George Manville Fenn (continued 5)

“Then it is as I thought. You are a gang of poachers, and the man upstairs is hand and glove with you.”

“Well, why not, sir. They sacked him, and no one wouldn’t have him, because he used once to do a bit o’ nights hisself ’fore he turned keeper. Man can’t starve when there’s hares and fezzans about.”

“Went a bit like out o’ spite,” said Caleb. “Hadn’t been out with us before.”

“Humph! and you come and fetch me and tell me this,” said Oldroyd. “How do you know that I shall not go and give notice to the police?”

“Cause we know’d better. Caleb here was going to fetch old Blunt from the town; but I says if you fetch him, he’ll go back and tell the police.”

“And how do you know that I shall not?” said Oldroyd, tartly.

“Gent as goes out of his way to tent a poor labrer’s wife when her chap’s out o’ work, and does so much for the old folks, arn’t likely to do such a dirty trick as that. Eh, mates?”

“Humph! you seem to have a pretty good opinion of me,” said Oldroyd.

“Yes, sir, we knows a gen’leman when we sees one. We’ll pay you, sir, all right. You won’t let out on us, seeing how bad the poor fellow is.”

Oldroyd was silent and thoughtful for a few moments, and then he turned sharply upon Caleb Kent.

“Look here, sir,” he said; “you’ve got a tongue and it runs rather too fast. You made an ugly charge against that man’s late master.”

“I said I see him shute him,” said Caleb.

“And you did not see anything of the kind.”

“You gents allus stick up for each other,” muttered Caleb.

“You could not see what took place in the darkness and excitement of a fight, so hold your tongue. Such a charge would make endless mischief, and it must be a mistake.”

“All right, sir,” said Caleb.

“It would upset that poor girl, too, if she heard such a thing.”

“Yes, it would upset her sure enough if she heard,” said Caleb, with a peculiar smile, and he walked away.

“I ought to give you fellows a lecture on the danger of night poaching,” continued Oldroyd.

“Don’t, sir, please,” said one of the men, with a laugh, “for it wouldn’t do no good. ’Sides; we might want to hing a brace o’ fezzans or a hare up agin your door now and then.”

“Here, don’t you do anything of the kind, my lads,” cried Oldroyd. “I forbid it, mind. Now get me my pony.”

“All right, sir; we’ll mind what you says,” said the man who had spoken, looking mirthfully round at his companions, one of whom at once accompanied him to a low shed where the pony was munching some hay. The willing little beast was saddled while Oldroyd walked up and down the path with an abundance of sweet-scented and gay old-fashioned flowers on either side. Carnations and scarlet lychnis, and many-headed sun flowers and the like, were bright in the morning sunshine, for all seemed to have been well tended; but, all at once, he came upon a terrible tell-tale bit of evidence of the last night’s work upon the red bricks that formed the path—one that made him scrape off a little mould from the bed with his foot, and spread it over the ugly patch.

“The cottage looks simple and innocent enough, with its roses, to be the home of peace,” he muttered. “Ah! how man does spoil his life for the sake of coin. Thank you, my lad—that’s right,” he added, as his last night’s messenger brought the pony to the gate.

He mounted, and thrust a coin, that he could not spare, into his temporary ostler’s hand.

“Let him go. Fine morning, isn’t it?”

But Caleb held on sturdily by the pony’s bridle, and thrust the piece back with an air of sturdy independence.

“No, thankye, sir,” he said. “Me and my mates don’t want paying by a gentleman as comes to help one of us. ’Sides which, we’re a-going to pay you; aren’t we, lads?”

“Ay, that’s so,” growled the others. “Don’t take it.”

With the cleverness of a pickpocket, but the reverse action—say of a negative and not a positive pickpocket—the florin was thrust into Oldroyd’s vest, and the man drew back, leaving the doctor to pursue his way.

“Poachers even are not so black as they are painted,” he said to himself as he cantered along, and then he fell to thinking of the girl he had seen that morning. “They’ve better daughters than you would have suspected, more affectionate wives, the best of neighbours, and companions as honest and faithful as one could wish; and, all the while, they are a set of confounded scoundrels and thieves, for it’s just as dishonest to shoot and steal a man’s carefully-raised foreign birds—his pheasants—as it is to break into a hen-roost. As to partridges and hares, of course they are wild things; but, so long as they lived and bred on one’s land, they must be as genuine property as the apples and pears that grow upon a fellow’s trees. Yes, poachers are thieves; and I daresay my friend there, with the shot-hole in his body, is as great a scoundrel as the worst.”

He laughed as he cantered along the soft green beside the road.

“My practice is improving. I shall have my connection amongst the rogues and vagabonds mightily increased, for I certainly shall not go and inform the police: not my business to do that. They’re punished enough, even if I pull him through. And I shall,” he said aloud. “I must and will, for the sake of his pretty daughter. I wonder whether they’ll pay me after all,” he went on, as the pony ambled over the grass, and the naturally sordid ideas of the man often pressed for money and struggling for his income, came uppermost. “When people are in the first throes of excitement and gratitude for the help Doctor Bolus has rendered them, they almost worship him, and they’ll give, or rather they will promise, anything; but when time has had his turn, and the gratitude has begun to cool, it’s a different thing altogether; and, last of all, when the bill goes in—oh dear, for poor human nature, if the case had been left alone, A, B, C, or D would have got better without help.

“Well, never mind,” he said merrily, for the refreshment and the delicious morning air were telling upon his spirits, “the world goes round and round all the same, and human nature is one of the things that cannot be changed.”

He had to turn the pony out on to the road here, for the long green strands of the brambles were hanging right out over the grass, and catching at his legs as he cantered by. The soft mists were floating away as he began to descend the hilly slope, still at his feet the landscape seemed to be half hidden by clouds, through which hillocks, and hedge, and trees were visible, with here and there a house or a brown patch of the rough common land; and right away on the other side, stood up, grim and depressing of aspect, the ugly brick house upon the big hillock of sand, with the various and grim-looking edifices that Moray Alleyne had raised. Forming a background were the sombre fir trees with the column-topped slope and hill; and, even at that distance, he could make out, here and there, portions of the sandy lane that skirted the pine slope, which formed so striking an object in the surrounding landscape.

So beautiful was the scene in the early morning, so varied the tints, that Oldroyd checked his pony, and told himself that he could not do better than pause and admire the landscape. But somehow his eyes lit upon the ugliest object there, focused themselves so as to get the most photographic idea upon the polished plate of his memory, and there they stayed, for he saw nothing else but Mrs Alleyne’s gloomy house.

This, however, is not quite the fact, for in a most absurd way—for a young medical man who had been telling himself a hundred times over that it would be insanity for him to think of marrying—he furnished that gloomy picture with one figure that seemed to him to turn the whole place into a palace of beauty, of whose aspect he could never tire.

“Go along!” he exclaimed aloud at last, as if to himself for his absurd thoughts; but the pony took the order as being applied to the beast of burden present, and went off at once in a good canter, one that gained spirit from the fact that he knew the way and that way was homewards.

So absorbed was Oldroyd that he left the sturdy little animal to itself, and it went pretty swiftly over the driest bits of close, velvety turf, cleverly avoiding the bigger furze clumps, and reaching at last the lighter ground where the fir trees grew. Then it snorted and would have increased its pace, but there were awkward stumps here and there, and slippery places, such as the cleverest pony could not avoid, so the rider drew rein, and let the little steed amble gently along.

All at once Philip Oldroyd’s heart seemed to stand still, and he checked the pony suddenly, sitting breathless and half stunned, gazing straight before him at a couple of figures passing along the road.

He drew a long breath that hissed between his closed teeth; and even a pearl diver might have envied his power of retaining that breath, so long was it before he exhaled it again.

Then he turned his pony’s head, bent down his darkened face till his chin rested upon his breast, and rode forward again; but the pony began to resist a change which suggested going right away from home. He drummed its ribs fiercely with his heels, and pressed it on, but only to turn its head directly after, forcing himself into a state of composure as he rode quietly by Lucy Alleyne and Rolph, and saluted them as he passed.

It was hard work to ride on like that, without looking back, but he mastered himself and went quickly on for some distance before drawing rein, and sitting like a statue upon the pony, which began to graze, and only lifted its head and gave a momentary glance at Lucy, when, sobbing as if she would break her heart, the little lady nearly ran up against the waiting rider and his steed.

“Mr Oldroyd!” cried Lucy, after giving vent to that astonished, frightened “Oh!”

“Yes, Miss Alleyne,” he said coldly, “Mr Oldroyd.”

“Why—why are you stopping me like that? Oh, I beg your pardon; good-morning!” she cried hastily, and in a quick, furtive way she swept the tears from her eyes, and wiped her pretty little nose, which crying was turning of a pinky hue.

“Was I stopping you?” he said, speaking mechanically, and glancing straight before him. “I have been out all night with a patient six miles away.”

“Indeed!” said Lucy, hastily; “yes, it is a beautiful morning.”

She went by him without trusting herself to look in his face.

“If I did so, I should burst out sobbing,” she said to herself.

But by the time Lucy had gone half a score yards, Oldroyd was by her side, the pony keeping step with her, pace for pace, while the little woman’s breast was heaving with love, sorrow and despair.

“What will he think? what will he think?” she kept saying to herself as she longed to lay her hands in his, and to tell him that it was no fault of hers, but an accident that Captain Rolph had met her during her walk.

But she could not tell him—she dared not. It was like a confession that she cared for his opinion more than for that of anybody in the world. It would be unmaidenly, and degrading, and strange; and there was nothing for her to do but assume anger and annoyance, and treat Oldroyd as if he had been playing the part of spy.

A very weak conclusion, no doubt, but it was the only one at which, in her misery, she arrived.

The sun was shining now from a pure, blue sky, the birds were darting beneath the trees, where the long spider webs hung, strung with jewels, that flashed and glowed as they were passing fast away. There was a delicious aroma, too, in the soft breeze that floated from among the gloomy pines; but to those who went on, side by side, it was as if the morning had become overcast; all was stormy and grey, and life was in future to be one long course of desolation and despair. Nature was at her best, and all was beautiful; but Lucy could not see a ray of hope in the far-off future. Philip Oldroyd could see a gloomy, wasted life—the life of a man who had trusted and believed; but to find that the woman was weak and vain as the rest of her sex.

They had relapsed into silence, and were going on pretty swiftly towards The Firs, but their proceedings did not seem to either to be at all strange. Lucy’s destination was, of course, home, and Oldroyd appeared resolved to accompany her; why, he knew not, and it did not trouble him after the first few minutes, seeming quite natural that he should take her to task, and he determined, as a punishment, to see her safely back. She did not deserve it, of that she was sure, but there was something comfortable and satisfactory in being thus silently scolded by one much wiser and stronger than herself.

Oldroyd wished to speak. He had a good deal to say—so he felt, but not a word escaped him till they reached the steep path that ran up to the gates at The Firs, when he drew rein, and made way for Lucy to pass.

“Good-bye,” he said.

“Good-bye,” faltered Lucy, looking at him wistfully.

He looked down into her eyes from where he sat, with his very heart ready to leap from his breast towards her; but, as he gazed, he saw again the sunny sandy road with the velvety grass, and golden-bloomed furze on either side; the long, sloping bank with its columnar pines, and the dark background of sombre green, while in front was Lucy, the girl in whom he had so believed, walking with Rolph; and then all was bitterness and cloud once more.

“He was marked,” thought Oldroyd; “there was a patch of plaister on his forehead. Hang it all! could he have shot that man?”

The doctor’s heart beat fast, for, in a confused fashion, light, the glimmering light upon a reflector when an image plays about the focus of a telescope, he saw difficulties dragging Captain Rolph away from that neighbourhood: a man dying of his wounds, and Lucy Alleyne turning from her idol in utter disgust.

But he shook his head.

“Nothing to me,” he cried, with a bitter laugh, as he rode away. “The old story—Nature asserting herself once more. A fine figure, grand muscles, a chest that is deep and round, and the noble bovine front of a bull, and you have the demi-god gentle woman makes her worship. Ah, well, it was time I awakened from a silly dream. Good-bye, little Lucy, good-bye! Next time I come to see your brother, I’ll wear the armoured jerkin of common sense. What a weak idiot I have been.”

There were no mushrooms that morning for Mrs Alleyne’s breakfast; those which Lucy should have brought home lying by the wayside, whereat the slugs rejoiced and had a glorious banquet all to themselves.

Volume Two—Chapter Nine.

The Major Happens to be there.

A poaching affray was too common an affair in the neighbourhood of Brackley to make much stir. Sir John went in for two or three discussions with his keepers, and the rural policeman had been summoned, this worthy feeling sure that he would be able—in his own words—to put his hand upon the parties; but though the officer might have had the ability to put his hand upon the parties, he did not do so, or if he did, he forgot to close it. Then the dog was buried, and as a set off, Sir John had a fire made of the nets and stakes that had been taken from the gang; these, and their spoil of several brace of pheasants and partridges and a few hares, having been left behind in their hurried flight.

So, as it happened, the active and intelligent constable made no discoveries; but Rolph did, and whereas the one would have revelled in the hopes of promotion, and in seeing his name several times in the county paper; the other, when he had made his discovery, said only—and to himself—that it was “doosid awkward,” and held his peace.

“I never did see such a girl as you are to read,” said Rolph, entering the drawing-room one afternoon, when he had ridden over from Aldershot; “at it again.”

He spoke lightly and merrily, and Glynne hastily put aside her book, and rose from her chair.

“Did you want me to go out for a ride, Robert?” she said rather eagerly.

“Well, no; not this afternoon.”

The smile Glynne had called up, and which came with an unbidden flush, died out slowly, and a look of calmness, even of relief, dawned upon her countenance as the young man went on.

“Thought you wouldn’t mind if we didn’t go this afternoon. Looks a bit doubtful, too. Quite fine, now, but the weather does change so rapidly.”

“Does it?” said Glynne, looking at him rather wistfully.

“Yes. I think it’s the pine woods. High trees. Attract moisture. Don’t say it is, dear. I’m not big at that sort of thing, but we do have a deal of rain here.”

“Why, papa was complaining the other day about want of water,” said Glynne, smiling.

“Ah, that was for his turnips. They want rain. You won’t be disappointed?”

“I?—oh, no,” said Glynne, quietly.

“Think I’ll do a bit of training this afternoon. I’m not quite up to the mark.”

“Are you always going to train so much, dear?” said Glynne, thoughtfully.

“Always? Eh? Always? Oh, no; of course not; but it’s a man’s duty to get himself up to the very highest pitch of health and strength. But if you’d set your mind upon a ride, we’ll go.”

“I?—oh, no,” said Glynne. “I thought you wished it, dear.”

“That’s all right then,” said Rolph, cheerfully. “By-bye, beauty,” he said, kissing her. “I say, Glynne, ’pon my word, I think you are the most lovely woman I ever saw.”

She smiled at him as he turned at the doorway, nodding back at her, and she remained fixed to the spot as the captain, cigar in mouth, passed directly after, turning to kiss his hand as he saw her dimly through the window.

For Glynne did not run across the room to stand and watch him till he was out of sight, but remained where he had left her, with a couple of dull red spots glowing in her cheeks for a time, and then dying slowly out, leaving her very pale.

Glynne was thinking deeply, and it was evident that her thoughts were giving her pain, for her eyes darkened, then half-closed, and she slowly walked up and down the room a few times, and then returned to her chair, to bend over, rest her head upon her hand, and sit gazing straight before her at the soft carpet, remaining almost motionless for quite half-an-hour, when she sighed deeply, took up her book, and continued reading.

Rolph went right off at once through the park and out across the long meadow and into the fir wood, where, as if led by some feeling of attraction, he made for the spot where the encounter had taken place a week before, and stopped for a few minutes to gaze at the ground, as if he expected to see the traces still there.

“Tchah!” he exclaimed, impatiently; “it was an accident. Guns will go off sometimes.”

He wrenched himself away, walking on amongst the trees rapidly for a time, and then stopped to relight his cigar, whose near end was a good deal gnawed and shortened.

“Tchah!” he ejaculated again. “I won’t think of it. Just as well blame oneself, if a fellow in one’s troop goes down, and breaks his leg in a charge.”

He puffed furiously at his cigar as he went on, and then forgot it again, so that it went out, and he threw it away impatiently, thrust his hands into his pockets, and walked as fast as the nature of the ground would permit.

For, evidently with the idea of giving himself a very severe course of training, he kept in the woods where the pathways were rugged and winding and so little frequented that at times the young growth crossed, switching his hat or face, and often having to be beaten back by the hands which he unwillingly withdrew from his pockets.

Rolph probably meant to reach some particular spot before he turned, for twice over he crossed a lane, and instead of taking advantage of the better path afforded, he plunged again into the woods and went on.

At the end of an hour he came upon another lane more solitary and unused than those he had passed. It was a mere track occasionally used by the woodcutters for a timber wagon, and the marks of the broad wheels were here and there visible in the white sand, which as a rule trickled down into all depressions, fine as that in an hour-glass, and hid the marks left by man.

“Rather warm,” muttered Rolph as he was crossing the sandy track; and he was in the act of charging up the bank on the other side, when there was a cheery hail, and as he turned with an angry ejaculation, he became aware of the fact that Sir John was coming along the lane upon one of his ponies, whose tread was unheard in the soft sand.

“Why, hullo, Rob, where are you going?” cried the baronet. “You look like a lost man in a forest.”

“Do I? oh, only having a good breather. Getting a little too much fat. Must keep myself down. Ride very heavy with all my accoutrements.”

“Hah! Yes. You’re a big fellow,” said Sir John, looking at him rather fixedly. “Why didn’t you have the horses out, then, and take Glynne for a ride?”

“Glynne? By Jove, sir, I did propose it, only she had got a book in the drawing-room.”

“Damn the books!” cried Sir John, pettishly. “She reads too much. But, hang it all, Rob, my lad, don’t let her grow into a bookworm because she’s engaged. She’s not half the girl she was before this fixture, as you’d call it, was made.”

“Well, really, I—”

“Yes, yes, I know what you’d say. You do your best. But, hang it all, don’t let her mope, and be always indoors. Plenty of time for that when there are half-a-dozen children in the nursery, eh? Coming back my way?”

“No. Oh, no,” cried Rolph, hastily; “I must finish my walk. I shall take a short cut back. Been for a ride?”

“I? Pooh! I don’t go for rides, my lad. I’ve been to see my sheep on the hills, and I’ve another lot to see. There, good-bye till dinner-time, if you won’t come.”

He touched his pony’s ribs and cantered off. Rolph plunging into the wood, and hastily glancing at his watch as he hurried on.

“Lovers are different to what they were when I was a young fellow,” said Sir John. “We were a bit chivalrous and attentive then. Pooh! So they are now. There’s no harm in the lad. It isn’t such a bad thing to keep his body in a state of perfection—real perfection of health and strength. Makes a young fellow moral and pure-minded; but I wish he would devote himself more to Glynne. Take her out more; she looks too pale.”

“Hang him! I wish he had been at Jericho,” muttered the subject of Sir John’s thoughts. “Let’s see, I can keep along all the way in the woods now. I sha’n’t meet any one there.”

The prophecy concerning people held good for a quarter of an hour or so, and then, turning rapidly into an open fir glade, Rolph found out that being prophetic does not pay without a long preliminary preparation, and an ingenious consideration of probabilities and the like, for he suddenly came plump upon the major, stooping down, trowel in hand—so suddenly, in fact, that he nearly fell over him, and the two started back, the one with a muttered oath, the other with words of surprise.

“Why, I didn’t expect to find you in this out-of-the-way place,” said the major.

“By Jove, that’s just what I was going to say,” cried Rolph.

“Not raw beef-steaks this time, is it?” said the major with a grim look full of contempt.

“Steaks—raw steaks. I don’t understand you.”

“This is rough woodland; you are not training now, are you?” said the major, carefully placing what looked like a handful of dirty little blackish potatoes in his fishing creel.

“Training? Well, yes, of course I am. Keeping myself up to the mark,” retorted Rolph. “A soldier, in my opinion, ought to be the very perfection of manly strength.”

“Well, yes,” said the major, rubbing the soil off one of his dirty little truffles, and then polishing his bright little steel trowel with a piece of newspaper, “but the men of my time did pretty well with no other training than their military drill.”

“Autres—I forget the rest,” said Rolph. “I never was good at French. It means other fellows had other manners in other times, major. Got a good haul of toadstools?”

“No, sir, I have not got a good haul of toadstools to-day; but I have unearthed a few truffles. Should you like a dish for dinner?”

“Thanks, no. Not coming my way, I suppose?”

“No,” said the major. “I think I shall trudge back.”

“Ho!” exclaimed Rolph. “Well, then, I’ll say ta-ta, till dinner-time;” and he went off at a good swinging pace.

“Almost looks as if they were watching me,” muttered the young officer, as he trudged on. “Tchah! no! The old boys wouldn’t do that, either of them;” and he turned into one of the thickest portions of the wood.

The major kept on rubbing his little steel trowel till long after it was dry, and then slowly sheathed it, as if it were a sword, before going thoughtfully on hunting up various specimens of the singular plants that he made his study.

“It’s very curious,” he mused, “very. Women are unmistakably enigmas, and I suppose that things must take their course. Bless me! I must want some of his training. It’s very warm.”

He stopped, took out his handkerchief, a genuine Indian bandanna, that he had brought home himself years ago, and now very soft and pleasant to the touch, but decidedly the worse for wear. He wiped his face, took off his hat, and had a good dab at his forehead, and then, after a few minutes’ search round the bole of a huge beech, whose bark was ornamented with patches of lovely cream and grey lichens, he stopped short to look at a great broad buttress-like root, which spread itself in so tempting a way that it suggested a comfortable garden seat, a great favourite of the major’s. Then, with a smile of satisfaction, the old man sat down, shuffled himself about a little, and finally found it so agreeable, with his back resting against the tree, that he fell into a placid state of musing on the various specimens he had collected; from them he began to think of his niece, then of Lucy Alleyne, and then of Rolph, returning to his niece by a natural sequence, and then thinking extremely deeply of nothing.

It was wonderfully quiet out there in the woods. Now and then a bird chirped, and the harsh caw of a rook, softened by distance, was heard. Anon there came a tap on the ground, as if something had fallen from high up in the big tree, and then, after a pause, there was a rustle and swishing about of twigs and leaves, as something bounded from bough to bough, ran lightly along the bigger branches, and finally stopped, gazing with bright, dark eyes at the sleeping intruder. The latter made no sign, so after a while, the squirrel gave its beautiful, bushy tail a few twitches, uttered a low, impatient sound that resembled the chopping of wood on a block, and then scurried down the bole of the tree, picked up something, and ran off.

Soon after a rabbit came cantering among the leaves, sat up, raising it ears stiffly above its head, drooped its fore paws, and stared in turn at the sleeper, till, gaining confidence from his motionless position, it played about, ran round, gave two or three leaps from the ground, and then proceeded to nibble at various succulent herbs that grew just outside the drip from the branches of the beech.

The rabbit disappeared in turn, and after picking up a worm that had slipped out of the ground, consequent upon the rabbit having given a few scratches, in one place, a round-eyed robin flitted to a low, bare twig of the beech, and sat inspecting the major, as if he were one of the children lost in the wood, and it was necessary to calculate how many leaves it would take to cover him before the task was commenced.

The delicious, scented silence of the wood continued for long enough, and then closely following each other, with a peculiarly silent flight, half-a-dozen grey birds came down a green arcade straight for the great beech, where one of them, with vivid blue edges to its wings, all lined with black, and a fierce black pair of moustachios, set up its loose, speckled, warm grey crest, and uttered a most demonically harsh cry of “schah-tchah-tchah!” taking flight at once, followed by its companions, giving vent to the same harsh scream in reply, and making the major start from his nap, spring up, and stare about.

“Jays!” he cried. “Bless my soul, I must have been asleep.”

He pulled out his watch, glanced at it, muttered something about “a good hour,” which really was under the mark, and then, after a glance at his specimens and a re-arrangement of his creel, he started to trudge back to the Hall, but stopped and hesitated.

“Too far that way,” he said. “I’ll try the road and the common.”

He glanced at the tiny pocket compass attached to his watch-chain, and started off once more in a fresh direction, one which he knew would bring him out on the road near Lindham. The path he soon found was one evidently rarely used, and deliciously soft and mossy to his feet, as, refreshed by his nap, he went steadily on, following the windings till he stopped short wonderingly, surprised by eye and ear, for as he went round a sudden turn it was to find himself within a yard or two of a girl seated on the mossy ground, her arms clasping her knees, and her face bent down upon them, sobbing as if her heart would break.

“My good girl,” cried the chivalrous major eagerly.

Before he could say more, the woman’s head was raised, so that in the glance he obtained he saw that she was young, dark and handsome, in spite of her red and swollen eyes, dishevelled, dark hair, and countenance generally disfigured by a passionate burst of crying.

For a moment the girl seemed about to bound up and run; but she checked the impulse, clasped her knees once more, and hid her face upon them.

“Why, I ought to know your face,” said the major. “Mr Rolph’s keeper’s daughter, if I am not mistaken?”

There was no reply, only a closer hiding of the face, and a shiver.

“Can I do anything for you?” said the major kindly. “Is anything the matter?”

“No. Go away!” cried the girl in low, muffled tones.

“But you are in trouble.”

“Go away!” cried the girl fiercely; and this she reiterated so bitterly that the major shrugged his shoulders and moved off a step or two.

“Are you sure I cannot assist you?” said the major, hesitating about leaving the girl in her trouble.

“Go away, I tell you.”

“Well then, will you tell me where to find the Lindham road?”

For answer she averted her head from him and pointed in one direction. This he followed, found the road and the open common, coming out close to a cottage to which he directed his steps in search of a cup of water.

The door was half open, and as soon as his steps approached, an old woman’s sharp voice exclaimed,—

“Ah, you’ve come back then, you hussy! Who was that came and called you out, eh?”

“You are making a mistake,” said the major quietly. “I came to ask if I could have a glass of water?”

“Oh yes, come in, whoever you are, if you ar’n’t afraid to see an ugly old woman lying in bed. I thought it was my grandchild. Who are you?”

“I come from Brackley,” said the major, smiling down at the crotchety old thing in the bed.

“Do you? oh, then I know you. Your one of old Sir John Day’s boys. Be you the one who went sojering?”

“Yes, I’m the one,” said the major, smiling.

“Ah, you’ve growed since then. My master pointed you out to me one day on your pony. Yes, to be sure, you was curly-headed then. There, you can take some water; it’s in the brown pitcher, and yonder’s a mug. It was fresh from the well two hours ago. That gal had just fetched it when some one throwed a stone at the door, and she went out to see who threw it, she said. Ah, she don’t cheat me, a hussy. She knowed, and I mean to know. It was some chap, that’s who it was, some chap—Caleb Kent maybe—and I’m not going to have her come pretending to do for me, and be running after gipsy chaps.”

“No, you must take care of the young folks,” said the major. “What beautiful water!”

“Yes, my master dug that well himself, down to the stone, and it’s beautiful water. Have another mug? That’s right. You needn’t give me anything for it without you like; but a shilling comes in very useful to get a bit o’ tea. I often wish we could grow tea in one’s own garden.”

“It would be handy,” said the major. “There’s half-a-crown for you, old lady. It’s a shame that you should not have your bit of tea. Good-bye.”

“Good-bye to you, and thank you kindly,” cried the old woman; “and if you see that slut of a girl just you send her on to me.”

“I will,” he said. “Good-bye.”

“Good-bye,” shrieked the old woman; and as the major passed out of the gate, the shrill voice came after him, “Mind you send her on if you see her.”

The words reached a second pair of ears, those of Judith, who flushed up hot and angry as she found herself once more in the presence of the major.

“You’ve been telling her about me,” she cried fiercely. “It’s cowardly; it’s cruel.”

She stood up before him so flushed and handsome that the major felt as it were the whole of her little story.

“No,” he said quietly, “I have not told your grandmother about you; she has been telling me.”

With an angry, indignant look the girl swept by him and entered the cottage.

“Poor lass, she is very handsome,” said the major to himself, “and it seems as if her bit of life romance is not going so smoothly as it should. Hah! that was a capital drop of water; it gives one life. Crying in the woods, eh—after a signal that the old lady heard. Gipsy lad, eh? Bad sign—bad sign. Ah, well,” he added, with a sigh, “I’m getting too old a man to think of love affairs; but, somehow, I often wonder now that I did not marry.”

That thought came to him several times as he walked homeward over the boggy common, and rose again more strongly as he came in sight of The Firs and the grim, black mansion on the hillock. Fort Science, as he had jestingly called it, looked at times bright and sunny, and then dull, repulsive and cold.

The major reached home after his very long walk rather out of spirits; and his valet, unasked, fetched him a cup of tea.

Volume Two—Chapter Ten.

Lucy Examines the Examiner.

“I wish you would be more open with me, Moray,” said Lucy to her brother.

He was gazing through one of his glasses intently upon some celestial object, for the night was falling fast, and first one and then another star came twinkling out in the cold grey of the north-east.

Alleyne raised his head slowly and looked at his sister’s pretty enquiring face for a few moments, and then resumed his task.

“Don’t understand you,” he said quietly.

“Now, Moray, you must,” cried Lucy, pettishly; “you have only one sister, and you ought to tell her everything.”

As she spoke, in a playful, childish way, she began tying knots in her brother’s long beard, and made an attempt to join a couple of threads behind his head, but without result, the crisp curly hairs being about half-an-inch too short.

Alleyne paid no heed to her playful tricks for a time, and she went on,—

“If I were a man—which, thank goodness, I am not—I’d try to be learned, and wise, and clever, but I’d be manly as well, and strong and active, and able to follow all out-door pursuits.”

“Like Captain Rolph,” said Alleyne, with a smile, half reproach, half satire.

“No,” cried Lucy, emphatically; “he is all animalism. He has all the strength that I like to see, and nothing more. No, the man I should like to be, would combine all that energy with the wisdom of one who thinks, and uses his brains. Captain Rolph, indeed!”

What was meant for a withering, burning look of scorn appeared on Lucy’s lips; but it was only pretty and provocative; it would not have scorched a child.

“No, dear, the man I should like to be would be something very different from him. There, I don’t care what you say to the contrary, you love Glynne, and I shall tell her so.”

“You love your brother too well ever to degrade him in the eyes of your friend, Lucy,” said Alleyne, drawing her to him, and stroking her hair. “Even if—if—”

“There, do say it out, Moray. If you did or do love her. I do wish you wouldn’t be so girlish and weak.”

“Am I girlish and weak?” he said thoughtfully.

“Yes, and dreamy and strange, when you, who are such a big fine-looking fellow, might be all that a woman could love.”

“All that a woman could love?” he said thoughtfully.

“Yes; instead of which you neglect yourself and go shabby and rough, and let your hair grow long. Oh, if I only could make you do what I liked. Come now, confess; you are very fond of Glynne?”

He looked at her dreamily for a while, but did not reply. It was as though his thoughts were busy upon something she had said before, and it was not until Lucy was about to speak that he checked her.

“Yes,” he said, “you are right; I have given up everything to my studies. I have neglected myself, my mother, you, Lucy. What would you say if I were to change?”

“Oh, Moray!” she cried, catching his hands; “and will you?—for Glynne’s sake.”

“Hush!” he cried sternly; and his brows knit, as he looked down angrily in her face. “Lucy, you wish me to be strong; if I am to be, you must never speak like that again. I have been weak, and in my weakness I have listened to your girlish prattle about your friend. Have you forgotten that she is to be—Captain Rolph’s wife?”

“No,” cried Lucy impetuously, “I have not forgotten; I never can forget it; but if she ever is his wife, she will bitterly repent it to the end.”

“Hush!” he exclaimed again, and his eyes grew more stern, and there was a quiver of his lip. “Let there be an end of this.”

“But do you not see that he is unworthy of her—that his tastes are low and contemptible; that he cannot appreciate her in the least, and—and besides, dear, he—he—is not honest and faithful.”

“How do you know this?” cried Alleyne sternly.

Lucy flushed crimson.

“I know it by his ways—by his words,” she said, recovering herself, and speaking with spirit, “I like Glynne; I love her, dear, and it pains me more than I can say, to see her drifting towards such a fate. Why, Moray, see how she has changed of late—see how she has taken to your studies, how she hangs upon every word you say, how—oh, Moray!”

She stopped in affright, for he clutched her arm with a violence that caused her intense pain. His brow was rugged, and an angry glare shot from his eyes, while when he spoke, it was in a low husky voice.

“Lucy,” he said, “once for all, never use such words as these to me again. There, there, little bird, I’m not very angry; but listen to me,” and he drew her to his side in a tender caressing way. “Is this just—is this right? You ask me to be more manly and less of the dreaming student that I have been so long, and you ask me to start upon my new career with a dishonourable act—to try and presume upon the interest your friend has taken in my pursuit to tempt her from her duties to the man who is to be her husband. There, let this be forgotten; but I will do what you wish.”

“You will, Moray?” cried Lucy, who was now sobbing.

“Yes,” he cried, as he hid from himself the motive power that was energising his life. “Yes, I will now be a man. I will show you—the world—that one can be a great student and thinker, and at the same time a man of that world—a gentleman of this present day. The man who calculates the distance of one of the glorious orbs I have made my study, rarely is as others are in manners and discourse—educated in the ordinary pursuits of life—without making himself ridiculous if he mounts a horse—absurd if he has to stand in competition with his peers. Yes, you are right, Lucy, I have been a dreaming recluse; now the dreams shall be put away, and I will awaken into this new life.”

Lucy clapped her hands, and, flinging her arms round her brother kissed him affectionately, and then drew her face back to gaze in his.

“Why, Moray,” she cried proudly, “there isn’t such a man for miles as you would be, if you did as others do.”

He laughed as he kissed her, and then gently put her away.

“There,” he said, “go now. I have something here—a calculation I must finish.”

“And now you are going back to your figures again?” she cried pettishly.

“Yes, for a time,” he replied; “but I will not forget my promise.”

“You will not?” she cried.

“I give you my word,” he said, and kissing him affectionately once again, Lucy left the observatory.

“He has forbidden me to speak,” she said to herself, with a glow of triumph in her eyes, “but it will come about all the same. He loves Glynne with all his heart, and the love of such a man as he is cannot change. Glynne is beginning, too; and when she quite finds it out, she will never go and swear faith to that miserable Rolph. I am going to wait and let things arrange themselves, as I’m sure they will.”

The object of her thoughts was not going on with the astronomical calculation, but pacing the observatory to and fro, with his brow knit, and a feverish energy burning in his brain.

Volume Two—Chapter Eleven.

The Doctor Brings Alleyne down.

About an hour later Oldroyd called; and, as the bell jangled at the gate and Eliza went slowly down, Lucy’s face turned crimson, and she ran to the window and listened, to hear the enquiry,—“Is your mistress in?”

That was enough. The whole scene of that particular morning walk came back with a repetition of the agony of mind. She saw Rolph in his ludicrous undress, striding along the sandy road; she heard again his maundering civilities, and she saw, too, the figure of Oldroyd seated upon the miller’s pony, passing them, and afterwards blocking the way.

It was he, now, seated upon the same pony; and, without waiting to hear Eliza’s answer, Lucy fled to her bedroom and locked herself in, to begin sobbing and crying in the most ridiculous manner.

“No, sir,” said Eliza, with a bob; “she’ve gone to town shopping, but Miss Lucy’s in the drawing-room.”

Eliza smiled to herself as she said this, giving herself the credit of having managed a splendid little bit of diplomacy, for, according to her code, young gents ought to have opportunities to talk to young ladies whenever there was a chance. She was, however, terribly taken aback by the young doctor’s words.

“Thank you, yes, but I don’t want to see her,”—words which, had she heard them, would have made Lucy’s sobs come more quickly. “Is Mr Alleyne in?”

“Yes, sir, he’s in the observatory.”

“I’ll come in then,” said Oldroyd; and he dismounted, and threw the rein over the ring hook in the yard wall.

“If you please, sir,” said the maid, who did not like to lose an opportunity now that a medical man was in the house, “I don’t think I’m very well.”

“Eh, not well?” said Oldroyd, pausing in the hall, “why you appear as rosy and bonny as a girl can look.”

“Thankye, sir,” said the girl, with a bob; “but I’m dreadful poorly, all the same.”

“Why, what’s the matter?”

For answer Eliza put her hands behind her, and seemed as if she were indulging in the school-girl trick of what is called “making a face” at the doctor, for she closed her eyes, opened her mouth, wrinkled her brow, and put out a very long red tongue, which quivered and curled up at the point.

“That’ll do,” said Oldroyd, hiding a smile; and the tongue shot back, Eliza’s eyes opened, her mouth closed, and the wrinkles disappeared from her face.

“Will that do, sir?”

“Yes; your tongue’s beautifully healthy, your eyes are bright, and your skin moist and cool. Why, what’s the matter?”

“Please sir, I’m quite well of a night,” said Eliza, with another bob, “but I do have such dreadful dreams.”

“Oh!” said Oldroyd, drawing in a long breath, “I see. Did you have a bad dream last night?”

“Oh yes, sir, please. I dreamed as a poacher were going to murder me, and I couldn’t run away.”

“Let me see; you had supper last night at half-past nine, did you not?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Bread and Dutch cheese?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Ah, you want a little medicine,” said Oldroyd quietly. “I’ll send you some.”

“And please, sir, how am I to take it?”

“Oh, you’ll find that on the bottle, and mind this: you are not to eat any more cheese for supper, but you may have as much butter as you like, and stale bread.”

“Thank you, sir. Will you go in, sir?”

“Yes, I’ll go up,” said Oldroyd, and then to himself, “What humbugs we doctors are; but we are obliged to be. If I told the girl only to leave off eating cheese she would think she was ill-used, and as likely as not she would get a holiday on purpose to go over to the town and see another man.”

He tapped sharply on the door with the handle of his whip, and in response to the loud “Come in,” entered, to find Alleyne standing amongst his instruments.

“Ah, Oldroyd,” he said, holding out his hand, which the other took, “glad to see you.”

“And I’m glad to see you—looking so much better,” said Oldroyd. “Why, man, your brain has been working in a new direction; your eyes don’t look so dreamy, and the balance is getting right. Come, confess, don’t you feel more energetic than you did?”

“Ten times,” said Alleyne frankly.

“Then you’ll end by being a firm believer in my system—cure without drugs, eh?”

“Indeed I shall,” said Alleyne, smiling.

“And to show how consistent I am,” said Oldroyd, “I’ve just promised to send your maid a bottle of medicine. But come, sir, I’m just off among the hills to see a patient. It’s a lovely day; only about six miles. Come with me, and I’ll leave the pony and walk.”

Alleyne shook his head.

“No,” he said, “I should be very poor company for you, Oldroyd—yes, I will go,” he cried, recollecting himself. “Wait a minute and I’ll be back.”

“All right,” replied the doctor, who amused himself peeping among the various glasses till Alleyne came back in a closely-fitting shooting jacket, for which he had changed the long, loose dressing-gown he had worn.

“That’s better,” cried Oldroyd, approvingly; “why, Alleyne, you will be worth two of the patients I saw a few months ago if you go on like this.”

Alleyne smiled sadly, and took a soft felt hat from its peg; and as he did so, he sent his hand again to his long, wild hair, and thought of his sister’s words, the colour coming into his cheeks, as he said in an assumed easy-going manner,—

“It’s time I had my hair cut.”

“Well, not to put too fine a point upon it, Alleyne, it really is. I like short hair, it is so comfortable on a windy day.”

The colour stayed in Alleyne’s cheeks, for, in spite of himself, he felt a little nettled that his companion should have noticed this portion of his personal appearance; but he said nothing, and they went out into the yard, where, unfastening the pony, Oldroyd threw the rein over the docile little creature’s neck and then tied it to a loop in the saddle, after which the pony followed them like a dog, till they reached its stable, where it was left.

“Now,” cried Oldroyd, “what do you say to a good tonic?”

“Do I need one?” said Alleyne, looking at him wistfully.

“Badly. I don’t mean physic, man,” laughed Oldroyd, “but a strong dose of fresh air off the hills.”

Alleyne laughed, and they started off across the boggy heath, avoiding the soft places, and, wherever the ground was firm, striding along at a good brisk pace over the elastic turf, which seemed to communicate its springiness to their limbs, while the sweet breeze sent a fresh light into their eyes.

Over the common and up the hilly lanes, where, as they went more slowly, Oldroyd told the history of his patient up at the common, the result of which was an animated discussion upon the game, laws, and Oldroyd began wondering at the change that had come over his companion. He had taken in a new accession of nervous force, which lent animation to his remarks, and, as he noted all this, Oldroyd began wondering, for he frankly told himself that there must have been other influences at work to make this change.

“Isn’t that Captain Rolph?” he said suddenly, as they turned into a long lane that ran through one of the pine woods on the slope of a hill.

“Rolph?” said Alleyne quietly, as he glanced in the direction of a distant horseman, coming towards them. “Yes—no—I cannot say.”

“I should say—yes, from his military seat in the saddle,” said Oldroyd. “Well, if it be or no, he doesn’t mean to meet us. He has gone through the wood.”

For, as he spoke, the coming horseman drew rein turned his horse’s head, leaped a ditch, and disappeared amongst the pines.

“What does he want up here?” said Oldroyd to himself, and then aloud, “Been having a good ‘breather’ round the hills,” he continued. “Sort of thing you ought to cultivate, Alleyne. Nothing like horse exercise.”

“Horses are costly, and the money I should spend upon a horse would be valuable to me for some optical instrument,” said Alleyne, speaking cheerfully, though all the while he was slightly excited by the sight of the horseman they had supposed to be Rolph; but this wore off in a few minutes, and they soon came in sight of the cottages, while before them a tall figure, graceful in appearance, in spite of the homely dress, had suddenly crossed a stile, hurried in the same direction, and turned in at the cottage gate.

“Mademoiselle Judith,” said Oldroyd; “a very pretty girl with a very ugly name. Hallo! We are in trouble.”

“I don’t know what’s come to you. Here’s your poor father so bad he can’t lift hand or foot, and you always running off to Mother Wattley’s or picking flowers. Flowers indeed! Better stop and mind your father.”

This in very much strident tones from the cottage whose gate they were entering; and then a sudden softening as Oldroyd and Alleyne darkened the doorway, and the nurse dropped a curtsey.

“Didn’t know you was so close, sir. I was only saying a word to Judith—oh, she’s gone.”

“How is Hayle to-day?” said Oldroyd, as the girl stepped out at the back door.

“Well, sir, thank you kindly, I think he’s better; he talks stronger like, and he took a basin of hare soup to-day, well, that he did, and it was nice and strong.”

“Hare soup, eh?” said Oldroyd, with a queer look at Alleyne.

“Yes, sir, hare soup; he said as how he was sick o’ rabbits, and Caleb Kent kindly brought in a fine hare for him, and—”

She stopped short, looking guiltily at the young doctor, and two red spots came in her yellow sunken cheeks.

“You’re letting the cat—I mean the hare—out of the bag,” said Oldroyd drily. “One of Sir John Day’s hares?”

“Oh, sir!” faltered the woman, “it’s nothing to him; and I’m only the nurse.”

“There, I don’t want to know,” said Oldroyd. “Can I go up?”

“Oh yes, sir, please,” cried the woman, who was only too glad to change the conversation after her lapse, “you’ll find him nice and tidy.”

“Care to come and see my patient, Alleyne?” said Oldroyd.

“Thanks, yes, I may as well,” and he followed the doctor up into the low room, where the truth of the woman’s assertions were plainly to be seen. The wounded man, lying upon coarse linen that was exquisitely clean, while the partially covered boards were as white as constant scrubbing could make them.

“Well, Hayle, how are you going on? I’ve brought a friend of mine to see you.”

The man whose eyes and cheeks were terribly sunken, and who looked worn out with his late journey to the very gates of death, from which he was slowly struggling back, raised one big gnarled hand heavily to his forelock, and let it fall again upon the bed.

“Steady, sir, steady. Glad to see you, sir, glad to see him, sir. He’s welcome like. Sit you down, sir; sit you down.”

Alleyne took the stool that was nearest and sat down watching the man curiously, as Oldroyd examined his bandages, and then asked a few questions.

“You’re going on right enough,” he said at last. “Capitally.”

“But I’m so weak, sir,” said the great helpless fellow, piteously. “I’m feeble as a child. I can hardly just hold my hand to my head.”

“Well, what can you expect?” said Oldroyd. “You lost nearly every drop of blood in your body, and it will take time to build you up again—to fill you up again,” he added, smiling.

“Yes sir, of course, sir; but can’t you give me a bottle or two of nothing as will set me to rights? We’ll pay you, you know, sir, don’t you be afraid o’ that.”

“Oh, I’m not afraid of that,” said Oldroyd, smiling, “but I can give you nothing better than I am giving you. The best medicine you can have now is plenty of strong soup, the same as you had this morning.”

“Did she tell you I had soup this morning, sir?”

“Yes—hare soup,” said Oldroyd meaningly.

“Did that woman say hare soup, sir?”

“Yes, and that you were tired of rabbits. I say, Hayle, I ought to tell Sir John’s keepers.”

“Eh, but you won’t, sir,” said the man quietly.

“Why not?”

“’Cause you’re too much of a gen’leman, sir, and so would your friend be, or else you wouldn’t have brought him. She needn’t have let out about it, though. I’m lying helpless-like here, and they talk and do just as they like. Was my Judith downstairs, sir?”

“Yes,” said Oldroyd.

“That’s a comfort,” said the man, with a sigh of content. “Young, sir, and very pretty,” he added apologetically, to Alleyne; “makes me a bit anxious about her, don’t you see, being laid-by like. You’ll come and see me again soon, doctor?”

“Yes, and I must soon have a bottle or two of port wine for you. I can’t ask Sir John Day, can I?”

“No, sir, don’t ask he,” said the man, with a faint smile. “Let’s play as fair as we can. If you say I’m to have some wine, we’ll get it; but I’d a deal rayther have a drop of beer.”

“I daresay you would, my friend,” cried Oldroyd, smiling; “but no beer for a long time to come. Alleyne, would you mind going down now, and sending me up the nurse?”

Alleyne rose, and, going down, sent up the woman to find himself alone with the girl of whom they had been speaking.

Student though he was, the study of woman was one that had never come beneath Alleyne’s ken, and he found himself—for perhaps the first time in his life—interested, and wondering how it was that so handsome and attractive a girl could be leading so humble a cottage life as hers.

Judith, too, seemed attracted towards him, and once or twice she opened her lips and was about to speak, but a step overhead, or the movement of a chair, made her shrink away and begin busying herself in arranging chairs or the ornaments upon the chimney-piece, which she dusted and wiped.

“So you’ve been flower-gathering,” said Alleyne, to break a rather awkward silence.

“Yes, sir, and—” but just then Oldroyd was heard speaking at the top of the stairs, and Judith seemed to shrink within herself as he came down.

“Ah, Miss Judith, you there? Well, your father is getting on splendidly. Take care of him. Ready, Alleyne?”

His companion rose, said good-morning to Judith, and stepped out, while Oldroyd obeyed a sign made by the girl, and stayed behind.

“Well,” he said, looking at her curiously.

“I’m so anxious about father, sir,” she said, in a low voice. “Now that he is getting better, will there be any trouble? I mean about the keepers, and—and”—she faltered—“the police.”

“No,” said Oldroyd, looking fixedly at the girl, till she coloured warmly beneath his stern gaze, “everything seems to have settled down, and I don’t think there is anything to fear for him. Let me speak plainly, my dear. Lookers on see most of the game.”

“I—I don’t understand you, sir,” she said, colouring.

“Then try to. It seems to me that, to use a strong expression, some one has been squared. There are friends at court. Now, take my advice: as soon as father is quite well, take him into your confidence, and persuade him to go quite away. I’m sure it would be better for you both. Good-day.”

The doctor nodded and went off after Alleyne, while Judith sat down to bury her face in her hands and sob as if her heart would break.

Volume Two—Chapter Twelve.

Venus more in the Field of View.

Lucy’s life about this time was not a happy one. Mrs Alleyne was cold and distant, Moray was growing more silent day by day, taking exercise as a duty, working or walking furiously, as if eager to get the duty done, so as to be able to drown harassing thoughts in his studies; hence he saw little of, and said little to his sister. The major looked stern when he met her, and Lucy’s sensitive little bosom heaved when she noticed his distant ways. Sir John, too, appeared abrupt and distant, not so friendly as of old, or else she thought so; and certainly Glynne was not so cordial, seeming to avoid her, and rarely now sending over one of her old affectionate notes imploring her to come to lunch and spend the day.

“Philip Oldroyd always looks at me as if I were a school-girl,” Lucy used to cry impetuously when she was alone, “and as if about to scold me for not wanting to learn my lessons. How dare he look at me like that, just as if there was anything between us, and he had a right!”

Then Lucy would have a long cry and take herself to task for speaking of the doctor as Philip Oldroyd, and, after a good sob, feel better.

Rolph was the only one of her acquaintances who seemed to be pleasant with her, and his pleasantry she disliked, avoiding him when she went out for a walk, but generally finding him in the way, ready to place himself at her side, and walk wherever she did.

Lucy planted barbed verbal arrows in the young officer’s thick hide, but the only effect of these pungent little attacks was to tickle him. He was not hurt in the slightest degree. In fact he enjoyed it under the impression that Lucy admired him immensely, and was ready to fall at his feet at any time, and declare her love.

“She doesn’t know anything,” he had mused. “Her sleepy brother noticed nothing, and as for the doctor—curse the doctor, let him mind his own business, or I’ll wring his neck. I could,” he added thoughtfully, “and I would.”

“Bah! it’s only a bit of flirtation, and the little thing is so clever and sharp and piquant that she’s quite a treat after a course of mushrooms with the major, and pigs and turnips with Sir John. If Alleyne should meet us—well, I met his sister, Glynne’s friend, and we were chatting—about Glynne of course. And as to the doctor, well, curse the doctor, as aforesaid. I believe the beast’s jealous, and I’ll make him worse before I’m done.”

In Rolph’s musings about Lucy he used to call her “little pickles” and “the sauce.” Once he got as far as “Cayenne,” a name that pleased him immensely, making up his mind, what little he had, to call her by one of those epithets—some day—when they grew a little more warmly intimate.

On the other hand, when Lucy went out walking, it was with the stern determination to severely snub the captain, pleasant as she told herself it would be to read Philip Oldroyd a good severe lesson, letting him see that she was not neglected; and then for the moment all her promises were forgotten, till she was going home again, when the only consolation she could find for her lapse was that her intentions had been of the most stringent kind; that she could not help meeting the captain, and that she really had tried all she could to avoid him; while there was the satisfaction of knowing that she was offering herself up as a kind of sacrifice upon the altar of duty for her brother’s welfare.

“Sooner or later dear Glynne must find out what a wretch that Rolph is, and then I shall be blamed—she’ll hate me; but all will be made happy for poor Moray.”

The consequence of all this was that poor Lucy about this time felt what an American would term very “mean” and ashamed of herself; mingled with this, too, was a great deal of sentiment. She was going to be a martyr—she supposed that she would die, the fact being that Lucy was very sick—sick at heart, and there was only one doctor in the world who could put her right.

Of course the thoughts turn here to the magnates of Harley and Brook and Grosvenor Street, and of Cavendish Square, but it was none of these. The prescription that would cure Lucy’s ailment was of the unwritten kind: it could only be spoken. The doctor to speak it was Philip Oldroyd, and its effect instantaneous, and this Lucy very well knew. But, like all her kind, she had a tremendous antipathy to physic, and, telling herself that she hated the doctor and all his works, she went on suffering in silence like the young lady named Viola, immortalised by one Shakespeare, and grievously sick of the same complaint.

It came like a surprise to Lucy one morning to receive a note from Glynne, written in a playful, half-chiding strain, full of reproach, and charging her with forgetting so old a friend.

“When it’s all her fault!” exclaimed Lucy, as she read on, to find Glynne was coming on that afternoon. “But Captain Rolph is sure to come with her, and that will spoil all. I declare I’ll go out. No, I won’t. I’ll stop, and I’ll be a martyr again, and stay and talk to him if it will make poor Moray happy, for I don’t care what becomes of me now.”

Somehow, though, Lucy looked very cheerful that day, her eyes flashing with excitement; and it was evident that she was making plans for putting into execution at the earliest opportunity.

As it happened, Mrs Alleyne announced that she was going over to the town on business, and directly after the early dinner a chaise hired from one of the farmers was brought round, and the dignified lady took her place beside the boy who was to drive.

“Heigho!” sighed Lucy, as she stood watching the gig with its clumsy, ill-groomed horse, and the shock-headed boy who drove, and compared the turnout with the spic-and-span well-ordered vehicles that were in use at Brackley; and then she went down the garden thinking how nice it was to have money, or rather its products, and of how sad it was that Moray’s pursuits should always be making such heavy demands upon their income, and never pay anything back.

In spite of the dreariness of the outer walls of the house, the garden at The Firs had its beauties.

It was not without its claims to be called a wilderness still, but it was a pleasant kind of wilderness now, since it had been put in order, for it sloped down as steeply as the scarped side of some fortified town, and from the zigzagged paths a splendid view could be had over the wild common in fine weather, though it was a look-out over desolation in the wintry wet.

For a great change had been wrought in this piece of ground since Moray had delved in it, and bent his back to weed and fill barrows with the accumulated growth of years. There was quite a charm about the place, and the garden seat or two, roughly made out of rustic materials, had been placed in the most tempting of positions, shaded by the old trees that had been planted generations back, but which the sandy soil had kept stunted and dense.

But the place did not charm Lucy; it only made her feel more desolate and low spirited, for turn which way she would, she knew that while the rough laborious work had been done by her brother, Oldroyd’s was the brain that had suggested all the improvements, his the hand that had cut back the wild tangle of brambles, that overgrown mass of ivy, placed the chairs and seats in these selected nooks where the best views could be had, and nailed up the clematis and jasmine that the western gales had torn from their hold.

Go where she would, there was something to remind her of Oldroyd, and at last she grew, in spite of her self-command, so excited that she stopped short in dismay.

“I shall make myself ill,” she cried, half aloud; “and if I am ill, mamma will send for Mr Oldroyd; and, oh!”

Lucy actually blushed with anger, and then turned pale with dread, as in imagination she saw herself turned into Philip Oldroyd’s patient, and being ordered to put out her tongue, hold forth her hand that her pulse might be felt, and have him coming to see her once, perhaps twice, every day.

With the customary inconsistency of young ladies in her state, she exclaimed, in an angry tone, full of protestation,—

“Oh, it would be horrible!” and directly after she hurried indoors.

In due time Glynne arrived, and sent the pony carriage back, saying that she would walk home.

It was a long time since she had visited at The Firs, for of late the thought of Moray Alleyne’s name and his observatory had produced a strange shrinking sensation in Glynne’s breast, and it was not until she had mentally accused herself of having behaved very badly to Lucy in neglecting her so much that she had made up her mind to drive over; but now that the girls did meet the greeting between them was very warm, and the embrace in which they indulged long and affectionate.

“Why, you look pale, Glynne, dear,” cried Lucy, forgetting her own troubles, in genuine delight at seeing her old friend as in the days of their great intimacy.

“And you, Lucy, you are quite thin,” retorted Glynne. “You are not ill?”

“Oh, no!” cried Lucy, laughing. “I was never better; but, really, Glynne, you don’t seem quite well.”

Glynne’s reply was as earnest an assurance that she never enjoyed better health than at that present moment; and as she made this assurance she was watching Lucy narrowly, and thinking that, on the strength of the rumours she had heard from time to time, she ought to be full of resentment and dislike for her old friend, while, strange to say, she felt nothing of the kind.

“Mamma will be so sorry that she was away, Glynne,” said Lucy at last, in the regular course of conversation. “She likes you so very much.”

“Does she?” said Glynne, dreamily.

“Oh yes; she talks about you a great deal, but Moray somehow never mentions your name.”

“Indeed!” said Glynne quietly, “why should he?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Lucy, watching her anxiously, and wondering whether she knew how often Captain Rolph had met her out in the lanes, and by the common side. “He seemed to like you so very much, and to take such great interest in you when you used to meet.”

Lucy watched her friend curiously, but Glynne’s countenance did not tell of the thoughts that were busy within her brain.

“Poor fellow!” continued Lucy, “he thinks of scarcely anything but his studies.”

Lucy was very fond of Glynne, she felt all the young girlish enthusiasm of her age for the graceful statuesque maiden; while in her heart of hearts Glynne had often wished she were as bright and light-hearted and merry as Lucy. All the same though, now, excellent friends as they were, there was suspicion between them, and dread, and a curious self-consciousness of guilt that made the situation feel strange; and over and over again Glynne thought it was time to go—that she had better leave, and still she stayed.

“You never say anything to me now about your engagement, dear,” said Lucy at last, and as the words left her lips the guilty colour flushed into her cheeks, and she said to herself, “Oh! how dare I say such a thing?”

“No,” said Glynne, quietly and calmly, opening her great eyes widely and gazing full in those of her friend, but seeing nothing of the present, only trying to read her own life in the future, what time she felt a strange sensation of wonder at her position. “No: I never talk about it to any one,” she said at last; “there is no need.”

“No need?” exclaimed Lucy with a gasp; and she looked quite guilty, as she bent towards Glynne ready to burst into tears, and confess that she was very very sorry for what she had done—that she utterly detested Captain Rolph, and that if she had seemed to encourage him, it was in the interest of her brother and friend.

But Glynne’s calm matter-of-fact manner kept her back, and she sat and stared with her pretty little face expressing puzzledom in every line.

“No; I do not care to talk about it,” said Glynne calmly, “there is no need to discuss that which is settled.”

“Settled, Glynne?”

“Well, inevitable,” said Glynne coldly. “When am I to congratulate you, Lucy?” she added, with a grave smile.

“Is she bantering me?” thought Lucy; and then quickly, “Congratulate me? there is not much likelihood of that, Glynne, dear. Poor girls without portion or position rarely find husbands.”

“Indeed!” said Glynne gravely. “Surely a portion, as you call it, is not necessary for genuine happiness?”

“No, no, of course not, dear,” cried Lucy hastily. “But I know what you mean, and I’ll answer you. No—emphatically no: there is nobody.”

“Nobody?”

“Nobody!” cried Lucy, shaking her head vigorously. “Don’t look at me like that, dear,” she continued, imploringly, for she was most earnest now in her effort to make Glynne believe, if she suspected any flirtation with Rolph, that her old friend was speaking in all sincerity and truth. “If there were anything, dear, I should be unsettled until I had told you.”

She rose quickly, laid her hands upon Glynne’s shoulders, and kissed her forehead, remaining standing by her side.

“I am glad to hear you say so, Lucy,” replied Glynne, gazing frankly in her eyes, “for I was afraid that there was some estrangement springing up between us.”

“Yes,” cried Lucy, “you feel as I have felt. It is because you have not spoken out candidly and freely as you used to speak to me, dear.”

Glynne’s forehead contracted slightly, for she winced a little before the charge, one which recalled a bitter struggle through which she had passed, and the final conquest which she felt that she had gained.

She opened her lips to speak, but no words came, for as often as friendship for Lucy urged confession, shame acted as a bar, and stopped the eager speech that was ready for escape.

No: she felt she could not speak. A cloud had come for a time across her life; but it was now gone, and she was at rest. She could not—she dared not tell Lucy her inmost thoughts, for if she did she knew that she would be condemning herself to a hard fight with a special advocate, one who would gain an easy victory in a cause which she dreaded to own had the deepest sympathy of her heart.

Just at that moment Eliza entered hastily.

“Oh, if you please, Miss, I’m very sorry, but—”

The girl stopped short. She had made up her speech on her way to the room, but had forgotten the presence of the visitor, so she broke down, with her mouth open, feeling exceedingly shamefaced and guilty, for she knew that the simple domestic trouble about which she had come was not one that ought to be blurted forth before company.

“Will you excuse me, dear?” said Lucy, and, crossing to Eliza, she followed that young lady out of the room, to hear the history of a disaster in the cooking department; some ordinary preparation, expressly designed for that most unthankful of partakers, Moray Alleyne, being spoiled.

Hardly had Lucy left her alone, and Glynne drawn a breath of relief at having time given to compose herself, than a shadow crossed the window, there was a quick step outside, and the next moment there was a hand upon the glass door that led out towards the observatory, as Alleyne entered the room.

Volume Two—Chapter Thirteen.

And Retires Behind a Cloud.

“Miss Day! you here?” cried Alleyne, as she rose from her seat, and then as each involuntarily shrank from the other, there was a dead silence in the room—a silence so painful that the thick heavy breathing of the man became perfectly audible, and the rustle of Glynne’s dress, when she drew back, seemed to be loud and strange.

Glynne had fully intended that the next time she encountered Alleyne she would be perfectly calm, and would speak to him with the quietest and most friendly ease. That which had passed was a folly, a blindness that had been a secret in each of their hearts, for granting that which had made its way to hers, she was womanly enough of perception to feel that she had inspired Lucy’s brother with a hopeless passion, one that he was too true and honourable a gentleman ever to declare.

This was Glynne’s belief; and, strong in her faith in self, she had planned to act in the future so that Alleyne should find her Lucy’s cordial friend—a woman who should win his reverence so that she would be for ever sacred in his eyes.

But she had not reckoned upon being thrown with him like this; and, as he stood before her, there came a hot flush of shame to fill her cheeks, her forehead and neck with colour, but only to be succeeded by a freezing sensation of despair and dread, which sent the life-blood coursing back to her very heart, leaving her trembling as if from some sudden chill.

And Alleyne?

For weeks past he had been fighting to school his madness, as he called it—his sacrilegious madness—for he told himself that Glynne should be as sacred to him as if she were already Rolph’s honoured wife, while now, coming suddenly upon her as he had, and seeing the agitation which his presence caused, every good resolution was swept away. He did not see Rolph’s promised wife before him; he did not see the woman whom he had, in his inmost heart, vowed a hundred times to look upon as the idol of some dream of love, an unsubstantial fancy, whom he could never see; but she who stood there was Glynne Day, the woman who had just taught him what it was to love. For all these years he had been the slave of science. His every thought had been given to the work of his most powerful mistress, and then the slave had revolted. Again and again he had told himself that he had resumed his allegiance, that science was his queen once more, and that he should never again stray from her paths. That he had had his lesson, as men before him; but that he had fought bravely, manfully, and conquered; and now, as soon as he stood in presence of Glynne, his shallow defences were all swept away—he was at her mercy.

As they stood gazing at each other, Alleyne made another effort.

“I will be strong—a man who can master self. I will not give way,” he said to himself; and even as he hugged these thoughts it was as if some mocking voice were at his elbow, whispering to him these questions,—

“Was it right that this sweet, pure-minded woman, whose thoughts were every day growing broader and higher, and who had taught him what it really was to love, should become the wife of that thoughtless, brainless creature, whose highest aim was to win the applause of a senseless mob to the neglect of everything that was great and good?

“She loves you—she who was so calm and fancy free, has she not seemed to open—unfold that pure chalice of her heart before you, to fill it to the brim with thoughts of you? Has she not eagerly sought to follow, however distantly, in your steps; read the books you advised; thirsted for the knowledge that dropped from your lips; thrown aside the trivialities of life to take to the solid sciences you love? And why—why?—because she loves you.”

Every promise self-made, every energetic determination to be stern in his watch over self was forgotten in these moments; and it was only by a strenuous effort that he mastered himself enough to keep back for the time the flow of words that were thronging to his lips.

As it was, he walked straight to her, and caught her hand in his—a cold, trembling hand, which Glynne felt that she could not draw back. The stern commanding look in his eyes completely mastered her, and for the moment she felt that she was his very slave.

“I must speak with you,” he said, in a low, hoarse voice. “I cannot talk here; come out beneath the sky, where the air is free and clear, Glynne, I must speak with you now.”

She made no reply, but yielded the hand he had caught in his and pressed in his emotion, till it gave her intense pain, and walked by his side as if fascinated. She was very pale now, and her temples throbbed, but no word came to her lips. She could not speak.

Alleyne walked swiftly from the room, threw open the door, and led Glynne past the window, and down one of the sloping paths, towards where a seat had been placed during the past few months, never with the intention of its being occupied by Glynne. While he spoke, and as they were on their way, Lucy came back into the room.

“Pray forgive me, Glynne. I—Oh!” Lucy stopped short, with an ejaculation full of surprise and pleasure. “It is coming right!” she exclaimed—“it is coming right! Oh, I must not listen to them. How absurd. I could not hear them if I tried. I ought not to watch them either. But I can’t help it. It can’t be very wrong. He’s my own dear brother, and I’m sure I love Glynne like a sister, and I’m sure I pray that good may come of all this, for it would be madness for her to think of keeping to her engagement with that dreadful—”

Lucy stopped short, with her eyes dilated and fixed. She had heard a sound, and turned sharply to feel as if turned to stone; but long ere this Glynne had been led by Alleyne to the seat, and silence had fallen between them.

The same strange sensation of fascination was upon Glynne. She was terror-stricken, and yet happy; she was ready to turn and flee the moment the influence ceased to hold her there, but meanwhile she felt as if in a dream, and allowed her companion to place her in the seat beneath the clustering ivy, which was one mass of darkening berries, while he stood before her with his hands clasped, his forehead wrinkled, evidently the prey to some fierce emotion.

“He loves me,” whispered Glynne’s heart, and there was a sweet sensation of joy to thrill her nerves, but only to be broken down the next moment at the call of duty; and she sat motionless, listening as he said, roughly and hoarsely,—

“I never thought to have spoken these word to you, Glynne. I believed that I was master of myself. But they will come—I must tell you. I should not—I feel I should not, but I must—I must. Glynne—forgive me—have pity on me—I love you more than I can say.”

The spell was broken as he caught her hands in his. The sense of being fascinated had passed away, leaving Glynne Day in the full possession of her faculties, and the thought of the duty she owed another, as she started to her feet, saying words that came to her lips, not from her heart, but she knew not how they were inspired, as she spoke with all the angry dignity of an outraged woman.

“How dare you?” she exclaimed, in a tone that made him shrink from her. “How dare you speak to me, your sister’s friend, like this? It is an insult, Mr Alleyne, and that you know.”

“How dare I?” he cried, recovering himself. “An insult? No, no! you do not mean this. Glynne, for pity’s sake, do not speak to me such words as these.”

“Mr Alleyne, I can but repeat them,” she said excitedly, “it is an insult, or you must be mad.”

“I thank you,” he said, changing his tone of voice, and speaking calmly, evidently by a tremendous effort over himself. “Yes, I must be mad—you here?”

“Yes, I am here,” cried Rolph fiercely, for he had come up behind them unobserved with Lucy, who had vainly tried to stop him, following, looking white, and trembling visibly. “What is the meaning of this? Glynne, why are you here? What has this man been saying?”

There was no reply. Alleyne standing stern and frowning, and Glynne looking wildly from one to the other unable to speak.

“I heard you say something about an insult,” cried Rolph hotly; “has the blackguard dared—”

“Take me back home, Robert,” said Glynne, in a strangely altered voice.

“Then tell me first,” cried Rolph. “How dare he speak to you, what does he mean?”

He took hold of Glynne’s arm, and shook it impatiently as he spoke, but she made no reply, only looked wistfully from Rolph to Alleyne and back.

“Take me home,” she said again.

“Yes, yes, I will; but if this scoundrel has—”

“How dare you call my brother a scoundrel?” cried Lucy, firing up. “You of all persons in the world.”

Rolph turned to her sharply, and she pointed down the path, towards the gate.

“Go!” she said; “go directly, or I shall be tempted to tell Glynne all that I could tell her. Leave our place at once.”

Rolph glared at her for a moment, but turned from her directly, as too insignificant for his notice, and once more he exclaimed,—

“I insist on knowing what this man has said to you, Glynne—”

He did not finish his sentence, but, in the brutality of his health and strength, he looked with such lofty contempt upon the man whom he was calling in his heart “grub,” “bookworm,” that as Alleyne stood there bent and silent, gazing before him, straining every nerve to maintain his composure before Glynne, the struggle seemed too hard.

How mean and contemptible he must look before her, he thought—how degraded; and as he stood there silent and determined not to resent Rolph’s greatest indignity, his teeth were pressed firmly together, and his veins gathered and knotted themselves in his brow.

There was something exceedingly animal in Rolph’s aspect and manner at this time, so much that it was impossible to help comparing him to an angry combative dog. He snuffed and growled audibly; he showed his teeth; and his eyes literally glared as he appeared ready to dash at his enemy, and engage in a fierce struggle in defence of what he looked upon as his just rights.

Had Alleyne made any sign of resistance, Rolph would have called upon his brute force, and struck him; but the idea of resenting Rolph’s violence of word and look did not occur to Alleyne. He had sinned, he felt, socially against Glynne; he had allowed his passion to master him, and he told himself he was receiving but his due.

The painful scene was at last brought to an end, when once more Rolph turned to Glynne, saying angrily,—

“Why don’t you speak? Why don’t you tell me what is wrong?”

He shook her arm violently, and as he spoke Alleyne felt a thrill of passionate anger run through him that this man should dare to act thus, and to address the gentle, graceful woman before him in such a tone. It was maddening, and a prophetic instinct made him imagine the treatment Glynne would receive when she had been this man’s wife for years.

At last Glynne found words, and said hastily,—

“Mr Alleyne made a private communication to me. He said words that he must now regret. That is all. It was a mistake. Let us leave here. Take me to my father—at once.”

Rolph took Glynne’s hand, and drew it beneath his arm, glaring at Alleyne the while like some angry dog; but though Lucy stood there, fierce and excited, and longing to dash into the fray as she looked from Rolph to Glynne and back, her brother did not even raise his eyes. A strange thrill of rage, resentment and despair ran through him, but he could not trust himself to meet Rolph’s eye. He stood with his brow knit, motionless, as if stunned by the incidents of the past few minutes, and no words left his lips till he was alone with Lucy, who threw herself sobbing in his arms.

End of Volume Two.

Volume Three—Chapter One.

Gemini, with Mars in View.

With his grey hair starting out all over his head in a peculiarly fierce way, Major Day was standing and musing just at the edge of the wood, and a few yards from the path, very busy with one of those tortoise-shell framed lenses so popular with botanists, one of those with its three glasses of various powers, which, when superposed, form a combination of great magnifying strength.

Major Day had come upon a tree whose beautifully smooth bark was dappled with patches of brilliant amethystine fungus, a portion of which he had carefully slipped off with a penknife, for the purpose of examining the peculiarities of its structure under the glass.

The old gentleman was so rapt in his pursuit that he did not notice approaching footsteps till Sir John came close up, making holes in the soft earth with his walking-stick, and talking angrily to himself as he hurried along.

The brothers caught sight of each other almost at the same moment, Sir John stopping short and sticking his cane in the ground, as if to anchor himself, and the major slowly lowering his lens.

“Hullo, Jem, what have you found?” cried Sir John; “the potato disease?”

“No,” replied the major, smiling, “only a very lovely kind of Tremella.”

“Oh, have you?” growled Sir John.

“Yes. Would you like to examine it?” said the major.

“Who, I? No thank you, old fellow, I’m busy.”

“Where are you going, Jack?” said the major, as a thought just occurred to him.

“Over yonder—‘The Firs.’”

“To Fort Science, eh?” said the major, smiling; but only to look serious again directly. “Why, Jack, what for? Why are you going?”

“There, there, don’t interfere, Jem; it would not interest you. Precious unpleasant business, I can tell you. I must go, though.”

“What is the matter, Jack?”

“There, there, my dear fellow, what is the use of worrying me about it. Go on hunting for pezizas, or whatever you call them. This is a domestic matter, and doesn’t concern you.”

“Yes it does concern me, Jack,” replied the major. “You are going about that communication which Rolph made to us last night after dinner.”

“Well, hang it all, Jem, suppose I am; surely, as Glynne’s father, if I want to see the man who insulted her, and talk to him, there’s no occasion for you to interfere.”

“Jack, you are out of temper,” said the major. “You are going to make a—”

“Fool of myself, eh? There, say it, man, say it,” cried the baronet hastily.

“I shall not say anything of the kind, Jack,” replied the major good-humouredly; “but let’s talk sensibly, old fellow.”

“Yes, of course, sensibly,” cried Sir John sharply. “You are going to turn advocate and speak on that telescopic scoundrel’s behalf. What the dickens do you mean by sticking yourself here when I’m going out on business!”

“Tchut! tchut, Jack! don’t be so confoundedly peppery,” cried the major. “Now, look here, boy, what are you going to do?”

“Going to do? I’m going to horsewhip that fellow, and make him write a humble letter of apology to Rob. If he doesn’t, Rob shall call him out.”

“Now, my dear Jack, don’t talk nonsense!” cried the major.

“Nonsense, sir? It isn’t nonsense. It’s all very fine for you, with your scientific humbug, to be making friends with the star-gazing scoundrel. You fellows always hang together and back each other up. But look here, Jem, I’m not going to be meddled with in this matter. You have interfered enough.”

“I only want you, as a gentleman, to behave like a gentleman to Mr Alleyne.”

“You leave me alone for that, Jem. Insolence! The poor girl came home all of a tremble. She’s quite white this morning, and looks as if she ought to have a doctor to her. It’s your fault too, Jem, ’pon my word it is.”

“My fault, my dear brother,” said the major earnestly; “indeed, no. I would not say a word that should interfere with Glynne’s happiness.”

“But you did, sir; you did when she was first engaged.”

“Only to you, Jack. I did not like the engagement, and I don’t like it; but I have always since I got over the first shock—”

“Hang it, Jem, don’t talk like that, man. Anyone would think that you had been stricken down by some terrible trouble.”

“It was and has been a terrible trouble to me, Jack,” said the major quietly. “But there, I have done. Don’t be angry with me. Let’s talk about what you are going to do.”

All this time Sir John had been moving slowly in the direction of The Firs, with the major’s hand resting upon his arm.

“There’s no occasion to talk about it that I see; I’m going to have a few words with that Mr Alleyne, and this I conceive it to be my duty to do. There, there’s an end to it.”

“Well, but is it wise?” said the major. “It seems that Mr Alleyne has formed a deep attachment to Glynne.”

“Such insolence! A man in his position!”

“And, carried away by his feelings, he declared his love for her.”

“As if such a man as he has a right to force himself upon a girl in Glynne’s position. It is preposterous.”

“It was in bad taste—a mistake, for a man who knew of Glynne’s engagement to speak as he did. But young men do not always think before they speak, nor old ones neither, Jack.”