and Rolph turned upon his heel and strode back toward Brackley.

“Time I had one of the old man’s brandy-and-sodas,” he growled. “Better have stopped and talked to my saint. Ben Hayle going back to poaching! Threaten me with mischief if I don’t marry her! I wish he would take to it again.”

Rolph walked on faster, getting excited by his thoughts, and, after hurrying along for a few hundred yards, he said aloud,—

“And get caught.”

“Now for a run,” he added, a minute later. “This has been a pleasant evening and no mistake. Ah, well, all comes right in the end.”

Volume Two—Chapter Three.

A Search.

About a couple of hours earlier there was a ring at the gaunt-looking gate at the Firs, and that ring caused Mrs Alleyne’s Eliza to start as if galvanised, and to draw her feet sharply over the sanded floor, and beneath her chair.

Otherwise Eliza did not move. She had been darning black stockings, and as her feet went under her chair, she sat there with the light—a yellow and dim tallow dip, set up in a great tin candlestick—staring before her, lips and eyes wide open, one hand and arm covered with a black worsted stocking, the fingers belonging to the other arm holding up a stocking needle, motionless, as if she were so much stone.

Anon, the bell, which hid in a little pent-house of its own high up on the ivied wall, jangled again, and a shock of terror ran through Eliza’s body once more, but only for her to relapse into the former cataleptic state.

Then came a third brazen clanging; and this time the kitchen door opened, and Eliza uttered a squeal.

“Why, Eliza,” cried Lucy, “were you asleep? The gate bell has rung three times. Go and see who it is.”

“Oh, please, miss, I dursn’t,” said Eliza with a shiver.

“Oh, how can you be so foolish!” cried Lucy. “There, bring the light, and I’ll come with you.”

“There—there was a poor girl murdered once, miss,” stammered Eliza, “at a gate. Please, miss, I dursn’t go.”

“Then I must go myself,” cried Lucy. “Don’t be so silly. Mamma will be dreadfully cross if you don’t come.”

Eliza seemed to think that it would be better to risk being murdered at the gate than encounter Mrs Alleyne’s anger, so she started up, caught at the tin candlestick with trembling hand, and then unbolted the kitchen door loudly, just as the bell was about to be pulled for the fourth time.

“You speak, please, miss,” whispered the girl. “I dursn’t. Pray say something before you open the gate.”

“Who’s there,” cried Lucy.

“Only me, Miss Alleyne,” said a well-known voice. “I was coming across the common, and thought I’d call and see how your brother is.”

Lucy eagerly began to unfasten the great gate, but for some reason, probably best known to herself, she stopped suddenly, coloured a little, and said—almost sharply,—

“Quick, Eliza, why don’t you open the gate?”

Thus adjured, the maiden unfastened the ponderous lock, and admitted Philip Oldroyd, who shook hands warmly with Lucy, and then seemed as if he were about to change her hand over to his left, and feel her pulse with his right.

“We always have the gate locked at dusk,” said Lucy, “the place stands so lonely, and—”

“You feel a little nervous,” said Oldroyd, smiling, as they walked up to the house.

“Oh, no!” said Lucy, eagerly; “I never think there is anything to mind, but the maid is terribly alarmed lest we should be attacked by night. My brother is out,” she hastened to say, to fill up a rather awkward pause. “He is taking one of your prescriptions,” she added, archly.

“Wise man,” cried Oldroyd, as they passed round to the front door and went in. “I suppose he will not be long?”

“Oh, no!” said Lucy, eagerly; “if you will come in and wait, he is sure to be back soon.”

Then she hesitated, and hastened to speak again, feeling quite uncomfortable and guilty, as if she had been saying something unmaidenly—as if she had been displaying an eagerness for the young doctor to stop—when all the time she told herself, it was perfectly immaterial, and she did not care in the least.

“Of course I can’t be sure,” she added, growing a little quicker of speech; “but I think he will not be long. He has gone round by the pine wood.”

“Then I should meet him if I went that way,” said Oldroyd, who had also become rather awkward and hesitant.

“Oh, yes; I think you would be sure to meet him,” cried Lucy eagerly.

“Thanks,” said Oldroyd, who felt rather vexed that she should be eager to get rid of him; “then perhaps I had better go.”

“But of course I can’t tell which way he will come back,” cried Lucy, hastily; “and you might miss him.”

“To be sure, yes,” said Oldroyd, taking heart again; “so I might, and then not see him at all.” And he looked anxiously at Lucy’s troubled face over the tin candlestick, ornamented with drops of tallow that had fallen upon its sides, while Eliza slowly closed the front door, and gazed with her lips apart from one to the other.

Lucy was all repentance again, for in a flash her conscience had told her that she had seemed eager, and pressed the doctor to stay.

An awkward pause ensued, one which neither the visitor nor Lucy seemed able to break. Each tried very hard to find something to say, but in vain.

“How stupid of me!” thought Lucy, angrily.

“What’s come to me?” thought Oldroyd; the only idea beside being that he ought to ask Lucy about her health, only he could not, for it would seem so professional. So he looked helplessly at her, and she returned his look half indignantly, while the candle was held on one side, and Eliza gaped at them wonderingly.

Mrs Alleyne ended the awkward pause by opening the dining-room door, and standing there framed like a silhouette.

“Oh, is it you, Mr Oldroyd?” she said, quietly.

“Yes, good evening,” exclaimed the young doctor, quickly, like one released from a spell; “as I told Miss Alleyne here, I was coming close by, and I thought I would call and see how Mr Alleyne is.”

“We are very glad to see you,” said Mrs Alleyne, with grave courtesy. “Pray come in, Mr Oldroyd,” and Lucy uttered a low sigh of satisfaction.

“Of course this is not a professional visit, Mrs Alleyne,” said Oldroyd; and then he wished he had not said it, for Mrs Alleyne’s face showed the lines a little more deeply, and there was a slight twitching about her lips.

“I am sorry that Mr Alleyne has not yet returned,” she said, and as soon as they were seated, she smiled, and tried to remove the restraint that had fallen upon them in the dreary room.

“I am very grateful to you, Mr Oldroyd,” she said; “my son is wonderfully better.”

“And would be in a position to laugh all doctors in the face, if he would carry out my prescriptions a little more fully,” said Oldroyd. “But we must not be too hard upon him. I think it is a great thing to wean him from his studies as we have.”

“You dreadfully conceited man,” thought Lucy. “How dare you have the shamelessness to think you have done all this! I know better. No man could have done it—there.”

“Did you speak, Miss Alleyne?” said Oldroyd, looking round suddenly, and finding Lucy’s eyes intent upon him.

“I? No,” cried Lucy, flushing; and then biting her lips with annoyance, because her cheeks burned, “I was listening to you and mamma.”

“It is quite time Moray returned,” said Mrs Alleyne, anxiously glancing towards the closed window.

“Yes, mamma; we shall hear his step directly,” said Lucy.

“He does not generally stay so long,” continued Mrs Alleyne, going to the window to draw aside the curtain and look out. “Did he say which way he would go, Lucy?”

“Yes, mamma. I asked him, and he said as far as the fir wood.”

“Ah, yes,” responded Mrs Alleyne; “he says he can think so much more easily among the great trees—that his mind seems able to plunge into the depths of the vast abysses of the heavens.”

“I don’t believe he does think about stars at all,” thought Lucy. “I believe he goes there to stare across the park, and think about Glynne.”

A feeling of elation made the girl’s heart glow, and her eyes sparkle, as she more and more began to nurse this, one of the greatest ideas of her heart. It was an exceedingly immoral proceeding on her part, for she knew that Glynne was engaged to be married to Captain Rolph; but him she utterly detested, she told herself, and that it was an entire mistake; in fact, she assured herself that it would be an act of the greatest benevolence, and one for which she would receive the thanks of both parties all through her lifetime—if she could succeed in breaking off the engagement and marrying Glynne to her brother.

The conversation went on, but it was checked from time to time by Mrs Alleyne again rising to go to the window, and this movement on her part always had the effect of making Lucy’s eyes drop immediately upon her work; and, though she had been the minute before frankly meeting Oldroyd’s gaze in conversation, such remarks as he addressed to her now were answered with her look averted, as she busied herself over her sewing.

“Moray never stayed so late as this before,” said Mrs Alleyne, suddenly, turning her pale face on those who were so wrapped in their own thoughts that they had almost forgotten the absentee.

“No, mamma,” cried Lucy, reproaching herself for her want of interest; “he is an hour later.”

“It is getting on towards two hours beyond his time,” cried Mrs Alleyne, in despairing tones. “I am very uneasy.”

“Oh, but he has only gone a little farther than usual, mamma, dear,” cried Lucy; “pray don’t be uneasy.”

“I cannot help it, my child,” cried Mrs Alleyne; “he who is so punctual in all his habits would never stay away like this. Is he likely to meet poachers?”

“Let me go and try if I can meet him,” said Oldroyd, jumping up. “Poachers wouldn’t touch him.”

“Yes, do, Mr Oldroyd. I will go with you,” cried Lucy, forgetting in her excitement that such a proposal was hardly etiquette. But neither mother nor daughter, in their anxiety, seemed to have the slightest idea of there being anything extraordinary at such a time.

“It won’t do,” Oldroyd had been saying to himself, “even if it should prove that I’m not a conceited ass to think such things, and she—bless her sweet, bright little face—ever willing to think anything of me, I should be a complete scoundrel to try and win her. Let me see, what did I make last year by my practice? Twenty-eight pounds fifteen, and nine pounds of it still owing, and likely to be owing, for I shall never get a sou. Then this year, what shall I take? Well, perhaps another five pounds on account of her brother’s illness. I must be mad.”

“Yes,” he said, after a pause, “I must be mad, and must have been worse to come down here to this out-of-the-way place, where there is not the most remote chance of my getting together a practice. No, it won’t do, I must play misogynist, and be as cold towards the bright little thing as if I were a monk.”

As these thoughts ran through his mind, others came to crowd them out—thoughts of a snug little home, made bright by a sweet face looking out from door or window to see him coming back after a long, tiring round. What was enough for one was enough for two—so people argued. That was right enough as regarded a house, but doubtful when it came to food, and absurd if you went as far as clothing.

“No, it would never do,” he said to himself, “I could not take her from her home to my poor, shabby place.”

But as he thought this he involuntarily looked round Mrs Alleyne’s dining-room, that lady being at the window, and he could not help thinking that, after all, his cottage-like home was infinitely preferable to this great, gaunt, dingy place, where anything suggestive of any comfort was out of the question.

“Yes, she would be more comfortable,” he muttered; “and—there, I’m going mad again. I will not think such things.”

Just then Lucy came in ready for starting, and all Philip Oldroyd’s good intentions might have been dressed for departure as well. Certainly, they all took flight, as he followed the eager little maiden into the hall.

“Pray—pray let me have news of him directly you find him, Mr Oldroyd,” cried Mrs Alleyne, piteously. “Run back yourself. You cannot tell what I suffer. Something must have happened.”

“You shall know about him directly, Mrs Alleyne,” replied Oldroyd. “But pray make your mind easy, nothing can have happened to him here. The worst is that he may have gone to the Hall.”

“No, he would not have gone there without first letting me know.”

“Don’t come to the gate, mamma,” cried Lucy. “There, go in; Mr Oldroyd will take care of me, and we’ll soon bring the truant back, only pray be satisfied. Come, Mr Oldroyd, let us run.”

The next minute they were outside the gate, and hurrying down the slope to the common, over whose rugged surface Lucy walked so fast that Oldroyd had to step out boldly. Here the sandy road was reached, and they went on, saying but little, wanting to say but little, for, in spite of all, there was a strange new ecstatic feeling in Lucy’s bosom; while, in spite of his honesty something kept whispering to Oldroyd that it would be very pleasant if they were unable to find Alleyne for hours to come.

He was not to be gratified in this, though, for at the end of a quarter of an hour’s walking, when they came opposite to the big clump of pines, Lucy proposed that they should go up there.

“I know how fond he is of this place,” she said, rather excitedly; “and as its clearer now, I should not be at all surprised to find him here watching the moon, or the rising of some of the stars.”

“We’ll go if you wish it,” said Oldroyd, “but it seems a very unlikely place at a time like this.”

“Ah, but my brother is very curious about such things,” said Lucy, as she left the road, and together they climbed up till all at once she uttered a faint cry—

“Look! there—there he is!”

“Why, Alleyne! Is that you?” cried Oldroyd, as in the full moonlight they saw a dark figure rise from the foot of a pine, and then come slowly towards them silently, and in the same vacant fashion as one in a dream.