George Manville Fenn (continued 6)

“Tchah! nonsense. There, go on and hunt fungi. Be off now, Jem.”

“Be off? No; I’m coming with you as far as The Firs.”

“What! Coming with me?”

“Yes; I shall come and be present at the meeting. I don’t want my brother to forget himself.”

“Jem!”

“There, my dear Jack, it is of no use for you to be cross—I mean what I say. It will not do for you to get into one of your passions.”

“My passions?”

“Yes, your passions. It will cause trouble with Alleyne.”

“A scoundrel!”

“No, he is not a scoundrel, Jack. It will upset his little sister.”

“A confounded jade!” cried Sir John. “If I had known what I know now, the minx should never have entered my doors.”

“Steady, Jack.”

“I am steady, sir. A little heartless flirt, setting her cap at every man she sees. Rolph won’t own to it, but I have it on very good authority that the poor fellow could not stir without that vixen being on the watch for him, and meeting him somewhere.”

The major was silent.

“And all the time she knew that he was engaged to Glynne, and she was professing to be the best of friends to the poor child.”

The major drew his breath very hard.

“There, you’d better be off now, Jem,” cried Sir John. “I’m going just to let that fellow Alleyne have a bit of my mind, and then I shall be better.”

“But Mrs Alleyne is a most estimable lady. Had you not better give the matter up? Let it slide, my dear Jack. These troubles soon die a natural death.”

“I’m going to kill this one, Jem. Then we’ll bury it,” said Sir John grimly. “Now, you be off. I sha’n’t upset Mrs Alleyne. I won’t see her.”

“Nor yet Lucy Alleyne?”

“Not if she keeps out of my way. Ugh! I haven’t patience with the smooth-spoken little minx. It’s horrible: such depravity in one so young.”

The major sighed, and kept tightly hold of his brother’s arm. Two or three times over he had turned rather red in the face, the flush playing to and fro as if an angry storm were arising, but he mastered himself, and held his squadron of angry words well in hand.

“Now, look here, Jem,” said the baronet at last, as they came in sight of The Firs, “I don’t want to be hampered with you. Do go back.”

“My dear Jack, as an old soldier, let me tell you that it is next to impossible to make an advance without being hampered with baggage and the commissariat. You may call me which you please, but if you are going to attack the people at The Firs, you must have me on your back, so take it as calmly as you can.”

Sir John uttered an angry grunt, and was disposed to explode, but, by a strong effort, he got over his fit.

“If you will insist upon having a finger in the pie, come on then,” he cried.

“Yes, I’ll come on,” said the major, “and I know I need say no more to you about being calm and gentlemanly. There, I won’t say another syllable.”

In fact neither spoke a word till they had climbed up the sandy path and reached the gate at The Firs, where Sir John set the bell clanging loudly, and Eliza hurried down.

Yes; master was at home, and missus and Miss Lucy, the girl hastened to reply.

“I want to see Mr Alleyne,” said Sir John sharply, and Eliza showed them into the drawing-room, up and down whose faded carpet Sir John walked, fuming, while the major bent down over a few pretty little water-colour sketches, evidently the work of Lucy at some idle time.

Meanwhile Eliza had hurriedly made a communication to Mrs Alleyne, and terribly alarmed Lucy, who was for preventing Alleyne from meeting the brothers.

“No,” said Mrs Alleyne sternly, “he must see them. If he is to blame, let him frankly own it. If the fault be on their side, let them apologise to my son.”

The result was that at her earnest prayer Lucy was allowed to run into the observatory to her brother, to prepare him for the visitors.

“Sir John—Major Day,” said Alleyne, calmly. “I will come to them. No: let them be shown in here.”

Perhaps he felt that he would be stronger on his own ground, surrounded by his instruments, than in the chilly drawing-room, where he knew he was out of place.

“But, Moray, dear, you will not be angry and passionate. You will not quarrel with Sir John.”

“Angry?” said Alleyne calmly. “I cannot tell. He might say things to me that will make me angry; but do not be afraid, I shall not quarrel.”

“You promise me that, dear?”

“I promise you.”

Lucy threw her arms about his neck and kissed him, and then ran out of the observatory, into which Sir John and the major were introduced a few minutes later.

Alleyne was right. He was stronger in his own place, for, surrounded as he was by the various strange implements used in his studies, he seemed to Sir John someone far more imposing than the simple dreamy man, whom he had come, as he called it, to put down.

Alleyne came from where he was standing with his hand resting upon some papers, and, bowing formally, he pointed to chairs, for it needed no words to tell that this was no friendly visit.

“I’ve called, Mr Alleyne,” said Sir John, giving his stick a twist, and then a thump down upon the floor, “to ask for some explanation.”

The major laid a warning hand upon his arm, for Sir John’s voice was increasing in volume. In fact he had been impressed with the fact that his task was not so easy a one as he had imagined, and hence he was glad to have the sound of his own words to help work up the passion necessary to carry out his purpose.

He lowered his tone directly, though, in obedience to his brother’s hint, and continued his discourse angrily, but still as a gentleman should; and he afterwards owned to his brother that he forgot all about the horse-whipping he had designed from the moment he entered the room.

“Those telescopes and the quicksilver trough and instruments put it all out of mind, Jem,” he afterwards said. “One couldn’t thrash a man who looks like a sage; whose every word and tone seems to say that he is your superior.”

Sir John finished a sufficiently angry tirade, in which he pointed out that Alleyne had met with gentlemanly courtesy, that he had been treated with every confidence, and made the friend of the family. Miss Day had made a companion of his sister, and nothing had been wanting on his part; while, on the other hand, Alleyne’s conduct, Sir John said, had culminated in what was little better than an outrage.

“There, sir,” he exclaimed, by way of a finish, with his face very red and with a tremendous thump of his stick upon the floor. “Now, what have you to say?”

Alleyne stood before them deadly pale, and with a fine dew glistening upon his forehead; but there was no look of shame or dread upon his face, which rather bore the aspect of one lately smitten by some severe mental blow from which he had not yet recovered.

He gazed straight before him without meeting the eyes of either of his visitors, as if thinking of what reply he should find to a question that stung him to the heart. Then his eyes fell, and the wrinkles that formed in his brow made him look, at least, ten years older.

Just then, as Sir John was chafing, and without thoroughly owning to it, wishing that he had let matters rest, the major said softly,—

“I thought I would come over with my brother, Mr Alleyne. I am sorry that this visit was deemed necessary.”

“Hang it all, Jem, don’t take sides with the enemy! And you a soldier, too.”

“I take no sides, John,” replied the major, quietly. “Had we not better end this interview?”

“I am waiting to hear what Mr Alleyne has to say to the father of the lady he insulted,” cried the baronet warmly; and these words acted like a spur to Alleyne, who turned upon him proudly.

“It was no insult, Sir John, to tell her that I loved her,” he said.

“But I say it was, sir, knowing as you did that she was engaged to Captain Rolph. Confound it all, sir, it was positively disgraceful. I am her father, sir, and I demand an apology—a full apology at once.”

Alleyne looked at him for a few moments in silence, and then, with his lips quivering, he spoke in a low deep voice,—

“Tell her, Sir John, that in answer to your demand I humbly ask forgiveness if I have given her pain. I regret my words most bitterly, and that I would they had been unsaid—that I ask her pardon.”

“That is enough, I think,” said Sir John, with a show of importance in his speech, but with a look in his eye that betokened more and more his dissatisfaction with his task.

“Quite,” said the major gravely. “If an apology was necessary, Mr Alleyne has made the amende honorable.”

“Exactly,” said Sir John impatiently, as if he were on the magisterial bench, and some poacher had been brought before him. “And now, sir, what am I to say to Captain Rolph?”

The major laid his hand upon his brother’s arm, but he could not check his words, and he turned round directly after, almost startled by the vehemence with which Alleyne spoke, with his keen eyes first upon one brother, then upon the other.

“Tell Captain Rolph, gentlemen, if he wishes for an apology to come and ask it of me himself.”

“Sir,” began Sir John; but the major quickly interposed.

“Mr Alleyne is quite right, John,” he said. “He has apologised to the father of the lady he is accused of insulting; that ought to be sufficient. If Rolph feels aggrieved, it should be his duty to himself apply for redress.”

“But—” began Sir John.

“That will do, my dear John,” said the major firmly. “You have performed the duty you came to fulfil; now let us go. Mr Alleyne, for my part, I am very sorry this has happened—good-day.”

Alleyne bowed, and Sir John, who was feeling beaten, allowed the major to lead him out of the house, the latter feeling quite relieved when they were in the lane, for he had been dreading the coming of Mrs Alleyne or Lucy for the last ten minutes of their visit.

“Hah!” he ejaculated, breathing more freely, “I am glad that is over.”

“But it isn’t over,” cried Sir John, who was exceedingly unsettled in his mind. “Why, Jem, your confounded interference has spoiled the whole affair.”

“Nonsense, Jack, he apologised very handsomely; what more would you have?”

“What more would I have! How am I to face Rob? What am I to say when he asks me what apology the fellow made?”

“My dear Jack,” said the major, “I may be wrong, but I look upon Mr Alleyne as a thorough gentleman.”

“Oh, do you?”

“Yes, my boy, I do; and it is very unseemly, to my way of thinking, for you to be speaking of him as ‘that fellow’ or ‘the fellow.’ If your chosen son-in-law were one half as much of a gentleman in his conduct I should feel a great deal more happy over this match.”

Sir John’s face flushed of a deeper red, and it looked as if fierce words would ensue between the brothers; but as much ire as could dwell in Sir John’s genial spirit had been used up in the encounter with Alleyne, and it required many hours for the reserve to be refilled.

Hence, then, he bore in silence several rather plain remarks uttered by his brother, and walked back to the park, where they encountered Rolph coming rapidly down the long drive.

“Seems in a hurry to hear our news,” said Sir John.

“Pshaw!” ejaculated the major; “he has not seen us. He is training for something or another.”

“Nonsense, Jem. How spitefully you speak. He is coming to meet us, I tell you.”

Sir John’s words did not carry conviction with them, for it was strange that if the captain were coming to meet them, he should be running in a very peculiar manner, with his fists clenched and his eyes bent upon the ground; and, in fact, as he reached something white, which proved to be a pocket handkerchief tied to a cane stuck in the ground, he turned suddenly, and ran off in the opposite direction.

“Humph!” grumbled Sir John; “it does look as if he were having a run.”

“Very much,” said the major, “five hundred yards run along the carriage drive. What is he training for now?”

“Tchah!” ejaculated Sir John; “don’t ask me. Here, hi! Rob! Hang the fellow: is he deaf?”

Rolph seemed to be. He ran, growing more distant every moment, while, as Sir John trudged on, he was evidently fretting and fuming, the more, too, that the major seemed to be in a malicious spirit, and to enjoy worrying him about his choice.

“Poor fellow!” he said; “he is overdone with impatience to hear the result of your visit, and can only keep down his excitement by running hard.”

“Look here, Jem, if you want to quarrel, say so, and I’ll take another path to the house, for I’m not in the humour to have words.”

“I am,” said the major, “a good many. I feel as if there is nothing that would agree with me better than a deuced good quarrel with somebody.”

“Then hang it, man, why didn’t you quarrel with Alleyne—take your niece’s part?”

“Alleyne is not a man I could quarrel with,” said the major sharply. “There, I’ll go and have a few words with Rolph about the cool way in which he takes a quarrel that you look upon as almost vital.”

“No, no, for goodness sake don’t do anything of the kind,” cried Sir John sharply, and he caught his brother by the shoulder. “My dear Jem, don’t be absurd.”

The major muttered something that was inaudible, and struck right across the park towards the house, by the lawn, while Sir John, feeling out of humour with his brother, with Rolph, and even with himself, went on along the carriage drive to encounter his prospective son-in-law after a few minutes, perspiring and panting after running fifteen hundred yards towards a mile.

“Hullo! back?” panted Rolph.

“Yes,” said Sir John abruptly.

“Well, what did he say?”

“I’ll tell you after dinner,” replied Sir John sourly; “your training must be too important to be left.”

“What did he mean?” said Rolph to himself as he stood watching Sir John’s retreating form. “Why, the old boy looks as if he had been huffed. Bah! I wish he wouldn’t come and stop me when I’m running; he has given me quite a chill.”

Volume Three—Chapter Two.

The Stars at the Nadir.

“I will see him again, Mrs Alleyne, and try a little more persuasion; perhaps he will yield.”

“But are you sure you are right, Mr Oldroyd? I know my son’s constitution so well. Would it be better to go to some specialist?”

“My dear madam, I would advise you directly to persuade him to go up to town and see any of our magnates, but it would be so much money wasted.”

“But he seems so ill again!” sighed Mrs Alleyne.

“He does, indeed, but this illness is one of the simplest of ailments. It needs no doctor to tell you what it is. Really, Mrs Alleyne, if you will set maternal anxiety aside for one moment, and look at your son as you would at a stranger, you will see directly what is wrong. It is only an aggravated form of the complaint for which you consulted me before.”

“If I could only feel so,” sighed Mrs Alleyne.

“Really, madam, you may,” replied Oldroyd. “When you first called me in, you know what I prescribed, and how much better he grew. I prescribe the same again. If we set Nature and her simple laws at defiance, she will punish us.”

“But he grows worse,” sighed Mrs Alleyne. “He devotes himself more and more to his studies, and it is hard work to get him out of the observatory. He says he has some discovery on the way, and to make that he is turning himself into an old man. Will you go and see him now?”

Oldroyd bowed his acquiescence, and rose to go.

“You had better go alone,” said Mrs Alleyne, “as if you had called in as a friend. He is very sensitive and strange at times, and I should not like him to think that I had sent for you.”

“It would be as well not,” said Oldroyd; and, taking the familiar way, he was crossing the hall, when he came suddenly upon Lucy, who stopped short, turned very red, turned hastily, and hurried through the next door, which closed after her with quite a bang.

Oldroyd’s brow filled with lines, and he drew a long breath as he went on to the door of the observatory, knocked, and, receiving no answer, turned the handle gently and stepped in, closing the door behind him.

He stood for a few minutes in what seemed to be intense darkness; but as his eyes grew more accustomed to the great place, he could see that through the closed shutters a white stream of light came here and there, and on one side there was a very small, closely-shaded lamp, which threw a ring of softened yellow light down upon a sheet of paper covered with figures. Saving these faint traces of light all was gloom and obscurity, through which loomed out in a weirdly, grotesque fashion the great tubes and pedestals and wheels of the various instruments that stood in the place. On one side, too, a bright ray of light shone from a spot near the floor, and, after a moment or two, Oldroyd recalled that there stood the large trough of mercury, glittering like a mirror, and now reflecting a ray of light as if it were a star.

The silence was perfect, not a breath could be heard, and it was some few minutes before Oldroyd made out that his friend was seated on the other side of the table that bore the shaded lamp, his head resting upon his hand, perfectly motionless, but whether asleep or thinking it was impossible to say.

Oldroyd had not seen the astronomer for some weeks. There had been no falling off from the friendly feeling existing between them, but Alleyne had completely secluded himself since the encounter with Rolph in the fir wood, and, for reasons of his own, Oldroyd had refrained from calling, the principal cause being, as he told himself, a desire not to encounter Lucy.

He stood waiting for a short time watching the dimly-seen figure, and half-expecting that it would move and speak; but the minutes sped on, and the dead silence continued till Oldroyd, as he gave another look round the gloomy place, black as night in the early part of the afternoon of a sunny day, could not help saying to himself—“How can a man expect health when he shuts himself up in such a tomb?”

He crossed the place cautiously, and with outstretched hands, lest he should fall over a chair or philosophical instrument; but though he made some little noise, Alleyne did not stir, even when his visitor was close up to the table, looking down upon the head resting upon the dimly-seen hand.

“He must be asleep, worn out with watching,” thought Oldroyd; and he remained silent again for a few minutes, waiting for his friend to move. But Alleyne remained motionless; and now the visitor could see that his hair was rough and untended, and that he was in a loose kind of dressing-gown.

“Alleyne! Alleyne!” said Oldroyd at last, but there was no movement. “Alleyne!” cried Oldroyd, louder now, but without result, and, feeling startled, he caught the shade from the lamp, so that the light might fall upon the heavily-bearded face.

As he did so, Alleyne moved, slowly raising his head, and letting his hand drop till he was gazing full at his visitor.

“Were you asleep?” said Oldroyd uneasily, “or are you ill?”

“Asleep?—ill?” replied Alleyne, in a low, dreamy voice, his eyes blinking uneasily in the light, as he displayed a white and ghastly face to his visitor, one that was startling in its aspect. “No, I am quite well. I was thinking.”

Oldroyd was not ignorant of his friend’s trouble, but he was surprised and shocked at the change that had taken place in so short a time; and laying his hand upon Alleyne’s shoulder, and closely scanning the deeply-lined, ashy face, he said quietly,—

“May I open a shutter or two, and admit the light?”

“Light?—shutter?” said Alleyne dreamily; “is it morning?”

“Yes; glorious sunny morning, man. There, now we can see each other,” cried Oldroyd cheerfully, as he threw back one or two shutters. “Why, Alleyne, how you do stick to the work.”

“Yes—yes,” in a low, dreamy voice. “There is so much to do, and one gets on so slowly.”

“Big problem on, I suppose, as usual, eh?”

“Yes; a difficult problem,” said Alleyne vacantly. “These things take time.”

“Ah, I suppose so,” replied Oldroyd. “How’s the garden getting on now?”

“Garden?—the garden! Oh, yes; I had forgotten. Very well, I think; but I have been too much occupied for the past few weeks—months—weeks to attend to it myself.”

“I suppose so. One has to work hard to do more than one’s fellows, eh?”

Alleyne looked at him blankly.

“Yes, one has to work hard,” he replied.

“I thought, perhaps, as you have been shut up so much lately, you would come and have a round with me,” continued Oldroyd. “It is a splendid day.”

Alleyne looked at him dreamily, as if he felt that something of the brightness of the outer day had accompanied his friend into the room, but he merely shook his head.

“Oh, nonsense, man!” cried Oldroyd, speaking with energy. “You work too hard. I am sure you do.”

“I am obliged,” said Alleyne gravely. “It is the only rest I have.”

He seemed to be growing more animated already, and to be fully awakened to the presence of his friend, for his next words possessed more energy, when, in reply to a little more persuasion, he exclaimed,—

“Don’t ask me, Oldroyd. I have, I tell you, too much to do.”

It seemed useless to press him further, and the doctor felt that it would be unwise, perhaps, to say more, so he took a seat and waited for Alleyne to speak again, apparently like any idler who might have called, but really observant of him all the time.

It was a curious study the manner in which these two men bore their trouble. Each was a student in a different field, and each had sought relief in his own particular subject, with the result that the one had grown old and careworn and neglectful of self in a few weeks, while the other was only more grave and energetic than before.

It may have been that the love of one was deeper than that of the other, though that was doubtful. It rather seemed to be that while Alleyne was cut to the heart by the bitterness of the rebuff that he had met, a certain amount of resentment against one whom he looked upon as a light and trivial flirt had softened Oldroyd’s blow.

But, to the latter’s surprise, his friend and patient made no further remark. He sat gazing at vacancy for a few moments, and then allowed his head to rest once more upon his hand, as if about to go to sleep; but at the first movement made by Oldroyd he looked up again, and replaced the shade upon his lamp.

“Life is so short,” he said, with a grave smile; “time goes so very fast, Oldroyd, I must get on. You will excuse me, I know.”

“Yes, I must be getting on as well. I shall call in upon you oftener than I have lately. You will perhaps come out with me again sometimes.”

“Out with you! To see your patient the poacher?”

“Oh, no,” replied Oldroyd, smiling. “He is quite well again now. I have not been there these two months; but I can soon find an object for a walk.”

“A walk? Yes, perhaps. We shall see. Will you close the shutters when you go. I must have darkness for such work as this.”

“Yes, I’ll close them,” said Oldroyd quietly; and crossing the room he did what he had been requested before walking out of the observatory, leaving Alleyne absorbed once more in his thoughts, and too intent to raise his head as his visitor bade him good-day.

By accident or design, Oldroyd encountered Lucy once more in crossing the hall, bowing to her gravely, his salute being received with chilling courtesy by the young lady, who again hurried away, truth to tell, to ascend to her bedroom and cry over the unhappy way in which her life course was being turned.

“Well,” said Mrs Alleyne anxiously, as she advanced to meet Oldroyd, “what do you think?”

“Exactly what I thought before I saw your son, madam. He is again setting Nature at defiance and suffering for the sin.”

“And what is to be done?”

Oldroyd shook his head as he thought of the medicine that would have cured Alleyne’s complaint—a remedy that appeared to be unattainable, watched as it were by a military dragon of the name of Rolph, and all the young doctor could say for the anxious mother’s comfort was on leaving,—

“We must wait.”

Volume Three—Chapter Three.

A Discovery.

“Lucy, I have something very particular to say to you,” said Mrs Alleyne one morning directly after breakfast, over which she had sat very stern and cold of mien.

“Mamma!” exclaimed Lucy, flushing.

“I desire that you be perfectly frank with me. I insist upon knowing everything at once.”

Lucy’s pretty face fired up a deeper crimson for a few moments under this examination. Then she grew pale as she rose from her seat and stood confronting her mother.

“I do not think I quite understand you, mamma,” she faltered.

“Lucy!”

The thrill of maternal indignation made the old brown silk dress once more give forth a slight electric kind of rustle as this one word was spoken, and Mrs Alleyne’s eyes seemed to lance her child.

“A guilty conscience, Lucy, needs no accuser,” said Mrs Alleyne, in a bitterly contemptuous tone. “You know perfectly well what I mean.”

Lucy glanced half-timidly, half-wonderingly at her mother, but remained silent.

“I will not refuse you my permission to go your daily walks in future, but I must ask you to give me your word that such proceedings as have been reported to me of late shall be at an end.”

Lucy opened her lips to speak, but Mrs Alleyne held up her hand.

“If you are going to say that you do not know what I mean, pray hesitate. I refer to your meetings with Captain Rolph.”

Lucy’s shame and dismay had been swept away by a feeling of resentment now, and, giving her little foot a pettish stamp, she exclaimed,—

“The country side is free to Captain Rolph as well as to me, mamma. I know him from meeting him at the hall. I cannot help it if he speaks to me when I am out.”

“But you can help making appointments with him,” retorted Mrs Alleyne.

“I never did, mamma. I declare I never did,” cried Lucy with spirit.

“But you go in places where he is likely to be seen; and even if he were an eligible suitor for your hand, is this the way a child of mine should behave? Giving open countenance to the wretched tittle-tattle of this out-of-the-way place.”

“And pray, who has been talking about me?” cried Lucy angrily.

“The poor people at the cottages—the servants. It is commonly known. I spoke to Mr Oldroyd yesterday.”

“And what did he dare to say?” cried Lucy, flaming up.

“He would not say anything, but from his manner it was plain to see that he knew.”

“Oh!” sighed Lucy, with an expiration that betokened intense relief.

“I have not yet spoken to Moray, but I feel that it is my duty to tell him all, and to bid him call Captain Rolph to account for what looks to me like a very ungentlemanly pursuit, and one that you must have encouraged.”

Lucy wanted to exclaim that she had not encouraged him; but here her conscience interposed, and she remained silent, while Mrs Alleyne went on in her cold, austere manner.

“Far be it from me,” she said, “to wish to check any natural impulses of your young life. It might cause a feeling akin to jealousy, but I should not murmur, Lucy, at your forming some attachment. I should even rejoice if Moray were to love and marry some sweet girl. It would work a change in him and drive away the strange morbid fancies which he shows at times. But clandestine proceedings with such an offensive, repellent person as that Captain Rolph I cannot countenance. I’m sure when Moray knows—”

“But Moray must not know, mamma.”

“And pray why not, Lucy?”

“Has he not been ill and troubled enough without being made anxious about such a piece of nonsense as this?”

“But I am hearing of it from all sides; and, see here.”

Mrs Alleyne handed a letter to her daughter, and Lucy turned it over in her trembling fingers while she stood flushed and indignant before her mother.

“All I can say is,” said Mrs Alleyne, “that if you have carried on this wretched flirtation with the betrothed of the girl you called your friend, it is most disgraceful.”

“I tell you again, mamma, it is not true,” cried Lucy passionately. “Oh, why will you not believe me!”

“Read that letter,” said Mrs Alleyne sternly.

Lucy’s eyes fell upon the paper, and then she snatched them away, but only to look at it again and read the stereotyped form of anonymous letter from a true friend, asking whether Mrs Alleyne was aware that her daughter was in the habit of meeting Captain Rolph at night, etc., etc., etc.

“How can anyone write such a scandalous untruth!” cried Lucy passionately; “and it is cruel—cruel in the extreme of you, mamma, to think for a moment that it is true.”

“That what is true?” said a deep, grave voice.

Mother and daughter turned quickly to see that Alleyne had come in during their altercation, and he now stretched out his hand for the letter.

Lucy looked up in the white, stern face, almost with a fright, and then shrinkingly, as if he were her judge, placed the letter in his hands, and shrank back to watch his countenance, as he read it slowly through, weighing every word before turning to Mrs Alleyne.

“Did you receive this?” he said.

“Yes, Moray; but I did not mean to let it trouble you, my son.”

“Leave Lucy with me for a few minutes, mother,” said Alleyne sternly.

“But, Moray, my son—”

“I wish it, mother,” he said coldly; and, taking her hand, he was about to lead her to the door, but he altered his mind, and, with old-fashioned courtesy, took her to her chair, after which he deliberately tore up the letter and burned the scraps before turning to his sister.

“Come with me, Lucy,” he said in his deep, grave tones. “I wish to speak with you.”

He held the door open, and Lucy passed out before him, trembling and agitated, as if she were going to her trial, while Alleyne quietly closed each door after them, and followed her into the observatory, where he sat down and held out his hand, looking up at the poor girl with so tender and pitying an aspect that she uttered a sobbing cry, caught his hands in hers, and, throwing herself on her knees at his feet, burst into a passion of weeping.

“Poor little woman,” he said tenderly, as he drew her more and more to him, till her head rested upon his breast, and with one hand he gently stroked the glossy hair. “Come, Lucy, I am not your judge, only your brother: tell me—is that true?”

“No—no—no—no! Moray, it is false as false can be. I have not seen or spoken to Captain Rolph for months.”

“But you did see and speak to him alone, little woman?” he said, looking paler and older and as if every word was a trouble to him to utter.

“Yes, dear, I did, for—for—Oh, Moray, I will—I will speak,” she sobbed, in a passionate burst of tears. “You are so big and kind and good, I will tell you everything.”

“Tell me, then,” he said, patting her head, as if she were his child. “You did love this man?”

“Moray!”

Only that word; but it was so full of scorn, contempt, and reproach also to the questioner, that it carried conviction with it, and, taking Lucy’s face between his hands, Alleyne bent down and kissed her tenderly.

“I am very glad, dear,” he said quietly, “more glad than I dare say to you; but tell me—you used to meet him frequently?”

“Yes, yes, Moray, I did—I did, dear. It was wicked and false of me. I ought not to have done what I did, but—but—oh, Moray—will you forgive me if I tell you all?”

He remained silent for a few moments, gazing sternly down into his sister’s eyes, and then said softly,—

“Yes, Lucy, I will forgive you anything that you have done.”

“I—I—thought it was for the best,” she sobbed—“I thought I should be serving you, Moray, dear.”

“How? serving me?”

“Yes, yes, I knew—I felt all that you felt, and seemed to read all your thoughts, and I wanted—I wanted—oh, Moray, dear, forgive me for causing you pain in what I say, I wanted Glynne to love you as I saw that you loved her.”

His brow knit tightly, and he drew a long and gasping breath, but he controlled himself, and in a low, almost inaudible voice, he whispered,—

“Go on.”

“I was out walking one morning,” continued Lucy, “and Captain Rolph met me, and—a woman sees anything so quickly—he began paying me compliments, and flirting, and he seemed so false and careless of Glynne that I thought there would be no harm in encouraging him a little, and letting him think I was impressed, so that Glynne might find out how worthless and common he is, and then send him about his business, Moray, dear. And then when her eyes were opened, she might—might—Oh, Moray, dear, I don’t like to say it. But I went on like that, and he used to see me whenever I was out. He watched for me, and he doesn’t care a bit for Glynne, and I don’t believe he did for me; I never even let him touch my hand, and it’s all months ago now, and oh, Moray, Moray, I’m a wicked, wicked girl, and everybody thinks ill of me, even mamma, and I’ve never been happy since.”

“And so you did all this, little woman, for me?”

“Yes, yes, dear, I—I thought I was doing right.”

“And I thought that you cared for Oldroyd, Lucy, and—”

“No, no: I hate him,” she cried passionately, and her cheeks turned scarlet for the sinful little words.

“And you are very unhappy, my child?” he continued.

“Yes, yes, yes, miserably unhappy, dear. I wish we were thousands of miles away, and all dead and buried, and never—and never likely to see this horrid place again.”

“And I have been so rapt in my studies—in myself,” he said, colouring slightly, as if ashamed to accept the screen of the slightest subterfuge. “I have neglected you, little Lucy,” he went on, tenderly caressing her. “And this wretched anonymous letter, evidently from some spiteful woman, is all false, dear?”

“Every word, Moray. I have not spoken to Captain Rolph since that day he came here, and—”

“Hush! hush!” said Alleyne softly; and his face grew very thin and old. “Think no more about the letter. Wipe your eyes, my child. I’m glad—very glad you do not care for this man.”

“I care for that animal!” cried Lucy scornfully. “Oh, Moray, how could you think it of me?”

“Because—”

The words were on Moray Alleyne’s lips to say, “Women are such strange creatures!” but he checked himself, and said softly,—“Let it pass, my child. There, there, wipe those poor, wet, red eyes. I’ll go and speak to our mother. This vexed her, for she thought you had been a little weak and foolish. She is jealous, dear, and proud and watchful of our every act. It is her great love for us. There, there, kiss me; and go to your room for a while. Everything will be well when you come down again.”

“Will it, Moray?” whispered Lucy, nestling more closely to him. “Is my brave, strong, noble brother going to be himself once more?”

She held herself from him so that she might gaze full in his face, but he kept his eyes averted.

“Moray, I am so little and weak,” she whispered, “but I have my pride. You must not let a disappointment eat out all the pleasure of your life.”

“Hush!” he said softly.

“I will speak,” she cried. “Moray, my own brother, you must not break your great true heart because a handsome woman has played with you for a time, and then thrown you aside for a worthless, foolish man.”

He fixed his eyes upon her now, and said sadly, as he smiled in her face,—

“Wrong, little sister, wrong. I was mad, and forgot myself. She was promised to another before we had met.”

“Yes, Moray, dear, but—”

“Silence! No more,” he said sternly. “Never refer to this again.”

“Oh, but, Moray, darling, let me—”

“Hush!” he said, laying his finger tenderly, half-playfully, upon her lip, and then removing it to kiss her affectionately. “All that is dead and gone, Lucy. We must not dig up the dry bones of our old sorrows to revive them once again. I have long been promised to a mistress whom I forsook for a time—to whom I was unfaithful. She has forgiven me, dear, and taken me back to her arms. Urania is my heart’s love,” he continued, smiling, “and I am going to be a faithful spouse. There, there, little sister, go now, and I will make your peace with our mother, or rather ask her to make her peace with you.”

He led her to the door and dismissed her with another kiss, after which he stood watching her ascend the stairs, and saw her stop on the landing to kiss her hand to him. Then he sought his mother, with whom he had a serious interview, leaving her at the end of an hour to return to his chair in the observatory, when he took up a pen, as if to write, but only let it fall; and, forgetful of everything but his own sorrow, sat there dreaming, old-looking and strange till the sun went down.

He used to tell himself afterwards that on such nights as these he was tempted by his own peculiar devil who haunted him, pointing out to him his folly, weakness and pride in shutting himself up there, when he had but to go to Glynne and tell her that she was selling herself to a man who was behaving to her like a scoundrel.

If he treated her like this before marriage, when his feelings towards her should be of the warmest and best, when he was in the spring-tide of his youth, what would his conduct be afterwards, when he had grown tired and careless?

He could not help it. That night Alleyne made his way to the fir mount once more, to go to the very edge and stand beneath the natural east window of the great wind-swept temple, and there lean against one of the ruddy bronze pillars to gaze across at The Hall.

But not to gaze at the lights, for there was one dark spot which he well knew now from Lucy’s description. It was where the little wistaria-covered conservatory stood out beside her bedroom window, with the great cable-like stems running up to form a natural rope ladder by which a lover might steal up in the darkness of some soft summer night, as lovers had ere now, but only when willing arms waited them and a soft sweet cooing voice had whispered “Come.”

It was as if a voice whispered this to him night after night, and it came to him mockingly as he stood there then.

There was yet time it seemed to say. Glynne would turn to him if she knew of those scenes in the lane, and his rival would be discomfited. Sir John, too, would hail him as a friend and benefactor, receiving him with open arms for saving his daughter from such a fate.

And then Alleyne paced the great dark aisle, avoiding, as if by instinct, the various trunks that stood in his way, while he forced his spirit into a state of calmness and the temptation behind him, for such an act was to him impossible. It had all been a mad dream on his part, and it was not for him to play the part of informer and expose Rolph’s falsity to the father of the woman he was to wed.

Volume Three—Chapter Four.

Still in the Clouds.

There was no mistaking the figures, no possibility of erring in judgment upon the meaning of the meeting? and Oldroyd could not help admiring the physical beauty of the group as the lovely background of hedgerow and woodland gave effect to the scene.

The group was composed of two. The poacher’s daughter and Rolph, who, with his arms tightly clasping the girl’s tall undulating form, had drawn her, apparently by no means unwillingly to his breast, against which she nestled with her hands resting upon his shoulders. The girl’s face was half hidden, while Rolph was smiling down upon her, whispering something to which she lent a willing ear, and then, raising her face, she was offering her pouting lips to his, when her half-closed eyes suddenly became widely opened, her whole form rigid, and, thrusting Rolph back, she slipped from his arms, bounded through a gap in the woodland hedge like some wild creature, and disappeared amongst the trees.

Rolph caught sight of the on-coming figure almost at the same moment, the spasmodic start given by Judith warning him that there was something wrong. He seemed for a moment as if about to yield to the more easy way out of his difficulty, and leap into the wood, but he stood his ground, and, as Oldroyd came slowly on, said to him,—

“How do, doctor? Perhaps you’ve got a light? I want one for my cigar. Thanks.”

His coolness was staggering.

“Is it a fact about that girl’s father being still at home and out of work?”

“Yes,” replied Oldroyd shortly. “He has been at the point of death.”

“Has he, though?” said Rolph. “I’m glad of that. One don’t like to be imposed upon, and to find that when one has given money in charity that it has been a regular do. Nice day. Good-morning.”

“Knows I can’t tell tales, damn him! I’m no spy,” muttered Oldroyd, as he ambled along on the miller’s pony. “I’ve got quite enough to do to study my own profession, and to try and cure my patients without worrying myself in the slightest degree about other people’s business, but I can’t help it if they will be holding clandestine meetings just under my noble Roman nose—Go on, Peter.”

Peter lifted his head and whisked his tail; then he lowered his head, and kept his end quiescent, as he went on at the old pace, while the young doctor continued musing about the interview that he had been called upon to witness.

“I should not have been out here if old Mother Wattley had not been taken ill once more, for the last time, poor old soul. I believe she’ll live to a hundred. I was obliged to come, though. I don’t suppose anybody passes along this lane above once a month. I’m the only one who has come down this week, and of course I must be there just when the athlete was having an interview with Judith Hayle. Humph! there are other poachers in the world besides those who go after rabbits, hares and pheasants.”

Oldroyd drummed the sides of his little charger as he rode on along a very narrow pathway through the wood that he had to cross to get to old Mrs Wattley’s, and he looked anything but a picturesque object as a cavalier, for either he was too big or his steed too small—the latter, a little shaggy, rarely-groomed creature, being more accustomed to drag loads of corn for his master from the town than to act as hack for the principal medical man of the neighbourhood.

Peter pricked up his ears as soon as they were through the wood, and turned off, unguided, to the right, where, on as lonely and deserted a spot as could have been selected, being built in fact upon a spare corner between the road and the next property, stood the cottage inhabited by old Mrs Wattley. Report said that Timothy Wattley had built himself a shed there many years before, this being a sort of common land. The shed had been contrived by the insertion of four fir-poles at the angles, some others being tied across to form a roof, while sides and top were of freshly cut furze.

Time went on, and the windy side of Tim Wattley’s shed was coated with mud. More time went by, and a thatched roof appeared. Then came a real brick chimney and a proper door, and so on, and so on, till, in the course of years, the shed grew into quite a respectable cottage, with separate rooms—two—and a real iron fireplace.

Then report said that instead of walking over to church on Sunday mornings, Timothy Wattley used to send his wife, while he idled round his little scrap of a garden, pushing the hedge out a bit more and a bit more with his heavy boot, and all so gradually that the process was unnoticed, while when the old man died after forty years’ possession of the place, the patch upon which he had first set up his fir-pole and furze shed had grown into a freehold of an acre and a half, properly hedged in, and of which the widow could not be dispossessed.

It was at the rough little gate of the cottage that Peter the pony stopped short, and began nibbling the most tender shoots of the hedge that he could find. Oldroyd dismounted and secured the reins before going up to the door; tapping, and then going straight in, lowering his head to avoid a blow from the cross-piece that might have been fixed by a dwarf.

“Ah, doctor,” came from the large bed which nearly filled up the little room, and on which lay the comfortable-looking, puckered, apple-faced old woman, “you’ve been a long time coming. If I had been some rich folks up at Brackley or somers-else, you’d have been here long enough ago.”

“My dear Mrs Wattley,” cried Oldroyd; “nothing of the kind. I took the pony and rode over as soon as I had your message, and I could not have done more if you had been the queen.”

“Then it’s that dratted boy went and forgot it yesterday morning. Oh, if ever I grow well and strong again, I’ll let him know!”

“Did you send a message yesterday morning, then?”

“Ay, did I, when that young dog was going over to the town; and he forgot it, then.”

“I only had the message, as I tell you, to-day.”

“An’ me lying in tarmint all yes’day, and all night listening to the poachers out with their guns. Eh, but it’s sorry work wi’ them and the keepers, and not one on ’em man enough to leave a hare or a fezzan with a poor old woman who’s hidden away many a lot of game for them in her time. Eh, but it’s hard work, lying in my aggynies the long night through, and my neighbour coming to set up with me and nuss me, and going off to sleep, and snoring like a bad-ringed hog.”

“Ah, then your neighbour sat up with you last night, did she?” said Oldroyd.

“Sat up with me? Snored up with me, and nearly drove me wild, my aggynies was that bad. Then she goes and sends Judy to tidy me up after braxfas, and a nice tidying up it was, with her all agog to get away and meet someone I’ll be bound. I dunno who it be, but she’s allus courting somers in the wood. Ah, I went courting once, but now it’s all aggynies.”

“And so you’re in great pain, are you, Mrs Wattley?”

“Aggynies I tellee, aggynies.”

“Ah, it’s rheumatism, old lady, rheumatism.”

“There man, as if I didn’t know that. Think I’ve had these aggynies a-coming on at every change of the wind, and not know as it’s rheumatiz, why, as I says to Miss Lucy Alling, there, as comes over from the big house a’side the common yonder, and brought me a few bits o’ chicking, and sits herself down in that very chair, ‘I’ve had ’em too many years now, my dear, not to know as they’re rheumatiz. I’ll ask Doctor Oldroyd,’ I says, ‘to give me some of they old iles as used to be got when I was younger than I am.’ Fine things they was for the rheumatiz, but they don’t seem to be able to get ’em now.”

Oldroyd moved uneasily in his seat, as he learned how lately Lucy had been there, and that she had occupied the very chair he was in. Then he hastily proceeded to cross-examine the poor old woman about her troubles, every answer he received going to prove that, for an old lady over ninety, Mrs Wattley was about as well preserved and healthy a specimen of humanity as it would be possible to find.

“Ah, well,” said Oldroyd at last, “I daresay I shall be able to give you a little comfort. You’ll have to take some medicine, though.”

“Nay, nay, I want the iles, and I want ’em rubbed in,” cried the old lady. “Nothing ever did me so much good as they iles; and I know what it all means—waiting three or four days afore I gets the medson to take.”

“Now, what is this,” said Oldroyd, smiling; “I have brought it with me.”

As he spoke he took a bottle from the breast of his coat.

“Then it’s pyson, and you’re going to give it to get rid of me, just a cause you parish doctors won’t take the trouble to attend poor people. I know; you want to get rid of me, you do.”

“How can you talk like that? Have I ever neglected you?”

“Well, p’r’aps not so much as him as was here afore you did. He neglecket me shameful. But you’ve got tired of me, and you want to see me put under ground.”

“What makes you say that?” said Oldroyd, laughing.

“’Cause you want me to take that physic as isn’t proper for me.”

“Why you comical, prejudiced old woman,” he said, “it is the best thing I can give you.”

“Oh, no, it isn’t. I know better,” cried the old lady. “Don’t tell me. I may be ninety, but I a’n’t lived to ninety without knowing as one physic a’n’t good for everything.”

“Oh, that’s it, is it?” cried Oldroyd, laughing. “You think I haven’t got the right stuff for you.”

“Ah, it’s nothing to laugh at, young man. I’m not a fool. How could you know what was the matter with me before you come, and so bring the stuff? I a’n’t a cow, as only wants one kind of physic all its life.”

“Nay, I did know what was the matter with you,” cried Oldroyd, taking the poor, prejudiced old things hand, to speak kindly and seriously though with a little politic flattery. “The boy came to me and said you were ill, and I immediately, knowing you as I do, said to myself—now with such a constitution as Mrs Wattley has, there can only be one of two things the matter with her; someone has carelessly left a door or window open, and given her cold; or else she has got a touch of rheumatism.”

“And so you brought physic for a cold,” said the old woman sharply.

“No. I knew you would be too careful to let anyone neglect your doors and windows.”

“That I would,” cried the old lady. “I fetched that Judy back with a flea in her ear only the day afore yesterday. I shouted till she came back and shut my door after her—a slut. She thinks of nothing but young men.”

“You see I was right,” continued Oldroyd. “I felt sure it was not cold, and, on looking out, saw that the wind had got round to the east, so I mixed up his prescription, the best thing there is for rheumatism, and came on at once.”

“Is it as good as the iles, young man?”

“Far better; and I’m sure you will find relief.”

“Well, you are right about the wind, for I felt it in my bones as soon as it got round; so, p’r’aps you’re right about the physic. I dunno, though, you’re only a boy, and not likely to know much. It’s a pity they send such young fellows as you to take charge of a parish. But the guardians don’t care a bit. They’d like to see all the old uns go under, the sooner the better. Not as I’m beholden to ’em for aught but a drop o’ physic. I can do without ’em, I daresay, for a good many years yet.”

“To be sure you can,” said Oldroyd, smiling rather gravely, as he looked at the ancient face before him.

“Ay, I can do without ’em; and now, look here, young man, you set me right again. I’ve got four shillings put aside, and I’ll give you that.”

“I daresay I can set you right again without the four shillings,” said Oldroyd, “but not if you begin by calling me a boy.”

“There’s naught to be ashamed of in being a boy,” cried the old woman sharply. “I wish I was a gal now, and could begin all over again.”

“No, there’s nothing to be ashamed of, old lady, but you must trust me, and take my medicine.”

“I won’t—I won’t swallow a drop, if you don’t take your oath it’s quite right, and will do me good, and won’t pyson me.”

For answer Oldroyd rose from his seat, and took a cup from a shelf, into which he poured a portion of the medicine.

“There, it’s no use, young man, I won’t take a dose.”

“Look here,” cried Oldroyd; and putting the cup to his lips, he swallowed all that was at the bottom.

“You’re going to spit it out again as soon as you get outside.”

“Nonsense!” cried Oldroyd, laughing heartily as he poured out a fresh portion. “There, there, take it, and get well again.”

“You’re sure it’s right, and that it won’t hurt me?”

“I’m sure it will comfort you, and correct what is wrong.”

She watched him with her bright old eyes full of suspicion, and ended by taking the cup very doubtfully and swallowing its contents with a childlike shudder.

“There, give me a bit of sugar out of that basin, young man,” she cried emphatically; and, upon her desire being gratified, she settled herself down again in bed with a satisfied sigh.

“Ah, I feel better now,” she said. “I suppose you are not quite so young as you look, are you?”

“Really, Mrs Wattley, I don’t know,” replied Oldroyd, smiling.

“Perhaps you ar’n’t,” she continued looking at him critically. “I daresay you’re clever enough, or else you wouldn’t be here; but we ladies don’t like to have a single man to see us when we are ill. You ought to be married, you know.”

“Do you think so?” said Oldroyd, looking rather conscious, as he thought of his prospects, matrimonially and financially.

“Yes, I do think so,” said the old lady tartly, and in a very dictatorial manner. “Look here, young man, there’s little Miss Lucy, who comes to see me now and then. Marry her, and if you behave yourself, perhaps I’ll leave you my cottage and ground. I sha’n’t leave ’em to Judy, for she don’t deserve ’em a bit.”

“Leave them to your relatives, old lady; and suppose we turn back to the rheumatism,” said Oldroyd, half-amused and half-annoyed by his patient’s remarks.

“Ay, we’ll talk about that by-and-by. I want to talk about you. My rheumatics is better a’ready—that’s done me a mint o’ good, young man, and I shouldn’t mind seeing you married, for it would be a deal better for you, and I daresay I should call you in a bit more oftener. What, are you going?”

“Yes; I have the pony waiting, and I must get back.”

“Humph! I didn’t know as you could afford to keep a pony, young man. Why don’t you walk?—keep you better and stronger—and save your money. Ah, well! you may go then; and mind what I said to you. You may as well have the bit of land and Miss Lucy, but you won’t get it yet, so don’t think it. My father was a hundred and two when he died, and I’m only just past ninety, so don’t expect too much.”

“I will not,” said Oldroyd, smiling at the helpless old creature, and thinking how contentedly she bore her fate of living quite alone by the roadside, and with the nearest cottage far away.

“You’ll come and see me to-morrow?” said the old lady, as the doctor stood at the door. “You’re not so busy that you can’t spare time, so don’t you try to tell me that.”

“No, I shall not be too busy,” replied Oldroyd; “I’ll come.”

“And mind you recollect about her. She would just suit you; she nusses so nicely, and—”

Philip Oldroyd did not hear the end of the speech, for he closed the door, frowning with annoyance; and, mounting his pony, rode slowly back towards home.

“I shall not meet them again, I suppose,” he said to himself, as he neared the spot where he had seen Rolph and Judith on his way to the cottage; and, quite satisfied upon this point, he was riding softly on along the turf by the side of the road when, as he turned a corner, he came suddenly upon two men—the one ruddy and sun-browned, the other pale, close shaven, and sunken of eye.

“Hayle and Captain Rolph,” said the doctor between his teeth, “what does that mean?”

He rode on to pass close by the pair, both of whom looked up, the one to give him a haughty nod of the head, the other to touch his hat and say,—“How do, doctor?”

“The parson is said to know most about the affairs of people in a parish,” thought Oldroyd; “but that will not do. It’s a mistake. We are the knowing ones. Why, I could give quite a history of what is going on around us—if I liked. Your parson kens, as the north-country folk say, a’ aboot their morals, but we doctors are well up in the mental and bodily state too. Now then, who next? Bound to say, if I take the short cut through the firs and along the grass drives, I shall meet the old major toadstool hunting, and possibly Miss Day with him.”

Oldroyd’s ideas ran upon someone else; but he put the thoughts aside, and went on very moodily for a few minutes before his thoughts reverted to their former channel.

“Safe to meet them,” he muttered, with a bitter laugh. “Well, the captain is otherwise engaged to-day. The young lady with the gentleman as I came, and papa and the gentleman as I return. Well—go on Peter—I have enough to do with my own professional affairs, and giving advice gratis on moral matters is not in my department. No mention of them in the pharmacopoeia.”

Peter responded to his rider’s adjuration to go on in his customary way—to wit, he raised his head and whisked his tail, and went on, but without the slightest increase of speed. Oldroyd turned him out of the lane, through one of the game preserves, and he rode thoughtfully on for a couple of miles, with the peculiar smell of the bracken pervading the air as Peter crushed the stems beneath his hoofs. At times, as he rode through some opening where the sun beat down heavily, there was the pungent, lemony, resinous odour of the pines wafted to his nostrils, and once it was so strong that the doctor pulled up to inhale it.

“What a lunatic I was,” he thought, “to come and settle down in a place like this. Nature wants no doctors here; she does all the work herself—except the accidents,” he added laughingly. “Poor old Hayle yonder; I don’t think she would have made so good a job of him.”

He rode on again through the hot afternoon sunshine, going more and more out of his way; but he did not see the major with his creel, neither did the lady attendant upon some of his walks make his sore heart begin beating.

He had just come to the conclusion that he had ridden all this way round for nothing, when, as he wound round a mossy carpeted drive, he saw in the distance, framed in with green against a background of sky, a couple of figures, of which one, a lady, was holding out something to the other, a gipsy-looking fellow, which he took and thrust into his pocket, becoming conscious at the same moment of the doctor’s approach.

“Looks like my young poaching friend, Caleb Kent,” thought Oldroyd, as the man touched his cap obsequiously and plunged at once in through the thick undergrowth and was gone, while the lady drew herself up and came toward him.

Oldroyd’s acquaintanceship was of the most distant kind, and he merely raised his hat as he passed, noting that the face, which looked haughtily in his, was flushed and hot as his bow was returned.

“Why, that young scoundrel has been begging. Met her alone out here in this wood,” thought Oldroyd, when he had ridden on for a few yards; and, on the impulse of the moment, he dragged the unwilling pony’s head round, and, to the little animal’s astonishment, struck his heels into its ribs and forced it to canter after the lady they had passed.

She did not hear the approach for a few minutes, but was walking on hurriedly with her head bent down, till, the soft beat of the pony’s hoofs close behind rousing her, she turned suddenly a wild and startled face.

“I beg your pardon—Miss Emlin of The Warren, I believe?” said Oldroyd, raising his hat again.

There was a distant bow.

“You will excuse my interference,” he continued; “but these woods are lonely, and I could not help seeing that man had accosted you.”

Marjorie’s face was like wax now in its pallor.

“I thought so,” said Oldroyd to himself. Then aloud,—“He was begging, and frightened you?”

“The man asked me for money, and I gave him some. No; he did not frighten me.”

A flush now came in the girl’s face, and she said eagerly,—

“Did you pass a gentleman—my cousin, Captain Rolph—in the woods?”

“Yes; about a couple of miles away. I beg pardon for my interference,” there was an exchange of bows; and each passed on.

“What a fool I am!” muttered Oldroyd. “Like a man. Jumps at the chance of playing the knight-errant. Only begged a copper or two of her; a loafing scoundrel. Phew!” he whistled, “my cousin! I’m afraid that my cousin is going to be pulled up sharp; and quite right too. Looks like a piece of jealousy there. And the fellow’s engaged. Well, it’s not my business. Go on, Peter, old man.”

Peter wagged his tail, but still there was no increase of speed; for, if ponies can think, Peter was cogitating on the fact that if he made haste home there would be time for him to go with Sinkins, the carpenter, to fetch a piece of oak from the wood; and he felt that he had done enough for one day.

Volume Three—Chapter Five.

Perturbations.

Had Oldroyd been a little sooner, he would have formed a different opinion about Caleb Kent and his appealing to Marjorie for alms.

For that day, Marjorie had come down dressed for a walk—a saunter, to find a few botanical specimens, she told Mrs Rolph, who smiled and was quite content, so long as her niece settled down and made no trouble of the loss of her lover.

Marjorie did saunter as long as she was in sight, and then went off through the fir woods rapidly, her eyes losing their soft, spaniel-like, far-away look which she so often turned upon Rolph, and growing fierce and determined as she stepped out, full of the object she had in view.

For she had good reason to believe that Rolph had gone in the direction she was taking, and the desire was strong within her to come upon him suddenly, and at a time when she felt she would succeed in getting the whip-hand of him, and holding him at her mercy.

She had been walking nearly an hour fairly fast; but now, as if guided by instinct, she turned into a green, mossy path, one of the many cut among the stubbs for the sportsmen’s benefit, whether hunting or shooting their purpose was the same, and advancing now more cautiously she was looking sharply from side to side when the hazels were suddenly parted, and, with his white teeth glistening in the sunshine, and his dark eyes flashing, there stood Caleb Kent not two yards away; then not one, as he caught her wrist in his hot, brown hands, and, with a laugh, placed his face close to hers.

“You’ve been a long time coming,” he said, “but you promised, and I’ve come.”

For a few moments Marjorie stood gazing wildly at the man before her, with her brain reeling, and a strange sickening sensation attacking her, which rendered her speechless. Her lips moved, but no sound came, while the words which had passed between them thundered in her ears like the echoes of all that had been said.

Then a re-action took place, and, drawing herself up, she said quietly,—

“Well, what do you want—money?”

“No; I can get money for myself,” he said, with a laugh. “I’ve come back to you.”

She shrank from him now with a look of disgust, and shivered as she thought of the past, but recovering herself she turned upon him.

“How dare you!” she cried, with a look intended to keep him at bay.

Caleb laughed.

“Well, you are a strange girl,” he said; “hot one day, cold the next. But I don’t care; say what you like, dear.”

Marjorie started as if she had been stung at this last word, for, more than anything which had passed, it made her feel how she had fallen.

“You want to play with me and hold me off; and you are going to say you didn’t mean it.”

With an action quick as that of some wild creature, he caught her wrist again, and looked at her mockingly, but with a flashing in his eyes which made her shiver and glance quickly round.

“No,” he said, with a laugh; “no one can see. But, look here,” he whispered earnestly, “I’ve been thinking about you ever since. You don’t care for them here, and their money and fine clothes. Come away along with me—it’ll be free like—right away from everyone who knows you, and I’ll be real good to you, dear, ’pon my soul I will.”

“Loose my wrist! How dare you!” cried Marjorie; and in her alarm she wondered now that she could have been so mad with one whom she thought she could sway with a look, but who was beginning to sway her.

“How dare I? because you like me to hold you,” he whispered. “Do you think I’m a fool? Look here; you used to love him, but you hate him now, and you love me. Well, I used to love Hayle’s girl; I was mad after her, but since I’ve seen you I don’t care a straw for her, not even if I never see her again.”

“Will you loose my wrist?” cried Marjorie, in a low, angry voice.

“No—not till I like.”

“Am I to call for assistance and have you punished, sir?”

“If you like,” he said mockingly. “There, that will do. What’s the good of all this nonsense? Don’t play with me. I say you’re a lady—a beautiful lady—and I never saw a woman I liked half so well. Look here; come along with me. I’ll be like your dog, and do everything you ask me. I’ll kill him if you tell me, and Judith Hayle, too. There, you wouldn’t find one of your sort ready like that.”

Frantic with dread, Marjorie looked wildly round as she strove to free her wrist.

“Why, what a struggling little thing you are,” he whispered. “Can’t you see that I like you, and wouldn’t hurt you for the world? What’s the good of holding off like this? No one can see you; there isn’t anybody within a couple of miles of where we are, and you promised me another kiss.”

“Let me go,” cried Marjorie hoarsely. “I did not mean it. I was half wild when I said that to you. Look here; take my watch and my rings, and I have some money here. I did not mean all that. Let go or I will call for help.”

“Well,” he said coolly, “call for help. I’m not afraid; you are, and you won’t call—I know better than that. Look here, you know what you said.”

She looked sharply round and shuddered.

“Yes,” she said huskily, “but I was mad and foolish then. It was in an angry fit. I didn’t mean it.”

“Didn’t you?” he said, looking at her with a cunning smile. “How easily you people can lie. You did mean it, and you made me a promise, and you’re going to keep it.”

“No, no,” she cried wildly.

“You are,” he said, “and I’m going to be paid. I’m only waiting for my chance.”

“I tell you no,” cried Marjorie. “I did not mean it.”

“You meant it then, and you mean it now, and I’m going to keep my word when I can. I’m not a fool. Do you think I don’t know why it all is? Not so blind as all that, my dear. It’s plucky of you, and I like you the better for it, and some day you’ll tell me how glad you are that—pst! someone coming,” he whispered, completely altering his manner and tone bowing obsequiously, and whining out an appeal to the dear kind lady to bestow a trifle on a poor young man out of work.

That night Marjorie lay awake thinking, half-repentant, half-glad; the latter feeling increasing till there was a glow of triumph in her eyes as she seemed to be gazing down upon Glynne, cast off by her cousin, her enemy and rival no longer, but an unhappy despairing object humbled at her feet.

Volume Three—Chapter Six.

Facing the Unknown.

The time was drawing nigh, and Sir John and his brother were sitting over their wine, when the former began upon matters connected with the wedding. Rolph had only left them that day, and was to return the next morning to meet them at the church, in company with a brother officer, ready to act as his best man. Then the wedding over, the happy pair were to start for the Continent; and Brackley would be left to the brothers, both of whom looked blank and dispirited as they asked themselves what they were to do when the light of the place had gone.

And that was how the conversation first began. Sir John sighing, and saying that he should miss Glynne very much indeed.

“Of course, I give lots of attention to my pigs and sheep, and the rest of them,” he said dolefully; “but Brackley won’t be the same, Jem, old fellow, when she’s gone. I shall miss her dreadfully.”

“Yes,” said the major, raising his claret to his lips, and setting the glass down again untouched, “we shall miss her dreadfully.”

Then, after a long conversation, Sir John had touched upon the subject of his brother’s treatment of the bridegroom, and his conduct at the wedding.

They sat sipping their claret for some time, Sir John being very silent; and at last the long pause was followed by the major saying,—

“Well, don’t let’s leave our darling. I suppose I may say ‘our darling,’ Jack?”

“My dear brother!” exclaimed Sir John, grasping his hand.

“I say then, don’t let’s leave our darling alone any longer. We shall have plenty of time to sip our wine of nights when we are alone, Jack. Let’s go and let her pour out tea for us for what will pretty well be the last time.”

“Hah! yes!” said Sir John, rising slowly, “for pretty well the last time, Jem, and—and—”

Sir John stopped short, for his voice broke, and the nerves in his fine florid face quivered.

The major laid one hand upon his brother’s shoulder in good old schoolboy fashion, caught his right hand in his own, and remained gripping it warmly—a strong, firm, sympathetic grip, full of brotherly feeling; but he spoke no word.

Sir John was the first to break the silence. “Thank you, Jem,” he said, “thank you, Jem. It’s very weak and childish of me at my time of life, but it touches me home; it touches me the harder, too, that she is my only child; and—and—and, Jem, my lad, don’t jump upon me—I must own it to you now, and I will—I feel that I am making a great mistake.”

“Thank God!” cried the major fervently.

“Jem!”

“I say, thank God,” cried the major, “that you see the truth at last, Jack, before it is too late.”

“No, no, Jem,” said Sir John sadly; “I have not seen it before it is too late. It is too late. We cannot alter it now. I am in honour bound. I cannot interfere.”

“Hang honour!” cried the major excitedly. “I’d give up all the honour in the world sooner than that girl’s life should be blighted. Jack, Jack, my dear brother, we are old men now. We’ve had our fling of life. Let’s think of our darling’s happiness, and not of what the world thinks of us.”

“Too late, Jem! too late!” said Sir John.

“I tell you it is not too late, Jack. Hang it man, I’ll do anything. I’ll challenge and shoot this confounded Rolph sooner than he shall have her.”

“Don’t talk nonsense, Jem—don’t talk nonsense. I’ve sounded Glynne well, and it is too late.”

“What! Do you mean to tell me that she would insist upon having him if you forbade it?” cried the major.

“She thinks that she is bound to him, and that it is impossible to retract, even if she wished.”

“But doesn’t she wish to run back from this wretched business?”

“No, she does not wish to run back from her promise.”

“I don’t believe it,” cried the major, over whose white forehead the veins stood up like a pink network.

“It is true all the same,” said Sir John sadly. “If she had but expressed the slightest wish, I’d have seen Rolph, even at this eleventh hour, and, as he would have called it, the match should be off.”

“I will go and see her myself, Jack. I don’t want to insult you, my dear brother, but she does look up to me and my opinion a little. Let me try and win her to my way of thinking, and let’s get this wretched business stopped. She would never be happy, I am sure.”

“Go and see her, Jem, by all means.”

“You give me your leave?”

“I do.”

The major uttered a sigh of relief, and smoothing his beard, and with his eyes beaming, he walked straight into the drawing-room, where Glynne was seated, looking very pale and beautiful, with her head resting upon her soft white hand, gazing full at the lamp. Marjorie and three lady friends were in the drawing-room, but they had evidently, out of respect for the young girl’s saddened state, retired to the end of the room, where they were engaged in conversation in a low tone of voice.

Glynne did not stir as the major entered, for she was deep in thought; but she turned to him with a sweet, grave smile as he laid his hand upon hers.

“Will you come into the conservatory, my dear?” he said gently. “I want to talk to you.”

She rose without a word, and laid her hand upon his arm, letting her uncle lead her into the great, softly-lit corridor of flowers; while, as the major realised the difficulties of the task he had before him, he grew silent, so that they had walked nearly to the end before he spoke.

“My dear child,” he said, in a husky, hesitating voice, for, though he had often dashed with his men at the charge full into the dangers of the battlefield, he felt a peculiar sensation of nervous dread now at having to broach the business upon which he had come.

“My dear child,” he began again.

“My dear uncle,” she answered, tenderly.

“You know my feelings respecting your approaching marriage?”

She looked up at him sadly, and the tears stood in her eyes.

“Yes, uncle, dear, I know,” she replied slowly.

“Well, your father has now come over to my side, and he gives me his consent to see you, to win from you—”

“Hush, uncle—dear uncle,” said Glynne softly. “I know you love me—dearly, as if I were your own child.”

“I do, I do indeed,” he cried.

“Then pray spare me all these painful words.”

“Plain words to save you pain in the future,” he said tenderly.

“It is too late, uncle. I told my father that. It is too late.”

“No, no, my darling, it is not too late,” cried the major excitedly. “You are afraid of the talk and scandal. Bah! let them talk and scandalise till they get tired. What is it to us? Look here; we’ll start for the Continent to-morrow, and stay away till this business is forgotten. A nine days’ wonder, my child. There, there, you consent. By George, we’ll be off to-night—now. I’ll go and order the carriage at once. It will be round by the time you have got a few things together in a bag.”

“Stop, uncle, dear uncle.”

“No, no; your father will go with us, too.”

Glynne shook her head, and, putting one arm round his neck, kissed the old man fondly.

“Hush, dear,” she said; “you forget. I cannot—I will not hear another word. I am determined that I will hold to my promise.”

“But, Glynne, my child,” cried the major appealingly.

“It is too late—it is too late,” responded Glynne. “And now, uncle, if you love me, spare me further suffering.”

He waited for a few minutes, and resumed the attack, but without effect; and just as he was gazing despairingly in his niece’s face Sir John entered, looking inquiringly at both, when Glynne went smilingly to his side at once, and laid her hands upon his breast.

“Dear father,” she said tenderly, “let my last few hours at home be undisturbed by pain.”

“My darling,” said Sir John softly, “you are mistress here. Jem, old fellow, you have spoken.”

“Delivered my charge, Jack, and failed. I retire broken from the field.”

Glynne held out her hand to him, and when he took it she leaned towards him to kiss his lips.

About an hour later Mason the maid learned a secret which she afterwards confided to her intimates in the servants’ hall.

Mason went up to Glynne’s bedroom to carry there a lately-arrived packet containing a portion of her mistress’s trousseau.

She had hardly entered the room when she noted that the door connecting it with Glynne’s little study was ajar, and a sigh taught her that it was occupied.

“I’ll take it in, and she’ll open it at once,” thought Mason, who was burning with curiosity to see the contents of the package; and, going lightly across to the door, she pressed it open, and then stood petrified at the scene before her.

For Glynne was kneeling before a chair with her face buried in her hands sobbing violently, while in piteous tones she breathed out the agony of her heart in the wild appeal,—

“Heaven help me and give me strength! It is more than I can bear.”

Volume Three—Chapter Seven.

A Problem of Conjunction.

Want of exercise and incessant study had placed their effects on Alleyne. The greyness was showing in streaks in his hair, and the lines seemed deeper in his forehead, as Lucy came gently into the observatory where her brother was apparently intent upon some tremendous problem.

Lucy, too, looked thinner than of old. There was a careworn aspect in her face, and her eyes told tales of tears more often shed than is the custom with young ladies as a rule.

As she entered the observatory and closed the door, she stood gazing at her brother with her hands clasped, thinking of the money that had been expended upon his scientific pursuits, keeping them all exceedingly poor, and, for result, helping to make Alleyne a worn and old-looking man.

What a thing it seemed, she thought; how changed their home and all their simple life had become, and all through their proximity to Brackley.

“I wish we had gone away from here months upon months ago,” she said to herself impatiently. “We might have been so happy anywhere else. And I thought, too, that everything was going to be so pleasant, with Glynne for my companion, only people seemed to have leagued themselves against us; and I’m sure there’s no harm in either poor Moray or myself, only we couldn’t help liking someone else. Heigho!”

“Who’s that?” cried Alleyne, starting, for Lucy’s sigh had been uttered aloud. “Oh, you, Lucy,” he said, dropping his eyes again.

“I’ve only come to see you, dear, for a little while, Moray, darling, how late you were last night.”

He started wildly, caught the hands she had laid caressingly upon his shoulders, and stared in her face.

“How did you know?” he cried hoarsely.

“Don’t, dear; you hurt me.”

He relaxed his grasp, and she felt him trembling.

“Don’t be angry with me, Moray,” she said, bursting into tears. “It was only because I loved you and suffered with you. I can’t bear to see my darling brother like this.”

“You—you were watching me?” he stammered.

“Don’t call it by that unkind title, dear,” she said. “I cannot bear it. I know how you grieve, and I have often sat at my window and seen you go out of a night, and waited till you came back. One night—don’t be angry with me, Moray,” she cried, throwing her arms about his neck—“I followed you to the Fir Mount, to see you were up there watching Glynne’s window.”

“Lucy! Last night?”

“No, no, dear,” she cried in alarm. “Don’t—don’t be so fierce with me. It was only once.”

He uttered a low, hoarse sigh as if of relief.

“It was one night when you had quite frightened me by being so despondent. I was afraid you meant to do yourself some mischief, and I stole out to see where you went. As soon as I understood why you had gone there, I came back.”

“Was it so strange a thing for an astronomer to go out to a high place where he could see some planet rise?”

Lucy was silent for a few moments.

“No, dear,” she said at last in a whisper, “nor for a man who loves to go and watch the house that holds all that is dear to him in life. But, Moray, dear, what is the matter with your hand?”

“Nothing,” he said, hastily thrusting his bandaged hand into his pocket. “Only a cut—from a knife—nothing more. There—that will do. Why did you come?”

“It is the twenty-fifth, Moray. I thought I’d come and remind you.”

“Twenty-fifth,” he said hurriedly; “twenty-fifth?”

“Yes, dear, Glynne Day’s wedding.”

She regretted speaking the next instant, as she saw her brother’s head go down upon his hand; but he looked up at her directly, and, to her surprise, with a peculiar smile.

“Thank you for reminding me, dear,” he said. “I hope she will be very happy.”

“I don’t,” cried Lucy petulantly, “and I’m sure she won’t be. Oh, how could she be so foolish as to engage herself to such a man as that!”

Alleyne did not reply, but sat gazing before him at a broad band of sunlight which cut right across the portion of the great room where he was seated. It seemed to him that Glynne was the bright bar of light that had been thrown across the dark, shadowy life that he had led; and to make the idea more real, the passing of a cloud cut the ray suddenly, and the great, chill room, with its uncouth instruments, its piles of scientific lumber, and its dust, was gloomy once again.

The bright ray had come and gone. It was but a memory now, and Alleyne uttered a sigh of relief, for he told himself that the past was dead, and he must divide it from his present existence by a broad, well-marked line.

“Have you nothing to say, Moray?” whispered Lucy at last. “Do you not understand? Are you not going to make one more effort to make her change her purpose.”

“My dear Lucy!” he said tenderly.

That was all, but he took her in his arms and kissed her, as if she were still the little child whom he used to pet and play with years before.

As soon as he released her she stood looking at him with her brows knit for a few moments, and then said,—

“Moray, should you mind very much if I were to go?”

“Go?” he said dreamily. “Go?”

“Yes; to see Glynne married.”

She saw a twitching of the nerves of his face as he realised her meaning, and was regretting her question, when he said softly,—

“No, my dear, no. Go if you wish it. Yes, go.”

He turned from her and resumed his work, making figures rapidly on a sheet of paper before him, and as he evidently wished to be alone, she stole softly out of the room.

Half-an-hour later Alleyne, who had left his work as soon as Lucy quitted him, and gone to a window which overlooked the road, saw his sister, very plainly dressed in white, go along the lane towards Brackley Church.

He did not stir, but stood watching till the white dress disappeared among the tall columnar fir trees.

Then came another figure going in the same direction, and in his moody, despairing state, Alleyne hardly noted for a few moments who it was, till the figure stopped short to turn and talk to a tall, gaunt-looking man, whom Alleyne recognised as Hayle, the man he had seen when Oldroyd was attending him, and it was the latter now speaking.

After a few minutes conversation, Alleyne saw Hayle shake his head, and go in one direction, while Oldroyd went in the other, that taken by Lucy, toward the church.

Then Alleyne turned from the window with a blank look of despair in his eyes, a strange vacant wildness of aspect in his drawn and haggard countenance. He walked to and fro. He threw himself into his great chair, but only to spring up again and pace the room with eager, hurried steps.

He sank helplessly down upon his chair once more, and rested his throbbing brow upon his hands, his misery so acute that he felt that he was going mad; but as the time went on, a dull feeling of lethargy came over him, and he sat there crouched together till Mrs Alleyne came into the room and touched him with her cold, thin hand, when he started.

“My boy!” she said tenderly, as she laid her hands upon his shoulders, “is it so hard to bear?”

“Hard? Yes, cruelly hard,” he said, with a sigh of misery.

“And in turn we have to bear these agonies,” she said softly. “I have known them, too, my boy, hours of despair when life all looked too black to be faced, and there seemed to be nothing to do but die.”

He looked at her inquiringly.

“Yes, my boy, these troubles have been mine at times, and I have thought like this—thought as you have thought since that woman came between us to blast our hearth.”

“Hush!” he cried, almost fiercely. “Not one disloyal word against her, mother. It was my ill-balanced nature led me wrong, and she never came between you and me.”

“Forgive me, my boy,” cried Mrs Alleyne, as he took her in his arms. “I know, I know. Always my own true loving son. But it seems so hard that she should have treated you as she did.”

“Hush, mother! Hush!” he replied. “She was not to blame.”

“Not to blame?” retorted Mrs Alleyne. “You defend her, but, had she not led you on by her soft words and wiles, you had never come to think of her like this. But she will repent: so sure as she marries that man, she will bitterly repent.”

“You are giving me cruel pain, mother,” said Alleyne sadly.

“My boy! my own brave boy!” cried Mrs Alleyne, clinging to him. “I will say no more! I will be silent, indeed. No word on the subject shall ever leave my lips again. There: forgive me.”

“Forgive you, mother!” he said softly, as he drew her more closely, and kissed her lips, “I have nothing to forgive. You felt what you thought to be a just indignation on my behalf. It is so easy to think those we love must be in the right, so hard to see when we alone are in the wrong. There, let us talk about it no more, for—Why, Lucy! what is the matter?”

Lucy hurried into the observatory, looking hot and excited, threw herself into a chair, sobbing hysterically, and for some time not a word could be obtained from her.

Mrs Alleyne was the first to get an answer, as she at last exclaimed,—

“Then someone has insulted you?”

“No, no!” she cried; and then more emphatically, “No! Glynne, Glynne!”

Then her sobs choked her utterance, and she hid her face in her hands, sobbing in the most violently hysterical manner, till, utterly exhausted, she lay back in the chair so still and reduced that Alleyne grew alarmed, and, hurrying out of the room, he set off for Oldroyd.

“Miss Alleyne? Taken ill?” cried the young doctor excitedly. “I’ll be with you directly. Has she heard of that terrible business?”

“Business? What business?” faltered Alleyne. “What! haven’t you heard?” cried Oldroyd in amazement. “Why, about Miss Day.”

Alleyne gazed at him enquiringly, and Oldroyd leaned forward and said a few words in Alleyne’s ear, making him sink back silent and ghastly into a chair.

Volume Three—Chapter Eight.

The Fallen Star.

“There, I think everything is in train,” said Sir John, as he and his brother sat together over a final cigar before retiring for the night, for Glynne and the friends staying in the house had gone to their rooms, and the brothers were at last alone.

“Yes, Jack, all seems ready for action.”

“Except you, Jem.”

“I?—I’m ready.”

“No; you ought to have had a new suit, Jem.”

“No; I said I would not,” cried the major; “and I’ve kept to that, and that alone. I’ve given way in everything else. Let me alone there.”

“All right; all right. I say no more. Change the subject, Jem; we won’t have words to-night. Glynne looks lovely; doesn’t she?”

“Fit bride for a god,” said the major. “Bless her!”

“Amen. Calm, satisfied and happy in her choice.”

“H’m.”

The major coughed a little.

“She does, Jem,” cried Sir John hastily. “Everybody said so to-night. I should have liked that little lassie, Lucy Alleyne, to have been asked to be a bridesmaid though; but after what has passed it was as well not.”

“Yes,” said the major gruffly, “just as well not.”

“Pretty girl that Marjorie Emlin. Best looking bridesmaid we shall have.”

“Humph! yes. Can’t say I like her, Jack.”

“Prejudiced? old man.”

“Perhaps so; but those white-faced red-haired girls always have a foxey look to me. There, there, I’ve done, and I’ll play cavalier to her to-morrow if I get the chance.”

“That you will, Jem, I know. Trust you soldiers for that. Sad dogs. Why, Jem, old chap, I never said anything to you before,” chuckled Sir John, “but ’pon my soul, I thought once you were going to make play and get married before Glynne.”

The major moved uneasily in his chair, and suppressed a sigh.

“Nice little girl, Jem,” continued Sir John. “I liked her myself; but only a woman. There were rumours about her. You didn’t hear, I suppose?”

“Yes, I did,” said the major, biting hard at his cigar.

“Well, no wonder. It was enough to make the best girl in the world a little wild. Shut up in that dreary house by herself, for you can’t call it anything else.”

“Yes; dull life for a young girl,” assented the major, “Never heard—er—er—who it was?”

“I? Wouldn’t listen to the confounded scandal. Some damned chatter about her getting up at daylight to go and meet a man. Did you?”

“Hah!” said the major, drawing a deep breath; “I wouldn’t hear.”